I thought I was going to a 70s cult film today when I went to see Harold and Maude for the first time and instead saw a love story that had me welling up in places. Who knew?
Second only to the surprise of the romance was how much I enjoyed the Cat Stevens soundtrack. You have to understand that Cat Stevens is an artist I have detested since the very first time I heard him sing and that feeling has never wavered upon additional listenings insisted upon by fanatics. I loved everything about the music I heard today. What gives?
Apparently in 1971, girls majored in poli-sci and minored in home-ec ("So I have something to fall back on") and nurses still wore nursing caps. A smiling picture of Nixon hung in a military office and a somber picture of Freud in a psychiatrist's.
To find him a bride, Harold's mother contacted The National Computer Dating Service, which must have sounded very clinical and futuristic at the time. Maude blamed her reckless driving on the new-fangled power steering. VW bugs were everywhere.
Age discrepancy aside, the movie was one of the sweetest romances I've ever seen; her optimism and joie de vivre were so attractive that it wasn't hard to see how her age became a non-issue to him.
There are so many ways to convey two people falling for each other on screen, but the ones used in this film were wonderfully offbeat. Smoking a hookah, waltzing to Strauss, having a picnic at a demolition site all conveyed the increasing pleasure they were taking in each other's company.
And, yes, it's almost Valentine's Day and it's been almost three years since I had a Valentine, so maybe I'm just ripe for a good romance. Or maybe it's that now that I'm dating, it's tempting to hope that something along those romantic lines is opening up for me.
And for the record, I can only hope that someone wants me to model nude for them when I'm 79, like Maude did. Because, you know, I will.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Woody's Inn and Black Girls
It's because of David Lowery that I drank the one and only beer of my life.
Think mid-90s at the Flood Zone, my date was late meeting me at the Cracker show and the only thing they served was beer. But I was going to wait for the band whether he showed or not, so I killed time with a beer, cementing a life-long distaste for it. But I digress.
Tonight I went to Plan 9 to hear that very same David Lowery do an in-store performance to promote his new CD, "The Palace Guards." Before he sang the title song, he explained that it began as a kid's song about superheroes and became something quite sinister.
"It's not the Cartoon Network kind of superheroes, more like the adult swim kind of superheroes," he clarified perfectly.
He was in fine voice and the crowd was made up of what looked to be long-time fans, including several women I heard commenting on how different and/or great he looked. Old groupies die hard, it would seem.
The music continued at Sprout, where band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes was spinning tonight. When I walked in, he was alone in the back room, working the vinyl hard and obviously enjoying himself.
Although I'd come to hear him DJ, I'd also come to eat, so I found a stool at the bar, opened my Moody Blues album menu cover and decided on the house salad and the Sprout free-range beef sliders with cheddar.
Local greens made for an incredibly fresh-tasting salad and the sliders are already legendary for a reason. Free-range beef is so noticeably better tasting that one friend swears that Sprout's sliders qualify as the best burger in town. Savoring mine, I'm inclined to agree.
Next I ordered a glass of Seaview Syrah and was forced to listen to the dessert choices. And while I wasn't the least bit hungry after the salad and sliders, I also wasn't the least inclined to ignore the chocolate truffle cake.
"Mmm, with a glass of red wine that sounds like heaven," my server opined. Don't I know it. Meanwhile, I was loving PJ's record choices, although I recognized very few artists. In a perfect world, I'd have had a set list so I could find out who I was hearing for future musical researching.
But my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so I ended up eating only part of the cake (that would be the parts with the icing attached), causing her to chide me when she took the plate away. "You didn't eat very much of it," she said. "All the good parts," I countered.
Too full to move, naturally that was the moment a friend came over and suggested I join their table and since I'm constitutionally unable to resist the offer of conversation, I moved.
There were four of them, so I got to chat with one about the power of dimples ( a friend of hers was told by a guy, "I want to f*ck your dimples" because they were so impressive) and with another about the rhythms of vacationing at the beach ("And when you want to take a nap, you just lay down and do it," he marveled).
I had to excuse myself around 10:30 (my friend Dave saying, "You always over-commit." Too true that) to check out a show at a venue new to me, Woody's Inn on Cary Street. I knew the place, having driven by it hundreds of times, but it was to be my first time inside.
It was every bit as old-school as I expected it to be. Low ceilings, a bar that looked straight out of a 70s rec-room and patterned carpet everywhere. But the crowd was enthusiastic, the staff welcoming and the music just beginning and that's what really mattered.
Precious Fluids, a duo of very young brothers played first, surprising me by covering the Misfits (and even did a brief snatch of Ratt for a friend in the audience) but also playing original material.
Their self-proclaimed surf song "Aloha" had the fast drumming and surf guitar sound you'd expect from a song with that title. I have to guess that they started writing songs in middle school.
Playing second was the Nervous Ticks, tonight a duo rather than a trio because their tambourine player had been in a moped accident. No jokes, please. They carried on without him, but he was there in spirit, perhaps in the tambourine resting on an upturned metal bucket used by the drummer.
As you might guess by their name, the music was hard and fast, with few songs lasting more than two minutes. A lot of the vocals bordered on scream-o but were still fairly melodic. I'm betting it was the first time they'd played a room with acoustic ceiling tile and carpeting to soften their sound.
From Woody's retro but fun vibe (you should have seen the over-the-knee gold boots on the girl coming in as I left) , it was back to Sprout because I wanted to catch the Black Girls' show, as did an awful lot of other people, all of who were crammed into the restaurant when I returned. Best of all, Dave was still there, so I had excellent conversational and musical company for the evening.
And then there were the Black Girls, a group of white boys (I wouldn't make that up) playing 70s-influenced glammy campy music. The crowd was into it from the first notes, standing on chairs, dancing, swaying and, yes, doing the bump. I know because I saw it with my own eyes.
Dave, the musician, described their music as fun; I found it fun and intensely campy. They pulled from vintage 70s stuff as disparate as Queen and KC & the Sunshine Band, but they also borrowed from current sounds like Scissor Sisters and the indie dance beats of Modest Mouse. The girl with the gold boots would have fit in perfectly for this show.
Can you tell I enjoyed it? Dave was right, it was fun music (good music to be drunk and listening to, he also said), even if everything I heard could be traced back to somebody else (which is exactly what I love about current bands). And you've got to love a lead singer who can do a falsetto.
The last song was about being dumped, with a refrain of "You are going to be so sorry for what you did to me." After singing it a few times, the lead singer shouted to the audience, "Let me hear your singing voices" and Dave belted it out beautifully next to me.
It's great to hang out with talent when you're at a show.
Think mid-90s at the Flood Zone, my date was late meeting me at the Cracker show and the only thing they served was beer. But I was going to wait for the band whether he showed or not, so I killed time with a beer, cementing a life-long distaste for it. But I digress.
Tonight I went to Plan 9 to hear that very same David Lowery do an in-store performance to promote his new CD, "The Palace Guards." Before he sang the title song, he explained that it began as a kid's song about superheroes and became something quite sinister.
"It's not the Cartoon Network kind of superheroes, more like the adult swim kind of superheroes," he clarified perfectly.
He was in fine voice and the crowd was made up of what looked to be long-time fans, including several women I heard commenting on how different and/or great he looked. Old groupies die hard, it would seem.
The music continued at Sprout, where band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes was spinning tonight. When I walked in, he was alone in the back room, working the vinyl hard and obviously enjoying himself.
Although I'd come to hear him DJ, I'd also come to eat, so I found a stool at the bar, opened my Moody Blues album menu cover and decided on the house salad and the Sprout free-range beef sliders with cheddar.
Local greens made for an incredibly fresh-tasting salad and the sliders are already legendary for a reason. Free-range beef is so noticeably better tasting that one friend swears that Sprout's sliders qualify as the best burger in town. Savoring mine, I'm inclined to agree.
Next I ordered a glass of Seaview Syrah and was forced to listen to the dessert choices. And while I wasn't the least bit hungry after the salad and sliders, I also wasn't the least inclined to ignore the chocolate truffle cake.
"Mmm, with a glass of red wine that sounds like heaven," my server opined. Don't I know it. Meanwhile, I was loving PJ's record choices, although I recognized very few artists. In a perfect world, I'd have had a set list so I could find out who I was hearing for future musical researching.
But my eyes were bigger than my stomach, so I ended up eating only part of the cake (that would be the parts with the icing attached), causing her to chide me when she took the plate away. "You didn't eat very much of it," she said. "All the good parts," I countered.
Too full to move, naturally that was the moment a friend came over and suggested I join their table and since I'm constitutionally unable to resist the offer of conversation, I moved.
There were four of them, so I got to chat with one about the power of dimples ( a friend of hers was told by a guy, "I want to f*ck your dimples" because they were so impressive) and with another about the rhythms of vacationing at the beach ("And when you want to take a nap, you just lay down and do it," he marveled).
I had to excuse myself around 10:30 (my friend Dave saying, "You always over-commit." Too true that) to check out a show at a venue new to me, Woody's Inn on Cary Street. I knew the place, having driven by it hundreds of times, but it was to be my first time inside.
It was every bit as old-school as I expected it to be. Low ceilings, a bar that looked straight out of a 70s rec-room and patterned carpet everywhere. But the crowd was enthusiastic, the staff welcoming and the music just beginning and that's what really mattered.
Precious Fluids, a duo of very young brothers played first, surprising me by covering the Misfits (and even did a brief snatch of Ratt for a friend in the audience) but also playing original material.
Their self-proclaimed surf song "Aloha" had the fast drumming and surf guitar sound you'd expect from a song with that title. I have to guess that they started writing songs in middle school.
Playing second was the Nervous Ticks, tonight a duo rather than a trio because their tambourine player had been in a moped accident. No jokes, please. They carried on without him, but he was there in spirit, perhaps in the tambourine resting on an upturned metal bucket used by the drummer.
As you might guess by their name, the music was hard and fast, with few songs lasting more than two minutes. A lot of the vocals bordered on scream-o but were still fairly melodic. I'm betting it was the first time they'd played a room with acoustic ceiling tile and carpeting to soften their sound.
