On the road again...
Hopped a train last night to Annapolis, a train delayed by the conductor making repeated announcements that no dogs were allowed on Amtrack.
This seemed a tad strange to me since there was a woman two rows in front of me with a small white dog who was reacting not at all to the warnings that any dog carrier would be put off the train.
When two Amtrack employees showed up, she gave them what for, informing them that she was a pain therapist and that her dog was her assistant, helping people relax as she treated them.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
Bottom line: they got to stay while I went back to reading the three days' worth of Washington Posts I was behind on after my Labor Day sojourn.
Traveling on the train at night, especially on the Quiet Car, was decidedly different from all my recent day trips where passing scenery and weather competed with my read-a-thon to pass the hours north.
Arriving at 10:30, my friend took me directly to Gordon Biersch brewery, promising, "This'll be your least favorite part of your week."
Not so, I told her, surprising her with the fact that I'd just been to Lickinghole brewery Monday.
Besides, train riding works up an appetite so fish tacos and two kinds of sliders were just the thing along about midnight.
After a full day helping her get ready to move -packing and unpacking boxes- she suggested a couple of restaurants and I countered with river-side crabs.
She amiably agreed with the stipulation that we eat inside, which lasted until we arrived and I suggested we eat outside.
It had turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant evening, damp enough that I needed the wrap I'd borrowed from her almost immediately, so she agreed to eat al fresco.
With Herradura and hush puppies in front of me, it was just a matter of time until the large crabs arrived, making me a happy camper.
Not so my friend, who was facing a nearby table where a child was watching a movie with the sound loud enough to be heard at our table.
Soon after, the table behind us began smoking and I saw her begin to lose it.
Even the arrival of the crabs didn't help, but I knew what would.
With the skill of a pro, I suggested some Herradura STAT and by the second one, she began to relax.
It didn't hurt that the smokers and the TV family paid their bills and left, but a lot of credit goes to the tequila.
As anyone who picks crabs knows, bits go flying in the feeding frenzy and at one point, some landed in her drink.
"There's shell in my tequila!" she squealed.
So? I asked, prompting her to wonder if anything ever really gets to me.
She said she had dozens of things that set her off.
Let me think about it for a while and I'll let you know, I told her.
Still thinking.
Showing posts with label tequila. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tequila. Show all posts
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Safety Pins and Fireballs
Thank god it finally rained before we all succumbed to death by pollen.
When I walked over to my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, the wind was whipping around every Jackson Ward corner, but only hinting at, not delivering, rain.
Inside the store was an array of punk music lovers, appropriately clad in black, studs and, in one case, with a large safety pin through the ear.
To quote Paul Westerberg, "God, did it hurt."
But that's punk rock, right?
The band was Barren Girls, a North Carolina quartet scheduled to play Strange Matter tonight.
They began thrashing away, knocking out two songs in the first five minutes, before multi-tattooed lead singer Carla said, "We're tired and we're hungover."
So what else is new in punk rock?
Each song was a full-on blast of guitar, bass, drums and keyboard, but never lasting much more than three minutes, if that.
The all-ages crowd was enthralled for the most part, with heads and bodies shaking throughout.
"She Devil" was the biggest crowd pleaser and most melodic, and may even have clocked in at a record three and half minutes.
The entire set couldn't have taken much more than fifteen, but then they were tired and hungover.
I only hope they were planning to eat hearty before the show or it was going to be a long night for the girls.
The brevity of punk left plenty of time for art and 1708 Gallery was having an opening.
Of course, by then it was raining cats and dogs, but I'm willing to brave ankle-deep puddles for the sake of photography.
"Still Action!" explored space and time in unique ways, essentially having the artists perform in some way for the camera.
Or, as one of the curators put it, "We were looking for the ways artists could complicate light."
They found 'em.
Sharon Harper's "Moon Studies and Star Scratches" was like seeing through a telescope.
Looking at Geoffrey Short's "Untitled Explosion #6CP" was like looking at a sculpture of a heart of fire, moving and weighty.
At "Untitled Explosion #XCF18," I found myself next to two other women who wanted to discuss what we were seeing.
I was the first to admit that I saw an horrific creature coming out of the fireball's center, causing the two women to nod and agree.
