Time is Telling

When you haven't spoken to your best friend from college in six months, you're overdue.

The two of us had spent all last week trying to ascertain when the best time to talk would be, no easy proposition since our phone calls usually last about two hours and I had all kinds of things I had to or wanted to accomplish on Saturday.

And getting out of bed early wasn't one of them.

She had a haircut at 10 a.m., but I had a walk to do that was complicated by the marathon going on, lunch plans in service of my hired mouth, errands to run and an afternoon show to catch a favorite band I hadn't seen in a while, so we finally settled on 5:30 p.m.

Good thing we started early, too, or we'd never have been off the phone by 9:00.

The walk was my annual reminder that somehow people are so totally clueless as to be completely unaware of how much of the city is closed down for runners. I know because I saw the same cars sitting in traffic or making repeated loops in their vain attempts to cross Lombardy or Broad (impossible) or figure out a secret shortcut that would set them free.

Get on the highway or go home, kids.

In Carytown running errands, I was delayed by the guy singing to recorded tracks in front of the Virginia Shop. Stepping out of the car to his smiling face and dulcet tones singing the Spinners' "I'll Be Around" was matched only by returning to hear him do Smokey's "The Tracks of My Tears." I could have stood there half the afternoon just to hear him sing so beautifully.

After lunch, I dropped off the car and walked over to Gallery 5 for King of Pops' "Popchella" show, arriving in time to hear the last few songs of the Wimps' set. I'm not going to lie, it was a cold day and the last thing I wanted was a frozen pop, even if King of Pops was giving them away, although more than a few people were sucking on a pop.

Not me, I stood directly next to the radiator to hear the Wimps' lead singer say, "This song is for everyone who's ever had a broken heart. So it's for everyone." True that. Favorite line: "I know I left a lot of holes. Careful, darlin', how you fill 'em." Conclusion? I'll go see the Wimps again for a full set.

The band had a look going on, with suspenders being the common thread. The singer's suspenders were blue, the bass player's patterned and the drummer's pink. Only the keyboard player had the nerve to let his flannel shirt go un-suspendered.

Next up was Spooky Cool, a long-time favorite and in his usual, understated way, lead singer Zac announced, "We're Spooky Cool. We have some songs" and began playing to a half-filled room of attentive fans. The one thing you can count on with Spooky Cool is how beautifully Zac's ethereal voice will blend with the female singer's in harmony, even as the band rocks out.

A few songs in, Zac was heating up and asked the bassist to help him pull his hoodie sleeve off without removing his guitar. "How's that belly sweat stain coming along?" he asked, tugging on a sleeve. "It's getting there," Zac said, pushing his long hair back and pulling his t-shirt out to give said belly some air before launching into "Time Will Tell."

"We're Spooky Cool and we appreciate you being here on a Saturday afternoon and not running," Zac said to close out. Who would run when they could be listening to bands play four blocks from home? And that's not even with a pop in hand.

I got home exactly ten minutes before She Who Hated Me On Sight and Has Loved Me Since College and I were to rendezvous on the phone. My only error was in not fueling up beforehand, resulting in multiple mini-meals being taken during the course of the phone call. She'd never have known if I hadn't started choking on a pretzel mid-story.

I'm not a good telephone person, never have been, but when your best friend lives in god-forsaken Texas (or North Dakota or New Hampshire), you have no choice but to suck it up and be a phone person, at least for a couple hours.

This time, we added a visual element as I sent her photographs throughout the conversation. First, it was one of Mr. Wright and me because she was naturally curious about this person who set my world on its ear. But then she wanted to see snaps of my sisters and parents, whom she hadn't seen in 30 years.

"Wow, Pat looks great!" she gushed about my Mom. "She's hardly changed at all!" That's one comment I'll definitely pass along to Mom, who won't believe it but will nonetheless appreciate the words. Some of my five sisters she couldn't recognize at all, while others she thought were instantly familiar. A photo of me with her and her ex in Dallas from a decade ago was one she barely recalled, although it set her off on a tangent about the color of her hair at the time.

Hey, we are our own worst critics.

And because she's been my best friend since I was 19, we laugh almost non-stop. Half the time, we don't even have to finish our sentence to elicit a response from the other. She still gives me a hard time about things she was giving me a hard time about in the '70s and '80s and I take it because it gives her such pleasure.

What I didn't expect was all the bonus points she, the athlete in this duo, gave me for some of my activities with Mr. Wright. Canoeing, tandem bicycle riding and going to a Cubs game all elicited new respect from her since none seemed like things she thought I'd ever do.

