In Our Minds and Hearts

Even after three decades here, I'm still discovering new places to plant myself.

At the Bijou, new were some (but not all) of the re-installed theater seats from the Westhampton Theatre, notable because it meant that we no longer have to abuse our asses with those ergonomically-incorrect white plastic chairs to see film of note.

Tonight's trivia question concerned Holly Hunter's role in the movie and we were instructed to signal when we spotted her. Bags of popcorn in hand, the small group at the 5:10 show settled in to the new seats, ready for what was to come.

Mostly, anyway. How anyone can watch that entire knife through the hand on the window sash scene without averting their eyes is beyond me. Just saying, I felt squirming on both sides of me.

The unexpected beauty of seeing a film you last saw 33 years ago when it was in first run is that it could almost be an entirely new-to-you movie this time around.

And I say "almost" because even with little to no memory of seeing "Blood Simple" in 1984, the film stands instantly recognizable as a Coen Brothers movie because everything they're known for now was fully formed and on display in this, their first film.

I had forgotten how perfectly lovely and very of-the-era 27-year old Frances McDormand looked, somewhere between Tony Tenille and Farah Fawcett. No wonder Joel Coen married her almost immediately.

Like all good '80s films, we saw men's blazer sleeves pushed up a la Miami Vice, as well as a man's shirt with only one button buttoned and far too much curly chest hair on display. But it was the geezer (M. Emmett Walsh's character) who showed his age by sporting a mustard yellow leisure suit with bell-bottom pants.

So completely un-hip by then.

The surprise was that apparently in '84, we were still tying up moving boxes with brown twine and, honestly, I'd have guessed that habit had long since been replaced with packing tape.

Midway through the film, I heard Holly Hunter's vice on an answering machine and signaled to win the evening's prize - two tickets to a future screening at the Bijou - a nanosecond before another woman in my row realized who it was.

After a mini-film discussion post-screening, I walked home in the dark, despite it barely being past 6:30. Autumn, I hate what you bring.

The newness in tonight's music adventure came not from the venue's name, Sound of Music Studio, because I'd seen bands at SoM on Foushee Street as well as at SoM on Broad Street, but tonight's SoM was on Altamont in the hipper-than-thou Scott's Addition 'hood.

I don't ask why they move, I just follow where the music goes.

When I arrived, I found two women bent over a map, one drawing and explaining Richmond to the other, who just moved here. When I saw she'd marked and labeled Short Pump, I took it upon myself to inform the newcomer that she had no need of venturing so far west.

Pointing to Willow Lawn and eastward, I assured her that all the life she needed could be found there, complete with Target on the far western fringes. What more could a person require?

She thanked me with wonder and gratitude in her eyes, or at least that's what I chose to tell myself.

A big reason I'd come was to hear Bad Magic, the musical project of Julie Karr, a guitarist and singer with a throaty voice and confessional delivery of whom I'd long been a fan but who used to do an acoustic solo act.

She was apologizing for her cold when I got there, saying, "The mic is gonna need a bacterial wash after this. That would be my advice!"

Behind the band, a dated film of roller bladers played, with occasional interview segments in front of a flag-draped fireplace.

Trying to decide what to play next, the band bantered about songs. "What's it called?" Julie asked the others, then turned to the crowd. "We named it in the computer, but not in our minds and hearts."

Turns out the song was called "Three" and had some terrific early Interpol-sounding guitar licks in it.

Between songs, she vented about the film behind her, saying, "I do not want to see a Confederate flag behind me again. Not at all. Can we make sure that happens? I do not want to see any more Confederate flags!" Since I'd already noticed the same thing, I appreciated her addressing it for the entire room.

Bad Magic rocks a lot harder than Julie solo did, making for an engaging set before she announced that Toronto's Greys, not local band Clair Morgan, were up next.

"That's what you do, you make a sandwich with the out of town band inside. Welcome to Richmond, we eat you!" she joked about being the rye bread slice to Greys' filling.

