...or, how I wound up in a stranger's sweatshirt.
It's not like I didn't check the forecast before I left the house. I did: partly cloudy all day, but little chance of rain. Instead of doing my usual river walk, I opted to walk west, drop off my rent at my landlord's house and continue the two blocks to the Byrd Theater for a morning screening of "Mrs. Doubtfire."
I'm not sure why the Robin Williams classic spoke to me this morning (especially for a Family Classics screening guaranteed to be full of brats), except that I knew I'd be in the neighborhood, I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1993 and the overcast sky made it feel like a good movie morning. It really was that simple.
Crossing the street from Monroe Park to the Cathedral of the Scared Heart, it was obvious something big was going on. Every few feet, I saw a young man in a black suit and clergy collar, usually with family fawning over him and taking snaps. It was like I'd stumbled into seminarians' graduation day at the cathedral or something.
Leaving those crazy enough to devote their lives to a made-up person to their deluded fantasies, I persevered down Floyd Avenue only to have the sky open up on me somewhere after Harrison Street. At first it was just a gentle drizzle, then a shower and before long, a deluge. So that was me, the woman in the sun hat and sunscreen - running in white rivulets down my arms and legs - slogging along the next two miles, dropping off her rent check and lumbering on.
And while it wasn't unpleasant rain because it was warm, I knew that the second I sat down in the theater's air conditioning, I was going to freeze my patootie off. So I arrived with a plan: raid the lost and found for a cover-up to tide me through the movie.
Fortunately for me, there was a pale green men's XXL "Salty Dog Cafe Hilton Head, S.C." sweat shirt languishing in the lost and found and the ticket taker (whom I know from so many Byrd visits) was only too happy to loan it to me for a few hours. In fact, she first gave me the option of a stylish women's sweater, but given that the sweatshirt was thick and as long as my dresses, I knew it would be the warmer, cozier choice.
I also warned her that if it was raining when the movie ended, I'd be "retrieving" (wink, wink) the umbrella I'd left there. She said I was welcome to help myself.
So I remove my dripping sun hat, don the sweatshirt and ask the guy at the concession stand for a bottle of water. He'd noticed I'd come in soggy wet, soaked to the skin, and now he's telling me how lucky I am that I'd left my sweatshirt at the Byrd to reclaim it this rainy morning. Silly boy. I explain that it isn't mine and that I'm merely borrowing it for a bit. "That's pretty cool!" he enthuses.
That's what we call problem-solving, son. Try it sometime.
Then I head off to find a seat nowhere near any gaggles of small children. Taking one, I hang my soggy hat upside down to drip-dry, remove my wet shoes and place the bottle of water in the cup-holder on my right. But when I go to put my ticket stub in the cup-holder on my left, I see that there are already two ticket stubs there from Wednesday's one night only screening of the 1972 reggae classic, "The Harder They Come" with Jimmy Cliff.
That's when I realize that I have chosen the exact same row where I sat Wednesday to see "The Harder They Come" and those are my stubs, which I clearly forgot to throw away. Talk about being a creature of habit. That said, it was probably because of how much I'd enjoyed the reggae film with its unintelligible Jamaican patois that begged for subtitles and fabulous soundtrack that the stubs had been forgotten.
Since I'd never been to a Family Classics performance, I wasn't expecting the classic Warner Bros. cartoon - Foghorn Leghorn battling with a youthful chicken hawk - that kicked off the screening. Just as surprising was the organist rising from the bowels of the Byrd to play a handful of movie themes like "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head" before disappearing again.
So much entertainment on a Saturday morning.
About all I recalled of "Mrs. Doubtfire" was the premise and Robin Williams' vacuuming to Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like a Lady." Hell, I hadn't even been to San Francisco yet when I first saw the movie, so that part couldn't have resonated the first time.
Mainly the film was a treat for all the improvisation Williams does throughout and that's not even counting the scenes where Harvey Fierstein is applying his make-up for the first time and they're invoking "Fiddler on the Roof" and Barbra Streisand in what amounts to a comedy routine.
Truly, he was a once in a lifetime genius.
As luck would have it, when I exited the Byrd after peeling off the stranger's sweatshirt and without a "borrowed" umbrella, it was to somewhat sunny skies.
And you know I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining. Nothing's bothering me.
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rain. Show all posts
Sunday, June 2, 2019
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Field Recordings
A non-native species is easy to spot in the wild.
After dinner in service of my hired mouth, my date suggested a foray to Forest Hills and a place called Cafe Zata to see some friends of his playing in a band called the Free Rangers. And while I'd heard of Zata, I had no clue where exactly it was or even what it was.
For us city dwellers, this sort of outing is what is known as field experimentation.
He warned me that every time he'd been to Zata, there were more people playing on stage than seated in the generous, high-ceilinged room. At least he did until we walked in and he had to eat his words since practically every chair and stool had a butt in it and lines snaked from the service counter and bar.
I was assigned to find perches for us while he set out to procure wine and almost immediately I heard my name called out. It was the landscape architect for whom I'd ghost-written a few articles, but more importantly, she's lately been posting old photos on Facebook of her, her friends and her Mom in vintage bathing suits.
Well, not vintage at the time the pictures were taken, but definitely dated looking now in a charming late '50s, early '60s way that predated the youth revolution and the swingin' '60s. She was thrilled that I'd taken notice of her youthful fashion choices.
I'd scored us stools at the end of the bar with a fine view of the band, who seemed to have a chicken theme - on their sign, on the stage and next to the old suitcase housing their CDs for sale - because, well, Free Rangers, get it?
I met a charming couple, friends of my date, who both teach at UR while he's also a musician. Looking around the room, I observed a lot of Friday night date action going on, albeit mostly middle-aged couples whom I'm willing to guess lived in the neighborhood. A bottle or two of wine graced most tables.
Then it happened. I couldn't have been more surprised (or pleased) when my former Jackson Ward neighbor showed up in the bar line. For years, he and his wife lived four blocks away from me and we ran into each other at shows and events regularly. I'd been to plenty of their pre-First Friday happy hours.
When they'd moved out there, they'd promised that they'd still be in the city often so we'd still see each other just as frequently. That hasn't happened much at all and I miss their upbeat energy and passion for live music.
He seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him and we wasted no time in catching up. I knew that, like my date, they'd been at Red Wing Roots Music festival, but they'd also gone to FloydFest, where our mutual friends Lobo Marino had played this year. He said local band Dharma Bombs had also played to great success, another band we'd seen together.
We were knee-deep in musical conversation when all of a sudden, he got a perplexed look on his face and said, "Wait, what are you doing here?" Apparently he didn't see Cafe Zata as my natural habitat.
Pointing to my date and introducing them, I explained that we'd come to see his friends play. Not surprisingly, he was also friends with several people in the band and from there, the mutual associations poured forth. The two of them had loads of people in common and not necessarily people I knew, either.
Leaving them to man talk, I headed over to the table where his wife was sitting with friends. Putting my hands over her eyes and making her guess who it was, it didn't take long for her to figure it out and squeal in delight. It had been way too long since we'd last seen each other and she was quick to say she missed me as much as I missed seeing them.
"Remember that time you invited me to iHop for pancake day and I said no?" she asked out of the blue. "I regret that now." I couldn't believe she even remembered - that had been almost 2 years ago while she was between jobs - but it was a terrific starting point for planning something for the near future.
"But I don't think I could keep up with you on your walks," she admitted, holding on to both of my hands. Not to worry, I wanted to plan a get-together to eat, drink and be merry, not walk our asses off.
Besides, I've got a couple people who like that from me.
From behind her came the woman who used to host house shows at her Franklin Street apartment (the one that once housed Mrs. Morton's Tea Room in the brownstone where Mrs. M. lived) and where I'd seen the Honey Dewdrops, Sons of Bill and Haze and Dacey in the candlelit intimacy of her living room.
She, too, has shifted home base and is now ensconced on southside, although she went to great pains to share that she feels lost and cut off on this side of the river. I didn't point out the obvious (move then) because everyone has their own reasons for where they roost. But I certainly understood her point.
She was trying to convey that she, too, was a non-native species here, at least in her soul.
The band - two guitars, bass, dobro - provided plenty of middle-aged entertainment, covering songs by Gram Parsons, Allison Krause and Crystal Gale, doing a song that involved yodeling (now there's a rarely seen skill set) and inciting an audience-wide singalong when they did "Teach Your Children," in addition to original material.
Also, it should be noted, a woman had brought her cowbell and used it liberally to add the requisite cowbell when a song screamed out for it.
And because the bass player and rhythm guitarist were married, there was plenty of banter about what a good cook and guitarist she was (cleaning not so much), what a showboater he was (see; yodeling and white Stetson) and a corny joke about him sucking in his stomach for two hours to be around a bevy of bikini-clad women.
It was all in good fun.
By the time we left, the place had cleared out considerably and we joked about why people had needed to leave before 9:30 on a Friday night. But of course the answer is obvious: this must be the typical sleeping pattern for natives of the area and who am I, an interloper, to judge?
For us, there was still plenty of evening left, so we decamped for his front porch swing, where we were promptly joined by the musician from across the street, guitar in hand. He told us Vespa stories, did a bit of strumming and asked for a summary of the show we'd just seen before disappearing into the darkness.
As we sat there in the sticky air, it suddenly became cool and breezy enough that we both got a chill, only to be followed by a blast of hot, humid air that announced rain.
And oceanfront aside, is there really a better place to watch a gentle summer rain roll in than from the recessed depths of a dark front porch within spitting distance of the river?
Depends on your species, naturally, but it worked for this urban bird.
After dinner in service of my hired mouth, my date suggested a foray to Forest Hills and a place called Cafe Zata to see some friends of his playing in a band called the Free Rangers. And while I'd heard of Zata, I had no clue where exactly it was or even what it was.
For us city dwellers, this sort of outing is what is known as field experimentation.
He warned me that every time he'd been to Zata, there were more people playing on stage than seated in the generous, high-ceilinged room. At least he did until we walked in and he had to eat his words since practically every chair and stool had a butt in it and lines snaked from the service counter and bar.
