People's Parties

If it hadn't been for getting a grape scratch and sniff Valentine showing purple pterodactyls, I'd never have laid eyes on the 20-year old bottle of Chivas Regal found crusted with dust.

"Where you been?" was scrawled on the back of the card atop the official Valentine message ("Flying by with a Valentine Hi!"), but what caused me to pick up the landline was that it had arrived in the mail uncharacteristically a day late.

Every year since I've known Holmes, he's bought a package of kiddie Valentine cards and mailed them to friends like me and family, where they arrived punctually on Valentine's Day, occasionally the day before. Not this year.

Procrastination delayed Cupid's delivery, I was told, but as long as he was questioning my whereabouts the past two months, I was offering myself up. Tonight. Not that he'd missed me, but why didn't I join him and Beloved for dinner at Peter Chang? Tonight.

It was a rhetorical question that landed us at the bar catching up over three kinds of soup, shrimp dumplings, multiple orders of sesame noodles and bamboo flounder to the accompaniment of a bottle of Rose in just over an hour, allowing ample time to retire to his man cave to listen to vinyl.

Which we did, beginning with Joni Mitchell's 1974 masterpiece "Court and Spark," which everyone was enjoying when Holmes eased back in his bar stool and and asked inscrutably, "You know how I used to listen to this album?"

Without missing a beat, Beloved causally asked, "Stoned on LSD?" which may or may not have been the case, but turned out to be merely a stepping stone to the tale of his successive stereo closets, a saga full of arcane detail no man should recall after 40 years.

Seems that when he and his young bride bought their first house, the closet in the front room had already been modified to house some serious audio geek hi-fi equipment. It was the '70s, after all.

Shelves were hung for components, holes had been drilled for wire and cords and, on either side of the wall above the door were sizable hooks, the better to hold sizable speakers, which were further fortified by two chains to hold each speaker.

Naturally, the speakers were angled toward the couch, not hung exactly straight out. Naturally.

But because the layout was typical Richmond - long and narrow - speaker wire had also been run throughout the house so you could hear what was playing when you were in the bedroom or, even more important, on the rear sun porch.

And that, boys and girls, was how Holmes had listened to "Court and Spark" back in the day.

But, alas, eventually the wife wanted an entire house and not just a duplex, meaning the hep cat hi-fi set-up was left behind. Ah, but at the new digs, he had a basement with the potential to be a true man cave with a bar, shelves for VHS movies and a small room for his extensive comic book collection.

He tried putting the turntable on the Formica bar, but flailing drinkers and good times soon proved that to be a disaster-in-the-making.

But, wait! The stairs to the basement ran above the bar, leaving a wedge of space that someone handy (Holmes hired a carpenter) could easily turn into another stereo construct. The only difference was that his massive speakers now sat on the floor of the rec room, angled in toward the bar, under which were shelves holding hundreds of albums and a ridiculous amount of booze.

"It's kind of sketchy down there," Holmes tells me tonight, gesturing at the below-bar area, explaining that he'd dropped the brush to his Disc-Washer (for what it's worth, I didn't date a single guy in high school or college who didn't own a Disc Washer) down there recently and when he began rummaging around, he'd unearthed the dust-crusted bottle of Chivas Regal.

Best guessing and carbon dating led him to estimate its age at 20 to 25 years old.

Ever thrifty and resourceful, he'd removed the layers of dust and debris, found a silver tin for the bottle to live in and added Chivas into his brown sipping rotation. It's hard to argue with that kind of logic.

Next came one of Beloved's estate sale record finds, Tony Mottola's "Mr. Big" from 1959, a late Eisenhower-era lounge vibe that made it sound like an automatic beatnik party: four guitars, bongos and congas. Wild, man.

The cover art was superb: a black bowler hat with "Mr. Big" in white letters sitting on a red stripe. Graphically, it was distinctive enough that I scanned the album notes to learn the artist's name (Irwin Rosenhouse), but also some history (he was a Merchant Marine), only to be brought up short by the equivalent of a business card.

In addition to painting, Rosenhouse does designing and illustrating on a freelance basis.

Somebody had some serious marketing chops there. So much so I'm thinking of putting something similar on a t-shirt I'll wear on my daily walks: In addition to walking, I do writing and editing on a freelance basis.

Then when someone asks, "Where you been?" I can say out drumming up business. Cue the bongos.