Their lead singer began by warning us that they were going to play a quick set and then start driving home. I only hope he meant after a god night's sleep.

Their sound pulled from decades of punk, primarily '90s, some of it crossing into thrash territory, some straight up pop punk and some indebted to the Pixies' alternating loud/soft dynamic. Violent head banging accompanied others while a light show rather than southern relics and tasteless flags played behind them.

"This is the last night of a really long tour," the singer said and his body language showed that he was feeling it, although the other three musicians seemed to be cranked up to 11, maybe as a sendoff for the tour's last show.

All kinds of audio issues kept Clair Morgan from playing right away, but feedback and dead mic problems were eventually resolved and Clair got right down to business, both musical and political.

"In a couple of days, there's going to be a thing." From nearby, someone shushed him. "No, I'm not going to stop. If you want to keep certain people out of the White House, please vote on Tuesday. If you're for Donald Trump, please vote November ninth!"

It's tough to argue with a man who writes such well-crafted songs about life and family and surrounds himself with solid talent, while a breathtaking car chase from Hitchcock's "Family Plot" plays behind them.

Could it be that the point was to remind us of the danger and treachery that lies ahead on Tuesday?

I think we can all agree, the entire country's going to need a bacterial wash after that.

Ordinary World

Things I didn't expect to happen today:

Finding out how someone arrived at my blog. True story: someone in Midlothian Googled "how to find local sex buddies in zip code 23112." My blog was the 7th listing on the Google results page, apparently because I'd recently used the words find, sex, buddy and local in a post, although not in the same sentence. I imagine he was rather disappointed once he got to my page. And, yes, I'm presuming it was a "he."

Indulgent reading. By 3:30, I'd fine-tuned all four assignments due tomorrow, the same lot that's had me so busy the past week or so. It was a gorgeous afternoon, not humid and comfortably warm. Goof-off time.

Eager to finish John Taylor's "The Pleasure Groove," a memoir of life in Duran Duran (sure, I was around in the '80s but I certainly wasn't paying attention to DD), my book and I settled down in my green Adirondack chair on the balcony, read for two and a half hours straight and finished the sordid saga cultural memoir in the sunshine. It was glorious.

Being asked out in a parking lot. A guy who'd made eye contact and smiled at me in the toilet paper aisle at Kroger approached me in the parking lot afterwards to inquire if I was attached. When I pointed out the obvious age difference, he responded with, "Should that matter?" He said he was 31, but I probably should have asked for ID.

Using earplugs. I go to a lot of shows. A lot. In other words, I long ago destroyed my hearing. Even so, I keep a pair of earplugs in my bag at all times just in case the band is ear-bleedingly loud. I don't pull them out often.

At tonight's installment of Shannon Cleary's Commonwealth of Notions show, I went looking for them within the first two minutes of walking into Sound of Music. Noise rock duo Among the Rocks and Roots were the reason.

The photographer friend, new camera in hand, who'd met me for the show came up, pushing earplugs into his ears, "I wasn't expecting that. I'm glad I had these in the car." Be prepared, my friend, that's my motto.

Feeling like I would faint. Sound of Music was hot and not just un-air conditioned hot (I'm used to that, I live that way) but stagnant air hot. Heat that penetrates your brain and pores, making you feel woozy.

Bolting outside between sets to evening air easily 15 degrees cooler than inside was like immersion in a pool. So refreshing. An ensuing book discussion - come on, I had to talk about "Pleasure Groove" and friend is about to read musician Colin Meloy's "Wildwood Imperium" - kept us out there long enough to cool down and catch up.

Hearing blog pros and cons. A friend told me that when she reads on my blog what I write about my visits to her house, it makes her cry - in a good way. Another friend told me his secret plan to spread a rumor and convince people of an untruth for his personal amusement. I was instructed not to blog about it for fear of ruining his evil fun.