It was the kind of terrifying natural image like a tidal wave, something so big and fearsome that you sensed no human could survive near it.
There were two video pieces by Kevin Cooley, an interesting thing to throw into a photography mix.
"LaGuardia Landing Pattern, Brooklyn" showed an apartment building at night, with the business of life going on inside the window views.
Overhead, light streaked the sky showing the flight patterns over Brooklyn; it was a marriage of still photography and movement.
It was especially eye-catching because the screen had been turned vertically, much the way a painter might turn his canvas sideways.
In his other video, "Empire Lightening," there was a static skyline with images of lightening around the Empire State building and in the foreground, cars busily traversing a roadway.
I stayed for the curators' talk, hearing fascinating details about the thinking behind the show and the process to accumulate pieces to reflect the various aspects of it - performance, sculptural and socially conscious statements.
It's a very cool show and they seemed justifiably satisfied with the final result.
Leaving 1708, it was still raining but now more like kittens and puppies, so not nearly as bad.
I found a restaurant with a bar and ended up by default next to a couple from Atlanta in town for a wedding.
They weren't a couple as in romantically, but co-workers here to see another co-worker married tomorrow.
They were eager to talk about their first day in Richmond, gushing about the beauty of the Capital and Shockoe Slip.
They'd lunched at Lift, marveling at the "eclectic" crowd and stellar coffee and sandwiches, saying they'd intended to grab and go and ended up staying for an hour and a half because it was so enjoyable.
He said they hadn't expected such diverse, interesting people in Richmond.
The wedding they're going to is at St. John's and the reception at the Jefferson, so I gave them the scoop on both.
"You're a regular tour guide," the man gushed after my spiel.
Aw, shucks.
When I heard where they were planning to have lunch tomorrow, though, I had to intervene, suggesting instead that they try Mama J's for a more satisfying meal at a far better price than where they'd intended to go.
Somebody's gotta steer the tourists right.
When she noticed I was drinking tequila, the conversation took a whole new turn because she was Mexican by birth, having moved to Atlanta when she was nine years old.
It's rare I get to discuss tequila with someone as knowledgeable and she said it's rare she meets someone who appreciates a good sipping tequila.
When we found out we were both oldest children, our bond may as well have been sealed with blood.
We instinctively knew each other's childhoods and the trials and tribulations of having to be the good child with endless restrictions.
Because they'd been into their meal when I sat down, I thought they'd be long gone before me, but once we got to chatting, they lingered, ordering more drinks and digging in.
When she went to the bathroom, he started telling me about his marriages, his job and his plans for the future.
Apparently tequila makes for fast friends.
She came back with a souvenir shirt ("Kiss Me, I'm Mexican"), saying, "My sisters will be so jealous, but I'm not going to buy one for either of them."
I told her that was their tough luck.
We made a toast with our tequila to oldest sisters.
When their cab arrived, they both hugged me, saying I had made their night with my sparkling company.
Maybe it's time for my own t-shirt.
Kiss me, I'm talkative.
When I walked over to my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, the wind was whipping around every Jackson Ward corner, but only hinting at, not delivering, rain.
Inside the store was an array of punk music lovers, appropriately clad in black, studs and, in one case, with a large safety pin through the ear.
To quote Paul Westerberg, "God, did it hurt."
But that's punk rock, right?
The band was Barren Girls, a North Carolina quartet scheduled to play Strange Matter tonight.
They began thrashing away, knocking out two songs in the first five minutes, before multi-tattooed lead singer Carla said, "We're tired and we're hungover."
So what else is new in punk rock?
Each song was a full-on blast of guitar, bass, drums and keyboard, but never lasting much more than three minutes, if that.
The all-ages crowd was enthralled for the most part, with heads and bodies shaking throughout.
"She Devil" was the biggest crowd pleaser and most melodic, and may even have clocked in at a record three and half minutes.
The entire set couldn't have taken much more than fifteen, but then they were tired and hungover.
I only hope they were planning to eat hearty before the show or it was going to be a long night for the girls.
The brevity of punk left plenty of time for art and 1708 Gallery was having an opening.
Of course, by then it was raining cats and dogs, but I'm willing to brave ankle-deep puddles for the sake of photography.
"Still Action!" explored space and time in unique ways, essentially having the artists perform in some way for the camera.