From Woody's retro but fun vibe (you should have seen the over-the-knee gold boots on the girl coming in as I left) , it was back to Sprout because I wanted to catch the Black Girls' show, as did an awful lot of other people, all of who were crammed into the restaurant when I returned. Best of all, Dave was still there, so I had excellent conversational and musical company for the evening.
And then there were the Black Girls, a group of white boys (I wouldn't make that up) playing 70s-influenced glammy campy music. The crowd was into it from the first notes, standing on chairs, dancing, swaying and, yes, doing the bump. I know because I saw it with my own eyes.
Dave, the musician, described their music as fun; I found it fun and intensely campy. They pulled from vintage 70s stuff as disparate as Queen and KC & the Sunshine Band, but they also borrowed from current sounds like Scissor Sisters and the indie dance beats of Modest Mouse. The girl with the gold boots would have fit in perfectly for this show.
Can you tell I enjoyed it? Dave was right, it was fun music (good music to be drunk and listening to, he also said), even if everything I heard could be traced back to somebody else (which is exactly what I love about current bands). And you've got to love a lead singer who can do a falsetto.
The last song was about being dumped, with a refrain of "You are going to be so sorry for what you did to me." After singing it a few times, the lead singer shouted to the audience, "Let me hear your singing voices" and Dave belted it out beautifully next to me.
It's great to hang out with talent when you're at a show.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Waylaid at the Wait Station
Attractive older Asian man: You have on very nice socks.
Me: (figuring out he means my tights) Um, thanks.
AOAM: (Slipping a Werther's Original candy into my hand) Are they warm or just fancy?
Me: They're both.
AOAM: Very good.
This is how I was greeted as I walked into the VMFA's Pauley Center for the lecture "The Search for King Midas: Recent Discoveries at Gordion (Turkey)."
So I found a seat (the lecture was sold out), popped the candy in my mouth and waited for Professor Andrew Goldman to share the story of his long-time excavation in search of information about the king with the golden touch.
Excavations have been going on at this site in Turkey since long before Goldman's, one as early as 1950, but since archeology is an imperfect science, there's still no conclusive proof of King Midas' existence, despite myths and hypotheses. End of lesson.
From science to literature, my next stop was the VCU Visiting Writers' series and this week poet David Rivard was reading.
He was introduced as a poet whose words careen across the page brilliantly. Since his last two readings were canceled due to snow, tonight was his official book launch and first reading from his newest book Sugartown.
And, being a poet, he perversely began with the last poem in the book, "Lightening with Stag in its Glare," which covered a wide range of subject matter, as is apparently his preference when writing. In other words, he explained, look at things one way and then turn and look at them from another angle.
Introducing the poem "Coffeehouse, Eastern Standard Time." he admitted that "one of the things I love is eavesdropping on other people's comments." Amen, brother. In fact, the first ten lines of the poem were a direct transcript of an overheard conversation.
He had a rushed way of reading, but that may be due to what has been termed his "irregular and speedy poetry."
In response to being labeled as such, he spent a summer writing poetry in a loose pentameter. It was interesting hearing him read that after the hurried free verse he'd started with.
Sitting in front of me was a woman who had brought with her Rivard's new book, which she used to follow him word for word when he was reading. She didn't look at him while he was reading, she followed along in the book. I don't want to judge, but why come to a reading if not to enjoy being read to?
So much deep thought had made me hungry, so I decided on Six Burner, not sure what to expect. The last time I was in on a Thursday night at 9:15, the place was dead and the kitchen closed. Considering I was hungry, that wasn't going to work tonight.
Instead, I walked into a madhouse with not a free stool in sight and almost every table taken. The hostess was kind enough to insist that I stay and found me a seat at the far end of the bar, actually at the wait station ("I'm just going to move these glasses...").
Singer Fanny Mallonee was singing her vintage country heart out, covering everything from Patsy Cline to old cowboy song classics. It was definitely different than anything I'd heard in Six Burner before, but the crowd was way into it.
Thirsty, I began with the Warwick Pinotage because it's a grape I can never get enough of as I looked around the room to see if there were any familiar faces (a few, as it turned out, including a friend who recently got unexpectedly dumped and wanted advice from me about dealing with it. You talking to me?).
I ordered the mixed green salad with goat cheese, roasted beets, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette to buy me some time while I looked at the menu. Perfectly dressed, this classic combo tempered my appetite while I chatted up the owners who were enjoying dinner next to me.
When Josh asked what I wanted next, I said I was leaning towards the southern-fried sweetbreads with mole sauce.
"They're not very popular," he informed me. "People are afraid of them, especially when I tell them what they are." That's twice this week I've heard tales of people "afraid" of menu items. What gives?
The sweetbreads were wonderful fried in a crispy breading and artfully arranged over a large swirl of mole. I ate them with no fear and more pinotage.
Since I was sitting at the wait station of a very busy restaurant, it was inevitable that people would end up next to me in their attempts to get libations.
One such person was a guy in a fisherman's sweater who got extra points because his was a cardigan and not every guy can pull off a cardigan. I assumed he was there just to get a drink, but soon learned he was also there to chat me up.
He used that old line about us having met before, except that he cited the place and circumstance and I realized we had met and talked before. Honestly, everyone is better at remembering faces than me.
We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in J-Ward and we know some of the same neighbors. I even remembered seeing him in Abner Clay Park on several occasions. It's such a small world in Richmond.
An invitation was extended (and declined for tonight; I had plans), information exchanged and flattering things said. I'm still working on getting the hang of this, but I'm doing much better, if I do say so myself. And he told me where he was going to be tonight, just in case I changed my mind.
Balliceaux was my last stop because No BS were playing and although I'd technically been at their last show, I never saw them and only sporadically heard them.
The crowds were far more manageable tonight and I was actually able to make it into the back room to see the band, hear them up close and feel the heat of the sweaty bodies around me. And isn't that the whole point of going to a No BS show in the first place?
I mean, sure, I do go for Lance's stellar drumming and the harmonies of so many horns, but it's that room full of energy that gives their shows that indefinable something that keeps the faithful coming back every few weeks.
As a bonus, one of my favorite musician couples were there making the scene, so I had built-in company. I stayed for one set and then headed out through the front room (Interpol's "Lief Erikson" blaring beautifully from the front stereo as I made my way, so I walked slowly) to go.
I briefly considered making one last stop to admire the sweater, but decided against it. I'm not quite that good at all this yet.
Practice, Karen, practice.
Me: (figuring out he means my tights) Um, thanks.
AOAM: (Slipping a Werther's Original candy into my hand) Are they warm or just fancy?
Me: They're both.
AOAM: Very good.
This is how I was greeted as I walked into the VMFA's Pauley Center for the lecture "The Search for King Midas: Recent Discoveries at Gordion (Turkey)."
So I found a seat (the lecture was sold out), popped the candy in my mouth and waited for Professor Andrew Goldman to share the story of his long-time excavation in search of information about the king with the golden touch.
Excavations have been going on at this site in Turkey since long before Goldman's, one as early as 1950, but since archeology is an imperfect science, there's still no conclusive proof of King Midas' existence, despite myths and hypotheses. End of lesson.
From science to literature, my next stop was the VCU Visiting Writers' series and this week poet David Rivard was reading.
He was introduced as a poet whose words careen across the page brilliantly. Since his last two readings were canceled due to snow, tonight was his official book launch and first reading from his newest book Sugartown.
And, being a poet, he perversely began with the last poem in the book, "Lightening with Stag in its Glare," which covered a wide range of subject matter, as is apparently his preference when writing. In other words, he explained, look at things one way and then turn and look at them from another angle.
Introducing the poem "Coffeehouse, Eastern Standard Time." he admitted that "one of the things I love is eavesdropping on other people's comments." Amen, brother. In fact, the first ten lines of the poem were a direct transcript of an overheard conversation.
He had a rushed way of reading, but that may be due to what has been termed his "irregular and speedy poetry."
In response to being labeled as such, he spent a summer writing poetry in a loose pentameter. It was interesting hearing him read that after the hurried free verse he'd started with.
Sitting in front of me was a woman who had brought with her Rivard's new book, which she used to follow him word for word when he was reading. She didn't look at him while he was reading, she followed along in the book. I don't want to judge, but why come to a reading if not to enjoy being read to?
So much deep thought had made me hungry, so I decided on Six Burner, not sure what to expect. The last time I was in on a Thursday night at 9:15, the place was dead and the kitchen closed. Considering I was hungry, that wasn't going to work tonight.
Instead, I walked into a madhouse with not a free stool in sight and almost every table taken. The hostess was kind enough to insist that I stay and found me a seat at the far end of the bar, actually at the wait station ("I'm just going to move these glasses...").
Singer Fanny Mallonee was singing her vintage country heart out, covering everything from Patsy Cline to old cowboy song classics. It was definitely different than anything I'd heard in Six Burner before, but the crowd was way into it.
Thirsty, I began with the Warwick Pinotage because it's a grape I can never get enough of as I looked around the room to see if there were any familiar faces (a few, as it turned out, including a friend who recently got unexpectedly dumped and wanted advice from me about dealing with it. You talking to me?).
I ordered the mixed green salad with goat cheese, roasted beets, pistachios and balsamic vinaigrette to buy me some time while I looked at the menu. Perfectly dressed, this classic combo tempered my appetite while I chatted up the owners who were enjoying dinner next to me.
When Josh asked what I wanted next, I said I was leaning towards the southern-fried sweetbreads with mole sauce.
"They're not very popular," he informed me. "People are afraid of them, especially when I tell them what they are." That's twice this week I've heard tales of people "afraid" of menu items. What gives?
The sweetbreads were wonderful fried in a crispy breading and artfully arranged over a large swirl of mole. I ate them with no fear and more pinotage.
Since I was sitting at the wait station of a very busy restaurant, it was inevitable that people would end up next to me in their attempts to get libations.
One such person was a guy in a fisherman's sweater who got extra points because his was a cardigan and not every guy can pull off a cardigan. I assumed he was there just to get a drink, but soon learned he was also there to chat me up.