Heat trumping music. Lobo Marino's set had all the usual pleasures - tribal drumming, harmonium and jaw harp, Laney and Jameson's voices blending sublimely - that ensured that a song such as "Holy River" was  a religious experience, while the classic "Animal Hands" got a spirited revival and "Old Man Snapping Turtle" got a variation on a theme by replacing the didgeridoo that had been played on the record with Jameson making what he called "weird animal noises."

On the way out the door after their set, the doorman complimented my hair, saying it still looked great despite the sultry heat of the room. If this was intended to lure me back inside, it failed. Epically.

By this point, I was ready to throw in the towel. I wasn't the only one who stood on Broad Street talking for 20 minutes before admitting we just couldn't handle going back into the airless room, especially since another 30 or 40 people had arrived while we chatted out front.

I'm not proud of that, but there it is.

You think you know how a Saturday's going to go, but you never really do. I wasn't expecting any of that.

Ink in My Dimples

Of course I'm going to RSVP "yes" when I get an invitation referencing me as "part of the tattoo community." Moi?

Sure, I'd love to attend the preview for "Japanese Tattoo: Perseverance, Art and Tradition." Don't mind if I do.

In the Claiborne Room upstairs at the VMFA, I found a roomful of tattooed body parts and the realization that I was most certainly going to be in the minority. When the VMFA's director said hello, I hypothesized that we were among the few un-inked people in the room.

Wrong. He's not only got a tattoo but he's already got his next one planned. Would have had it done before this opening if he hadn't been so understandably busy running one of the top ten museums in the country and all.

He was part way through a fascinating explanation of the origins and significance of his tattoos when a museum employee apologized and told him it was time to speak. He seemed to relish sharing stories of members calling his office, chagrined that the VMFA was going to have a tattoo-as-art show. Had the calls been put through, he said he'd have defended the choice and brought up his own ink.

The curator from the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles (where the show originated) also spoke, emphasizing the long history of tattoo art in Japan. He compared it to calligraphy and woodblock printing, two art forms considered low brow once but now appreciated for their skill and artistry.

Pointing out that if museums don't do something provocative, they may as well close their doors, there was much nodding. Amen. This show should bring in an entirely new audience.

Downstairs in the Evans Court galleries, the images of tattooed bodies were more than enough testament to the masterful talent of these artists. A series of two-sided panels showed men with full body suits, their skin inked from neck (sometimes with a tattoo of a beaded necklace) to calf or sometimes thigh.

Let me begin by being honest. It's been a long time (okay, never) that I've seen pictures of that many men's butts at once. True, they wore loincloths, but in the back, that disappears into the cheeks. No objection here; most of them were pretty good looking butts.

Looking at a striking tattooed man done by Adrian Lee, I overheard a tattoo artist explaining to a friend the importance of Lee -considered a new style Japanese tattoo artist - in his own stylistic development. He was in awe looking at the piece.

What was so compelling about all the tattoo photographs (besides the  abundance of colors - brilliant red, so many shades of blue, dazzling white) was how they pulled from traditional Japanese art imagery: swords, warriors, birds, tigers, fish, dragons, calligraphy. Just on someone's skin (and a half dozen kites at the end of the exhibit).

Some were purely decorative and others told a complex story with characters and actions on different parts of the body. There were tattoos shaped like a vest or a bolero. It was entire bodies as canvas for artistry of the highest order and not just a random collection of body art. It was magnificent.

The question is, will those complaining members get that? I only hope so.

Leaving the VMFA afterwards. I saw that  the brick sidewalks were wet so apparently it had rained while I'd been ogling men's backsides (and chests), but just enough to raise the humidity to Hell-level. The air was thick out there.

After a pit stop to change from platform espadrilles to flip-flops, I landed at Sound of Music Studio for a show. Slipping in the back entrance (front isn't an option), the guy at the door starts to inform me there's a $5 admission but before he can get it out, I have un-clenched my fist and he removes the $5 bill from it.

Sheepishly, he thumbs over his shoulder, saying, "Then you know...?" Where the stage is? Sure do.