Or, as one of the curators put it, "We were looking for the ways artists could complicate light."
They found 'em.
Sharon Harper's "Moon Studies and Star Scratches" was like seeing through a telescope.
Looking at Geoffrey Short's "Untitled Explosion #6CP" was like looking at a sculpture of a heart of fire, moving and weighty.
At "Untitled Explosion #XCF18," I found myself next to two other women who wanted to discuss what we were seeing.
I was the first to admit that I saw an horrific creature coming out of the fireball's center, causing the two women to nod and agree.
It was the kind of terrifying natural image like a tidal wave, something so big and fearsome that you sensed no human could survive near it.
There were two video pieces by Kevin Cooley, an interesting thing to throw into a photography mix.
"LaGuardia Landing Pattern, Brooklyn" showed an apartment building at night, with the business of life going on inside the window views.
Overhead, light streaked the sky showing the flight patterns over Brooklyn; it was a marriage of still photography and movement.
It was especially eye-catching because the screen had been turned vertically, much the way a painter might turn his canvas sideways.
In his other video, "Empire Lightening," there was a static skyline with images of lightening around the Empire State building and in the foreground, cars busily traversing a roadway.
I stayed for the curators' talk, hearing fascinating details about the thinking behind the show and the process to accumulate pieces to reflect the various aspects of it - performance, sculptural and socially conscious statements.
It's a very cool show and they seemed justifiably satisfied with the final result.
Leaving 1708, it was still raining but now more like kittens and puppies, so not nearly as bad.
I found a restaurant with a bar and ended up by default next to a couple from Atlanta in town for a wedding.
They weren't a couple as in romantically, but co-workers here to see another co-worker married tomorrow.
They were eager to talk about their first day in Richmond, gushing about the beauty of the Capital and Shockoe Slip.
They'd lunched at Lift, marveling at the "eclectic" crowd and stellar coffee and sandwiches, saying they'd intended to grab and go and ended up staying for an hour and a half because it was so enjoyable.
He said they hadn't expected such diverse, interesting people in Richmond.
The wedding they're going to is at St. John's and the reception at the Jefferson, so I gave them the scoop on both.
"You're a regular tour guide," the man gushed after my spiel.
Aw, shucks.
When I heard where they were planning to have lunch tomorrow, though, I had to intervene, suggesting instead that they try Mama J's for a more satisfying meal at a far better price than where they'd intended to go.
Somebody's gotta steer the tourists right.
When she noticed I was drinking tequila, the conversation took a whole new turn because she was Mexican by birth, having moved to Atlanta when she was nine years old.
It's rare I get to discuss tequila with someone as knowledgeable and she said it's rare she meets someone who appreciates a good sipping tequila.
When we found out we were both oldest children, our bond may as well have been sealed with blood.
We instinctively knew each other's childhoods and the trials and tribulations of having to be the good child with endless restrictions.
Because they'd been into their meal when I sat down, I thought they'd be long gone before me, but once we got to chatting, they lingered, ordering more drinks and digging in.
When she went to the bathroom, he started telling me about his marriages, his job and his plans for the future.
Apparently tequila makes for fast friends.
She came back with a souvenir shirt ("Kiss Me, I'm Mexican"), saying, "My sisters will be so jealous, but I'm not going to buy one for either of them."
I told her that was their tough luck.
We made a toast with our tequila to oldest sisters.
When their cab arrived, they both hugged me, saying I had made their night with my sparkling company.
Maybe it's time for my own t-shirt.
Kiss me, I'm talkative.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Drinking to My Health
You'd think that a person going to the screening of a documentary called Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead would have the sense not to get buttered popcorn to scarf down while being educated and entertained. But not me and I didn't even feel too badly about it because I wasn't the only one.
Joe Cross' first moviemaking endeavor revolved around his quest to lose weight and get healthy after years of getting heavier and sicker. The Australian decided to challenge himself by accomplishing this in the land of plenty, namely NYC for a month followed a by a month-long cross-country trip. All in full view of a film crew so he couldn't cheat.
With the approval of his physician, he set out to do a two-month juice diet and see if he could go off the meds that were barely keeping his medical conditions in check.
Along the way he interviewed scores of Americans about their health and obesity (to a man/woman, they blamed only themselves), occasionally inspiring others to try what was working so well for him.