No Horses, No Balls, No Regret

In the further interest of celebrating my birthday, I was invited to a polo game today.

Picnic lunch in hand, we drove to King Family Winery for the kickoff of a season of Roseland polo.

The line down the gravel driveway was long and when we got to the front, we saw why.

A woman was patiently explaining to each carload that the polo match had been canceled due to the rain-soaked field.

But, she made sure we knew there would be a rugby match instead.

Okay, so no horses, but another unlikely sport.

My first thought was, I've seen polo played a couple of times and I've never seen rugby.

Good enough.

We parked the car under a drooping pine tree and addressed the first priority: acquisition and release.

After the drive, I wanted to find the facilities plus we needed to get a bottle of wine from the tasting room.

The bathroom line was already ridiculously long, but we used our time in line to buy a bottle of Crose' Rose, so it wasn't in vain.

Bucket and bottle in hand, we marched back down the driveway past license plates from Ohio, Maryland and New Jersey and set out a blanket, chairs and foodstuffs near a boisterous group who may or may not have been from New Jersey.

My guess: yes.

Especially after I overheard one of the women ask someone, "What is it with Virginia and sunscreen? I see kids over there lining up to get sprayed with sunscreen. It's a beautiful day, no one's going to get burnt."

She was correct, it was a beautiful day, cloudless and incredibly sunny.

I figured the UV factor was probably a full-on 10.

I know I had SPF 50 slathered all over every inch of skin.

One of her friends responded, "Well, so-and-so said she once got burnt when it was only 40 degrees outside!"

Jaws dropped.

All I'm saying is, the people in front of us were not the brightest.

Meanwhile, on the polo field we saw dogs frolicking, balls being kicked, Frisbees tossed and many kites being flown.

But no sign of rugby players.

And, horror of horrors, we heard a rumor that it was going to be a touch rugby game.

Touch?

From a full-contact sport with the slogan, "The only pain in rugby is regret"?

Halfway through the Rose, I wandered down to the Port-a-potties by the horse barn where I found a far shorter line than the one inside.

When my turn came, I took care of things with my usual expediency (I am known for my brief visits), meriting applause and the remark, "Thanks, Speedy!" from the guy in line behind me when I emerged very shortly thereafter.

Everyone has to have a talent.

Back at camp, we sipped our wine (finding the 2012 more cranberry-tasting than grapefruit, which was our primary memory of the 2011), and watched the familial tableaux unfold around us.

A preppy-looking guy talking to a bunch of girls about his Cessna.

A trio of very buttoned-down looking business types, all with tattoos on their white legs.

Two little red-headed girls whose skin was burning in the sun before our very eyes.

A stocky kid from the New Jersey clan (white Oakley sunglasses, braided red and white necklace, basketball shorts so long they met his socks) wandered over to the tree under which we were sitting.

Fingering it and obviously looking for conversation, he asked me, "Why is the tree wet?' as he touched where several branches had recently been cut off.

I explained sap to him while the grown-ups with whom he'd come got progressively loopier.

After a couple hours eating, sipping and observing, we got the official word.

The rugby game wasn't going to happen.

I can't say I was sorry to miss the abomination of touch rugby, though.

Even without a game, the winery had been an ideal picnic spot for a sunny, breezy afternoon.

Driving out, I saw white chairs set up in front of an arbor and figured a wedding was in the offing on this beautiful night.

Rounding the bend in the driveway, I spotted a plein air painter perched on a hill recreating the pond below.

So the polo had been canceled and the rugby game never materialized.

It was a gorgeous day to drive to the mountains and have a birthday picnic.

Or, as the haters might say, yet another way for me to celebrate my never-ending birthday.

And the problem with that is...?

A Sunday Kind of Love

First rule of Sunday: start high and get progressively sillier.

You really couldn't start much higher than a dazzling audio vision like "Koyaanisqatsi," the 1983 film about life out of balance with a Philip Glass soundtrack.

Sitting at UR's Modlin Center with a roomful of people willing to forsake a crystalline late summer day and the NFL for a non-narrative movie with only one word in it (the Hopi chant "koyaanisqatsi") surely qualified me as both a music and film nerd.

Unfortunately, not everyone in attendance was as enthralled with the movie as my companions and I were.

Directly in front of us was a UR student who moved constantly and restlessly from side to side in his chair, his head always in his hands as if he needed to hold it up.

In front of him, a kid napped through the whole thing.