He used that old line about us having met before, except that he cited the place and circumstance and I realized we had met and talked before. Honestly, everyone is better at remembering faces than me.
We got to talking and it turns out he used to live in J-Ward and we know some of the same neighbors. I even remembered seeing him in Abner Clay Park on several occasions. It's such a small world in Richmond.
An invitation was extended (and declined for tonight; I had plans), information exchanged and flattering things said. I'm still working on getting the hang of this, but I'm doing much better, if I do say so myself. And he told me where he was going to be tonight, just in case I changed my mind.
Balliceaux was my last stop because No BS were playing and although I'd technically been at their last show, I never saw them and only sporadically heard them.
The crowds were far more manageable tonight and I was actually able to make it into the back room to see the band, hear them up close and feel the heat of the sweaty bodies around me. And isn't that the whole point of going to a No BS show in the first place?
I mean, sure, I do go for Lance's stellar drumming and the harmonies of so many horns, but it's that room full of energy that gives their shows that indefinable something that keeps the faithful coming back every few weeks.
As a bonus, one of my favorite musician couples were there making the scene, so I had built-in company. I stayed for one set and then headed out through the front room (Interpol's "Lief Erikson" blaring beautifully from the front stereo as I made my way, so I walked slowly) to go.
I briefly considered making one last stop to admire the sweater, but decided against it. I'm not quite that good at all this yet.
Practice, Karen, practice.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Cementing RVA as #1 in Sculpture
Amongst all the hoopla about Picasso coming to town, a show every bit as magnificent is opening with not nearly the attention it deserves.
Dynasty and Divinity: Ife Art in Ancient Nigeria was last at the British Museum where it wowed critics and visitors alike.
They were the first to call it "a once in a lifetime exhibit," a sentiment echoed today by VMFA staff as African drummers beat their approval of the speakers' sentiments.
And is it ever.
The life-size portrait heads of kings and rulers are made of various metals, stone and terra cotta.
And while there may have been some idealizing done in the rendering of the heads, each is unique in depicting one particular person.
But it's not just the bigwigs who are represented.
"Figure of a Dwarf" from the 12th-15th century shows Ore, the hunter diety, who was known to beckon visitors from a distance with his laughter and spontaneous joy.
Now that's a diety I can get behind.
Another striking piece, "Figure of a Man with Elephantitis of the Scrotum," from the same period, was a realistic depiction of a dreaded disease that was unfortunately all too common at that time.
Most head portraits show the facial (and sometimes belly) striations popular in Ife culture.
Clothing denotes the subject's station in life.
But every piece of sculpture in this show is quietly eloquent in how well it describes its subject.
Coinciding with the opening of this magnificent exhibition is the reopening and expansion of the African galleries.
The entire 1970 wing of the VMFA is now devoted to the art of Africa.
And while VMFA has assembled one of the best collections of African art in the country, it is only now that it has a proper home.
The masks and textiles, including beadwork that is breathtaking, beg for a closer look.
Moving from case to case, I couldn't help but think how mind-blowing it is that the VMFA only began acquiring African art some thirty years ago.
With any luck, all the people who come to see Picasso will make the time to see Dynasty and Divinity.
Richmond has one of the top sculpture programs in the country and for the next three months, we have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see this profoundly important show of some of the world's most important sculpture, rarely seen outside of Nigeria.
As I was making my way around the show, a VMFA employee came up to me and leaned in to ask, "Karen, do you write the ICGOAO blog?"
I admitted it was so.
"You're the only blog I follow. You're intrepid! I want to have your life," she told me.
I don't know about that.
She gets to go to work every day at the VMFA and I can't think of a more beautiful or inspiring place to call work.
But it was my first time being called intrepid.
And I have to admit that I kind of liked it.
Dynasty and Divinity: Ife Art in Ancient Nigeria was last at the British Museum where it wowed critics and visitors alike.
They were the first to call it "a once in a lifetime exhibit," a sentiment echoed today by VMFA staff as African drummers beat their approval of the speakers' sentiments.
And is it ever.
The life-size portrait heads of kings and rulers are made of various metals, stone and terra cotta.
And while there may have been some idealizing done in the rendering of the heads, each is unique in depicting one particular person.
But it's not just the bigwigs who are represented.
"Figure of a Dwarf" from the 12th-15th century shows Ore, the hunter diety, who was known to beckon visitors from a distance with his laughter and spontaneous joy.
Now that's a diety I can get behind.
Another striking piece, "Figure of a Man with Elephantitis of the Scrotum," from the same period, was a realistic depiction of a dreaded disease that was unfortunately all too common at that time.
Most head portraits show the facial (and sometimes belly) striations popular in Ife culture.
Clothing denotes the subject's station in life.
But every piece of sculpture in this show is quietly eloquent in how well it describes its subject.
Coinciding with the opening of this magnificent exhibition is the reopening and expansion of the African galleries.
The entire 1970 wing of the VMFA is now devoted to the art of Africa.
And while VMFA has assembled one of the best collections of African art in the country, it is only now that it has a proper home.
The masks and textiles, including beadwork that is breathtaking, beg for a closer look.
Moving from case to case, I couldn't help but think how mind-blowing it is that the VMFA only began acquiring African art some thirty years ago.
With any luck, all the people who come to see Picasso will make the time to see Dynasty and Divinity.
Richmond has one of the top sculpture programs in the country and for the next three months, we have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see this profoundly important show of some of the world's most important sculpture, rarely seen outside of Nigeria.
As I was making my way around the show, a VMFA employee came up to me and leaned in to ask, "Karen, do you write the ICGOAO blog?"
I admitted it was so.
"You're the only blog I follow. You're intrepid! I want to have your life," she told me.
I don't know about that.
She gets to go to work every day at the VMFA and I can't think of a more beautiful or inspiring place to call work.
But it was my first time being called intrepid.
And I have to admit that I kind of liked it.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Enjoying Time with Myself
Gallery 5 After 5 achieved critical geek mass tonight and, yes, I include myself in that mix.
There were comic geeks, engineering geeks, computer geeks, music geeks and, for all I know, cheese geeks (Cabot is a sponsor and a table was laden with the stuff).
All in the name of culture, learning and cheap drinks.
This monthly series always includes music and a lecture and tonight was no different.
pH Balance was supposed to provide the musical entertainment, but I'm here to say that they did not perform a funny and fine set.
They did not have a theme song and they were not present on the stage.
Yes, they told me to say that.
After they didn't perform, Patrick Godfrey of Velocity Comics on Broad Street led a round table discussion with a couple of illustrators and a publisher.
It was interesting hearing the different perspectives of people passionate about comics.
All four of them made it clear that it's a business you have to love because you can't count on making the big bucks doing it.
Or, as Patrick put it, "It's not all limousines and super-models."
I'm not sure if this was disappointing to the dozens of artists in the audience, all of whom had their notebooks open and were drawing throughout the evening.
Tonight's program had a bonus component, a drum-off between a robot drummer and a human one.
This stroke of brilliance was conceived of by none other than local musician Prabir as he sat on his front steps with friends one night.
I feel certain alcohol was involved.
But he'd gathered a quartet of students to create this drumming robot from (wait for it) used HP printer parts from thrift stores.
The paper rollers were attached to drumsticks; that alone is brilliance, in my opinion.
And what does a drumming robot look like, you ask?
It's big and there are drums and high-hats, lights and shiny parts and, because this is RVA, a PBR tallboy in its clutches.
Yes, really.
A sign on its front reads "future artist."
They probably got that idea from some kid at VCU.
Human drummer Kevin Willoughby played and then the robot played. Kevin was much better, but he's been playing since 1994 and the robot since, well, a few days ago.
But he did play and that alone was worth seeing.
I was craving pizza after absorbing all that educational material and non-performances, so I made a bee line for Aziza's.
It appeared to be girls' night out because several tables had clutches of women talking away.
Sliding into the bar, I was greeted by my favorite server who immediately asked if I wanted a glass of tempranillo.
Within minutes, she was telling me about her recent forays into dating again.
Now here was someone I could relate to.
She told me of the overly agreeable one ("No matter what I said, he agreed with it, even if he'd just said the opposite") and the still-wounded one ("He had everything I wanted in a man but he's just out of a relationship").
Coincidentally, I'd met both those types myself within the past couple of months, so it wasn't hard to understand where she was coming from.
She reminded me that you have to wade through a lot of mediocre men before finding a good one.
I somehow devoured my white pizza (despite the rack of ribs I'd had at lunch) as we were talking.
It's so simple yet always so perfectly executed that I never have any slices left for a to-go box.
It would have been easy to linger longer, but I was going to a show at the Camel, so I declined a cream puff and more wine, tempting as they were and said good night.
And damned if the Camel show hadn't started on time, meaning I had missed Liza Bance's performance completely.
Luckily, I hadn't missed Benvolio Wilson's set and he was the main reason I was there.
From his days in We Know, Plato! to his current stint with Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade, I have been an enthusiastic fan of this guy's voice, his songwriting and his skillful keyboard playing for a good three years.
I was just sorry I had missed any of his performance.
Headlining was Benyaro, an indie folk duo from Brooklyn, but I heard as much roots rock as folk in their sound.
Ben played guitar and harmonica and Bobby played upright bass; both had soulful voices and played percussion with their feet.
They played a lot of material from their new CD, my favorite of which was probably "Time with Yourself" or maybe "New Orleans."
Boasting a solid sound, they were enthusiastic about playing the Camel for the first time in three years and the crowd responded in kind.
After being introduced by Ben, Bobby self-deprecatingly said, "I really don't know what the f*ck I'm doing, but I'm trying to look good doing it."
I'd be the first to agree with him; he had a fluid move with his hip when he was hitting the drum pedal while playing bass that was awfully appealing (if I were one to notice such things).
Try and recreate that with a robot, my geeky friends.
Or better yet, don't.
There were comic geeks, engineering geeks, computer geeks, music geeks and, for all I know, cheese geeks (Cabot is a sponsor and a table was laden with the stuff).
