Court and Spark Park

Danger is in the eye of the beholder.

So when a roomful of people are talking about what Monroe Park conjures up for them, I find myself in the group that has positive associations with it.

At tonight's community conversation sponsored by the Valentine and held at the Nile (another standing room only crowd), we began with everyone writing down their first memory of Monroe Park and their favorite, followed by a discussion of both.

People were talking about fears of walking the park, crimes they'd heard of there, hell, one woman even  grumbled about "the people who feel entitled to go there for free food."

My memory of Monroe Park? I've been proposed to three times there, albeit by strangers.

Not much scary or criminal about that.

The Valentine's Bill Martin said that the series' purpose is to discuss places we care about. "If we said we're going to bulldoze Short Pump, I'm not sure anyone would care."

Or notice.

Like last month's community conversation about Shockoe Bottom, this one brought out mostly city residents, although with a much wider economic range.

Despite all the Food Not Bombs volunteers in attendance, 27% of the attendees make over $100,000.

Fortunately, almost as high a percentage were in the bottom money-making bracket with me, making for a nice range of interests and experiences.

People shared memories of swinging on swing sets as college students, taking the bus to play there as children, and going to a Mattaponi Indian protest on Columbus Day.

Martin showed some great old photographs of the park, everything from an 1854 shot when it was the state fairgrounds to 1870 when it was essentially being farmed to the original stone pyramid fountain, a truly odd looking thing. A 1947 photo showed kids cooling off in the fountain on a summer day.

Some of my favorite pictures  were of the protests and music shows in the '70s. "Monroe Park was a principal music venue in the '70s," Martin said. "A vibrant club scene thrived around it."

One horrific photo showed a college student atop a tiered fountain which was collapsing as the photo was taken. The student died from the fall.

Much more fun were photos of a 1979 snowball fight and a '90s episode where students toilet papered the park.

We used keypads to answer questions to determine the demographics of the room and the biggest surprise for me was that fully a third of the room had never been to Monroe Park.

Kudos to you guys for bothering to show up.

A quiz followed and I scored so-so, not realizing that in 1867 the park was used as a baseball field but definitely knowing that Springsteen's first Richmond show was in the park.

During the discussion portion of the evening, people made suggestions for how to improve the park and some were excellent.

One woman suggested a "Laurel box," kind of like the Hyde Park soap box used in London for Sunday speakers.

Permanent chess boards, more bike racks, public art, a regular farmer's market and regularly scheduled music events were all thrown out as ideas to get people into the park.

Tonight's speaker was Harry "the hat" Kollatz of Richmond magazine, who began with an ode to a high school classmate, Boo Bailey, whom he'd last seen sunbathing on a blanket in Monroe Park with fashionable earrings on.

Boo was special not just because she was with him in the Civil War club ("Don't judge," he said), but because apparently she cut quite a figure that day.

Memories of Boo were followed by tales of Winfred Cutshaw, Richmond's director of public works and a man who returned from a great tour of Europe full of ideas for creating public spaces, parks and grand tree-lined boulevards here.

Arguing with the city to recognize the need for green spaces and to work with the terrain, Harry emphasized the need to create places "to walk, to think, to court."

He got me with that one. The way I see it, cities will not survive or at least not cities worth living in, if they do not have appropriate places to court and woo.

During the final Q & A, we learned two things.

First, the statue of Washington that once stood in Monroe Park was sold to the University of Miami. So many things come to mind, but mainly, what the hell?

Second, Harry has no clue what happened to Boo Bailey.

And with that, we were turned out into the rainy night to find our way, although not to the park given the weather.

I was headed back to J-Ward to meet three friends at Lucy's for dinner. As a bonus, I also found a favorite sous chef sporting a technicolor black eye (more of a purple/red eye at the moment) and sharing a meal with a bartender who looks like Lt. Dan.

A bottle of de Bortoli sparkling brut was already open when I got there, so all I needed was a flute of the easy-drinking bubbly to join in, while our savvy bartender put another bottle on ice in preparation for the next round.

One of our group was a visitor from Annapolis and she brought news that she was abandoning her bayside house to move to a swanky apartment house with guest suites for visitors, nightly happy hours and a Whole Foods across the street.

She says she finally figured out that she was happiest in life during college, living communally with limited stuff. I say, whatever makes you happy is what you need to pursue, even if it means moving for the third time in as many years.

Damp, cold weather made the fish chowder blackboard special sound mighty appealing to me and the bowl of mahi mahi, bacon and skin-on potatoes satisfied on all fronts.

