Take What You Want and Leave the Rest

Being ridiculously happy seems to leave little time to blog.

It's not like I'm not still doing stuff because of course I am. After all, I'm me, so how could I not?

After a meal in service of my hired mouth, Mac and I went to the Basement to see TheatreLab's production of "Topdog/Underdog," marveling at the tightly wound performances of Jeremy Morris and Jamar Jones as brothers with issues in the Pulitzer prize-winning play.

The production clocked in at a hefty two hours and 45 minutes (I knew I had that padding for a reason) and I thought Mac might have to dip out at intermission because of having to go to work early tomorrow, but instead she admitted how sucked in she was by such compelling performances.

Props to first-time director Katrinah Carol Lewis for providing her actors enough room to the create full, albeit flawed, characters before us.

Granted, we walked out of there feeling as if we'd been beat up, but truly great theater is always affecting in some way.

I finally made it to Goatocado, notable for the killer Tuscan arepa (Oaxacan cheese, red pepper, greens, guac and corn in a corn cake) I ate along with a pomegranate ginger-ade, but also for the 50 minutes it took some hapless, young employee to hang the canvas triangles that provided the scant shade on a sunny, blue sky day.

After ten minutes, I was feeling his pain because he was out there in the blinding sunlight without sunglasses. When I questioned the wisdom of that move, he explained that he didn't like clipping sunshades to his regular glasses. But isn't it excruciating to be out here with no sunglasses?

"I'm thinking next time I get glasses, I'll get that kind that darkens in the sun," he explained. "You know, 'cause I don't want to get cataracts." How cute is that?

And for the record, he hung and rehung those triangles unsuccessfully and repeatedly, finally asking two fellow employees to help - one to hook the pieces and the other more knowledgeable one to direct - for over 50 minutes before they were hung properly. Meanwhile, customers like us who wanted to eat outside (inside was full) had a choice of minimal shade or no shade, not the best options on a bright June day at high noon.

Fifty minutes. Have I mentioned that I weep for the future?

Lady G had finally re-surfaced and since our last rendezvous had been March 30, we were in dire need of a blather. Her suggestion was Lemaire at the Jefferson, fine by me as long as we ate outside on the patio and not inside with the business stuffy clientele.

Our table afforded a view of Franklin Street and featured a music speaker that looked like a rock in the flower bed adjacent to us. Yea, it was corny and kind of Flintstones-like, but, hey, it worked, turning the miscellaneous noises of the city into background for the jazz that was playing.

Because our time apart had encompassed April and May, Lady G insisted that it was a birthday celebration and let me choose the bottle: Argyle Brut Rose from a winery I'd visited. And while it took an inordinate amount of time to arrive (it appeared to be our server's first night and he was doing his best, at least at joking with us), it was worth the wait.

When our young server made the rookie mistake of placing the stand holding the wine near the outdoor server's station rather than tableside and G's glass went dry, she did what any self-respecting woman does: walked over, took possession of the stand and bottle and set them in their rightful place within easy reach of us.

The five-top table of young millennial women next to us knew they were in the presence of greatness. "We applaud you taking control!" one called out as the others clapped.

Someday you, too, will just take what you want, grasshopper.

We swapped updates over chilled English pea soup, crispy fried deviled eggs with cornichons and red pepper jelly and Pernod-steamed mussels with apple, fennel and chorizo while we watched people sit down and wait 20 minutes for anything more than water. Luckily, we were in no hurry, not with all the life evaluating we had going on at the table.

At one point, our charming server arrived unexpectedly and a tad out of breath, smiling and saying apropos of nothing, "I've missed you both so." What can you do but crack up at that? At the very least, a sense of humor is essential in the service industry.

We ended the evening on my balcony, where Lady G's birthday gift to me - a bottle of Chateau Kalian 2015 Monbazillac, an organic dessert wine with gorgeous notes of orange and lemon, but also with nice acidity - was opened and sipped chilled as dusk descended on Jackson Ward.

As she does every time she's on my balcony, she commented on some of the high-up architectural details on the house next door. The kind of flourishes barely visible from the street, but striking from mere feet away on the second floor. The kind of thing an artist notices and that's what Lady G is.