And here's more good news for the evening. The show begins nearly on time with young but always impressive Way, Shape or Form. It happened last week at Gallery 5 and I'd been impressed then. Is this a mini-trend? Could musicians finally be committing to starting shows on time? Be still, my heart.

As I let Way, Shape or Form's angular sound capture and then continually surprise my ears, I looked around at the inside of Sound of Music Studio. Talk about an intriguing place, it's got built-in bookshelves along an enormous 40' wall. My guess was that the collection was probably a reflection of more than one person's taste in reading.

When I spot Thomas Pynchon's "Vineland," I think of a guy I met at Rappahannock two summers ago who judged people on whether or not they'd read Pynchon (I haven't. I will).  I also see the dorky-sounding"In Quest of Quasars" and Darwin's "Origins of the Species."

A pristine red copy of "Mr. Boston's Official Bar and Party Guide" sits near lesser-known bar books and art histories.

"Diet or Die: The Dolly Dimples Weight Reduction Plan" boasts a lurid red, white and black cover complete with before and after pictures, presumably of Dolly on the cover. I have to squint to read the copyright (1968) because the dim room is lit only by the LED lights of the soundboard and a couple of strings of multi-colored Christmas lights strung up two pillars and draped in between.

Perusing "Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier," a 1981 gem, I see someone at my side. It's one of the studio's owners and he's gracious enough to say, "Feel free to take them down and read them." Read? I want to borrow Dolly Dimples and take it to a party.

Along another wall of the room sits a collection of objects - a large canvas of a smiling woman in the Pop art style so probably '70s, a table harp, a toy piano (grand, not upright), a globe where the bodies of water are sepia-toned and not blue. Look, there's a guy in a "Heck no techno" t-shirt.

Almost everyone is in shorts, although I'm still sporting the same $3 thrift dress I wore to the VMFA opening that netted a compliment from a  museum staffer in the photography gallery. I'm getting good mileage out of it today.

Blanco Basnet was next and the singer announced them as from Durham, N.C., which is redundant because you can look at some bands and know at once they're from North Carolina (see: the Connells). One song in and I could see why they were on this bill.

While their sound leaned a bit more rock/pop than Way, Shape or Form, they still had the tempo changes, unconventional song structure and occasional jazz drumming of the younger band. The crowd took to them enthusiastically, cheering them on when they chose to try a brand-new song

It was warm in there and before long the singer was wiping his dripping face with a towel between songs but his clear, melodic voice didn't seem to suffer any from the warmth.

After their set, I went over to ask the sound guy who was last. That's when he told me Dumb Waiter had to bow out because guitarist Nick was sick. Too bad. I'd been looking forward to them, as had he.

"By the way, I see you at shows all the time," he said extending his hand and introducing himself. I have lost count of the number of friends I have met after they've uttered some variation of those words. Go places and people will talk to you, kids.

Last up was Houdan the Mystic ("We hope you'll like us") and theirs was a harder sound, although still in the same musical family, just more fast and furious. A trio, every instrument counted more (lots of terrific bass parts) and they played that way.

During their sound-check, the guitarist told a joke, eliciting laughter, so when the bassist sound-checked, he began singing "Blue Moon," of all the unlikely things.

"How was that? I mean, besides great? I know it wasn't telling a joke or anything..." the bassist cracked. Their set winds up being a boisterous finish to the evening's music.

It's not quite as miserably hot when I leave Sound of Music, but it's not great, either. Back in my apartment sipping cold water, I hear cyclists' voices as they glide down the street. I can't quite make out what the first guy says.

Matter-of-factly, the other responds, "Okay, go home and commit suicide and we won't get together later" as their bikes whiz by to catch the light at the corner.

So ends another day in J-Ward.

To-Do List

In my family, we would call today a goof-off day.

I mean, come on, it's the first day of the shortened holiday week, it was 77 degrees and all I wanted to do was take advantage of it all.

The first thing I did on waking up was open every window in the house. Such a treat in late November.