On the screen was "Gilligan's Island," which led to a discussion of TV watching, not my strong suit.

The beauty of eating with this group is shared food, so I tasted through shrimp cocktail (with Old Bay oyster crackers that were such a hit more were ordered), a Cesar salad that had the out-of-towner grimacing at anchovies she quickly gave away, and multiple NY strips with horseradish potatoes au gratin.

The last chocolate bread pudding in the house served as dessert since it was the only chocolate option.

One in our group was fading fast and he claimed it was due to having unexpectedly awakened at 6 a.m. the last two days, a brutal way to start the day when you don't have to be up that early.

Another said she regularly gets five, no more than six, hours of sleep a night and it's been that way for her since childhood.

She was amazed that I get nine every night, while the curly-headed one was just envious of my ability to get that much.

To each her own.

As long as I keep getting proposed to in Monroe Park, I'm going to assume all that sleep is working for me.

Perverse Jazz for Barbers

I am the darling of the barbershop set today.

After this morning's encounter at Adams Barbershop, it happened again tonight.

I went to the Nile for a show, a very interesting sounding show.

When I arrived, openers Godzilla Meets King Kong Quintet had just begun.

Seats were already getting scarce, so I pulled a bar stool over to the side of the restaurant with music and perched myself on it.

Within moments, a guy walks up with a drink, points his finger at me and says, "You walk by the shop every day, right?"

Scrambling to place his face, I took a stab at it, asking if he worked at Salon Z (with the window sign that always makes me smile: "Come on in and get fresh!"), which is another barber shop on my daily walk.

Bingo.

Angelo asked what had brought me out and I asked the same, only to find the Nile is his usual after-work bar.

What I was surprised to learn was that his work day finished at 8:00, far later than I would have guessed guys are in for a trim.

We shut up to listen to the mega monster battle going on with instruments.

During the break, a lot more people came in, no doubt drawn by the duo that was taking the stage next.

A friend who teaches at VCU arrived and I inquired if school was finally over for her.

Not over for good, but over for the day and that was enough for now, she said, leaving to get a beer.

Soon percussionist Tatsuya Nakatani started beating on a wood block to get everyone's attention.

He introduced soprano saxophonist Michael Doneda, saying this was their 18th show of the tour and that they'd be in Norway by May 31st.

"Great times, we have," he said, grinning and sounding very Yoda-like.

Then they got down to the business of free improvisation with Nakatani doing the most amazing things on a drum set I've ever witnessed.

Using broken cymbals and metal bowls, he scraped the surface of the drums, sometimes rocking a cymbal with his fingers, sometimes using a bow on the large gong in front of him, sometimes blowing a noisemaker.

Meanwhile, Frenchman Doneda was creating the most exquisite tension with his sax, alternately blowing long, thick tones and other times almost making it stutter for a moody counterpoint to the pony-tailed Nakatani.

During one particularly interesting part, he began making big loops in the air with his instrument, making it circle around to complement what he was playing.

The music was at times frenetic and at times as hushed as distant thunder, but always completely mesmerizing.

And if you hadn't been able to see them, you'd have sworn it was way more than just two people making music.

But it would have been a shame not to see because watching Nakatani was fascinating for how many percussive things he was doing at any one time.

Even so, at one point I looked around to see no less than half a dozen people using their phones to film what was happening instead of watching it live.

I don't care how many times they can watch the video, it could never equal actually watching it unfold live in the small side room at the Nile.

Great times are had in the here and now, people, not watching later.

Proof in the Pudding

Apparently some people have a crises of music.

As in, a friend mentioned how his friend wanted to meet up to discuss his latest issue.

The problem? Not job woes. Not a relationship faux pas. No alarming diagnosis.

His friend is convinced that Richmond's music scene is dying.

"Go out with me for one night and I'll prove you wrong," my friend told the disillusioned one.

And tonight would have been a perfect example of the diversity of local music there for the taking.

First up, the Listening Room, where cardigan-wearing Jonathan did emcee duties, rambled a bit and then said, "Here they come and here I go."

Corny, maybe but as a friend observed as he walked off, "Jonathan may be about to become a father but he has all the makings of a grandfather."

The "they" he'd mentioned were the Black Brothers, as in Black like the VCU music building, and a quartet of guitar, drums, bass and trumpet.

Their sound was southern, bluesy and, unlike most Listening Room sets, fully electric with drums.

We don't often get drummer face-making at the Listening Room, but we did tonight, except when he had a drumstick in his mouth.