She and I have been swapping stories and keeping each other abreast of where the bodies are buried for two decades now, and if that's not worth toasting, I don't know what is.

Check that. Also worth celebrating is finding someone who keeps me so busy talking, laughing and traveling that blogging is all but forgotten.

Sorry/not sorry. Happiness and devoted attention, I have missed you both so.

Pop Arias and Beach Goth

Take me away, Indian Summer.

Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.

The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.

I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.

"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.

With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.

If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.

The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."

During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.

Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.

With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.

Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.

One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?

Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.

Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.

There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.

When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.

Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.

It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.

Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.

My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.

My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.

Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.

"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"

So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.

But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.

By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.

Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling 
That I just can't lose

After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like  a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.

When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.

For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.

"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.

After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.

"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.

The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.

When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.

I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.

Never Soon Enough

Something old, something new, something sweet, something shot.

Hopefully it wasn't my backside.

Tonight was the inaugural food truck court at the Virginia Historical Society and I was curious enough to go see what it was all about.

Arriving right at the start time of 6:00, I was amazed at how many people were already there, including TV crews and photographers.

Oddly enough, it must have been a bad day for food trucks because two of the trucks were late due to mechanical issues.

In fact, the Boka truck had to be towed to the site, but they were set up and in business within five minutes.

That's dedication to the cart cause.

And the Dressed & Press truck didn't pull in for another twenty minutes.

Luckily, nobody was in a hurry, so a late arrival wasn't that big a deal.

Meanwhile I ran into a friend sporting facial hair for the first time in the fifteen years I've known him.

A charming couple I'd met at Amour spotted me and we chatted about late nights and easy walks.

I decided on the Boka truck and got in line only to notice that within minutes the line was most of the way across the parking lot.

With that many hungry people behind me, I quickly decided on a fish and pineapple salsa soft taco and an Asian beef taco.

Because the beauty of the Boka truck is that you can pick your ethnicity, Asian, Mexican or American.

As I waited for my food, another girl got hers and a photographer quickly approached her asking to take her smiling picture with her food.

When they called out my name, I responded with "Yo!" and needless to say, got it and beat feet for a picnic table so I wouldn't have to gulp and grin for the camera.

Only once I sat down and met the table's other occupants was I told that my picture had also been taken when I got my food.

Somehow I doubt they got my best side.

By the time I finished eating and talking to strangers, it was time to meet friends for a pre-Listening Room drink at the Camel.

Sipping my Sauza and chatting with my friend about her time in Albany (her comment about the hot guys there will go down in history as one of the funniest lines ever), we were surprised when the bartender approached us with a box of open Girl Scout cookies.

"Want a Samoa?" she inquired as if it were the most natural thing in the world to offer people cookies in a bar.

Not gonna lie, I had one and so did my friends.

Properly fortified with soft tacos, tequila and a Samoa, I adjourned to the Listening Room.

Our friendly substitute emcee Rob was gracious enough to thank those who'd provided baked goods, so I got to hear my name called out along with the others who'd done oven duty for the sake of feeding the the music lovers.

I was completely excited about the first band, Wes Swing, whom I'd seen at Balliceaux about a month ago.

Let's see, there was so much to love. Cello plucked and bowed, upright bass, male and female vocals, looping of said cello and beautiful, literate songs that I didn't want to end.

As a friend noted after their set, "That may be my favorite Listening Room band ever."

She didn't have to sing their praises to me; I'd walked into the room a fan.

One song was based on a poem by Ezra Pound and the last, "Lullabye" romantically crooned, "I can't sleep tonight without you."

Favorite lyric: "And are we soon enough?"

I could sigh just thinking about it.

Up second was Ramona Robbins who began by playing a few songs accompanied by her guitar before moving to the piano.

Her voice was much easier to hear over the piano and those of her songs that leaned toward jazz benefited from the keyboard.

After her set, Rob noted that her pop leanings made for a different sound than what we usually hear at the Listening Room.

It was a valid point because while there have been a fair number of female singers who've performed, few have played the piano, so her girl-on-keyboards sound was something different.

We don't get a lot of Regina Spektor types performing at the Listening Room.