Step one: a long, sunny walk down Colorado Avenue to Texas Beach (five people, five dogs, water cold but not freezing) and then back via the North Bank trail (surprisingly all but empty: two joggers, two bikers).

Soaking up sunshine on a rock at the beach and then again on Bubba's bench overlooking Belle Isle. Heavenly.

Step two: a saunter through Church Hill near Libbie Park with a stop at a 1904 house that's being renovated by a couple from Pittsburgh. The trunk room is becoming an office, old ceiling joists are becoming a dining room table and there are still raccoon hand prints on walls from the two years the house was uninhabited.

After the nickle tour and lots of conversation, I fell madly in love with this couple when she told me they weren't going to put in air conditioners, allowing the natural air flow to cool the house in warm weather. And here I thought I was the only one who turned my back on artificially frigid summers.

Step three: a seat on the patio at Conch Republic with a view of the river (even a couple of boats on it), happy hour Sauvignon Blanc and some steamed shrimp, ordered because my partner in crime said they couldn't mess it up. Wrong. All the spice was sprinkled on the shells after the fact while the shrimp had clearly been steamed without it. Duh.

Our server turned out to be a Charleston transplant studying environmental science at VCU so he can work at the Dismal Swamp when he graduates. A discussion of the summer the swamp was on fire ensued because we all remembered it.

His first concert was Kings of Leon (unless you count the Red Hot Chili Peppers show his Dad took him to which he doesn't remember), a band he went on to see 15 times since. I told him I'd seen the band in Chicago in 2007 and it had been the loudest show I'd ever seen. He grinned and agreed.

We watched as the sun set behind the trees, streaking the sky with peach and violet clouds and the thinnest sliver of a moon (2-3% visible, according to the meteorologist at the table) and vapor trails began appearing out of nowhere.

Step four: dinner at the bar of my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27 alongside an Ashland mother and son headed to the James Taylor concert at the Coliseum. She was beyond excited to finally get to see JT.

Her first show had been Chicago in 1978 and she recalled going with older friends who got stopped and searched for pot. Turns out she had the bag of weed on her person and no one bothered to check her. She shared this story out of the blue, saying it still gave her a laugh.

My dinner was French onion/mushroom soup followed by a petite crab cake while people continued to arrive for dinner before the big show. But by the time I was eating my double chocolate torte,  the dining room had cleared out. Time for fire and rain, I suppose.

Step five: a show at Sound of Music studios, in yet another location from the last time I was at a SoM show. The place looked dead from outside but a small sign directed people to the alley behind the building.

There, a burly man stood guard and when asked if this was the place, responded, "It is to rock and roll." In we went.

Lady God, a fairly new band, was already playing their pastiche of garage, soul and pop to an attentive crowd. I was sorry I'd missed any of their set based on the sound.

I ran into the baker/DJ who reminded me that the last time we'd seen each other had been at Metzger when Mr. Fine Wine deejayed. He was kind enough to tell me I was a great dancer but then shared that when he'd taken off his jacket to dance (at my insistence) and tossed it aside, his phone had been a casualty.

He wanted to blame it on my aggressive dancing but was quite happy because now he has a much nicer phone to replace it. All's well that ends well.

Next up were the lo-fi Beat Awfuls from Kentucky, notable because they had a female drummer. "This place is cool," one of the Awfuls said. "Is that ceiling tin?" Sure was.

Twice while the band was playing, a stranger walked up to me and introduced himself (Hi, Tom! Hi, Adam!). Maybe I looked like I could use some conversation.

During the break, I geeked out with my favorite nerd, discussing his trip to Shirley Plantation today (showed me his ticket to prove it), mine to Menokin (a place he's been keen to visit) and Fort Brady.

The evening's headliner was Warren Hixson, the band that reliably delivers surf guitar, pop gems and tight performances. Tonight was no different and, as usual, I leave their shows wishing they'd play out more often. I'm especially fond of the shared male/female vocals (Nelly and Brent) that distinguish their sound.