For that matter, we don't often see a pair of loafers or an argyle sweater on the Listening Room stage, either.

As if that weren't different enough, the room was darkened and there were two turntables on stage, both with lights under glass spinning on them for the grooviest of light shows.

We heard "80 Grams," a song about Heath Ledger, "Holding Back," a new song they'd never played live and a dedication to the guitarist's mom on her birthday.

Just when I'd been lulled into listening to them like another indie band, the horn would come in or the drummer would start playing around and I'd remember, oh, yea, there are jazz nerds present.

When they finished, they said they had t-shirts and one CD for sale ("It's $100," the guitarist teased).

So, Exhibit A -southern blues with horn.

At the start of the second set, host Jonathan broke the bad news: he and wife Antonia will be less involved with the Listening Room for a while because of their upcoming spawn's arrival.

I think I saw Antonia tear up when he said it and, frankly, I felt the same.

But even misty, the mom-to-be looked fabulous with a red scarf in her hair, dangling red earrings and a beautiful blue flouncy skirt that qualified her for the queen of the gypsies.

Those two have been the bedrock of the L.R. evenings and their presence will be missed, even if it's only temporary.

And then for something completely different, the Richmanian Ramblers played.

The good people who bring us Romanian gypsy music for two violins, clarinet, upright bass, accordion and acoustic guitar came to sing about drinking, sheep and dancing.

"The next song is a dance song," bassist Nate warned us. "But you guys are sitting, so that won't work."

Vocalist Antonia piped up with, "But it's the Listening Room, so you can't talk, but you can dance. Quietly."

For the record, I saw no dancing, despite the song's call to move our bodies.

And here's another thing I never expected to hear at the L.R. "Here's a song about a terrible dowry."

After having seen them multiple times, I know my favorite tune is what's affectionately called "the sheep love song."

In it, a shepherdess and her shepherd boyfriend call to each other across the hills and I love their emotive call and response (not that I understand Romanian, but I get their intent).

I knew there were a lot of first-timers at the L.R. tonight and I love what a diverse program they experienced on their initial visit.

Okay, Exhibit B - Romanian gypsy music.

After the Listening Room, I headed to the Nile to meet a friend for the Malhombre show.

Why more music after two interesting bands?

Because Malhombre's melancholy rock with occasional forays into French pop is too irresistible not to introduce to a musician friend.

And more stylish than you can imagine, with the singer in cream-colored boots and the drummer in amazing plaid pants.

The duo began by saying, "How do you like our projections? It's our honeymoon pictures from Paris and Rome."

All kidding aside, the views projected showed ruins, Citroens and a definite sense of places other than Laurel Street.

Tonight's set was particularly civilized, with the twenty or so people there seated in chairs and raptly paying attention to singer/guitarist Blasco and his partner Giustino, working up a righteous sweat on the drums.

There was a song in French, a momentous song ("I wanna be in tune for this song cause it's important") and lots of major chords ("He plays all major chords," my musician friend observed. "Just when I think he's going to go all sad, he sounds happy.").

Naturally with the French involved, there was a song about being drunk and in love.

"At the same time!" interjected Giustino.

"I don't know if I've ever been love sober," cracked Blasco.

He passed his hat, telling the audience, "If any of you want to contribute to our life, you can."  We did.

When they tried to end, the crowd called for more.

To top off a fine set, they played a "relationship song from the man's point of view."

Who knew there was such a thing?

Alright, Exhibit C - melancholy French pop/rock.

The music scene here has dried up? Seriously?

I'd say the crises is among those sitting at home while horns blow, sheep make love and major chords abound.

Call me crises-less.

Sending a Signal

Once upon a time on a Sunday afternoon...

First off, food is required before tales of torture and murder.

And while some people might consider 2:00 lunch time, I was all about some pancakes and scrapple (still not great, but better than the last time I had it there) at Lunch when our foursome convened for a shared meal.

At one point, When in Rome's "The Promise" came on, causing one in our group to grin widely and observe, "This song sounds like sunny days and happiness  I love it. The music is always great here."

Coincidentally, she was born the year the song came out (1988) but she'd nailed one of Lunch's strong points - the music (and pig) always pleases.

The womenfolk were eating breakfast and the men went with massive meat sandwiches, like roast beast and turkey and bacon.

Okay, I had some of that one and it was pretty damn awesome, so I stand corrected at unfairly calling it obscene.

Apparently some times you do need a carnivorous trifecta.