During the break I got all kinds of compliments on the chocolate caramel cookies I'd brought. You'd have thought I'd brought something really good like Samoas.

Last up was Stivali Comodi, a trio of two guys on guitar and a girl on banjo and cello with each taking lead vocals on different songs.

When someone asked about the meaning of the band's name, one member suggested we go home and ask Mr. Google before the girl said that it apparently translates as "loose-fitting boots."

Because each of their voices was so different, there was a completely different feel to each song.

Throughout their set, I'd been curious about what looked like a white toy piano in front of one of the guitarists.

He finally played it for the last song but instead of the "plink, plink, plink" I expected to hear, what we got instead was more of a harmonium sound.

It was a fitting way to end Listening Room number 28.

Wow, twenty eight shows. Time flies when you're hearing good music.

And eating cookies.

After Hours at the Park

Start with a good story and end on the swings.

My favorite wine geek/musician wanted to meet up at the Roosevelt.

Until we saw they were closed for a private party. And it wasn't for us.

We switched the plans to Lemaire and at the last minute he asked if I wanted to meet him south of the river.

I declined with enough defiance and humor to make him realize there was a good story there.

So after scoring a bottle of L'Enclos des Bories Minervois, I spun my tale, saving the punch line for the end.

No way, he insisted.

Way.

Over the next couple of hours, I heard all the good winery stories before we moved on to music, Tori Amos and the urgency of competition.

I was sorry when I had to leave for my next engagement.

It also involved wine, a Fratelli Urciuolo 2010 Fiano di Avellino, scored at last week's River City Cellars tasting.

Crisp with rich undertones and the perfect way to ease into the upcoming evening, it was our aperitif before heading to City Dogs.

And, yes, that's a joke.

To my companion's horror (and fear for his stomach) I was in the mood for a dog dinner, a Tennessee slaw dog for me and Carolina dog for him, although why someone concerned about eating dogs gets pork on pork is beyond me.

When I insisted on a chocolate shake for dessert, he grimaced like I'd suggested the most outlandish thing in the world.

What, who doesn't need a sweet after all that salty?

And, for the record, he consumed fully half of that chocolate shake.

Then it was on to Balliceaux for what I knew was going to be an outstanding evening of music.

The crowd was regrettably small but wildly enthusiastic for the talent we saw.

Robin Bacior played first with a band behind her, including a cello, an instrument I find irresistible for the evocative sounds it can call forth.

I was especially fond of the songs she played on piano, hearkening back to my earlier discussion with friend #1 about the simple pleasures of a confessional girl and keyboards.

She thanked Richmond for being so welcoming, "You guys are so nice to offer your homes, your bed, your medications."

The scientist, sitting next to me, leaned over, saying, "There's a story there."

He would be the same scientist who always shows up with chocolate, although tonight's offering was sub-par.

Some kind of protein bar, he shared a piece with the warning, "It's chocolate, but it tastes a lot like chalk."

Wes Swing from Charlottesville was next and here I heard all kinds of Andrew Bird likenesses, with the upright bass, cello and his literate lyrics.

When Wes switched to playing guitar, I got more of a Nick Drake vibe.

Favorite lyric: "When you're away, my heart comes undone, like a ball of yarn."

A close second was, "I won't take you in until you pay for your sins."  In the next verse, "until" became "if" for a variation on a theme.

The star of the evening was Dave Watkins and his new electric dulcitar, a thing of beauty in blue and completely handmade by Dave.

You really have to see this guy to believe the layers of sound he can create with looping and playing, knocking on and blowing into his instrument.

And no, that's not a euphemism.

Toward the end, someone in the audience called out for "Pangea's Revenge," one of the few songs Dave sings on. He tried to demur.

"How often do you get requests at a show?" the fan called out.

Pretty often, he said, before playing it anyway.

By the time the set ended, Dave was sweaty, the audience was totally caught up in his soundscapes and it was practically 2 a.m. on a school night.

But not a soul had been willing to give up such a stellar show to go home and get some sleep.

Some people even followed that with recess on a balmy night.

A person's got to seize an extra day when you have the chance...or wait four long years to exercise your Leap Day privileges.

I wasn't willing to wait.