I was assigned to find perches for us while he set out to procure wine and almost immediately I heard my name called out. It was the landscape architect for whom I'd ghost-written a few articles, but more importantly, she's lately been posting old photos on Facebook of her, her friends and her Mom in vintage bathing suits.
Well, not vintage at the time the pictures were taken, but definitely dated looking now in a charming late '50s, early '60s way that predated the youth revolution and the swingin' '60s. She was thrilled that I'd taken notice of her youthful fashion choices.
I'd scored us stools at the end of the bar with a fine view of the band, who seemed to have a chicken theme - on their sign, on the stage and next to the old suitcase housing their CDs for sale - because, well, Free Rangers, get it?
I met a charming couple, friends of my date, who both teach at UR while he's also a musician. Looking around the room, I observed a lot of Friday night date action going on, albeit mostly middle-aged couples whom I'm willing to guess lived in the neighborhood. A bottle or two of wine graced most tables.
Then it happened. I couldn't have been more surprised (or pleased) when my former Jackson Ward neighbor showed up in the bar line. For years, he and his wife lived four blocks away from me and we ran into each other at shows and events regularly. I'd been to plenty of their pre-First Friday happy hours.
When they'd moved out there, they'd promised that they'd still be in the city often so we'd still see each other just as frequently. That hasn't happened much at all and I miss their upbeat energy and passion for live music.
He seemed as glad to see me as I was to see him and we wasted no time in catching up. I knew that, like my date, they'd been at Red Wing Roots Music festival, but they'd also gone to FloydFest, where our mutual friends Lobo Marino had played this year. He said local band Dharma Bombs had also played to great success, another band we'd seen together.
We were knee-deep in musical conversation when all of a sudden, he got a perplexed look on his face and said, "Wait, what are you doing here?" Apparently he didn't see Cafe Zata as my natural habitat.
Pointing to my date and introducing them, I explained that we'd come to see his friends play. Not surprisingly, he was also friends with several people in the band and from there, the mutual associations poured forth. The two of them had loads of people in common and not necessarily people I knew, either.
Leaving them to man talk, I headed over to the table where his wife was sitting with friends. Putting my hands over her eyes and making her guess who it was, it didn't take long for her to figure it out and squeal in delight. It had been way too long since we'd last seen each other and she was quick to say she missed me as much as I missed seeing them.
"Remember that time you invited me to iHop for pancake day and I said no?" she asked out of the blue. "I regret that now." I couldn't believe she even remembered - that had been almost 2 years ago while she was between jobs - but it was a terrific starting point for planning something for the near future.
"But I don't think I could keep up with you on your walks," she admitted, holding on to both of my hands. Not to worry, I wanted to plan a get-together to eat, drink and be merry, not walk our asses off.
Besides, I've got a couple people who like that from me.
From behind her came the woman who used to host house shows at her Franklin Street apartment (the one that once housed Mrs. Morton's Tea Room in the brownstone where Mrs. M. lived) and where I'd seen the Honey Dewdrops, Sons of Bill and Haze and Dacey in the candlelit intimacy of her living room.
She, too, has shifted home base and is now ensconced on southside, although she went to great pains to share that she feels lost and cut off on this side of the river. I didn't point out the obvious (move then) because everyone has their own reasons for where they roost. But I certainly understood her point.
She was trying to convey that she, too, was a non-native species here, at least in her soul.
The band - two guitars, bass, dobro - provided plenty of middle-aged entertainment, covering songs by Gram Parsons, Allison Krause and Crystal Gale, doing a song that involved yodeling (now there's a rarely seen skill set) and inciting an audience-wide singalong when they did "Teach Your Children," in addition to original material.
Also, it should be noted, a woman had brought her cowbell and used it liberally to add the requisite cowbell when a song screamed out for it.
And because the bass player and rhythm guitarist were married, there was plenty of banter about what a good cook and guitarist she was (cleaning not so much), what a showboater he was (see; yodeling and white Stetson) and a corny joke about him sucking in his stomach for two hours to be around a bevy of bikini-clad women.
It was all in good fun.
By the time we left, the place had cleared out considerably and we joked about why people had needed to leave before 9:30 on a Friday night. But of course the answer is obvious: this must be the typical sleeping pattern for natives of the area and who am I, an interloper, to judge?
For us, there was still plenty of evening left, so we decamped for his front porch swing, where we were promptly joined by the musician from across the street, guitar in hand. He told us Vespa stories, did a bit of strumming and asked for a summary of the show we'd just seen before disappearing into the darkness.
As we sat there in the sticky air, it suddenly became cool and breezy enough that we both got a chill, only to be followed by a blast of hot, humid air that announced rain.
And oceanfront aside, is there really a better place to watch a gentle summer rain roll in than from the recessed depths of a dark front porch within spitting distance of the river?
Depends on your species, naturally, but it worked for this urban bird.
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
We Can Still Be Friends
With time you learn there are various levels of friendship.
Even the guys down on Leigh Street selling crabs are sort-of-friends, in that we see each other regularly, speak often and, above all, they were ready to open a can of whoop-ass when they heard what some guy had said to me as I walked through the neighborhood. Today, it was letting me know that crabs are in already. Casual but steadfast acquaintances.
There's FotoBoy, a friend of the past 8 years (with whom I had two dates before we were smacking our foreheads and realizing we wanted friendship) who is pretty much at my beck and call when I need an extra mouth for work. That we can talk about the nitty gritty in our lives only adds to the depth of the friendship. That he appreciates how excited I get when a train conductor waves at me is gravy.
There's the friend I'm still getting to know who's given me an intermittent front row seat to watching him figure out who he is and what he wants, a fascinating chance for me to find out what makes him tick with no risk involved.
Since it has been four weeks since our last rendezvous, I knew I could count on some new revelations, maybe even a new character or two in his life. When last I'd seen the stubborn one, things were heating up with a woman I'd pegged as high maintenance from the start, but he was still dazzled by how fast she was on wheels, or at least, that's what he told me. For the sake of discussion, she was dubbed "Bachelorette #1."
The latest update on all that personal business was delivered after a warm walk in a light drizzle from Jackson Ward to Dinamo - spent discussing what a creature of habit he thinks I am because, he says, I always choose restaurants within my sphere, which I suppose means walking distance - where we took seats at the bar next to a couple discussing church business and adult children who can't problem solve.
I'm not sure which topic was more depressing.
Our meal was anything but, with his homey and hearty fava bean and maitake mushroom pasta and my seafood salad with enough clams, mussels, shrimp, calamari, octopus, onions, lemon and oil to mimic a meal eaten seaside to guarantee we both wound up happy campers. A glass of Orvietto and a sea salt Nutella cookie took me to the finish line.
Meanwhile, the owner shelled fava beans nearby and we talked about his love life and yes, since we met last, onto the scene had come a new contestant whom we dubbed "Bachelorette #2," after briefly considering calling her "No Agenda" but deciding that such a phrase could also apply to Bachelorette #1.
The fact that they both, in fact, have agendas was deeper than he wanted to go tonight. So far, Bachelorette #2's only obvious weakness (and it's worth noting given his personality) is that she's terribly compliant and not especially opinionated.
Some friends would call that boring, but I try to be more diplomatic than that.
Leaving Dinamo shortly before the last customer could, we got as far as Grace and Laurel before the pouring rain was too much to slog through to get back to my place and his car, while Ipanema was a block and a half away. It wasn't a cold or unpleasant rain but it was definitely a directional one and we were both getting soggy.
As always, Ips was an oasis of warmth and soft lighting and with glasses of Spanish white and red in front of us, as good a place as any to continue exploring why people do certain things and what that tells others about them.
Coming in out of the deluge, a guy sat down next to me and began writing in a Moleskin. When I asked the subject, he said he was working on his thesis and you know I had to know. "Disaster Capitalism," he informs me.
My next question is what year was he born, an inquiry that so delights him he throws back his head, smiling.
"That is the best question ever asked!" he claims before explaining how his thesis deals with a post-human worldscape. My questions continue, my friend returns from the head and joins in and the future thinker asks if we're professors at VCU. Negative, but we play them in bars.
When I ask if he has a happy social life around working on such nihilistic theories, he assures me he's an optimist, albeit one in a post-human world. Yet again, I marvel at how differently his generation is wired than mine.
By the time our wine glasses are empty, the rain has stopped, the temperature and humidity have dropped, and we bid farewell to our disaster capitalist.
Could I see him as a friend? Certainly with his polar opposite worldview and comparatively brief body of life experience, I could enjoy many conversations delving into his thoughts and theories, just to hear them. I'd definitely have myriad questions to ask him.
While I'm sitting here typing this, the phone rings despite the relatively late hour. "Are you with a man?' asks FotoBoy - aka he who appreciates my enthusiasm for life - in a hushed voice as if someone might be listening.
Only a really good friend would have the nerve to call at this hour and check on whether I'm alone or not and then ask about lunch plans. But come on, friend, have we met? Do you think I'd answer the phone if I weren't alone?
And yes to lunch, always yes to more conversations. They're the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
Even the guys down on Leigh Street selling crabs are sort-of-friends, in that we see each other regularly, speak often and, above all, they were ready to open a can of whoop-ass when they heard what some guy had said to me as I walked through the neighborhood. Today, it was letting me know that crabs are in already. Casual but steadfast acquaintances.
There's FotoBoy, a friend of the past 8 years (with whom I had two dates before we were smacking our foreheads and realizing we wanted friendship) who is pretty much at my beck and call when I need an extra mouth for work. That we can talk about the nitty gritty in our lives only adds to the depth of the friendship. That he appreciates how excited I get when a train conductor waves at me is gravy.
There's the friend I'm still getting to know who's given me an intermittent front row seat to watching him figure out who he is and what he wants, a fascinating chance for me to find out what makes him tick with no risk involved.
Since it has been four weeks since our last rendezvous, I knew I could count on some new revelations, maybe even a new character or two in his life. When last I'd seen the stubborn one, things were heating up with a woman I'd pegged as high maintenance from the start, but he was still dazzled by how fast she was on wheels, or at least, that's what he told me. For the sake of discussion, she was dubbed "Bachelorette #1."