All in the name of culture, learning and cheap drinks.
This monthly series always includes music and a lecture and tonight was no different.
pH Balance was supposed to provide the musical entertainment, but I'm here to say that they did not perform a funny and fine set.
They did not have a theme song and they were not present on the stage.
Yes, they told me to say that.
After they didn't perform, Patrick Godfrey of Velocity Comics on Broad Street led a round table discussion with a couple of illustrators and a publisher.
It was interesting hearing the different perspectives of people passionate about comics.
All four of them made it clear that it's a business you have to love because you can't count on making the big bucks doing it.
Or, as Patrick put it, "It's not all limousines and super-models."
I'm not sure if this was disappointing to the dozens of artists in the audience, all of whom had their notebooks open and were drawing throughout the evening.
Tonight's program had a bonus component, a drum-off between a robot drummer and a human one.
This stroke of brilliance was conceived of by none other than local musician Prabir as he sat on his front steps with friends one night.
I feel certain alcohol was involved.
But he'd gathered a quartet of students to create this drumming robot from (wait for it) used HP printer parts from thrift stores.
The paper rollers were attached to drumsticks; that alone is brilliance, in my opinion.
And what does a drumming robot look like, you ask?
It's big and there are drums and high-hats, lights and shiny parts and, because this is RVA, a PBR tallboy in its clutches.
Yes, really.
A sign on its front reads "future artist."
They probably got that idea from some kid at VCU.
Human drummer Kevin Willoughby played and then the robot played. Kevin was much better, but he's been playing since 1994 and the robot since, well, a few days ago.
But he did play and that alone was worth seeing.
I was craving pizza after absorbing all that educational material and non-performances, so I made a bee line for Aziza's.
It appeared to be girls' night out because several tables had clutches of women talking away.
Sliding into the bar, I was greeted by my favorite server who immediately asked if I wanted a glass of tempranillo.
Within minutes, she was telling me about her recent forays into dating again.
Now here was someone I could relate to.
She told me of the overly agreeable one ("No matter what I said, he agreed with it, even if he'd just said the opposite") and the still-wounded one ("He had everything I wanted in a man but he's just out of a relationship").
Coincidentally, I'd met both those types myself within the past couple of months, so it wasn't hard to understand where she was coming from.
She reminded me that you have to wade through a lot of mediocre men before finding a good one.
I somehow devoured my white pizza (despite the rack of ribs I'd had at lunch) as we were talking.
It's so simple yet always so perfectly executed that I never have any slices left for a to-go box.
It would have been easy to linger longer, but I was going to a show at the Camel, so I declined a cream puff and more wine, tempting as they were and said good night.
And damned if the Camel show hadn't started on time, meaning I had missed Liza Bance's performance completely.
Luckily, I hadn't missed Benvolio Wilson's set and he was the main reason I was there.
From his days in We Know, Plato! to his current stint with Exebelle and the Rusted Cavalcade, I have been an enthusiastic fan of this guy's voice, his songwriting and his skillful keyboard playing for a good three years.
I was just sorry I had missed any of his performance.
Headlining was Benyaro, an indie folk duo from Brooklyn, but I heard as much roots rock as folk in their sound.
Ben played guitar and harmonica and Bobby played upright bass; both had soulful voices and played percussion with their feet.
They played a lot of material from their new CD, my favorite of which was probably "Time with Yourself" or maybe "New Orleans."
Boasting a solid sound, they were enthusiastic about playing the Camel for the first time in three years and the crowd responded in kind.
After being introduced by Ben, Bobby self-deprecatingly said, "I really don't know what the f*ck I'm doing, but I'm trying to look good doing it."
I'd be the first to agree with him; he had a fluid move with his hip when he was hitting the drum pedal while playing bass that was awfully appealing (if I were one to notice such things).
Try and recreate that with a robot, my geeky friends.
Or better yet, don't.
Post-Soul Food Serenade
When I'm craving comfort food, few places satisfy like Mama J's. And when I want company, I know which friend to ask on a moment's notice and be guaranteed he'll drop everything and join me.
So I did and 40 minutes later we sitting down amongst the lunching crowd of policemen, guys in both work uniforms and suits and a woman in a fur. Next to us was a mother and daughter eating catfish and discussing yams versus sweet potatoes.
We'd both had fried chicken last time, so we were looking for something different today. My friend kept looking at the nearby catfish and saying, "That sure does look good," so I knew where he was going with that.
When our server Coco (whom we always seem to get and enjoy) asked if he wanted that baked or fried, he laughed out loud. "Well, I have to ask!" she smiled.
I decided on the barbecued spare ribs with Mama's potato salad and a corn muffin. My friend insisted we begin with Mama's terrific seafood salad to tide us over.
He got no argument from me; it was the very first thing I'd eaten at Mama's over a year ago and Coco said it's their most popular catering order item.
Elbow macaroni with crab and shrimp mixed into a creamy dressing makes this stuff addictive. We were just finishing it when our entrees arrived, his catfish steaming and my plate-sized rack slathered in sauce.
The daughter's mouth fell open when she saw my food, prompting her mother to say, "You are not getting all those ribs, too!"
My friend was midway into his first enormous piece of catfish and I was on my third spare rib, fingers sticky and coated in sauce, when he nonchalantly said, "Well, the speaker stands came in for the stereo I'm building you."
He begins to describe them, the height, the anodized metal, and goes into the Swedish CD player he ordered when I realize he's been gathering the components for some time without mentioning their arrival.
He means for me to have a top-notch stereo whether I need it or not and it's getting close to installation time it would seem.
We've been friends for a while; he's a brilliant conversationalist and the perfect eating companion. Like me, he enjoys everything from foie gras to fried pork chops, always requires dessert and he's constantly teaching me more about wine.
And speaking of desserts, today we chose the coconut pineapple cake on Coco's recommendation (last time she'd steered us to the rum cake). The sweet density of the cake itself led to a discussion of cake-mix cakes and how far removed from real cake they are.
But Mama's sister's cake was the real deal and loaded with coconut and pineapple bits. Unlike a lot of guys who claim to not have a sweet tooth, my friend enjoyed it every bit as much as I did.
So I really don't need gifts from him, much less something as generous as this hi-fi that will soon reside with me in Jackson Ward.
On the other hand, he's got an enormous vinyl collection, so perhaps he just wants an additional place to enjoy listening with a fellow music fan.
It would be very convenient after a filling meal at Mama J's, now that I think about it.
So I did and 40 minutes later we sitting down amongst the lunching crowd of policemen, guys in both work uniforms and suits and a woman in a fur. Next to us was a mother and daughter eating catfish and discussing yams versus sweet potatoes.
We'd both had fried chicken last time, so we were looking for something different today. My friend kept looking at the nearby catfish and saying, "That sure does look good," so I knew where he was going with that.
When our server Coco (whom we always seem to get and enjoy) asked if he wanted that baked or fried, he laughed out loud. "Well, I have to ask!" she smiled.
I decided on the barbecued spare ribs with Mama's potato salad and a corn muffin. My friend insisted we begin with Mama's terrific seafood salad to tide us over.
He got no argument from me; it was the very first thing I'd eaten at Mama's over a year ago and Coco said it's their most popular catering order item.
Elbow macaroni with crab and shrimp mixed into a creamy dressing makes this stuff addictive. We were just finishing it when our entrees arrived, his catfish steaming and my plate-sized rack slathered in sauce.
The daughter's mouth fell open when she saw my food, prompting her mother to say, "You are not getting all those ribs, too!"
My friend was midway into his first enormous piece of catfish and I was on my third spare rib, fingers sticky and coated in sauce, when he nonchalantly said, "Well, the speaker stands came in for the stereo I'm building you."
He begins to describe them, the height, the anodized metal, and goes into the Swedish CD player he ordered when I realize he's been gathering the components for some time without mentioning their arrival.
He means for me to have a top-notch stereo whether I need it or not and it's getting close to installation time it would seem.
We've been friends for a while; he's a brilliant conversationalist and the perfect eating companion. Like me, he enjoys everything from foie gras to fried pork chops, always requires dessert and he's constantly teaching me more about wine.
And speaking of desserts, today we chose the coconut pineapple cake on Coco's recommendation (last time she'd steered us to the rum cake). The sweet density of the cake itself led to a discussion of cake-mix cakes and how far removed from real cake they are.
But Mama's sister's cake was the real deal and loaded with coconut and pineapple bits. Unlike a lot of guys who claim to not have a sweet tooth, my friend enjoyed it every bit as much as I did.
So I really don't need gifts from him, much less something as generous as this hi-fi that will soon reside with me in Jackson Ward.
On the other hand, he's got an enormous vinyl collection, so perhaps he just wants an additional place to enjoy listening with a fellow music fan.
It would be very convenient after a filling meal at Mama J's, now that I think about it.
Seeking Clarity in a Cloud of Perfume
Which is tougher, putting up with an obnoxious crowd or saying farewell for now to good friends? My evening involved both.
Months ago I'd bought a ticket for Jimmy Eat World at The National, presuming that not much would be happening on a Tuesday night in February. Although they started out as a punk band, they evolved into what was labeled emo, which I never quite got; to me they're just power pop.
Arriving at the National, the wristband guy greeted me with, "Long time no see! Where you been? Hey, nice leg work," referring to my tights. "I got a pair just like those but I thought it was too cold to wear them." This guy never fails to crack wise with me.
I arrived just in time to score a drink from my favorite musician/bartender and find my spot before David Bazan and band came on stage; Bazan was the creative force behind Pedro the Lion.
It took a few songs to warm up to his voice, but once he mentioned PtL, people paid more attention. He brought out a special guest (Jim Adkins of JEW) for one song, but most of the audience seemed oblivious to who he was.
I laughed out loud when he asked the crowd, "Do you guys have any questions up to this point in the show?" He said that his last stop in RVA had been playing Alley Katz, which he remembered as very dark.