Did I do any work today? Sure, I made an appointment to do an interview late Wednesday afternoon when most people will have left work behind.

Did I make the best possible use of this gloriously unseasonable November day? Sure did. I didn't even go inside until a couple of hours after the sun set.

One more notch in my lipstick case for another stellar goof off day. Oh, I'm good at this.

Sound of Music Before Death

It was a first. A woman named Shari Ann left me a message today saying that she had an urgent message for me about the bible. 

I'm presuming she was calling to tell me about the end of the world, but I'll never know since I deleted the message. If I thought there was a hell, I'd be going straight there, I'm quite sure.

My second first of the day was a visit to the new Sound of Music Studio over on Foushee Street for a show. I'd seen bands at the old Broad Street studio, so I was eager to see the new space.

I was even more eager to hear the three bands on the bill: LA's Ferraby Lionheart, DC's Vandaveer and RVA's Low Branches, the only one of the three I'd heard previously. Knowing how amazing they are and that they'd chosen the bill, I knew to expect great things.

The intimate space with its two-floor ceilings and professional equipment provided a cozy and high-tech setting for the show. A grand piano and a couple of lamps softened the serious equipment vibe.

The room was a mix of people I knew and didn't, including some of RVA's best musicians (including one in a "Listen Local" t-shirt). A photographer and videographer did the heavy lifting while I just sat back and enjoyed.

With no fanfare, Ferraby Lionheart took his place and began. His low-key demeanor belied a sure voice and sincere, accessible lyrics.

He told of driving from LA to Texas with a friend and waking to see daybreak in the desert with cacti along the sides of the road, resulting in the song "Under the Texas Sky" and the line "I miss you like the honey jug misses the bear." Come on, you know that feeling, admit it.

His last album "Jack of Hearts" was recorded in Nashville and he played several songs from it including the prophetic "Pocketknife," with the lyrics:

There's nothing stirring in the night
There's no one here but you and I
What will we do with all our time?
I think we made it to the end of the world


At one point, he moved to the piano, saying, "I was figuring I could fiddle around on this thing. It's so big and pretty!" And the songs he played on it were just as big and pretty.


A friend had told me that she had listened to his new CD non-stop the past two weeks and by the end of his set, I could see why. His take on vintage folk pop was a knockout.


After an unusually short break, Vandaveer took the stage, which means that the tall and dark Mark Charles Heidinger and the blond and curvy Rose (wearing a particularly notable pair of cute lace-up wedge espadrilles) began their set.


With Dylan-like phrasing and Tom Waits-like songwriting and Rose's incredible harmonizing, Vandaveer's sound could probably best be called modern folk pop with a heavy does of storytelling in each song.


The audience knew that the show was being recorded, so they put on their listening room behavior, causing Heidinger to note, "It's like a library in here. Somebody should cough or crack their knuckles." A friend leaned over and said, "Yea, a really awesome library." True that.


The songs ran the gamut from light to dark, happy to sad but always heartfelt and well written. With Rose's impressive lungs and his engaging folk troubadour voice, the crowd was mesmerized.


"Like my tie?" he asked, fingering it proudly. "It's local." Apparently on his way to the thrift store, a guy leaning against a bar sized him up and asked if he was in a band. "Yes, I'm a musician," he admitted. The questioner made  a sound of disgust.


"So I had to buy a tie to look less..." Heidinger said, trailing away. He looked very un-Richmond like, but very suitably musician-like. We'll say that he looked completely believable when singing, "Peace and love and harmony and  all the things that lovers need."


Low Branches closed the show with the elegance of their hushed music, tonight augmented by the oh-so-talented Josh Quarles on cello. The addition of his strings added a beautiful depth of sound to the duo's striking arrangements.


Christina's voice is undeniably unique, the kind that has the audience holding its breath to hear her finish singing  a word or phrase. 