The film had plenty of humor, from one fat sibling nonchalantly judging his fat brother ("He needs to do something.") to a friend of Joe's stating that his "weight had fluctuated up and down like a broad's nightie." Said in a thick Australian accent, that was a big laugh-getter.
Australia was also nicely represented in the music choices, which included INXS and Men at Work, as well as the scenic locations where Cross jogged.
One of the people inspired by Joe's efforts was a truck driver from Iowa who weighed 429 pounds and had the same auto-immune disease that Joe had suffered from before his weight loss. He was willing to try a plant-based liquid diet out of fear he would soon die otherwise.
Phil's story became the emotional heart of the film and by the time he was finally able to jog and play ball with his son towards the end, the audience was cheering and clapping for him and his determination.
Whole Foods was sponsoring the screening at the Byrd and Joe Cross took questions afterwards from a seriously interested audience. Cross' Australian accent was thick at times, but the difference in how he'd first appeared in the movie at 310 pounds and now was dramatic. He'd looked much older fat and much younger these three years later after losing ninety pounds.
The film won't be released in the U.S. until next March, so tonight's preview was yet another example of RVA scoring an event that many cities won't get, definitely our gain.
The takeaway was that since 70% of the negative health and body effects we experience are caused by lifestyle issues, everyone has the ability to make better choices and live longer and healthier if they so choose.
I did take that message to heart, really I did, but I also stopped off for a drink at Rosie Connelly's on the way home to think about how I can possibly incorporate more micro-nutrients (fruits and veggies) into my diet. And I wasn't nearly as bad as I could have been.
As the bartender smilingly reminded me when she served me, "At least you don't have anyone trying to force tequilas on you tonight," a reference to one of my recent visits where a close-talking regular was determined to buy me drinks I didn't want.
Come to think of it, though, tequila is plant-based. But no, probably not what Joe had in mind.
Joe Cross' first moviemaking endeavor revolved around his quest to lose weight and get healthy after years of getting heavier and sicker. The Australian decided to challenge himself by accomplishing this in the land of plenty, namely NYC for a month followed a by a month-long cross-country trip. All in full view of a film crew so he couldn't cheat.
With the approval of his physician, he set out to do a two-month juice diet and see if he could go off the meds that were barely keeping his medical conditions in check.
Along the way he interviewed scores of Americans about their health and obesity (to a man/woman, they blamed only themselves), occasionally inspiring others to try what was working so well for him.
The film had plenty of humor, from one fat sibling nonchalantly judging his fat brother ("He needs to do something.") to a friend of Joe's stating that his "weight had fluctuated up and down like a broad's nightie." Said in a thick Australian accent, that was a big laugh-getter.
Australia was also nicely represented in the music choices, which included INXS and Men at Work, as well as the scenic locations where Cross jogged.
One of the people inspired by Joe's efforts was a truck driver from Iowa who weighed 429 pounds and had the same auto-immune disease that Joe had suffered from before his weight loss. He was willing to try a plant-based liquid diet out of fear he would soon die otherwise.
Phil's story became the emotional heart of the film and by the time he was finally able to jog and play ball with his son towards the end, the audience was cheering and clapping for him and his determination.
Whole Foods was sponsoring the screening at the Byrd and Joe Cross took questions afterwards from a seriously interested audience. Cross' Australian accent was thick at times, but the difference in how he'd first appeared in the movie at 310 pounds and now was dramatic. He'd looked much older fat and much younger these three years later after losing ninety pounds.
The film won't be released in the U.S. until next March, so tonight's preview was yet another example of RVA scoring an event that many cities won't get, definitely our gain.
The takeaway was that since 70% of the negative health and body effects we experience are caused by lifestyle issues, everyone has the ability to make better choices and live longer and healthier if they so choose.
I did take that message to heart, really I did, but I also stopped off for a drink at Rosie Connelly's on the way home to think about how I can possibly incorporate more micro-nutrients (fruits and veggies) into my diet. And I wasn't nearly as bad as I could have been.
As the bartender smilingly reminded me when she served me, "At least you don't have anyone trying to force tequilas on you tonight," a reference to one of my recent visits where a close-talking regular was determined to buy me drinks I didn't want.
Come to think of it, though, tequila is plant-based. But no, probably not what Joe had in mind.
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