The latest update on all that personal business was delivered after a warm walk in a light drizzle from Jackson Ward to Dinamo - spent discussing what a creature of habit he thinks I am because, he says, I always choose restaurants within my sphere, which I suppose means walking distance - where we took seats at the bar next to a couple discussing church business and adult children who can't problem solve.
I'm not sure which topic was more depressing.
Our meal was anything but, with his homey and hearty fava bean and maitake mushroom pasta and my seafood salad with enough clams, mussels, shrimp, calamari, octopus, onions, lemon and oil to mimic a meal eaten seaside to guarantee we both wound up happy campers. A glass of Orvietto and a sea salt Nutella cookie took me to the finish line.
Meanwhile, the owner shelled fava beans nearby and we talked about his love life and yes, since we met last, onto the scene had come a new contestant whom we dubbed "Bachelorette #2," after briefly considering calling her "No Agenda" but deciding that such a phrase could also apply to Bachelorette #1.
The fact that they both, in fact, have agendas was deeper than he wanted to go tonight. So far, Bachelorette #2's only obvious weakness (and it's worth noting given his personality) is that she's terribly compliant and not especially opinionated.
Some friends would call that boring, but I try to be more diplomatic than that.
Leaving Dinamo shortly before the last customer could, we got as far as Grace and Laurel before the pouring rain was too much to slog through to get back to my place and his car, while Ipanema was a block and a half away. It wasn't a cold or unpleasant rain but it was definitely a directional one and we were both getting soggy.
As always, Ips was an oasis of warmth and soft lighting and with glasses of Spanish white and red in front of us, as good a place as any to continue exploring why people do certain things and what that tells others about them.
Coming in out of the deluge, a guy sat down next to me and began writing in a Moleskin. When I asked the subject, he said he was working on his thesis and you know I had to know. "Disaster Capitalism," he informs me.
My next question is what year was he born, an inquiry that so delights him he throws back his head, smiling.
"That is the best question ever asked!" he claims before explaining how his thesis deals with a post-human worldscape. My questions continue, my friend returns from the head and joins in and the future thinker asks if we're professors at VCU. Negative, but we play them in bars.
When I ask if he has a happy social life around working on such nihilistic theories, he assures me he's an optimist, albeit one in a post-human world. Yet again, I marvel at how differently his generation is wired than mine.
By the time our wine glasses are empty, the rain has stopped, the temperature and humidity have dropped, and we bid farewell to our disaster capitalist.
Could I see him as a friend? Certainly with his polar opposite worldview and comparatively brief body of life experience, I could enjoy many conversations delving into his thoughts and theories, just to hear them. I'd definitely have myriad questions to ask him.
While I'm sitting here typing this, the phone rings despite the relatively late hour. "Are you with a man?' asks FotoBoy - aka he who appreciates my enthusiasm for life - in a hushed voice as if someone might be listening.
Only a really good friend would have the nerve to call at this hour and check on whether I'm alone or not and then ask about lunch plans. But come on, friend, have we met? Do you think I'd answer the phone if I weren't alone?
And yes to lunch, always yes to more conversations. They're the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
Sunday, October 9, 2016
Bog Spot dot Com
My life writes itself.
As if I would pass up the opportunity to see Maceo Parker and Daddy G in a hurricane? Puh-leeze. But the friend who was meeting me was of a different persuasion.
Dang! I'm not walking anywhere in this bullshit. It's POURING!
According to Accuweather it's going to clear up shortly.
Which it most certainly did not, but that's hardly the point.
Those who plan their life around the temperature and precipitation are doomed to miss all kinds of wondrous things, but also, they are forever in my mind labeled weather wimps.
With one of my larger umbrellas in hand, I hoofed it to the Richmond Folk Festival without knowing if my friend would show or not, despite me leaving back-up instructions should he decide to brave the monsoon later.
The walk was a lot like parkour because I was constantly jumping over puddles, fording streamlets and having to negotiate ledges and curbs to avoid getting further soaked.
And if I thought it was bad on city streets and sidewalks, I was completely unprepared for the quicksand-like miasma of Tredegar and Brown's Island's once-grassy fields and dirt pathways.
I'd just stepped onto the muddy mess of Gary Gerloff Way when I spotted everyone's favorite banjo player leaving, but, as he said, for the very best of reasons: to go home to his four-day old baby.
He got a pass.
After dropping my contribution in the bucket, I headed up the steps at Tredegar behind a guy who already had a napkin wedged into the heel of his boot to address a festival blister, only to realize I'd reached the wrong stage.
The trade-off was running into a wine rep friend on the way out, feeling guilty about bailing because of rain so he gifted me with his Folk Fest map to help avoid future navigational errors.
Moseying back down the steps, I made my first stop at Urbanna Crabcakes for, what else, a crabcake sandwich (and the pleasure of hearing the kid behind the table bark at the kitchen staff's adults, "CrabCAKE!" like a drill sergeant) and passed the time while they were making it by watching two FF volunteers take possession of their fried oyster boats.
The woman took hers to the table and promptly covered the bivalves and fries with ketchup, then cocktail sauce, then hot sauce and finally tartar sauce.
X-ray glasses would have been the only way to see the oysters for the condiments.
Just as I'm concluding that she must really hate the taste of oysters, she holds up a squirt bottle, raises an eyebrow at her companion and a look of panic crosses his face.
"Er, no, um, I like them the way they are," he tells her, clutching his fried oyster boat closer to protect it from her saucy invasion.
Walking to a hospitality tent to sit down and eat, I lost my shoe for the first time when mud sucked it clean off my foot, setting the tone for the entire evening and future lost shoes. On the up side, the crabcake was outstanding: large, sauteed to a golden brown and resting on a boat of fries.
Fortified, I walked over to our Plan B meeting place but after seeing no sign of my weather wimp friend, took the higher bridge to Brown's Island where I spotted a "Don't NOVA my RVA" bumper sticker on a bridge support as I went by.
Yes, for the love of all that is sacred, please don't.
But what I also noticed from the bridge's high point as I looked around at the silvery gray canal, sky and river along with the bridges and sidewalks bustling with pedestrians was that Richmond was having its London moment and all those weather wimps were missing it.
I was headed to the Dominion Dance Pavilion for the foreseeable future, feeling confident because it's a covered stage, but I had no clue as to what awaited me.
Located at the far end of Brown's Island near the trail for my beloved Pipeline Walkway, it clearly sat at a low point on the island, meaning a moat had formed on three sides of the wooden dance floor that had been laid.
I slogged through to a seat and was immediately reminded me of my amateur status when a pro and his wife arrived and a hand towel appeared from his pocket to dry their seats before sitting down. So very civilized.
Just as I was beating myself up for not having done the same, the woman next to me complimented me on my bell bottoms and I forgot practicality entirely for a compliment from a stranger.
Her husband warned me off attempting to cross the area to their right to get to the dance floor because of how deep the water and mud were. I only needed to see one guy attempt it to realize that people needed to be warned away from it.
I did my best, but watching insistent types try to cross it anyway provided a lot of entertainment for the three of us. Before long, people were taking selfies of their feet and legs buried past their ankles in the mud baths and by the end of the night, people were bringing friends over to admire the depth of the muck.
When a guy appeared to my left and his girlfriend to my right on the dance floor, he waved her around, nailing the situation.
"It's a bog!" That it was.
Me, I was there to see Gary "U.S" Bonds, who brought his Norfolk sound to the stage and managed to prove within a couple of '60s songs I'd never heard why Springsteen, among others, had been so influenced by his sax-fronted brand of rock and roll.
When Gary asked an audience member where she was from, I couldn't hear the answer, but he apparently had. "Ports-mouth? You're from Ports-mouth? Deal with it!"
When he explained that they were combining several of their early '60s hits into a medley because they hated the songs they'd been playing for a half century, I understood completely.
On a more upbeat note, during a recent visit to Spain involving beautiful beaches and $3 wine, Gary had been told that their song "I Wanna Holler" was number three in Spain, a fact he attributed to "too much cheap wine."
He sounded as amazed as anybody at the news.
But the highlight of the set was when 90-year old Gene "Daddy G" Barge took the stage to sing "Way Back Home, talk about stopping by Oceanview and Church Street and playing the sax like a boss.
Without a doubt, the most sublime moment came when he told of playing with Bonnie Raitt on Oprah's show and, as a tribute to Bonnie, launched into a heartbreaking rendition of her '90s hit "I Can't Make You Love Me" - a song I find so incredibly sad that I never purposely listen to it - on sax.
I'm just going to say that until you've sat under a tent listening to a nonagenarian rip your heart out playing saxophone while a hurricane dumps rain all around you and winds buffet the tent you're under, you haven't had the fullest Folk Fest experience.
While the next band was setting up and more people arrived to pose in the bog, others used it as an open sewer, spitting in it and hocking into it. I had to assume they were raised by wolves.
On a higher plain, I watched as a guy took off his plastic bag raincoat, wrapped it around one of the tent's support poles, tied it in a knot and pushed it high up on the pole so he could return later and claim it.
Easily the most creative coat check I'd ever seen.
Soon I was joined by an artistic friend and music lover (we'd run into each other at Psychedelic Furs and I learned tonight of his abiding passion for punk), at the festival by himself because his main squeeze was at a birthday party, although she also thought he was crazy for going out in this weather for music.
But it's Maceo Parker, I insisted, feeling his need. "That's exactly what I told her," he said. And it's Maceo in a hurricane, so even better, we agreed.
L'Orchestre Afrisa Internationale took over the stage to deliver New World-influenced African music that soon had a band member dancing in a way that white people would call twerking but in reality was African-based in the first place.
Naturally, he also executed it far better than anyone my color could.
Despite the rain and mud on the dance floor, the crowd danced almost non-stop to Congolese music as trains screeched by and rain poured down even harder. My feet were wet and cold, as were my friend's, but we were in this for the duration.
Occasionally, I'd use my umbrella to block the wind-driven rain blowing in the canal side of the tent, but when my friend tried to do the same, the wind turned his umbrella inside out.
Mind you, we were inside the tent.