Between sets the masses arrived which turned out to be unpleasant due to their nature. Fortunately, my favorite music buddy also showed up (he'd been looking for me in the wrong place) to provide moral support for dealing with our newly arrived neighbors.
Put as bluntly as possible, the problem was perfume and purses. The clutch of girls around us reeked so strongly of scent that we both were gasping for breath within seconds.
And once the band came on stage, their drunken and incessant dancing pushed their large Louis Vuitton bags into us repeatedly. Obvious amateurs; who needs a big purse at a show?
At one point, a guy behind me placed his hand squarely on my back and pushed me out of his way so he could get by. A simple "excuse me" would have accomplished the same thing. When I turned around in consternation, his buddy shrugged his shoulders and said, "Sorry, he's an ox."
Jimmy Eat World, on the other hand, were tight and terrific, playing a variety of material going back to 2001. Jim mentioned that they'd played Twisters here on his twenty-second birthday. although it seemed unlikely that many in the audience remembered Twisters.
He said he'd gone by there today and found it was now Strange Matter and marveled at how unchanged the interior is. It's true; only the name changes on the outside. That's Grace Street for you, like a walk down Memory Lane.
From the National I high-tailed it over to Sprout for the Lobo Marino farewell show, arriving just in time to catch the last of it, although with no view because of the punctual people in front of me.
Which was fine because I've seen Laney, Jameson and Nathaniel perform many, many times so it's not hard to conjure up their smiling faces in my head. Besides, I was mainly there for the farewell portion of the evening that would follow the show.
The band leaves for 6 months on the West Coast tomorrow and they'd announced that anyone who brought them a mix tape/CD for the trip would get a copy of their latest, "Keep Your Head Up."
Naturally I'd put a little something together to remind them of me on the road. And if they hated it, they'd have to wait six months to let me know in person.
And since I already had their latest on CD, I was rewarded with a cassette copy of it, and a yellow cassette at that. It just doesn't get any more retro than a yellow cassette tape.
Last time they left RVA, it was for a stint in South America and Jameson and I kept in cyber touch. He'd share their adventures and I'd fill him in on the latest goings-on around here in terms of music, films and friends. I asked him if we'd be doing that again this time.
"Yea, but I don't need the gossip," he assured me. "Just tell me what's happening." Pause. "Okay, and the gossip," he grinned.
That was our cue to hug for the third and final time so we did. It's tough saying farewell to people you really like, even if they're supposedly coming back.
But it's a (bitter)sweeter kind of tough than having an ox bulldoze you from behind.
Months ago I'd bought a ticket for Jimmy Eat World at The National, presuming that not much would be happening on a Tuesday night in February. Although they started out as a punk band, they evolved into what was labeled emo, which I never quite got; to me they're just power pop.
Arriving at the National, the wristband guy greeted me with, "Long time no see! Where you been? Hey, nice leg work," referring to my tights. "I got a pair just like those but I thought it was too cold to wear them." This guy never fails to crack wise with me.
I arrived just in time to score a drink from my favorite musician/bartender and find my spot before David Bazan and band came on stage; Bazan was the creative force behind Pedro the Lion.
It took a few songs to warm up to his voice, but once he mentioned PtL, people paid more attention. He brought out a special guest (Jim Adkins of JEW) for one song, but most of the audience seemed oblivious to who he was.
I laughed out loud when he asked the crowd, "Do you guys have any questions up to this point in the show?" He said that his last stop in RVA had been playing Alley Katz, which he remembered as very dark.
Between sets the masses arrived which turned out to be unpleasant due to their nature. Fortunately, my favorite music buddy also showed up (he'd been looking for me in the wrong place) to provide moral support for dealing with our newly arrived neighbors.
Put as bluntly as possible, the problem was perfume and purses. The clutch of girls around us reeked so strongly of scent that we both were gasping for breath within seconds.
And once the band came on stage, their drunken and incessant dancing pushed their large Louis Vuitton bags into us repeatedly. Obvious amateurs; who needs a big purse at a show?
At one point, a guy behind me placed his hand squarely on my back and pushed me out of his way so he could get by. A simple "excuse me" would have accomplished the same thing. When I turned around in consternation, his buddy shrugged his shoulders and said, "Sorry, he's an ox."
Jimmy Eat World, on the other hand, were tight and terrific, playing a variety of material going back to 2001. Jim mentioned that they'd played Twisters here on his twenty-second birthday. although it seemed unlikely that many in the audience remembered Twisters.
He said he'd gone by there today and found it was now Strange Matter and marveled at how unchanged the interior is. It's true; only the name changes on the outside. That's Grace Street for you, like a walk down Memory Lane.
From the National I high-tailed it over to Sprout for the Lobo Marino farewell show, arriving just in time to catch the last of it, although with no view because of the punctual people in front of me.
Which was fine because I've seen Laney, Jameson and Nathaniel perform many, many times so it's not hard to conjure up their smiling faces in my head. Besides, I was mainly there for the farewell portion of the evening that would follow the show.
The band leaves for 6 months on the West Coast tomorrow and they'd announced that anyone who brought them a mix tape/CD for the trip would get a copy of their latest, "Keep Your Head Up."
Naturally I'd put a little something together to remind them of me on the road. And if they hated it, they'd have to wait six months to let me know in person.
And since I already had their latest on CD, I was rewarded with a cassette copy of it, and a yellow cassette at that. It just doesn't get any more retro than a yellow cassette tape.
Last time they left RVA, it was for a stint in South America and Jameson and I kept in cyber touch. He'd share their adventures and I'd fill him in on the latest goings-on around here in terms of music, films and friends. I asked him if we'd be doing that again this time.
"Yea, but I don't need the gossip," he assured me. "Just tell me what's happening." Pause. "Okay, and the gossip," he grinned.
That was our cue to hug for the third and final time so we did. It's tough saying farewell to people you really like, even if they're supposedly coming back.
But it's a (bitter)sweeter kind of tough than having an ox bulldoze you from behind.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Old Model Out of Stock
Since my last go at being single, Facebook has entered the picture, making it easy for former loves to find me and interested parties to check out my relationship status.
But sometimes it still happens the way it always has, where you randomly run into someone you knew in a past life and reconnect face to face.
Next thing you know, they're e-mailing you, suggesting a shared meal to "catch up" and you're wondering how the person they are now compares to the one you once knew.
Since there's only one way to find out, I accepted the invitation, choosing lunch at Olio both for its fresh menu and low-key vibe. I knew we'd be able to linger as long as we might want without so much as a raised eyebrow from the accommodating staff.
He was waiting for me when I arrived, unsure of how and where to order, so we approached the counter together. Owner Jason greeted my friend without even noticing me, so I teased him; he gave me some lame excuse about trying not to favor female customers over male. Whatever.
I ordered the Beef & Bleu salad (Angus beef, bleu cheese, dried fruit, roasted zucchini, and walnuts over greens with Parmesan peppercorn dressing) and my friend took my lead and also got a salad, the smoked salmon Nicoise. Olio does superb salads.
We sat down to get started talking while our food was being prepared. But where to start after years of not seeing each other? I wasn't sure whether to ask the things I was dying to know or begin innocuously.
He solved the problem by taking the lead, telling me about his work (he's an author who does a lot of speaking for corporate groups) and asking about mine.
We were knee-deep in a discussion of self-imposed deadlines when our food was delivered. We got busy eating but never stopped talking.
One conversation led to another as we kept taking tangents about the past and present. I was honestly surprised at how much detail he remembered about me and the time we had spent together, given that it wasn't recent or long-lived. Wow, he was definitely taking way better mental notes back then than I was. Impressive.
He asked if I was still a Prince fan (given last night's show at Madison Square Garden) and I told him that although I very much am, I know I'll never get better Prince memories than the two times I saw him at the Landmark. Still, it was an obscure fact to remember about me.
As he continued to ask questions of me to elicit information, he kept saying things like, "You? No way!" and "Really?" Finally he came right out and said, "Wow, a lot about you has changed. What brought all that on?"
Looking back, I had to say that it was that serious bout of pneumonia I had two years ago. After being in Intensive Care for nearly a week, something in me shifted and habits of a lifetime went away. Everything got easier.
I don't even realize anymore how different I must seem to people who are still carrying around old perceptions of me. And that would definitely include people who haven't seen me in the last two years, like my friend.
On the plus side, he said the person I've relaxed into being is so much cooler than the me he knew way back when. "And I thought that person was pretty great," he qualified.
He seemed more than okay with expecting one Karen and getting quite another. Sorry, but this is the only one available anymore.
Amazing the stuff you can discover about a person when you reconnect face to face.
But sometimes it still happens the way it always has, where you randomly run into someone you knew in a past life and reconnect face to face.
Next thing you know, they're e-mailing you, suggesting a shared meal to "catch up" and you're wondering how the person they are now compares to the one you once knew.
Since there's only one way to find out, I accepted the invitation, choosing lunch at Olio both for its fresh menu and low-key vibe. I knew we'd be able to linger as long as we might want without so much as a raised eyebrow from the accommodating staff.
He was waiting for me when I arrived, unsure of how and where to order, so we approached the counter together. Owner Jason greeted my friend without even noticing me, so I teased him; he gave me some lame excuse about trying not to favor female customers over male. Whatever.
I ordered the Beef & Bleu salad (Angus beef, bleu cheese, dried fruit, roasted zucchini, and walnuts over greens with Parmesan peppercorn dressing) and my friend took my lead and also got a salad, the smoked salmon Nicoise. Olio does superb salads.
We sat down to get started talking while our food was being prepared. But where to start after years of not seeing each other? I wasn't sure whether to ask the things I was dying to know or begin innocuously.
He solved the problem by taking the lead, telling me about his work (he's an author who does a lot of speaking for corporate groups) and asking about mine.
We were knee-deep in a discussion of self-imposed deadlines when our food was delivered. We got busy eating but never stopped talking.
One conversation led to another as we kept taking tangents about the past and present. I was honestly surprised at how much detail he remembered about me and the time we had spent together, given that it wasn't recent or long-lived. Wow, he was definitely taking way better mental notes back then than I was. Impressive.