Personally, I find the visuals of nature followed by technology followed by cultural references and eventually decay to be a meditation on the planet.

And of course, on the late '70s, early '80s when it was shot.

Like the billboard in Times Square advertising, "Sony Betamax."

And the beauty of implosions, long a fascination for me.

I am one of those people who got up at the crack of dawn to watch the old Times Disptach building imploded  back in September '98.

The film had image after image of implosions, truly a combination of science and beauty.

But if you've seen the film, you know how tense the score and images make you by the end of the film.

We stayed for the talkback with UR's music director and the remaining devotees of the film for some additional insight.

Afterwards, the four of us dined at Don't Look Back, discussing the film and its two sequels, neither of which I've seen.

A Frito pie and Herradura Reposado helped clear my head of the apocalyptic vision we'd just seen on the big screen.

And, honestly, where can you go after apocalypse and Fritos but to the Ghost Light Afterparty?

This month's event was called "Sha-GLAP," leading me to suspect a '50s theme.

Walking in to a room full of poodle skirts, bobby socks and ponytails, I knew I was right.

My date guessed that there's be some '60s, too, and a chat with co-host Maggie confirmed this.

The decades may change, but the GLAP is essentially a piano bar with members of the theater community taking the stage to sing whatever the hell they want.

As co-host Matt said tonight, "If you wanna sing a song from Les Mis and then talk about how much you hate Les Mis, that's fine."

Maggie explained the housekeeping issues, including a plea for some appropriate music. "We do appreciate some theme-i-ness."

And we got theme-i-ness almost at once with the marvelous Wonderettes (currently in production at Swift Mill) doing "Son of a Preacherman," complete with choreography and praying hands.

And we were off and running.

Part of the drill at GLAP is always Mad Libs set to a song of the period and we were warned that two Mad Libs were now in circulation and to feel free to contribute any dirty words we cared to to the project.

"F**k hasn't come up and we only have one penis," Miss Mad Lib informed us.

"One penis is never enough," Matt quipped.

Lamentation gave way to opera as Stephanie and Ingrid got up and sang a piece from "Tales of Hoffman."

"Last month we had "Smells Like Teen Spirit," Matt laughed. "And now we have opera. That's what Ghost Light is all about."

Maggie sang "Let the Good Times Roll" with Matt on shaker balls, providing my favorite lyric of the evening, "Love can be such a swinging thing."

Warning us that, "This could be tragic, but we welcome tragedy here," Matt did "On Broadway" (with back up singers), even changing the lyrics to "On Broad Street" and ending with jazz hands.

We like jazz hands at the GLAP.

Elizabeth jumped decades and did "Sweet Baby James,"  Peter did a soulful version of "Let It Be Me" and Sarah did "Stand By Me" with an impromptu group of backup singers and shakers almost upstaging her.

The Wonderettes returned for a beautifully-executed "Mr. Sandman" and an hysterical "Lollipop" that included a take-off on a Saturday Night Live skit that had one of the Wonderettes wearing prosthetic tubes with doll arms attached.

Georgia was the brave one to sing the first Mad Lib to "It's My Party," full of innuendo and trash talk ("It's my party and I'll masturbate if I want to").

When Matt spotted Evan looking very much like Buddy Holly, he burst into Weezer song, "Ooh,we, ooh, you look just like Buddy Holly and Karen, you're Mary Tyler Moore."

Not gonna lie, it was my first musical shout-out from the stage and I could get used to it.

"The Lion Sleeps Tonight" got the bongos and shaker treatment.

One of the night's highlights was Katrina singing (with flowers in her hair)  and Iman beat boxing to "Killing Me Softly."

It was the kind of sublime moment that you just had to be present for.

The TheaterLab group did "Summer Nights" from "Grease" and Evan added a mean tambourine to that.

Then it was intermission, meaning pizza time and Matt instructed, "Crank up that tuna-age!" so we had music to munch by.

Sarah did "Freddy, My Love" before raffle winners were pulled.

One prize was a bottle of malbec and Maggie read from the bottle's label that the winemakers selected from grapes that were 47 years old.

"That's so old!" Maggie exclaimed.

God, yes, 47, that's practically deathbed material.

Paul did a sweet version of "In My Own Little Corner" from "Cinderella," complete with high drama and an abrupt and unexpected ending, at least for him.

"That was very unceremonious and I loved it," Maggie observed.