After their set, a Folk Fest talking head thanked the crowd for being there despite the elements. "You're a hearty bunch to be here in a hurricane! You're the real Folk Fest fanatics!"
I don't know about all that, but I do know every person in the Dance Pavilion braved the weather for the sake of seeing Maceo Parker.
Things got down and dirty fast as he and his impeccably-dressed band and back-up singers (one from James Brown's band and the other his cousin) did a number on songs by James Brown, George Clinton and others I didn't know.
"We only got two songs and this is one of 'em!" Maceo hollered before getting down on "Make It Funky."
It takes two to make things go right
It takes two to make it outasight
"They're really laying it down heavy," my friend commented once Mr. Parker and his trombone player got wailing.
They did Marvin Gay's "Let's Get It On" and his cousin sang lead on "Stand By Me" and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, the sax man was closing by saying, "I'm Maceo Parker!" as if everyone under that tent didn't already know.
Closing with a mashup of "Get On Up" and a reprise of "We Love to Love You," my friend's pleasure at the set was obvious. "I kept expecting James Brown to come out."
That wasn't necessary. It was enough that Daddy G and Maceo came to Richmond in a hurricane and I got to see and hear it.
Dang, it wasn't just all right, it was clean outasight. So I got a little wet. I'll dry.
As if I would pass up the opportunity to see Maceo Parker and Daddy G in a hurricane? Puh-leeze. But the friend who was meeting me was of a different persuasion.
Dang! I'm not walking anywhere in this bullshit. It's POURING!
According to Accuweather it's going to clear up shortly.
Which it most certainly did not, but that's hardly the point.
Those who plan their life around the temperature and precipitation are doomed to miss all kinds of wondrous things, but also, they are forever in my mind labeled weather wimps.
With one of my larger umbrellas in hand, I hoofed it to the Richmond Folk Festival without knowing if my friend would show or not, despite me leaving back-up instructions should he decide to brave the monsoon later.
The walk was a lot like parkour because I was constantly jumping over puddles, fording streamlets and having to negotiate ledges and curbs to avoid getting further soaked.
And if I thought it was bad on city streets and sidewalks, I was completely unprepared for the quicksand-like miasma of Tredegar and Brown's Island's once-grassy fields and dirt pathways.
I'd just stepped onto the muddy mess of Gary Gerloff Way when I spotted everyone's favorite banjo player leaving, but, as he said, for the very best of reasons: to go home to his four-day old baby.
He got a pass.
After dropping my contribution in the bucket, I headed up the steps at Tredegar behind a guy who already had a napkin wedged into the heel of his boot to address a festival blister, only to realize I'd reached the wrong stage.
The trade-off was running into a wine rep friend on the way out, feeling guilty about bailing because of rain so he gifted me with his Folk Fest map to help avoid future navigational errors.
Moseying back down the steps, I made my first stop at Urbanna Crabcakes for, what else, a crabcake sandwich (and the pleasure of hearing the kid behind the table bark at the kitchen staff's adults, "CrabCAKE!" like a drill sergeant) and passed the time while they were making it by watching two FF volunteers take possession of their fried oyster boats.
The woman took hers to the table and promptly covered the bivalves and fries with ketchup, then cocktail sauce, then hot sauce and finally tartar sauce.
X-ray glasses would have been the only way to see the oysters for the condiments.
Just as I'm concluding that she must really hate the taste of oysters, she holds up a squirt bottle, raises an eyebrow at her companion and a look of panic crosses his face.
"Er, no, um, I like them the way they are," he tells her, clutching his fried oyster boat closer to protect it from her saucy invasion.
Walking to a hospitality tent to sit down and eat, I lost my shoe for the first time when mud sucked it clean off my foot, setting the tone for the entire evening and future lost shoes. On the up side, the crabcake was outstanding: large, sauteed to a golden brown and resting on a boat of fries.
Fortified, I walked over to our Plan B meeting place but after seeing no sign of my weather wimp friend, took the higher bridge to Brown's Island where I spotted a "Don't NOVA my RVA" bumper sticker on a bridge support as I went by.
Yes, for the love of all that is sacred, please don't.
But what I also noticed from the bridge's high point as I looked around at the silvery gray canal, sky and river along with the bridges and sidewalks bustling with pedestrians was that Richmond was having its London moment and all those weather wimps were missing it.
I was headed to the Dominion Dance Pavilion for the foreseeable future, feeling confident because it's a covered stage, but I had no clue as to what awaited me.
Located at the far end of Brown's Island near the trail for my beloved Pipeline Walkway, it clearly sat at a low point on the island, meaning a moat had formed on three sides of the wooden dance floor that had been laid.
I slogged through to a seat and was immediately reminded me of my amateur status when a pro and his wife arrived and a hand towel appeared from his pocket to dry their seats before sitting down. So very civilized.
Just as I was beating myself up for not having done the same, the woman next to me complimented me on my bell bottoms and I forgot practicality entirely for a compliment from a stranger.
Her husband warned me off attempting to cross the area to their right to get to the dance floor because of how deep the water and mud were. I only needed to see one guy attempt it to realize that people needed to be warned away from it.
I did my best, but watching insistent types try to cross it anyway provided a lot of entertainment for the three of us. Before long, people were taking selfies of their feet and legs buried past their ankles in the mud baths and by the end of the night, people were bringing friends over to admire the depth of the muck.
When a guy appeared to my left and his girlfriend to my right on the dance floor, he waved her around, nailing the situation.
"It's a bog!" That it was.
Me, I was there to see Gary "U.S" Bonds, who brought his Norfolk sound to the stage and managed to prove within a couple of '60s songs I'd never heard why Springsteen, among others, had been so influenced by his sax-fronted brand of rock and roll.
When Gary asked an audience member where she was from, I couldn't hear the answer, but he apparently had. "Ports-mouth? You're from Ports-mouth? Deal with it!"
When he explained that they were combining several of their early '60s hits into a medley because they hated the songs they'd been playing for a half century, I understood completely.
On a more upbeat note, during a recent visit to Spain involving beautiful beaches and $3 wine, Gary had been told that their song "I Wanna Holler" was number three in Spain, a fact he attributed to "too much cheap wine."
He sounded as amazed as anybody at the news.
But the highlight of the set was when 90-year old Gene "Daddy G" Barge took the stage to sing "Way Back Home, talk about stopping by Oceanview and Church Street and playing the sax like a boss.
Without a doubt, the most sublime moment came when he told of playing with Bonnie Raitt on Oprah's show and, as a tribute to Bonnie, launched into a heartbreaking rendition of her '90s hit "I Can't Make You Love Me" - a song I find so incredibly sad that I never purposely listen to it - on sax.
I'm just going to say that until you've sat under a tent listening to a nonagenarian rip your heart out playing saxophone while a hurricane dumps rain all around you and winds buffet the tent you're under, you haven't had the fullest Folk Fest experience.
While the next band was setting up and more people arrived to pose in the bog, others used it as an open sewer, spitting in it and hocking into it. I had to assume they were raised by wolves.
On a higher plain, I watched as a guy took off his plastic bag raincoat, wrapped it around one of the tent's support poles, tied it in a knot and pushed it high up on the pole so he could return later and claim it.
Easily the most creative coat check I'd ever seen.
Soon I was joined by an artistic friend and music lover (we'd run into each other at Psychedelic Furs and I learned tonight of his abiding passion for punk), at the festival by himself because his main squeeze was at a birthday party, although she also thought he was crazy for going out in this weather for music.
But it's Maceo Parker, I insisted, feeling his need. "That's exactly what I told her," he said. And it's Maceo in a hurricane, so even better, we agreed.
L'Orchestre Afrisa Internationale took over the stage to deliver New World-influenced African music that soon had a band member dancing in a way that white people would call twerking but in reality was African-based in the first place.
Naturally, he also executed it far better than anyone my color could.
Despite the rain and mud on the dance floor, the crowd danced almost non-stop to Congolese music as trains screeched by and rain poured down even harder. My feet were wet and cold, as were my friend's, but we were in this for the duration.
Occasionally, I'd use my umbrella to block the wind-driven rain blowing in the canal side of the tent, but when my friend tried to do the same, the wind turned his umbrella inside out.
Mind you, we were inside the tent.
After their set, a Folk Fest talking head thanked the crowd for being there despite the elements. "You're a hearty bunch to be here in a hurricane! You're the real Folk Fest fanatics!"
I don't know about all that, but I do know every person in the Dance Pavilion braved the weather for the sake of seeing Maceo Parker.
Things got down and dirty fast as he and his impeccably-dressed band and back-up singers (one from James Brown's band and the other his cousin) did a number on songs by James Brown, George Clinton and others I didn't know.
"We only got two songs and this is one of 'em!" Maceo hollered before getting down on "Make It Funky."
It takes two to make things go right
It takes two to make it outasight
"They're really laying it down heavy," my friend commented once Mr. Parker and his trombone player got wailing.
They did Marvin Gay's "Let's Get It On" and his cousin sang lead on "Stand By Me" and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, the sax man was closing by saying, "I'm Maceo Parker!" as if everyone under that tent didn't already know.
Closing with a mashup of "Get On Up" and a reprise of "We Love to Love You," my friend's pleasure at the set was obvious. "I kept expecting James Brown to come out."
That wasn't necessary. It was enough that Daddy G and Maceo came to Richmond in a hurricane and I got to see and hear it.
Dang, it wasn't just all right, it was clean outasight. So I got a little wet. I'll dry.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Mad About Good Books, Can't Get My Fill
I'd like to make a public service announcement. It's not winter.
Walking around today, I saw people in bulky jackets, scarves and hats. It was 65. Granted, drizzly, but 65 degrees.
When it's 65 in April, folks in these parts are sporting shorts and sundresses. Today suddenly, it's bundle up time.
Perhaps there's a chance it was a reaction, not to the temperature, but to the long-absent rain that fell all afternoon.
I know because I drove to the northern neck to spend the afternoon talking to a couple of award-winning sisters, the rain steady from the moment I left home and all the way to the Rapphannock and back.
While hearing one delicious story after another, one sister said that she didn't have any men in her life because she didn't want anyone telling her what she couldn't do.