Let's just say we've come a long way since she tried to teach me to play tennis, 'though she loves to crack herself up thinking about what a failure I was at it.

Finally, after three and a half hours talking, she pointed out the time and it only seemed wise to wrap up the conversation, with a plan to talk again before the end of the year so we don't have so much ground to cover.

Next morning, I woke up to a message from her. "I haven't laughed that much in a long time. I cannot tell you enough how truly happy I am that your life is going so beautifully. There is no one in the world who deserves it more."

Pshaw, it's not for me to say I deserve it. But I was careful, darlin', and waited my turn for it to happen. Tennis was hard. Nothing was easier than this.

Bohemian Like You

The Internet has informed me that I'm guilty of masturdating.

Masturdating (n.) going out to a movie or restaurant alone

I knew I was doing it, I just didn't know it had a name. And then for the second time in two days, I was misidentified. Thursday I was invited to an art opening as part of the tattoo community. Fact: there's not a speck of ink on my body.

Tonight I was invited to the premiere  of "Artists Die Best in Black" at the Firehouse Theater. Martha Mabey, who wrote the book the film is based on, began the evening by saying, "Everyone I invited are people I like."

We've never met. So now I've been mistaken for part of Boho Richmond.

But that's okay, because I am the kind of person who'd enjoy seeing the premiere of a low-budget film ($2 million) based on a novel set in Richmond about a gallery owner written by a former Carytown gallery owner.

Walking up to the Firehouse, I was spotted by one of the best music bookers in town who was looking quite dapper in a suit instead of his usual t-shirt and shorts. He was outside so as to avoid the overcrowded reception and the attendant schmoozing going on inside.

Once in, we hovered together before lights were dimmed and everyone took a seat, me in the sole seat in the second row not marked "reserved."  As a frequent masturdater, I find I often score a superb seat by being alone.

Martha introduced some of the people in tonight's audience who were represented in the book/film, including the artist Mayo Everett, who set one of his driftwood sculptures on the stage.

That's when it hit me. I'd seen a show of his work at Pine Camp back in January. This was the guy who'd find a piece of driftwood and let it tell him what it wanted to be. Seems he'd also shown up at Martha's gallery with a driftwood giraffe and she'd given him a solo show back in the day.

I found it very cool to be watching the film with some of the people who'd inspired characters. Afterwards, Martha was asked if she minded all the changes that had been made - the film was apparently much darker than the book - from her original story line.

"No, because I wrote it for fun," she said with a big smile. "I had Lewis next door and Cindy I would go to exercise class together and Mayo just showed up at my gallery one day. It was just a fun time."

A fun time I'd known nothing about until seeing this film.

And because we masturdaters tend to overdo what we do, when I left there, it was to abandon my car and walk over to Gallery 5. Alone.

A four-band bill had begun at 8, so I was hoping to catch the last two bands. It was Spandrel's last show (a member is moving) and it's always bittersweet to see a band's final performance together. They played a solid set of their distinctive '70s sound before waving, saying goodbye and meaning it.

Waiting for the next band to set up, I noticed for the first time some of the more repellent sounding offerings on the chalkboard over the bar. Great Buds of Fire combined Budweiser with Fireball. Horrible as that sounds, it wasn't even the most off-putting. That honor went to Vomit Comet, a melange of Genesee and tequila.

I only knew a couple of people at the show - the sound guy I'd recently met, the filmmaker, the restaurant manager - but I had a good spot for viewing the debut of Spooky Cool.

Fronted by Zac Hyrciak formerly of the Junglebeat, the new group delivered killer harmonies with three singers including a female singer and drummer, Lee. That's not so different than Junglebeat.

What was different was how much harder hitting their sound was with big guitars and loud drums. No violin. "We're pretty hard, you guys," Zac said stating the obvious after their first song. It was still interesting music with clever stops and starts and tempo changes, just way more rockin' than anything I saw Junglebeat do.

Midway through their 3-song set, a girl near me asked what band this was. When I told her, she thumbed it into her device, showed it to me and asked again if that was it. She was wasting the short time they were playing on her phone rather than watching them. Don't get me started.

When the crowd called for another song, Zac explained that that was all they knew right now. They're doing a show at Hardywood at the end of June and he promised a couple more songs by then. But I have to say their first show sounded impressive, making me wish I had someone to discuss it with.

Two firsts and a last tonight, all taken in through the eyes of a masturdater. I'm lucky I haven't gown hair on my palms given how often I do it.