He asked if I was still a Prince fan (given last night's show at Madison Square Garden) and I told him that although I very much am, I know I'll never get better Prince memories than the two times I saw him at the Landmark. Still, it was an obscure fact to remember about me.
As he continued to ask questions of me to elicit information, he kept saying things like, "You? No way!" and "Really?" Finally he came right out and said, "Wow, a lot about you has changed. What brought all that on?"
Looking back, I had to say that it was that serious bout of pneumonia I had two years ago. After being in Intensive Care for nearly a week, something in me shifted and habits of a lifetime went away. Everything got easier.
I don't even realize anymore how different I must seem to people who are still carrying around old perceptions of me. And that would definitely include people who haven't seen me in the last two years, like my friend.
On the plus side, he said the person I've relaxed into being is so much cooler than the me he knew way back when. "And I thought that person was pretty great," he qualified.
He seemed more than okay with expecting one Karen and getting quite another. Sorry, but this is the only one available anymore.
Amazing the stuff you can discover about a person when you reconnect face to face.
All Up in My Grill
On the corner of Grace Street and Ryland, a man stops me by putting his hand up.
"You have to be the best looking woman getting in shape out here walking," he says. "And I see you around here all the time!"
"Cause I walk every day," I explain, smiling. "But thanks."
"And another thing, I like your grill," he tells me. "I like your smile. It lights me up inside every time I see it."
Last week a guy complimented me on my great gams and after I thanked him, I teased him about using such an old-fashioned word.
Being complimented on my grill must be my new-school cosmic payback.
"You have to be the best looking woman getting in shape out here walking," he says. "And I see you around here all the time!"
"Cause I walk every day," I explain, smiling. "But thanks."
"And another thing, I like your grill," he tells me. "I like your smile. It lights me up inside every time I see it."
Last week a guy complimented me on my great gams and after I thanked him, I teased him about using such an old-fashioned word.
Being complimented on my grill must be my new-school cosmic payback.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Not Afraid of a Sardine
I go to dinner in the Fan and wind up chatting with a Jackson Ward neighbor. Funny how that works out on a Monday night.
When I got to Bacchus, not a soul was at the bar, although all the booths and several tables were filled, but not for long. People must have arrived early, because many were out the door by 8:30. School night, don't you know.
My server was busy, but I assured him that I was in no rush, which seemed to put his mind at ease. I started with a glass of the Graham Beck Sauvignon Blanc while trying to decide what I might want to eat.
Most of the people I know who frequent Bacchus do so because they have a favorite dish which they order every time they go. I'm just the opposite; I go in hoping to see what's new on the menu and that's what I order.
Once it was wild boar meatballs; another time it was sugar toads. Both times, most of the people around me were eating pastas with their favorite of Bacchus' rich sauces over it. To each his own.
After the third time my server came over to see if I'd decided yet, I felt it best to throw him a bone. I ordered the salad of julienne Belgian endive and Granny Smith apples with Gorgonzola. An extremely generous mound of what looked like white matchsticks arrived shortly thereafter.
This simple combination was one of the most creative and decadent salads I've ever put in my mouth. The bitterness of the endive set off the richness of the Gorgonzola. The crispness of the apples and endive was the perfect vehicle for the creaminess of the Gorgonzola.
The julienned nature of the salad was a bit difficult to get on my fork at times. but I was richly rewarded with every bite. This was salad nirvana.
Enjoying my wine afterwards, a girl came in, recognized me and said hello. We'd first met a year ago at the restaurant where she was then working. Since then, we'd met in the neighborhood because she lives a block from me. It was nice to finally have company.
Her fiancee, a chef, was feeling under the weather, so she'd come out to eat and bring back food to him. Luckily for me, she was not in a hurry, so we began chatting while she drank her wine and waited for her dinner.
I finally went ahead and ordered my next course, the fresh fried sardines with tomatoes, capers and pepperoncini. It was exactly the kind of dish I'd come in hoping to find.
To my surprise, my server told me, "It's one of the least ordered things on the menu. I like it, but people are afraid of it." Well, I certainly wasn't and my friend said her chef fiancee would be downright envious when he heard he'd missed sardines.
As well he should have been. Four of them were lightly fried and set in a deep bowl with the cooked tomatoes, capers, pepperoncini and then mesclun to the side. I loved how well the acidity of the tomatoes worked with the fried fish.
Once we'd both finished the eating portion of the evening, we could relax into the wine and chatty part. We discussed the Hippodrome and the improvements over on Second Street, the friendliness of both of our long-time neighbors and the need for more neighborhood restaurants.
Turns out that she and the chef are actively and eagerly looking for a spot in J-Ward to open their own restaurant; this was news I was thrilled to hear.
With the addition of each new place within walking distance, there are a) more options for the First Friday and Landmark/The National-bound crowds, b) more reasons for outsiders to make the Ward a dining destination and c) more places for the neighborhood to choose from and support our little corner of RVA.
The J-Ward Girl part of me is bursting with excitement at the prospect of yet another great culinary addition to my beloved 'hood.
I promise not be afraid of anything on the menu. Cross my heart and hope to eat.
When I got to Bacchus, not a soul was at the bar, although all the booths and several tables were filled, but not for long. People must have arrived early, because many were out the door by 8:30. School night, don't you know.
My server was busy, but I assured him that I was in no rush, which seemed to put his mind at ease. I started with a glass of the Graham Beck Sauvignon Blanc while trying to decide what I might want to eat.
Most of the people I know who frequent Bacchus do so because they have a favorite dish which they order every time they go. I'm just the opposite; I go in hoping to see what's new on the menu and that's what I order.
Once it was wild boar meatballs; another time it was sugar toads. Both times, most of the people around me were eating pastas with their favorite of Bacchus' rich sauces over it. To each his own.
After the third time my server came over to see if I'd decided yet, I felt it best to throw him a bone. I ordered the salad of julienne Belgian endive and Granny Smith apples with Gorgonzola. An extremely generous mound of what looked like white matchsticks arrived shortly thereafter.
This simple combination was one of the most creative and decadent salads I've ever put in my mouth. The bitterness of the endive set off the richness of the Gorgonzola. The crispness of the apples and endive was the perfect vehicle for the creaminess of the Gorgonzola.
The julienned nature of the salad was a bit difficult to get on my fork at times. but I was richly rewarded with every bite. This was salad nirvana.
Enjoying my wine afterwards, a girl came in, recognized me and said hello. We'd first met a year ago at the restaurant where she was then working. Since then, we'd met in the neighborhood because she lives a block from me. It was nice to finally have company.
Her fiancee, a chef, was feeling under the weather, so she'd come out to eat and bring back food to him. Luckily for me, she was not in a hurry, so we began chatting while she drank her wine and waited for her dinner.
I finally went ahead and ordered my next course, the fresh fried sardines with tomatoes, capers and pepperoncini. It was exactly the kind of dish I'd come in hoping to find.
To my surprise, my server told me, "It's one of the least ordered things on the menu. I like it, but people are afraid of it." Well, I certainly wasn't and my friend said her chef fiancee would be downright envious when he heard he'd missed sardines.
As well he should have been. Four of them were lightly fried and set in a deep bowl with the cooked tomatoes, capers, pepperoncini and then mesclun to the side. I loved how well the acidity of the tomatoes worked with the fried fish.
Once we'd both finished the eating portion of the evening, we could relax into the wine and chatty part. We discussed the Hippodrome and the improvements over on Second Street, the friendliness of both of our long-time neighbors and the need for more neighborhood restaurants.
Turns out that she and the chef are actively and eagerly looking for a spot in J-Ward to open their own restaurant; this was news I was thrilled to hear.
With the addition of each new place within walking distance, there are a) more options for the First Friday and Landmark/The National-bound crowds, b) more reasons for outsiders to make the Ward a dining destination and c) more places for the neighborhood to choose from and support our little corner of RVA.
The J-Ward Girl part of me is bursting with excitement at the prospect of yet another great culinary addition to my beloved 'hood.
I promise not be afraid of anything on the menu. Cross my heart and hope to eat.
Seeking Sanctuary in Art
If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. We'd tried and failed once, here, Danny and I, and we were ready to give it a second shot.
Walking into Aurora, Danny began to ooh and ahh over the sleek black and white decor; he understood better once I explained that the place is a club on weekend nights.
Once in our booth, he continued the appreciative noises about the menu. Ooh, schnitzel! Ahh, fresh salmon! I brought him back to reality by reminding him that we had nerdy plans afterwards and that he was the one on a tight schedule.
So we went with sandwiches, he with his first-ever Muffaletta (he'd had bites of mine at Xtra's and Lamplighter and was ready for his own) and me with the roast pork with Swiss cheese, coleslaw, sliced pickles and Dijon mustard on ciabatta.
The only thing wrong with my sandwich was its height, so I wasn't able to actually eat it as intended. Still, even with a knife and fork, the flavorful pork and crunchy coleslaw were a tasty combination.
Apparently Danny's occasional bites of my Muffalettas hadn't prepared him for how salty a sandwich it is.
Hello, olive tapenade? I suggested he thin out the amount of olive spread and that was all it took for him to be more than satisfied with his choice.
One of the benefits of lunch at Aurora is that the chef is a master pastry chef and dessert arrives unbidden.
Today it was two rectangles of classic cheese cake. No razzle-dazzle flavors, no add-ins, just rich cream cheese flavor with a hint of lemon zest in a perfect sized portion.
Bellies full, we headed the four blocks down to St. Paul's to continue our quest to see all the Tiffany windows in central Virginia together.
For a church originally designed to be simple and devoid of religious symbols (iconography being much too Catholic for the, ahem, Episcopal church), St. Paul's is positively museum-like now, rich in art and objects. Which was exactly why we were there.
As we entered the church, the bells rang out the hour overhead; it was very cool to hear them from within. With our "Walking Tour of St. Paul's" brochures in hand, we did the full tour.
And, as we did so, we realized how familiar we've become with Tiffany's style; we can spot a non-Tiffany window from fifty paces across a nave or chancel.