Seems the David Letterman show had invited her on and when they called to confirm, she wasn't home and her fiance told them she wouldn't be able to come.
You hold something like that against all mankind, it seems.
So it was I spent a fascinating afternoon with the two of them, hearing 60 years worth of stories, with a whole lot of testifying and "uh-huh-ing" going on all the while.
We had a ball.
Back in the city, I found rushing water so deep in the curb along my street that I needed to shed my shoes before exiting the car.
I showered while it was showering outside, got dressed while it rained on and drove to meet a favorite couple at Pomegranate under a steady drizzle.
Not ashamed to say I like days like this. I can even do a stretch of them, just not daily.
But driving from J-Ward to Carytown, it was hard to miss how empty places were, even for notoriously slow September.
It's only rain, after all, and a mild, soft humid night at that.
Unless you're the Wicked Witch of the West, I think you're okay.
Because the only other occupants were taking up half the bar, we wound up right in front of the screen, so I just swiveled to look out the big front window and watch the rain and car lights make patterns on the shiny streets.
What screen?
This was not a random get-togetherbut a posthumous celebration of my friend's Aunt Doris, who would have been 95. In tribute to Doris, she'd had two martinis by 7.
I believe that's how the Doris tradition is kept alive, a nod to all the great adventures, drinking and otherwise, she'd had with Doris over the years.
Waiting for our food over Jean-Luc Columbo Viognier (with one abstaining for a cocktail), we toasted Doris and allowed our ears to wander with whatever Great American Songbook Pandora station they'd chosen.
Apparently it was just the kind of music Doris loved.
Jimmy Durante, Bing Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald, Nat "King" Cole, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Gershwin.
I like New York in June, how about you?
I like a Gershwin tune, how about you?
I love a fireside when a storm is due
I like potato chips, moonlight, motor trips, how about you?
A far cry from last night's thrash at 821.Variety, spice of life and all that.
I'd chosen mussels and frites in a tomato basil broth, getting such a plentiful serving of mussels (and a mound of flaccid fries) that I left little room for bread sopping of what was a perfectly delicious broth, hunks of cooked tomato throughout.
My friends told me about having seen violinist Joshua Bell with the symphony Saturday evening followed by a discussion of Bell's performance next week at the Union Station Metro.
It'll be interesting to hear how differently people react to him playing than they did when he first tried it in 2007 and only a handful paid him any mind.
We talked about how much my friend dislikes listening to WCVE's jazz show with Peter Solomon and having the musical vibe broken hourly with jarring news.
In his opinion, they should hold the news until after jazz ends. First world problem.
Sharing notes on each other's full moon-like experiences last Friday, they told me about finding a girl passed out on a neighbor's lawn and I shared how I'd seen a girl go from vertical on a corner to crumpled on the curb in less than five seconds.
Rein it in, kids. Life's a marathon, not a sprint.
They both smacked their lips over their dishes - his enormous and vaguely obscene pig and bacon sausage over spaetzel and apples, her steak frites made with culotte steak, a lean cut I like for its toothsome meatiness and she did, too - and we agreed on Espolon for dessert.
My friend whined that his high school reunion had been scheduled for opening night of the Folk Fest. He's not pleased.
I heard about a new exhibit at UR showing the development of the Westhampton area from amusement park to university, just the geeky kind of thing I'd love to see.
My aunt Faye went to UR back in the '60s and never quite accepted the merging of the men's and women's campuses, despite being extremely liberal and forward-thinking. I think it had more to do with academics than anything.
The male in our midst was left behind when we got off on a tangent about VCU's Grace Street area in its heyday.
I told her how when I first moved here from Washington, I was thrilled to discover Sunny Day, a clothing shop on Grace Street that carried decidedly un-Richmond like clothes for 1987.
Squealing in delight, she said she'd bought two pairs of sky-high platform shoes there in the '70s, one pair black and the other silver, both of which she danced in until destroying the black ones.
The silver ones she still has.
And get this, she paid for them by the shoe, not by the pair. Crazy, man.
I told her I'd danced a half dozen times this summer and had on platform shoes every time. Old habits die hard.
Just for the record, I also like potato chips, moonlight and motor trips.
Motor trips, even in rain like this. Here's to you, Doris.
Walking around today, I saw people in bulky jackets, scarves and hats. It was 65. Granted, drizzly, but 65 degrees.
When it's 65 in April, folks in these parts are sporting shorts and sundresses. Today suddenly, it's bundle up time.
Perhaps there's a chance it was a reaction, not to the temperature, but to the long-absent rain that fell all afternoon.
I know because I drove to the northern neck to spend the afternoon talking to a couple of award-winning sisters, the rain steady from the moment I left home and all the way to the Rapphannock and back.
While hearing one delicious story after another, one sister said that she didn't have any men in her life because she didn't want anyone telling her what she couldn't do.
Seems the David Letterman show had invited her on and when they called to confirm, she wasn't home and her fiance told them she wouldn't be able to come.
You hold something like that against all mankind, it seems.
So it was I spent a fascinating afternoon with the two of them, hearing 60 years worth of stories, with a whole lot of testifying and "uh-huh-ing" going on all the while.
We had a ball.
Back in the city, I found rushing water so deep in the curb along my street that I needed to shed my shoes before exiting the car.
I showered while it was showering outside, got dressed while it rained on and drove to meet a favorite couple at Pomegranate under a steady drizzle.
Not ashamed to say I like days like this. I can even do a stretch of them, just not daily.
But driving from J-Ward to Carytown, it was hard to miss how empty places were, even for notoriously slow September.
It's only rain, after all, and a mild, soft humid night at that.
Unless you're the Wicked Witch of the West, I think you're okay.
Because the only other occupants were taking up half the bar, we wound up right in front of the screen, so I just swiveled to look out the big front window and watch the rain and car lights make patterns on the shiny streets.
What screen?
This was not a random get-togetherbut a posthumous celebration of my friend's Aunt Doris, who would have been 95. In tribute to Doris, she'd had two martinis by 7.
I believe that's how the Doris tradition is kept alive, a nod to all the great adventures, drinking and otherwise, she'd had with Doris over the years.
Waiting for our food over Jean-Luc Columbo Viognier (with one abstaining for a cocktail), we toasted Doris and allowed our ears to wander with whatever Great American Songbook Pandora station they'd chosen.
Apparently it was just the kind of music Doris loved.
Jimmy Durante, Bing Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald, Nat "King" Cole, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Gershwin.
I like New York in June, how about you?
I like a Gershwin tune, how about you?
I love a fireside when a storm is due
I like potato chips, moonlight, motor trips, how about you?
I'd chosen mussels and frites in a tomato basil broth, getting such a plentiful serving of mussels (and a mound of flaccid fries) that I left little room for bread sopping of what was a perfectly delicious broth, hunks of cooked tomato throughout.
My friends told me about having seen violinist Joshua Bell with the symphony Saturday evening followed by a discussion of Bell's performance next week at the Union Station Metro.
It'll be interesting to hear how differently people react to him playing than they did when he first tried it in 2007 and only a handful paid him any mind.
We talked about how much my friend dislikes listening to WCVE's jazz show with Peter Solomon and having the musical vibe broken hourly with jarring news.
In his opinion, they should hold the news until after jazz ends. First world problem.
Sharing notes on each other's full moon-like experiences last Friday, they told me about finding a girl passed out on a neighbor's lawn and I shared how I'd seen a girl go from vertical on a corner to crumpled on the curb in less than five seconds.
Rein it in, kids. Life's a marathon, not a sprint.
They both smacked their lips over their dishes - his enormous and vaguely obscene pig and bacon sausage over spaetzel and apples, her steak frites made with culotte steak, a lean cut I like for its toothsome meatiness and she did, too - and we agreed on Espolon for dessert.
My friend whined that his high school reunion had been scheduled for opening night of the Folk Fest. He's not pleased.
I heard about a new exhibit at UR showing the development of the Westhampton area from amusement park to university, just the geeky kind of thing I'd love to see.
My aunt Faye went to UR back in the '60s and never quite accepted the merging of the men's and women's campuses, despite being extremely liberal and forward-thinking. I think it had more to do with academics than anything.
The male in our midst was left behind when we got off on a tangent about VCU's Grace Street area in its heyday.
I told her how when I first moved here from Washington, I was thrilled to discover Sunny Day, a clothing shop on Grace Street that carried decidedly un-Richmond like clothes for 1987.
Squealing in delight, she said she'd bought two pairs of sky-high platform shoes there in the '70s, one pair black and the other silver, both of which she danced in until destroying the black ones.
The silver ones she still has.
And get this, she paid for them by the shoe, not by the pair. Crazy, man.
I told her I'd danced a half dozen times this summer and had on platform shoes every time. Old habits die hard.
Just for the record, I also like potato chips, moonlight and motor trips.
Motor trips, even in rain like this. Here's to you, Doris.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Three Strikes
I'm not what you'd call the sports type.
No hand/eye coordination, no need to be part of a team, no real interest in watching games. So the last place you might expect I'd go on a dreary Wednesday night would be to see a baseball game.
But there I was at the Diamond with a baseball lover, someone who thinks baseball is a beautiful sport, unfolding languorously and organically in a way that football and basketball do not.
Whatever.
So we get our tickets and I have to question the price. $7, really, for a nosebleed general admission seat? Seems a little steep considering all the empty seats, but what do I know?
On the plus side, I see that the Squirrels are playing the Bowie Baysox, significant only because my best friend from college was living in Bowie when I first met her and I haven't thought about Bowie in decades.
But the best is yet to come. Inside, I find an almost fair-like world.
A high school band is at the top of the steps, playing their hearts out. Giant costumed mascots are looming over small children. It's "Wet Wednesday," so beers are $2 until 7:00 and people are buying them in bulk. It's also nurses' night, but the only person I see in scrubs is the guy with the microphone on the field shouting about $2 beers.
Beer vendors are hawking their wares from a strap-on case as you walk by them.
Down the concourse, I find carnival game set-ups with bored looking guys waiting for someone to play. The "picnic area" has been overtaken by khaki-clad men and women and the table cards read "Genworth Financial," so we keep on walking. The Dipping Dots girl is making cow eyes at her pimply boyfriend.