Full of syrup and someone else's sausage, we headed to Virginia Rep to see Cadence Theater Company's "The Pillowman."

I'd seen some VCU students do a staged reading of this black comedy just last December and been wildly impressed with Irish playwright Martin McDonagh's tale of bad parenting, sibling sacrifice and child murders.

If it sounds like a downer of an afternoon, let me assure you it was not. But it was long.

Really, it's a sociological study of a screwed up family living in a totalitarian state and the unfortunate way it all plays out.

The main character is a writer of children's stories (Once upon a time...), most of which wind down in horrific endings.

With a minimal but effective set, the cast of eight gradually settled into their roles as the drama unfolded.

Depending on your own personal landscape, there were any number of hot button issues touched upon- the death of a child, willful child abuse, sadism.

That said, despite the grisly things that happen, it is the story of a man with a compulsion to write and naturally I could appreciate that.

One of the funniest lines was on that subject.

"You execute a writer, it sends a signal. I don't know what kind of signal..."

In this case, death was tolerable only because he know his words would live on.

I have to give Cadence credit; they continue to produce thoughtfully chosen works by top notch casts on the tiniest of stages, succeeding every time.

The evening concluded with a show at the Nile, while, as all Nile shows are wont to do, started far later than it was supposed to.

Paul Ivey and the Rubes were playing without a drummer tonight (he's vacationing in the mountains, no doubt OD'ing on leaf color), but sounded terrific in their reincarnation as a trio.

Part of that is my affection for New Wave, at which Paul is a master, part of that is his incredibly smart lyrics and last night in particular, his guitar was just sounding amazing to me.

But Paul is also funny, like when he announced, "This song is dedicated to yet another person who greatly disappointed me," before launching into yet another catchy tune.

The band covered (with minimal practice, according to them) the Kinks' "Oklahoma, USA" in a nod to the traveling band, Luna Moth from (no surprise) Oklahoma and did a worthy rendition of it.

"If life's worth livin', what's livin' for?"

Well, let's see, livin's for pancakes and Tony award winning plays and New Wave music played in African restaurants.

Only then do people like me live happily ever after.

This Charming Man

Sometimes you just need to have dinner with someone you've never had dinner with before.

As lovely as lunch can be, there just isn't as much time to hear restaurant gossip, talk to the staff and introduce me to a millionaire over a mid-day meal.

Obviously the gossip is unrepeatable, but I had to laugh about the staff chats.

Not once, but twice, my dinner companion guessed where the person went to high school based on the same information I heard and I had no idea where they'd been schooled.

To make it even more unbelievable, he knew people at both those schools.

And one of them wasn't even in central Virginia.

I don't even know where my own friends went to high school, much less guessing where strangers went.

But the staff was less interesting than the millionaire in shorts who came over to say hello to my companion.

It's not like I knew his financial status as we were being introduced and since I'm friendly to practically anybody (some would say overly friendly), I just smiled, shook hands and made witty banter.

But now I can say I've met a millionaire.

"And he's the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet," my friend told me when he left, as if he had to convince me that the charming man was indeed nice.

After stuffing ourselves silly, we walked up the block together before going our separate ways.

He's an early riser (like 5 a.am. early) so while I was going out, he wasn't.

When I got to the Nile, a crowd was already forming for the "86 Reality" premiere after party show.

The new cable series "86 Reality" had aired at 10 and afterwards, the bands who had been featured on the show were playing live.

I ran into some friends, talked for a while and, like the others there, patiently waited for the show to start.

Only it didn't.

Finally Michael of Canary, oh, Canary, tonight's headliner, told me that the opening band was waiting for P.A.

That band was Charlottesville's Manorlady, a band I'd seen and liked very much at Sprout back in March 2011.

"We could do our set a cappella," Manorlady's guitarist Aaron says. "We started that way."

But when your sound is based on synths, guitar and bass with two vocalists, microphones are helpful.

So there was an indefinite pause until the equipment arrived.

It didn't bother me.

I heard about a friend's Scandinavian vacation and how several seemingly unfortunate events had led to wonderful things happening to him.

From another friend, I got his take on friendship and how he thinks we are similar.

A girl I met tonight who'd just come from stuffing herself at Mama Zu explained how after a filling meal she likes to go home and lay on the floor before going out to a show.

Good to know because I hadn't.

When the mics finally arrived and were being set up, I noticed that we were going to have a light show with the music.

Except that instead of using a computer, this guy was kicking it old school.

He had an overhead projector, the kind I remember from school.