Matt, who has recently gone from shaggy bearded longhair to a very attractive haircut and face scrape, anchors everything with his guitar and slide playing, drums and backing vocals. I just had to keep staring at him because he looks so different now.

When the show ended, as always to the shy Christina's relief, the audience applauded their approval and many stuck around to let the musicians know how much they'd enjoyed the show. It was practically a musical love fest right there on Foushee Street.


Whew. I'm just glad I got in a really stellar show before Judgement Day arrives.


It may be the end of the world as we know it, but frankly my dear, I feel fine.

The Hills are Alive with Wine and Film

I've been in an Austrian state of mind here lately, undoubtedly spurred by a book a friend recently sent me.

Knowing my love of old books as well as my desire to see Austria before I die, he found a wonderful glossy-paged book from the 50's, full of pictures and information about what a fascinating place it is (not that I needed convincing).

But I'm guessing that's why I've been drinking more of their top grape, Gruner Vetliner, at least when I do decide to go white during winter.

My local watering hole, The Belvidere, carries the Laurenz Singing Gruner Vetliner for $30 a bottle.

Cafe Caturra has the Huber Hugo Gruner Vetliner for a mere $22 (as well as by the glass).

I think it's the combination of fruitiness and spiciness that appeals to me...or maybe just a lust for all things Austrian.

So how could I resist three hours of Austrian panoramas on the big screen?

I couldn't, so I found a willing friend and we hit the Bowtie for the Movies and Mimosas showing of The Sound of Music.

I might have seen this in the theater during a revival years ago, but all I recalled were wide-screen landscapes that took my breath away, so I wanted to see it in all its big screen splendor again.

It was great and good god, what a fine hunk of manhood Christopher Plummer was in 1965.

Not everyone likes musicals, not everyone wants a history lesson in the Third Reich's takeover of Austria, but who wouldn't enjoy all that magnificent scenery?

And as beautiful as the panoramic views of rivers, mountains and ravines were, it's really the city views that interest me more.

Shots of Salzburg's streets, steeples and fountains proved to me that I need to see the architecture of Austria.

And considering that 75% of the Gruner Vetliner grown in Austria never leaves the country, it should be a cinch to find plenty of good sipping in between wandering the streets admiring the urban landscape.

Don't fret, though, I'll be sure to admire the natural beauty en route to the wineries.

I wouldn't want to miss any of the Austrian experience, excepting perhaps singing children.

Of Falsettos, Scotsmen and Moons

One of my favorite local bands was playing at Sound of Music Studios tonight, so my bright idea was to walk two blocks to the Belvidere for a glass of wine, then walk two more blocks to hear Marionette play and, at the end of the evening, I'd only be four blocks from home. Brilliant.

As I was walking to the Belvidere (quickly, I might add, because it's freaking cold out there), a guy was riding a bike toward me. When he spotted me, he began to sing in a perfect falsetto, "Hey there, lonely girl...lonely girl." I didn't think I looked particularly lonely, but that didn't stop me from laughing out loud, at which point he told me to have a good Saturday night.

Sipping wine at the bar, a Glaswegian who now lives in Houston sat down next to me. The accent was immediately recognizable because I have a good friend who lives in Glasgow. He was hysterical doing an American accent (it's embarrassing to hear; our vowels are so flat, our intonation so nasal) and admitting to the hubris and drinking prowess of the Scottish male. He was young, attractive and in great shape, that is to say, not at all my type, but a charming conversationalist and I have no doubt that his accent gets thicker as the evening gets later.

Marionette's performance was part of their CD release party and they put on an excellent show as usual, with an enthusiastic crowd who gradually became overheated once the front doors were closed. Everyone just kept removing layers and hydrating more frequently. It is Saturday night, after all, so there was a whole lot of hydrating going on anyway.

And when the show was over and I was walking those four blocks home, I couldn't stop staring at the waxing crescent moon in the sky. It reminded me of a favorite poem about how something as seemingly random as a sliver of a moon has the power to remind a person of distant people and places. Not to sound moony or anything like that, but it's true.