Where is the great American past time?
We head up to our seats, only to see that it's raining steadily by now. As we stand there looking out at the covered infield, a red-vested usher approaches us with a look of resignation.
"Yep, I think they're gonna call this game tonight," he says like he knows. This is news to us, we tell him. "Yea, well, they prolly won't announce it till 9:00."
9:00?? A game that was supposed to start at 6:35 is in limbo until 9:00? Surely he's wrong.
We find a dry spot on the concrete steps leading upstairs and look out over the Boulevard and eating a really bad hot Italian sausage with mushy peppers and onions on it.
From my vantage point, the rain is imperceptible, but there's a big overhang so it's really just that it's yards away. The baseball lover goes for a walk, tired of step sitting.
A guy with his hands full of nachos passes me to go upstairs, asking, "So, what's your forecast?" Feeling in the know because of what the usher had said, I tell him I think they'll call it.
"Nah," he says immediately dismissing my prognostication. "I think they'll start it up in about half an hour."
Well, that would be good news, so I sit back down, watching the trashy blond with the rhinestone-studded pockets on her jeans flip her hair while her man alternately looks on adoringly and checks his phone.
As the light fades, the concrete steps feel colder and harder, so I get up and walk the concourse, eventually running into the baseball lover. "Wanna go?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
On our way out, a perky guy in an umbrella hat reminds us that we can come back and exchange our tickets for any future game.
As if. I mean, go, team.
Where can a person get a drink around here?
No hand/eye coordination, no need to be part of a team, no real interest in watching games. So the last place you might expect I'd go on a dreary Wednesday night would be to see a baseball game.
But there I was at the Diamond with a baseball lover, someone who thinks baseball is a beautiful sport, unfolding languorously and organically in a way that football and basketball do not.
Whatever.
So we get our tickets and I have to question the price. $7, really, for a nosebleed general admission seat? Seems a little steep considering all the empty seats, but what do I know?
On the plus side, I see that the Squirrels are playing the Bowie Baysox, significant only because my best friend from college was living in Bowie when I first met her and I haven't thought about Bowie in decades.
But the best is yet to come. Inside, I find an almost fair-like world.
A high school band is at the top of the steps, playing their hearts out. Giant costumed mascots are looming over small children. It's "Wet Wednesday," so beers are $2 until 7:00 and people are buying them in bulk. It's also nurses' night, but the only person I see in scrubs is the guy with the microphone on the field shouting about $2 beers.
Beer vendors are hawking their wares from a strap-on case as you walk by them.
Down the concourse, I find carnival game set-ups with bored looking guys waiting for someone to play. The "picnic area" has been overtaken by khaki-clad men and women and the table cards read "Genworth Financial," so we keep on walking. The Dipping Dots girl is making cow eyes at her pimply boyfriend.
Where is the great American past time?
We head up to our seats, only to see that it's raining steadily by now. As we stand there looking out at the covered infield, a red-vested usher approaches us with a look of resignation.
"Yep, I think they're gonna call this game tonight," he says like he knows. This is news to us, we tell him. "Yea, well, they prolly won't announce it till 9:00."
9:00?? A game that was supposed to start at 6:35 is in limbo until 9:00? Surely he's wrong.
We find a dry spot on the concrete steps leading upstairs and look out over the Boulevard and eating a really bad hot Italian sausage with mushy peppers and onions on it.
From my vantage point, the rain is imperceptible, but there's a big overhang so it's really just that it's yards away. The baseball lover goes for a walk, tired of step sitting.
A guy with his hands full of nachos passes me to go upstairs, asking, "So, what's your forecast?" Feeling in the know because of what the usher had said, I tell him I think they'll call it.
"Nah," he says immediately dismissing my prognostication. "I think they'll start it up in about half an hour."
Well, that would be good news, so I sit back down, watching the trashy blond with the rhinestone-studded pockets on her jeans flip her hair while her man alternately looks on adoringly and checks his phone.
As the light fades, the concrete steps feel colder and harder, so I get up and walk the concourse, eventually running into the baseball lover. "Wanna go?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
On our way out, a perky guy in an umbrella hat reminds us that we can come back and exchange our tickets for any future game.
As if. I mean, go, team.
Where can a person get a drink around here?
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Enter Rap and Doughnut Holes
So I'm just another archivist out on on a rainy night.
I'm getting tired of hearing/reading all the complaints about the wet weather (you don't hear the Seattleites whining, do you?) so I picked my dinner partner based on his sunny attitude.
"Hey, everyone, don't hate me, but I am loving this rain," he wrote earlier today and I immediately e-mailed him asking if he was free for dinner.
I, too, was loving this weather and I wanted to be with someone who felt the same.
His only stipulation for eating out was frugality, making City Dogs a shoe-in.
Tuesdays Richmond dogs (mustard, chili, onions) are only a buck and what could be cheaper than that?
So we met at the Fan location where every seat except four bar stools were taken.
Apparently cheap dogs and rain (oh, and $4 PBR tall boys) are a marriage made in heaven in this town.
We coordinated on our sides, me ordering onion rings and him cole slaw, him telling our server he was looking for a healthy side.
"Yea, we don't really do healthy here," he grinned.
Nor was that why we were there.
In fact, we both loaded our chili-laden dogs with slaw and then shared the rings.
I even ordered a chocolate milk shake, ensuring, as my Richmond grandmother would have said, that I was headed to hell in a hand basket.
The thing is, they bring you the silver milkshake blending cup with the extra in it along with your shake so even when you finish, you still have all that extra shake to replenish your empty glass.
Grandma was right.
We split up after that, he to a meeting and me to the Listening Room for music.
Tonight's show was curated by WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary, who had asked some of his favorite musicians to play acoustic.
It was also the first Listening Room without Jonathan Vassar and his lovely wife, Antonia, because their stork visit is imminent.
Their absence made for all kinds of adaptation; Rob's hand-stamping skills were suspect and Chris forgot to notify Dixie Donuts, so we missed out on everyone's favorite treats, making do with doughnut holes from god knows where.
But we soldiered on.
I greeted organizer and emcee Chris, who introduced me to the bartender, saying, "Karen has been to more of the Listening Rooms than I have."
It was high praise, but then I have been to 35 of the 37 and one of the ones I missed was because I was in another country.
Okay, so I'm bragging.
My usual Listening Room pals were notably absent but fortunately, my favorite seat was free and I made eyes at a standing friend and the seat next to me until he got the hint and came over.
Introducing Ben Shepherd, Shannon observed, "It's safe to say that the characters in Ben's songs are troubled," and went on to list what ails them.
I've heard Ben many times and admire his insightful and literate lyrics and beautiful voice but for a lot of people, it was their first time experiencing him.
He's a long, tall drink of water clad in an army jacket and old brown lace-up boots that caused the scientist sitting next to me to nudge me and say, "Cool boots."
Ben dedicated a poignant song to anyone who'd ever lost a friend to dope, did a sweet song called "Silver Dog" and cracked wise.
"Shannon described about half the songs I'm going to play, but that's okay. I wouldn't have done it, but it's okay."
Ben took a swig from his PBR between every song, a slight variation on one of my favorite Sprout shows where he took a long pull on a bottle of red wine between songs.
Favorite lyric:
I can't fathom or really understand
The world that existed before I was born
After the break, Shannon brought up two of his favorites, Matt Seymour (from Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) and Harris Mendell (of Sundials) to trade songs for us.
It was especially interesting hearing these two play acoustic, not their usual format.
And they were as funny as a comedy duo, with Harris waving his arms over his head as Matt sang and Matt playing and picking silently, doing the exact same thing Matt was playing but without sound.
Shannon had asked them to do a few of his personal favorites, so Matt did "Peter Pan Syndrome," with the terrific lyric, "Will you be my Wendy? Will you be my Tinkerbell? Don't be silly, you can be my Tiger Lily still."
Harris sang a song, "Completely Broken," about coming down Harrison and turning east on Clay into oncoming car headlights.
"It's a song about letting something bad happen to you," he explained about an area mere blocks from my house.
One song Matt began singing in more typical Pedals on Our Pirate Ships fashion (loud and brash) before saying, "Sorry, guys," and taking it down to singer/songwriter mode.
He even inserted a guitar solo ("This is the funky part") and finished by turning to Harris and boasting, "Beat that!"
Harris rose to the challenge with a song about going to community college and an Archers of Loaf cover that Matt lip-synced to.
"This is the first time I ever heard Ben Shepherd," Harris said. "He's really good."
And that's the best part of a show like tonight's. I'm sure a lot of people heard musicians they'd never heard or never would have heard otherwise.
And, let's face it, this town could use some some cross-pollination when it comes to various music scenes.
Can't we all just listen to each other?
While the crowd had been thinner than usual to start the evening, the satisfying part was that people continued to arrive so there was still a good crowd when Shannon got up to introduce Isaac Ramsey.
"First I want to thank some of the people off the top of my head who take the time to archive some of the music shows that happen here, like tonight," and went on to mention assorted groups (The Listening Room, RVA Magazine) and bloggers, like yours truly.
It was a very generous thing to do and a reminder that if someone doesn't record all these show memories, eventually they'll be lost.
But enough patting myself on the back.
Isaac began by saying, "I don't know how I'm going to follow the comedy of Matt and Harris," no small feat.
But I laughed immediately when he introduced his rap, "85 Bears," saying, "It's not necessarily about the team. It's about winning...and white flight."
I'd seen Issac before, both rapping as Swordplay and as part of the band Double Rainbow and his songwriting and rhyming skills are exceptional.
Isaac was undoubtedly the Listening Room's first rapper, albeit a very melodic one with a fine voice who played guitar (as well as percussion on his guitar).
He dedicated "Song for the Dead," with the tantalizing lyric, "Existence is a human assumption,"to "Anyone who lost someone last year."
Then he snuck in new material.
"This is a Double Rainbow song so new we haven't played it out yet," Isaac said by way of introduction. "So if you see Jamie, don't tell him."
If I saw Jamie, not that I know Jamie, I would tell him what a great song it was.