Only one non-Tiffany window impressed us and that was for reasons completely opposite from those that make us Tiffany groupies.
Henry Holiday's "Moses Leaving the House of Pharaoh" had none of the luminosity of a Tiffany, but the richness of its jewel tones was breathtaking.
Since we'd come for the Tiffany windows, we were surprised to discover that St. Paul's foremost work of art is the mosaic Anderson Altarpiece: The Last Supper.
We knew from the VMFA exhibit that mosaic was also a specialty of the Tiffany Studios and here was magnificent proof.
The reproduction of Leonardo's fresco of the Last Supper could be an afternoon's viewing in and of itself. The rich, gold background set off the classic composition and up close it was mesmerizing to see all the tiny pieces that made up the greater picture.
For historical purposes, we took note of pew #63 (Jefferson Davis) and pew #111 (R.E. Lee and fam).
As a long time-lapsed Catholic, I had to laugh when taking note of the cushions in most of the pews. So it's okay to have creature comforts but not religious symbols in a church? Too funny.
But it wasn't issues of religion we were there for, it was art. And that surrounded us at every turn.
Luckily for us art lovers, the church wasn't closed today.
Walking into Aurora, Danny began to ooh and ahh over the sleek black and white decor; he understood better once I explained that the place is a club on weekend nights.
Once in our booth, he continued the appreciative noises about the menu. Ooh, schnitzel! Ahh, fresh salmon! I brought him back to reality by reminding him that we had nerdy plans afterwards and that he was the one on a tight schedule.
So we went with sandwiches, he with his first-ever Muffaletta (he'd had bites of mine at Xtra's and Lamplighter and was ready for his own) and me with the roast pork with Swiss cheese, coleslaw, sliced pickles and Dijon mustard on ciabatta.
The only thing wrong with my sandwich was its height, so I wasn't able to actually eat it as intended. Still, even with a knife and fork, the flavorful pork and crunchy coleslaw were a tasty combination.
Apparently Danny's occasional bites of my Muffalettas hadn't prepared him for how salty a sandwich it is.
Hello, olive tapenade? I suggested he thin out the amount of olive spread and that was all it took for him to be more than satisfied with his choice.
One of the benefits of lunch at Aurora is that the chef is a master pastry chef and dessert arrives unbidden.
Today it was two rectangles of classic cheese cake. No razzle-dazzle flavors, no add-ins, just rich cream cheese flavor with a hint of lemon zest in a perfect sized portion.
Bellies full, we headed the four blocks down to St. Paul's to continue our quest to see all the Tiffany windows in central Virginia together.
For a church originally designed to be simple and devoid of religious symbols (iconography being much too Catholic for the, ahem, Episcopal church), St. Paul's is positively museum-like now, rich in art and objects. Which was exactly why we were there.
As we entered the church, the bells rang out the hour overhead; it was very cool to hear them from within. With our "Walking Tour of St. Paul's" brochures in hand, we did the full tour.
And, as we did so, we realized how familiar we've become with Tiffany's style; we can spot a non-Tiffany window from fifty paces across a nave or chancel.
Only one non-Tiffany window impressed us and that was for reasons completely opposite from those that make us Tiffany groupies.
Henry Holiday's "Moses Leaving the House of Pharaoh" had none of the luminosity of a Tiffany, but the richness of its jewel tones was breathtaking.
Since we'd come for the Tiffany windows, we were surprised to discover that St. Paul's foremost work of art is the mosaic Anderson Altarpiece: The Last Supper.
We knew from the VMFA exhibit that mosaic was also a specialty of the Tiffany Studios and here was magnificent proof.
The reproduction of Leonardo's fresco of the Last Supper could be an afternoon's viewing in and of itself. The rich, gold background set off the classic composition and up close it was mesmerizing to see all the tiny pieces that made up the greater picture.
For historical purposes, we took note of pew #63 (Jefferson Davis) and pew #111 (R.E. Lee and fam).
As a long time-lapsed Catholic, I had to laugh when taking note of the cushions in most of the pews. So it's okay to have creature comforts but not religious symbols in a church? Too funny.
But it wasn't issues of religion we were there for, it was art. And that surrounded us at every turn.
Luckily for us art lovers, the church wasn't closed today.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Hold My Conference Calls
Long before I realized what tonight was, a friend had suggested getting together this evening, which worked out really well for me when I got invited to a Superbowl party. Love to; sorry, busy.
Her original suggestion had been to go to Cafe Caturra and sit by the fire, but by the time I got to her house, she was craving a steak and rethinking that plan.
I was willing to go someplace else, but held fast to my only requirement: no TVs. She desperately called Buckhead's (private event), Fleming's (TVs at the bar), Azurro and Bacchus (closed) and Morton's before giving up. Cafe Caturra it was after all.
It turned out to be just what we could have hoped for. Our perky server immediately informed us of the Superbowl specials, probably the last thing we expected at a wine bar.
All wines by the glass were $5, all appetizers $4 and if we both bought a glass of wine (duh; what do you think we're here for?), we also got a free appetizer. Most importantly, as our server said, "I love coming to work here tonight cause there's no TVs!" Amen, sister.
I decided on the Morgadio "Legado del Conde" Albarino now that it no longer had its $9.75 a glass price tag. The wingback chairs in front of the fireplace were being vacated just as our wine was being poured, so we appropriated them.
It wasn't long before a staff member came over to rebuild the fire for us. Then the braised short ribs, caramelized onion and Gorgonzola cheese crostini arrived. Wine, check. Fire, check, Food, check. Super what?
The crostini were difficult to eat because the short ribs were piled so high that there was no ladylike way to bite them and shoving the whole thing in our mouths resulted in chipmunk cheeks. We managed for the sake of that trio of flavors, though.
We followed with the least Superbowl-like thing we could possibly order: salads. Mine was a mixture of chopped Romaine with dried cranberries, toasted walnuts, and Gorgonzola in a raspberry-walnut vinaigrette (which left the oddest color tinge on the greens, but tasted great).
Not knowing whom to expect, we were pleased that we weren't the only football refugees. There were a half dozen couples, several female duos, two guys deep in business talk and working on a computer the entire evening (at least they were imbibing) and a family with a toddler and baby.
The music was pure baby boomer, with a strong emphasis on 60s and 70s rhythm and blues: Al Green, Jackson Five, Bill Withers, Temptations, O'Jays. We had to laugh when the baby got to squalling because the music's volume was immediately raised in an attempt to drown him out.
Since we hadn't seen each other in a few weeks, we did the girl talk thing, me with my recent forays into meeting guys and she with her tales of her new relationship.
Even with some of my more amusing anecdotes and filling her in on some of the most interesting people I've met (she wants to call them PMs, for practice men), neither of us could compete with the story she'd recently heard from a friend in California about her love life adventures.
Let's just say I'd never heard of making love while you're on a conference call, even if the mute button was on. I'd even say I was a tad envious, except that I don't want to be on a conference call, with or without the extracurricular activity.
Our server seemed surprised at our staying power because we'd arrived before kickoff, but with the roaring fire and the deal on wine, it made no sense to go anywhere. Hell, after a while, the fire stoker knew us by name and we him; he seemed to enjoy the audience.
Periodically our server would come by and ask if we wanted more wine, her tone clearly anticipating that we'd decline, except that we always accepted. No doubt she was regretting ever telling us about the Superbowl specials.
As opposed to my friend and I, who didn't have a single regret between us about how we'd spent the big game night. Go, team.
Her original suggestion had been to go to Cafe Caturra and sit by the fire, but by the time I got to her house, she was craving a steak and rethinking that plan.
I was willing to go someplace else, but held fast to my only requirement: no TVs. She desperately called Buckhead's (private event), Fleming's (TVs at the bar), Azurro and Bacchus (closed) and Morton's before giving up. Cafe Caturra it was after all.
It turned out to be just what we could have hoped for. Our perky server immediately informed us of the Superbowl specials, probably the last thing we expected at a wine bar.
All wines by the glass were $5, all appetizers $4 and if we both bought a glass of wine (duh; what do you think we're here for?), we also got a free appetizer. Most importantly, as our server said, "I love coming to work here tonight cause there's no TVs!" Amen, sister.
I decided on the Morgadio "Legado del Conde" Albarino now that it no longer had its $9.75 a glass price tag. The wingback chairs in front of the fireplace were being vacated just as our wine was being poured, so we appropriated them.
It wasn't long before a staff member came over to rebuild the fire for us. Then the braised short ribs, caramelized onion and Gorgonzola cheese crostini arrived. Wine, check. Fire, check, Food, check. Super what?
The crostini were difficult to eat because the short ribs were piled so high that there was no ladylike way to bite them and shoving the whole thing in our mouths resulted in chipmunk cheeks. We managed for the sake of that trio of flavors, though.
We followed with the least Superbowl-like thing we could possibly order: salads. Mine was a mixture of chopped Romaine with dried cranberries, toasted walnuts, and Gorgonzola in a raspberry-walnut vinaigrette (which left the oddest color tinge on the greens, but tasted great).
Not knowing whom to expect, we were pleased that we weren't the only football refugees. There were a half dozen couples, several female duos, two guys deep in business talk and working on a computer the entire evening (at least they were imbibing) and a family with a toddler and baby.
The music was pure baby boomer, with a strong emphasis on 60s and 70s rhythm and blues: Al Green, Jackson Five, Bill Withers, Temptations, O'Jays. We had to laugh when the baby got to squalling because the music's volume was immediately raised in an attempt to drown him out.
Since we hadn't seen each other in a few weeks, we did the girl talk thing, me with my recent forays into meeting guys and she with her tales of her new relationship.
Even with some of my more amusing anecdotes and filling her in on some of the most interesting people I've met (she wants to call them PMs, for practice men), neither of us could compete with the story she'd recently heard from a friend in California about her love life adventures.
Let's just say I'd never heard of making love while you're on a conference call, even if the mute button was on. I'd even say I was a tad envious, except that I don't want to be on a conference call, with or without the extracurricular activity.