On the light table were four glass plates of varying sizes, between which he put oil and food coloring.

Then once the set started, he proceeded to lift and drop the plates, sometimes twirling them, sometimes twisting them in time to the music.

The effect on the wall behind Manorlady was very groovy and certainly more labor intensive than using technology.

Finally the band began, with Aaron saying, "This is very D.I.Y., so let us know if something doesn't sound good."

I would have put bass player Melissa's vocals a bit higher in the mix, but overall, their funky take on shoegaze, which segued from song to song in many cases without pause, was sounding just fine.

No surprise that having liked them a year and a half ago, I liked them still now.

They said they'd just come back from tour ("our best ever") and that they have a new CD coming out.

Because they'd started an hour late, their set seemed too short.

Because I was stuffed and hadn't laid on the floor before the show, I said my good nights knowing the other two bands were going to have to do even shorter sets to end by a legal time.

Sometimes you just need to hear a little shoegaze after meeting a millionaire.

That much I'd done.

Time Won't Let Me

"If you go to them, you have them for life." ~The Edge aka Josh

I'm not sure there's a heaven, but if there turns out to be one, I think it might have an all-belly menu.

Or maybe that's just what I'm hoping after tonight.

A quick stop at Bistro 27 for a glass of wine got me a taste of mixologist Bobby's latest creation, a Hardywood Mocha Porter frozen custard.

All I was expecting was some Gavi so the mousse-like mocha custard with hints of banana fully engaged my palate with its subtle flavors and creaminess.

And I don't even like beer.

I made sure to clear out well in advance of the first restaurant week reservations of the evening and headed due east to the non-participating Roosevelt.

It was all but empty upon our arrival.

Diving into the Gabrielle Rausse Vin de Gris, that lovely white Pinot Noir I could drink every warm day, it was a fine accompaniment for potato gnocchi, Virginia clams with roasted garlic and herb broth.

My dining companion was so sure the clam and gnocchi combo wouldn't work, so I insisted on ordering it just to prove him wrong.

I think he may have even been glad he was wrong.

We followed that with crab and avocado salad with fennel, grapefruit, radishes and chili aioli. The heat of the oil gave a welcome zing to the subtle crab and avocado.

Putting a bite of the salad into my mouth, I noticed something.

I've been to The Roosevelt enough times to be familiar with their usual music and tonight's was not it.

Asking the bartender where the music was coming from, he said, "Good or bad?"

Turns out it was his iPod and he feared for his taste. Not to worry, it was right up my alley.

Tuna belly with bacon jam was our next course and while it was my first tuna belly, I feel certain it was superior tuna belly.

Of course, anything served with bacon jam is going to be worth eating, but the combination proved once again how much I like pig and things that live in the water.

I saw a friend whose show I'd missed last week by mere minutes, which led to a discussion of playing music and fans.

He told me once that his band has a good-sized soccer mom contingent and tonight for the first time, he explained why.

His band had played shows in their subdivisions and the moms were hooked.

Now they came into the city to see them. Because apparently, once you take the music to the moms, they are yours forever.

After digesting that nugget, we went on to our second belly of the evening, lamb belly with tomatoes and capers.

Surely this is what heaven tastes like. Fatty, but not overly so and with a depth of flavor well complemented by the salty capers, we were in love.

With belly.

Dessert was apple blackberry pie with glasses of King Family Loreley to make a sweet course sweeter.

When we left, every seat was taken but no one's grins were bigger than the two of us after our two-belly meal.

Music followed at The Nile with a triple bill and a small but enthusiastic crowd.

Harrisonburg's Malatese had been billed as post-rock, a personal favorite, but turned out to be more post-punk.

So I got more driving energy but with unexpected vocals.

Tungs were local, even louder and more aggressive, more rock, less indie.

After full-on thrash, we got to the reason I was there, Chicago's Netherfriends.

I'd seen this guy play a house show a while back and been blown away by his hooky, poppy sound and mad dance skills.

Using a guitar, drum pad and Casio keyboard, Shawn (because Netherfriends is really Shawn, shh, don't tell) played a dancier set than I'd seen last time, but every bit as fun.

My favorite moments were when he came out from behind the keyboard to dance across the front of the room.

This is possible because he loops so the music can carry on while he does a mean James Brown.

He finished with "You Gotta Fight (for your right to party)" because, well, because he could and wanted to.

This is a guy who puts his hand out to emphasize a lyric (stop in the name of showmanship!), so clearly he enjoys his work.

And I enjoyed him.