Isaac said, "This song is called "Mr. Rosenberg" and I'm pretty sure the story behind it is better than the song."
He proceeded to tell the story, which was disturbing and true, but the song was a worthy counterpoint, no matter what he said.
At first he called "Lay Down" another song about death, but changed that and called it a song about life.
Then he got up as if to leave, instead going backstage for another guitar.
"I did something I never do," he explained. "I brought two guitars so I wouldn't have to tune in front of you. I did that partly for me, but mostly for you. Okay, I have to tune a little."
He needn't have worried about not being funny with lines like that.
But it was his last comment that best summed up the evening.
"Based on how awesome this night was, I think I probably don't come to the Listening Room enough.
But then, who does, other than little miss 35 of 37?
Given tonight's genre-bending show, I bet a lot more people will be more assiduous about putting it in their calendar.
After all, why fathom or try to understand a world that existed before the Listening Room?
Like the Dixie Donuts that usually accompany the music, it's there every month for the taking.
I'm getting tired of hearing/reading all the complaints about the wet weather (you don't hear the Seattleites whining, do you?) so I picked my dinner partner based on his sunny attitude.
"Hey, everyone, don't hate me, but I am loving this rain," he wrote earlier today and I immediately e-mailed him asking if he was free for dinner.
I, too, was loving this weather and I wanted to be with someone who felt the same.
His only stipulation for eating out was frugality, making City Dogs a shoe-in.
Tuesdays Richmond dogs (mustard, chili, onions) are only a buck and what could be cheaper than that?
So we met at the Fan location where every seat except four bar stools were taken.
Apparently cheap dogs and rain (oh, and $4 PBR tall boys) are a marriage made in heaven in this town.
We coordinated on our sides, me ordering onion rings and him cole slaw, him telling our server he was looking for a healthy side.
"Yea, we don't really do healthy here," he grinned.
Nor was that why we were there.
In fact, we both loaded our chili-laden dogs with slaw and then shared the rings.
I even ordered a chocolate milk shake, ensuring, as my Richmond grandmother would have said, that I was headed to hell in a hand basket.
The thing is, they bring you the silver milkshake blending cup with the extra in it along with your shake so even when you finish, you still have all that extra shake to replenish your empty glass.
Grandma was right.
We split up after that, he to a meeting and me to the Listening Room for music.
Tonight's show was curated by WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary, who had asked some of his favorite musicians to play acoustic.
It was also the first Listening Room without Jonathan Vassar and his lovely wife, Antonia, because their stork visit is imminent.
Their absence made for all kinds of adaptation; Rob's hand-stamping skills were suspect and Chris forgot to notify Dixie Donuts, so we missed out on everyone's favorite treats, making do with doughnut holes from god knows where.
But we soldiered on.
I greeted organizer and emcee Chris, who introduced me to the bartender, saying, "Karen has been to more of the Listening Rooms than I have."
It was high praise, but then I have been to 35 of the 37 and one of the ones I missed was because I was in another country.
Okay, so I'm bragging.
My usual Listening Room pals were notably absent but fortunately, my favorite seat was free and I made eyes at a standing friend and the seat next to me until he got the hint and came over.
Introducing Ben Shepherd, Shannon observed, "It's safe to say that the characters in Ben's songs are troubled," and went on to list what ails them.
I've heard Ben many times and admire his insightful and literate lyrics and beautiful voice but for a lot of people, it was their first time experiencing him.
He's a long, tall drink of water clad in an army jacket and old brown lace-up boots that caused the scientist sitting next to me to nudge me and say, "Cool boots."
Ben dedicated a poignant song to anyone who'd ever lost a friend to dope, did a sweet song called "Silver Dog" and cracked wise.
"Shannon described about half the songs I'm going to play, but that's okay. I wouldn't have done it, but it's okay."
Ben took a swig from his PBR between every song, a slight variation on one of my favorite Sprout shows where he took a long pull on a bottle of red wine between songs.
Favorite lyric:
I can't fathom or really understand
The world that existed before I was born
After the break, Shannon brought up two of his favorites, Matt Seymour (from Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) and Harris Mendell (of Sundials) to trade songs for us.
It was especially interesting hearing these two play acoustic, not their usual format.
And they were as funny as a comedy duo, with Harris waving his arms over his head as Matt sang and Matt playing and picking silently, doing the exact same thing Matt was playing but without sound.
Shannon had asked them to do a few of his personal favorites, so Matt did "Peter Pan Syndrome," with the terrific lyric, "Will you be my Wendy? Will you be my Tinkerbell? Don't be silly, you can be my Tiger Lily still."
Harris sang a song, "Completely Broken," about coming down Harrison and turning east on Clay into oncoming car headlights.
"It's a song about letting something bad happen to you," he explained about an area mere blocks from my house.
One song Matt began singing in more typical Pedals on Our Pirate Ships fashion (loud and brash) before saying, "Sorry, guys," and taking it down to singer/songwriter mode.
He even inserted a guitar solo ("This is the funky part") and finished by turning to Harris and boasting, "Beat that!"
Harris rose to the challenge with a song about going to community college and an Archers of Loaf cover that Matt lip-synced to.
"This is the first time I ever heard Ben Shepherd," Harris said. "He's really good."
And that's the best part of a show like tonight's. I'm sure a lot of people heard musicians they'd never heard or never would have heard otherwise.
And, let's face it, this town could use some some cross-pollination when it comes to various music scenes.
Can't we all just listen to each other?
While the crowd had been thinner than usual to start the evening, the satisfying part was that people continued to arrive so there was still a good crowd when Shannon got up to introduce Isaac Ramsey.
"First I want to thank some of the people off the top of my head who take the time to archive some of the music shows that happen here, like tonight," and went on to mention assorted groups (The Listening Room, RVA Magazine) and bloggers, like yours truly.
It was a very generous thing to do and a reminder that if someone doesn't record all these show memories, eventually they'll be lost.
But enough patting myself on the back.
Isaac began by saying, "I don't know how I'm going to follow the comedy of Matt and Harris," no small feat.
But I laughed immediately when he introduced his rap, "85 Bears," saying, "It's not necessarily about the team. It's about winning...and white flight."
I'd seen Issac before, both rapping as Swordplay and as part of the band Double Rainbow and his songwriting and rhyming skills are exceptional.
Isaac was undoubtedly the Listening Room's first rapper, albeit a very melodic one with a fine voice who played guitar (as well as percussion on his guitar).
He dedicated "Song for the Dead," with the tantalizing lyric, "Existence is a human assumption,"to "Anyone who lost someone last year."
Then he snuck in new material.
"This is a Double Rainbow song so new we haven't played it out yet," Isaac said by way of introduction. "So if you see Jamie, don't tell him."
If I saw Jamie, not that I know Jamie, I would tell him what a great song it was.
Isaac said, "This song is called "Mr. Rosenberg" and I'm pretty sure the story behind it is better than the song."
He proceeded to tell the story, which was disturbing and true, but the song was a worthy counterpoint, no matter what he said.
At first he called "Lay Down" another song about death, but changed that and called it a song about life.
Then he got up as if to leave, instead going backstage for another guitar.
"I did something I never do," he explained. "I brought two guitars so I wouldn't have to tune in front of you. I did that partly for me, but mostly for you. Okay, I have to tune a little."
He needn't have worried about not being funny with lines like that.
But it was his last comment that best summed up the evening.
"Based on how awesome this night was, I think I probably don't come to the Listening Room enough.
But then, who does, other than little miss 35 of 37?
Given tonight's genre-bending show, I bet a lot more people will be more assiduous about putting it in their calendar.
After all, why fathom or try to understand a world that existed before the Listening Room?
Like the Dixie Donuts that usually accompany the music, it's there every month for the taking.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Have You Ever Seen the Rain?
When I wake up to a rainy, gray August Sunday, I feel like it's a gift.
So when I set out on my walk, it's under a large flowered umbrella and with a different goal in mind.
Instead of my usual three miles, I want to walk four today.
Partly that's because I so enjoy walking in the rain (especially on a 70 degree day) but also because a longer walk will deposit me at Dixie Donuts.
I walk in behind a family of six (!) who look like they've just come from church.
While the three youngest kids shout their choices, the teen-aged son hangs back, clearly mortified to be part of all this.
"I want a snowcap!" one yells about the doughnut adorned with the white-dotted candy.
"I want the French toast one," another shouts.
"Can I have two chocolate toffees?" asks a third before the high-maintenance looking mother finally takes control and helps expedite the ordering process.
I feel the counter girl's pain.
When the family clears out, I order a basic chocolate doughnut, the last one of its kind on the tray.
Apparently I am not the only one with simple taste when it comes to doughnuts.
To me, candy on top is superfluous when you have a well made cake doughnut.
I compliment the cashier on how adorable she and the counter girl look with matching pink bandannas tied around their heads.
Walking back toward Jackson Ward munching my doughnut as it lightly rains all around me makes the extra mile feel effortless.
Or maybe that was just the sugar buzz kicking in.
So when I set out on my walk, it's under a large flowered umbrella and with a different goal in mind.
Instead of my usual three miles, I want to walk four today.
Partly that's because I so enjoy walking in the rain (especially on a 70 degree day) but also because a longer walk will deposit me at Dixie Donuts.
I walk in behind a family of six (!) who look like they've just come from church.
While the three youngest kids shout their choices, the teen-aged son hangs back, clearly mortified to be part of all this.
"I want a snowcap!" one yells about the doughnut adorned with the white-dotted candy.
"I want the French toast one," another shouts.
"Can I have two chocolate toffees?" asks a third before the high-maintenance looking mother finally takes control and helps expedite the ordering process.
I feel the counter girl's pain.
When the family clears out, I order a basic chocolate doughnut, the last one of its kind on the tray.
Apparently I am not the only one with simple taste when it comes to doughnuts.
To me, candy on top is superfluous when you have a well made cake doughnut.
I compliment the cashier on how adorable she and the counter girl look with matching pink bandannas tied around their heads.
Walking back toward Jackson Ward munching my doughnut as it lightly rains all around me makes the extra mile feel effortless.
Or maybe that was just the sugar buzz kicking in.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Belonging to Everyone Who Meets You
It was almost like a day at the beach, but without the ocean.