Katie got Mad Lib duty this time and hers came with a warning at the top saying, "This is filthy."

Sung to Grease's "Sandra Dee" it included phrases like "pink velvet sausage pocket."

GLAP is not for the faint of heart, kids.

Nick did a rousing rendition of "If You Wanna Be Happy" with the sage lyrics "never make a pretty woman your wife" and three guys on heartfelt backup vocals plus bongos.

The crowd, now well lubricated, got vocal, testifying as Carla sang Streisand's "Evergreen" to shouts of "Come on!" and "Go, girl."

In a nod to the mood, she even changed a lyric to "Every day I am tipsy."

Katrina got called back up next, prompting her to say, "Oh, great! I have to go after Carla!"

Oh, great was right as she did "Stars and the Moon," noting midway through, "This song makes me cry."

Meanwhile you could have heard a pin drop in the room as everyone listened intently.

Even as our own bottle of Rose got lower and lower, Matt acknowledged, "I just accidentally chugged my bourbon and ginger and there's so many words on this page," before singing the hilarious "Therapy" from "Tick Tick Boom."

Paul did a song requested by Annie, saying, "To all you Glappers who have nothing better to do on a Sunday, there's nothing better than love, so here's "A Sunday Kind of Love."

Once again, he finished unceremoniously, getting many laughs for it.

The last song was "The Shoop Shoop Song (It's In His Kiss)" with Carla, Matt, Maggie and even Evan shaking his moneymaker tambourine along with everyone else who couldn't resist joining in the last big singalong.

Conclusion after nearly five hours of Glappage?

If it's love, if it really is, it's there in his kiss.

That, and I'm happy to concede that I have nothing better to do on a Sunday evening than let tipsy theater people sing to me.

Where else on earth am I going to be able to relive my youth singing along with a roomful of people to "Good Morning, Starshine"?

Only at GLAP, my friends, only at GLAP.

Think Pink, Remember Little

It was baptism by fire for pink lovers.

The goal was tasting 101 roses, everyone brought a bottle or a dish and we were required to wear pink.

I can't swear that there were 101 roses present, but after the first two dozen or so, who really notices?

Since I'd been on the Northern Neck all day, I'd stopped and bought shrimp to take to the party, leaving the bottle-bringing to those more qualified.

My three pounds of spiced crustaceans joined an overflowing table with pork belly, fried chicken, stuffed tomatoes and lots more edibles put out to protect us from ourselves and our pink excesses.

Walking in, I said hello to a fried chicken muncher before heading out the back door to the yard full of pink-dressed people.

That's where the serious fun began.

Naturally I began by checking in with my pink-shirted hostess, who approved of my pink dress and then attempted to one-up me by pulling out her pink bra strap.

Never one to be outdone when it comes to pink, I displayed my pink strap and offered to lift my hem and show her my pink underwear.

It wasn't necessary; she patted her backside, confirming that she, too, was pink below.

Is it any wonder this woman knows how to throw a pink party?

I only knew a fraction of the people in the backyard, not that that stopped me from having plenty of people to talk to.

Multiple coolers housed dozens of bottles of pink, including a few familiar bottles, but I made a point to try ones I hadn't.

Not surprisingly, at this point in my post-Rose memory, an Austrian Zweigelt is about all I filed away.

I don't think it's realistic to ply people with pink and expect them to retain much of anything.

After on and off again rain all day, it turned out to be a fine night for a backyard party, with people sharing Venus and moon stories about the recent skies.

Music blared from a window speaker and, for the most part, I liked what I heard.

(sound of record scratching)

Until Washed Out was followed by the Pretenders and then I had to find my charming hostess and talk music.

The starting point for the soundtrack had been Spoon, a band I'm quite fond of, but even Britt Daniel himself would have shuddered a bit at that train wreck of a musical combination.

A few swipes at a device and the music was righted to both our satisfaction.

Like any good party, people came and went throughout the night, so I gave out my phone number, updated a few people I hadn't seen in a while and just generally tried to be a worthy guest.

When I got home, it was to friend requests from new people I'd met and to pictures online from whence I'd just come.

I do recall being gathered for a mass group shot at one point. I can only hope that picture won't be used against any of the attendees.

Fact is, when you're quaffing an evening's worth of assorted roses, I don't think you're necessarily at your photogenic best.

Unless you count the pink undies and fortunately it never got to the point where they were photographed.

I think. But with so much pink, I can't be certain.