Not quite as much as all that belly, but close. Very close.

I'd asked my partner in crime what part of me he'd want to eat after I'm dead (no, I don't know how I come up with these things) and he didn't hesitate.

His answer had been my belly, probably because he saw its potential for being well marbled.

Ever canny, he'd suggested that I stipulate in my will that belly rights went to him.

I may want to add a codicil that it must be served with bacon jam.

Just like in heaven.

Epiphanies Are Us

It was a slow night for finding fun in River City and, believe me, I looked.

Even tomorrow night has more going on than tonight did. But I managed, through perseverance and dumb luck, to find enough to keep me occupied.

VCU's Fishbowl Gallery was presenting "Interaction 37," an exhibit of painting (of which there was only one) and printmaking work by sixteen graduating seniors.

The work was striking for its modernity.

There were lithographs, laser-cut prints, Epson prints, screen prints and, yes, even digital prints.

And, while I hate to admit it, my personal "best in show" would have gone to a digital print.

Patrick Quinn's "Negro Art" was created by stacking transparencies, photocopies, scraps and other studio debris and then scanning the pile to create the final flat composition.

The assorted debris comprised a visually satisfying graphic arrangement with the words "Negro Art" written horizontally near the bottom and the words "The Art of Africa" written vertically on the opposite side.

I spent as much time admiring this one piece as I did looking at all the others combined.

I only wish I could have justified spending the money so I could look at it every day.

Stopping briefly at home, I got a message from musician and man-about-town Prabir asking what was going on tonight.

Wine and then not much, I told him regretfully.

What was he up to?

His only plans were to go running and break up with a girl, so he suggested meeting later to assess our evenings.

Why not?

Every Tuesday The Empress does a four-course wine tasting with small plate pairings and tonight's theme was Thanksgiving pairings.

The crowd was smaller than the last one of these I'd attended, no doubt due to traveling and the holiday, but no less enjoyable.

We began with parsnip mashed potatoes with black pepper butter and Dry Creek Chenin Blanc. T

he rich butter was a lovely complement to the wine.

Course #2 was perfectly braised kale with cranberry chutney and the most divine Cantina Zaccagnini, a Montepulciano d'Aruzzo.

Its dry, aromatic qualities made it very food-friendly.

Herb grilled turkey with maple-roasted carrots came with hot sake-spiked apple cider.

The turkey had an unexpectedly spicy crust and although I'm not much of a cider person, the combination worked well.

We finished with a baked Alaska (homemade carrot cake topped by brandy-poached apples and ice cream all in a meringue coating which was then torched).

With it, we had the Empress Hot Tottie, made with Kluge Cru, a fortified (20%!) apperitif wine, sake and lemon juice.

All of a sudden, I'm drinking sake. And mixed drinks.

What's happening here?

These Tuesday tastings, with their mere $15 price tag, are great fun and always well-thought out food and wine-wise.

Next time I'll bring a friend, although the eavesdropping was quite good tonight (what happens at the Empress stays at the Empress) so I never lacked for entertainment.

I'd told a friend I would meet her at Ipanema to try out some of their new cocktails, but I was late and she was gone by the time I arrived.

But only recently gone.

As the bartender put it so succinctly, "Her drink spot is still wet."

Now that's a recent departure.

But I'd missed my second chance at a mixed drink; probably just as well.

Prabir and I had agreed on the Nile for meeting because of its walkability to J-Ward, but I would also add, because of its excellent music and chill vibe.

We shared the highlights of our day, leading to some interesting realizations and causing Prabir to dub this the "Karen/Prabir Epiphany Night.com"

He decreed that it was not just enough to have the epiphanies, but that acting on them was also a requirement.

Sounds like a lot of work to me.

It wasn't long before the rest of the crowd cleared out and the charming bartender joined our discussion of the sexes.

After a bit, a heart-bruised artist who's doing a mural for the Nile made it four and our discussion group was complete.

On the table were such topics as why men choose women on a purely visual basis, the relevance (or lack thereof) of marriage and the advantages of dating girls over the age of 28.

Oh, yes, and the wisdom of not dating members of the opposite sex first encountered in bars.

Someone should have been taking notes.

It's probably worth noting that not one of the four of us is in an actual relationship, so in all likelihood, we knew not of what we spoke, despite several hours of speaking anyway.

Eventually Prabir remembered his early morning meeting and we said our farewells to the other men-folk.

Turns out I was mistaken; there was more than enough to do tonight.

I just had to move around to find it all.