It started out as usual, with breakfast and walking, which for a change here lately wasn't miserable because it was overcast and not even in the 90s.
How quickly we lower our standards!
And then not long after I got home, I heard it: the unmistakable sound of rain outside.
Without a moment's hesitation, I picked up the morning's Washington Post, which I had not yet started, and moved to my back porch which overlooks the yard.
And with the sound of the rain on the metal roof and the occasional raindrops hitting me in my rocking chair, I savored my morning newspaper.
I read about three different books I must read. One was about the art scene in L.A. in the sixties, one about the generation that started the California wineries and one about the most beautiful walks in Paris.
Any or all would make terrific beach reads, not that I'll wait that long to find out.
It was so pleasant on the porch with the rain falling all around me after the heat of the past few weeks. Just as I was nearing the end of the paper, it let up and started to get brighter.
Seemed like a good time to take a nap, so I went inside and did.
After lunch and some actual time devoted to work, I decided to take another reading break, picking up the beach read I have still not finished since returning home.
After 70 pages or so of "Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick," I realized it was the perfect time for a nap. Again.
Can't say I know what got into me today. This is how I behave at the beach, reading and napping at will, but it's not my M.O. at home.
I finally left the house around 8:30 this evening for music and to make sure I still knew how to talk to other people.
The Camel was hosting a Singer/Songwriter Night and I only recognized one name on the list, so I figured it would be interesting.
Obviously anticipating a small crowd, the show had been set up on the bar side of the restaurant with the folding door to the main room shut.
Within no time, they adjusted the plan, opened the door and brought chairs over for the overflow of people standing, like me.
First up were Miriam and Jordan of local band the Kindling Kind, whom I'd never heard of.
Miriam had a distinctive voice which reminded me of English singer Lauren Christy.
Her songs were confessional in nature and Jordan's guitar playing added a nice richness to them. I'd be interested to hear the whole band.
Robert Lacey, originally from Charlottesville but currently living in New Orleans, was up next and began with a song inspired by Tom Robbins.
I wasn't sure about him after the first song, but his intensity and voice got progressively stronger until he was riveting to hear.
Favorite lyric: "I wanted to believe in the curve of your freckled hip between my knees"
The crowd was respectful and hushed for both the first two sets, so I should have known it was too good to last.
No sooner had organizer Paul Wilson begun his set when the noise of the crowd became offensively loud.
After his first song, he addressed the problem. "If everyone would be quiet and listen, it's an awesome thing when you just listen."
And people were quiet when he said that. And as soon as he went back to singing they went back to shouting over him. It was a shame.
Lydia Ooghe dueted with Paul on a couple of songs, teasing the audience since she was the next performer.
The rudeness continued during Lydia's set of mostly new material.
She has such a delicate voice and although Paul actually went up to some of the worst offenders and asked them to move to the back and keep it low, they quickly forgot.
Lydia mentioned a recent singer/songwriter showcase she'd done in C-ville where all the performers were asked to write a song based on another song.
She had chose one called "If I Could Play a Piano" and redone it, using similar music elements as "If I Could Sleep."
Starting a song, she said, "Oops, there goes my capo! Technical difficulties!" and a quick audience member responded, "Don't fret it!"
I laughed out loud and he looked pretty pleased with himself.
I enjoyed major bliss when she covered David Byrne's "Everyone's in Love with You," easily one of my very favorite Byrne songs and quite a tribute to someone.
Hearing a song written and sung by a man performed by a women gave extra poignancy to the lyrics, which I appreciated.
It was a stellar choice on Lydia's part and she did an outstanding job with it.
And the crowd shouted on. Even though there were more performers to come, I was tired of the drunken rudeness and left before I got to hear the remaining singers.
It may have felt like a day at the beach all day, but this evening made for a solid return to normal life in RVA.
Otherwise I'd be typing this from the porch swing overlooking the ocean.
Jackson Ward has much to recommend it, but no ocean.
It started out as usual, with breakfast and walking, which for a change here lately wasn't miserable because it was overcast and not even in the 90s.
How quickly we lower our standards!
And then not long after I got home, I heard it: the unmistakable sound of rain outside.
Without a moment's hesitation, I picked up the morning's Washington Post, which I had not yet started, and moved to my back porch which overlooks the yard.
And with the sound of the rain on the metal roof and the occasional raindrops hitting me in my rocking chair, I savored my morning newspaper.
I read about three different books I must read. One was about the art scene in L.A. in the sixties, one about the generation that started the California wineries and one about the most beautiful walks in Paris.
Any or all would make terrific beach reads, not that I'll wait that long to find out.
It was so pleasant on the porch with the rain falling all around me after the heat of the past few weeks. Just as I was nearing the end of the paper, it let up and started to get brighter.
Seemed like a good time to take a nap, so I went inside and did.
After lunch and some actual time devoted to work, I decided to take another reading break, picking up the beach read I have still not finished since returning home.
After 70 pages or so of "Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick," I realized it was the perfect time for a nap. Again.
Can't say I know what got into me today. This is how I behave at the beach, reading and napping at will, but it's not my M.O. at home.
I finally left the house around 8:30 this evening for music and to make sure I still knew how to talk to other people.
The Camel was hosting a Singer/Songwriter Night and I only recognized one name on the list, so I figured it would be interesting.
Obviously anticipating a small crowd, the show had been set up on the bar side of the restaurant with the folding door to the main room shut.
Within no time, they adjusted the plan, opened the door and brought chairs over for the overflow of people standing, like me.
First up were Miriam and Jordan of local band the Kindling Kind, whom I'd never heard of.
Miriam had a distinctive voice which reminded me of English singer Lauren Christy.
Her songs were confessional in nature and Jordan's guitar playing added a nice richness to them. I'd be interested to hear the whole band.
Robert Lacey, originally from Charlottesville but currently living in New Orleans, was up next and began with a song inspired by Tom Robbins.
I wasn't sure about him after the first song, but his intensity and voice got progressively stronger until he was riveting to hear.
Favorite lyric: "I wanted to believe in the curve of your freckled hip between my knees"
The crowd was respectful and hushed for both the first two sets, so I should have known it was too good to last.
No sooner had organizer Paul Wilson begun his set when the noise of the crowd became offensively loud.
After his first song, he addressed the problem. "If everyone would be quiet and listen, it's an awesome thing when you just listen."
And people were quiet when he said that. And as soon as he went back to singing they went back to shouting over him. It was a shame.
Lydia Ooghe dueted with Paul on a couple of songs, teasing the audience since she was the next performer.
The rudeness continued during Lydia's set of mostly new material.
She has such a delicate voice and although Paul actually went up to some of the worst offenders and asked them to move to the back and keep it low, they quickly forgot.
Lydia mentioned a recent singer/songwriter showcase she'd done in C-ville where all the performers were asked to write a song based on another song.
She had chose one called "If I Could Play a Piano" and redone it, using similar music elements as "If I Could Sleep."
Starting a song, she said, "Oops, there goes my capo! Technical difficulties!" and a quick audience member responded, "Don't fret it!"
I laughed out loud and he looked pretty pleased with himself.
I enjoyed major bliss when she covered David Byrne's "Everyone's in Love with You," easily one of my very favorite Byrne songs and quite a tribute to someone.
I introduce you to my friends
& that's the last I see of you
All the world's discovered my big secret
Everyone's in love with you
They're fascinated by your smile
They copy all the things you do
I wish that you & I could be together, but
Everyone's in love with you, yeah
Everyone's in love with you
God gives, God's wise
The way that she smiles
It should be no surprise
At work, at home
I'm introduced to so & so
But you're the one they want to know
I'm jealous & a little proud
I want to kill & kiss you too
You belong to everyone who meets you
Everyone's in love with you
God gives, God takes
Don't misunderstand I'm a satisfied man
So sweet, so strange
I guess I'll never understand the things she does to all my friends
Hearing a song written and sung by a man performed by a women gave extra poignancy to the lyrics, which I appreciated.
It was a stellar choice on Lydia's part and she did an outstanding job with it.
And the crowd shouted on. Even though there were more performers to come, I was tired of the drunken rudeness and left before I got to hear the remaining singers.
It may have felt like a day at the beach all day, but this evening made for a solid return to normal life in RVA.
Otherwise I'd be typing this from the porch swing overlooking the ocean.
Jackson Ward has much to recommend it, but no ocean.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Back Porch Rain Reverie
I arrived home late last night just about the time the rain was shifting from a gentle patter to a pounding downpour.
While I probably should have gone straight to bed, instead I poured a glass of the 2006 Cardinal Point Cab Franc Reserve, a gold medal winner at this year's Governor's Cup and absolutely yummy.
Step two was planting myself in the rocking chair on my back porch to enjoy the weather.
I think I like porch-sitting in the rain for the same reason I like umbrella-walking in the rain.
Being in the dry center of all that wetness is somehow pleasurable and reassuring.
I guess that's how I spent over an hour happily lost inside my own head, occasionally being splattered by raindrops and watching the lightening show.
After an hour plus out there, the rain slackened and I reluctantly decided I should hit the sack.
It was, after all, 3:30 and although I'd have waited up for the sunrise at that point if I'd not been alone, my bed was starting to call to me.
I have to admit, though, my life may not be perfect, but sometimes it feels damn fine.
While I probably should have gone straight to bed, instead I poured a glass of the 2006 Cardinal Point Cab Franc Reserve, a gold medal winner at this year's Governor's Cup and absolutely yummy.
Step two was planting myself in the rocking chair on my back porch to enjoy the weather.
I think I like porch-sitting in the rain for the same reason I like umbrella-walking in the rain.
Being in the dry center of all that wetness is somehow pleasurable and reassuring.
I guess that's how I spent over an hour happily lost inside my own head, occasionally being splattered by raindrops and watching the lightening show.
After an hour plus out there, the rain slackened and I reluctantly decided I should hit the sack.
It was, after all, 3:30 and although I'd have waited up for the sunrise at that point if I'd not been alone, my bed was starting to call to me.
I have to admit, though, my life may not be perfect, but sometimes it feels damn fine.
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