Our server seemed surprised at our staying power because we'd arrived before kickoff, but with the roaring fire and the deal on wine, it made no sense to go anywhere. Hell, after a while, the fire stoker knew us by name and we him; he seemed to enjoy the audience.
Periodically our server would come by and ask if we wanted more wine, her tone clearly anticipating that we'd decline, except that we always accepted. No doubt she was regretting ever telling us about the Superbowl specials.
As opposed to my friend and I, who didn't have a single regret between us about how we'd spent the big game night. Go, team.
Wishing for Music and Sausage
Here's my restaurant wish for Richmond: more places near Center Stage where people can park once and party twice.
I had a couple date to go to the symphony and we made a reservation for 9 North Fourth beforehand. Perfect plan, right? Well, it was until they called and said they'd be closed tonight for "mechanical problems." Rats.
That left us with exactly one choice, Capital Ale House, which was fine because they're beer fans and all three of us are fans of food in casings. Done and done, as my friend Scott is fond of saying.
And while the two of them stuck to the menu, he with kielbasa and pierogies and she with knockwurst and bratwurst, I was special of the day all the way.
There was no resisting the pork belly sausage banh mi with pickled carrots, onions, cilantro, spicy aioli and fries. Or if there was, I didn't know how to do it. And might I mention that the star of the dish was courtesy of Sausagecraft? Enough said.
Oh, was it good. A baguette barely contained the sausage (which our server described as "pork belly in skin"), cut into fat slices.
The fatty richness of the sausage married beautifully with the crunch of the pickled toppings and heat of the sauce; it was banh mi heaven (Kevin, eat your heart out). I was so glad I'd suggested Cap Ale as Plan B.
After an enormous and shared piece of chocolate cake a la mode, we moseyed up to Center Stage for some Weber, Schuman and Brahms.
Guest conducting tonight was Victor Yampolsky, impressive with his mane of white hair and dapper in his tails. I remarked to my friend that he had a certain Leonard Bernstein-quality, only to later read in the program that he worked under Bernstein.
I especially loved his dramatic bowing style, which involved throwing his head back before dipping forward into a bow. Perhaps it was to better showcase that shock of thick hair.
After intermission came the highlight of the evening, the guest artist Awadagin Pratt, originally from Pittsburgh.
He took the stage in black shirt and pants and I think I'm safe in saying that it was undoubtedly the first time a man with mid-back-length dreadlocks had sat down at the grand piano with the RSO. And who better to play Brahms' Concerto No. 1 in D Minor for Piano, Opus 15?
I loved the way he wiped the sweat from his face between movements, undoubtedly caused by his enthusiastic playing style which often brought him up off his stool. I was also taken by the way his left foot kept time so hard that it could be heard in between piano notes.
Brahms was followed by Live at Ipanema, switched from its usual Sunday slot because of the Superbowl. That turned out to be an error in judgment for all of us.
Playing was French-born Blasco, a talented singer-songwriter, but a man with a quiet sound unable to compete with the raucous Saturday night crowd.
He began his set by saying, "This is going to be quiet, so if you're going to keep talking, you'll have to whisper. But everything sounds more important when you whisper." The problem was people talked over him saying that.
Accompanied only by his auto harp and crystal-clear whistling, he put on a beautiful performance for the few of us actually listening.
The others tried shouting and making disparaging remarks ("He sounds like Rufus Wainwright and that's a good thing. But not tonight and not here," one idiot said) before eventually leaving.
One very drunk guy said he wanted to leave for the Village. "You either want a milkshake or a nineteen-year old," his friend smirked. "Actually, both," he slurred. Gross. By about half an hour into Blasco's set, most of the truly obnoxious and drunk crowd had left.
Only then did it start to feel like the cozy and intimate affair Live at Ipanema usually is for music lovers who regularly attend.
Better late than never, those of us who stayed till the end agreed. All of us felt fortunate to have heard a rare evening of song accompanied by auto harp playing and whistling.
My last stop was Sprout for their show, which I knew would continue right up until closing.
I arrived in time to hear Charlie Glen of the Trillions play keys and sing his hooky pop songs to an enthusiastic crowd. He finished with the crowd favorite "Bad Potato," attributed to his geeky father and played standing up.
Paul Ivy vs. the Board of Education unexpectedly took the stage next, although they had been slated as the headliner. From the first note, the crowd was into them.
These guys had a garage rock sound (although I'm sure Paul will correct me on that if I mislabeled) led by Paul's excellent guitar playing.
Their set began with a kick-ass version of "Both Sides Now," hardly your typical garage rock band song choice. I was impressed, even as I wondered how many in the crowd knew the song's origins.
The show ended with singer-songwriter Ben Shepherd singing his cryptic and heartfelt lyrics. A heckler marred the vibe in the room, not once, but twice before mercifully disappearing. Ben, a local favorite, ended his set with a song he said had no music: a poem.
After a night like tonight, unlike with the restaurant issue, I can't say I have any music wishes for Richmond.
Just keep it coming.
I had a couple date to go to the symphony and we made a reservation for 9 North Fourth beforehand. Perfect plan, right? Well, it was until they called and said they'd be closed tonight for "mechanical problems." Rats.
That left us with exactly one choice, Capital Ale House, which was fine because they're beer fans and all three of us are fans of food in casings. Done and done, as my friend Scott is fond of saying.
And while the two of them stuck to the menu, he with kielbasa and pierogies and she with knockwurst and bratwurst, I was special of the day all the way.
There was no resisting the pork belly sausage banh mi with pickled carrots, onions, cilantro, spicy aioli and fries. Or if there was, I didn't know how to do it. And might I mention that the star of the dish was courtesy of Sausagecraft? Enough said.
Oh, was it good. A baguette barely contained the sausage (which our server described as "pork belly in skin"), cut into fat slices.
The fatty richness of the sausage married beautifully with the crunch of the pickled toppings and heat of the sauce; it was banh mi heaven (Kevin, eat your heart out). I was so glad I'd suggested Cap Ale as Plan B.
After an enormous and shared piece of chocolate cake a la mode, we moseyed up to Center Stage for some Weber, Schuman and Brahms.
Guest conducting tonight was Victor Yampolsky, impressive with his mane of white hair and dapper in his tails. I remarked to my friend that he had a certain Leonard Bernstein-quality, only to later read in the program that he worked under Bernstein.
I especially loved his dramatic bowing style, which involved throwing his head back before dipping forward into a bow. Perhaps it was to better showcase that shock of thick hair.
After intermission came the highlight of the evening, the guest artist Awadagin Pratt, originally from Pittsburgh.
He took the stage in black shirt and pants and I think I'm safe in saying that it was undoubtedly the first time a man with mid-back-length dreadlocks had sat down at the grand piano with the RSO. And who better to play Brahms' Concerto No. 1 in D Minor for Piano, Opus 15?
I loved the way he wiped the sweat from his face between movements, undoubtedly caused by his enthusiastic playing style which often brought him up off his stool. I was also taken by the way his left foot kept time so hard that it could be heard in between piano notes.
Brahms was followed by Live at Ipanema, switched from its usual Sunday slot because of the Superbowl. That turned out to be an error in judgment for all of us.
Playing was French-born Blasco, a talented singer-songwriter, but a man with a quiet sound unable to compete with the raucous Saturday night crowd.
He began his set by saying, "This is going to be quiet, so if you're going to keep talking, you'll have to whisper. But everything sounds more important when you whisper." The problem was people talked over him saying that.
Accompanied only by his auto harp and crystal-clear whistling, he put on a beautiful performance for the few of us actually listening.
The others tried shouting and making disparaging remarks ("He sounds like Rufus Wainwright and that's a good thing. But not tonight and not here," one idiot said) before eventually leaving.
One very drunk guy said he wanted to leave for the Village. "You either want a milkshake or a nineteen-year old," his friend smirked. "Actually, both," he slurred. Gross. By about half an hour into Blasco's set, most of the truly obnoxious and drunk crowd had left.
Only then did it start to feel like the cozy and intimate affair Live at Ipanema usually is for music lovers who regularly attend.
Better late than never, those of us who stayed till the end agreed. All of us felt fortunate to have heard a rare evening of song accompanied by auto harp playing and whistling.
My last stop was Sprout for their show, which I knew would continue right up until closing.
I arrived in time to hear Charlie Glen of the Trillions play keys and sing his hooky pop songs to an enthusiastic crowd. He finished with the crowd favorite "Bad Potato," attributed to his geeky father and played standing up.
Paul Ivy vs. the Board of Education unexpectedly took the stage next, although they had been slated as the headliner. From the first note, the crowd was into them.
These guys had a garage rock sound (although I'm sure Paul will correct me on that if I mislabeled) led by Paul's excellent guitar playing.
Their set began with a kick-ass version of "Both Sides Now," hardly your typical garage rock band song choice. I was impressed, even as I wondered how many in the crowd knew the song's origins.
The show ended with singer-songwriter Ben Shepherd singing his cryptic and heartfelt lyrics. A heckler marred the vibe in the room, not once, but twice before mercifully disappearing. Ben, a local favorite, ended his set with a song he said had no music: a poem.
After a night like tonight, unlike with the restaurant issue, I can't say I have any music wishes for Richmond.
Just keep it coming.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
A Raisin in the Henrico Theater
Gloomy weather aside, my reasons were twofold for wanting to go to the movies this afternoon.
Ever since I saw the Design 2010 show at the Virginia Center for Architecture, I've been wanting to see the renovated interior of the art deco Henrico Theater, over in a part of town I seldom frequent (the last time was to Farmer Jack's to buy a turkey; don't ask).
And I'd never seen A Raisin in the Sun, surely an egregious omission.
I barely made it into the lobby before being surrounded by the myriad reasons the judges had chosen the theater for a design excellence award.
I paid my dollar admission and began to ogle.
The inside is beautifully restored, with carpeting recreated from a salvaged scrap, the original paint colors, lots of gleaming silver and the feel of a bygone era. In the lobby sits an enormous projector once used in the theater.
Movie posters decorate the walls.
And inside the auditorium are comfortable seats, with the rows spaced far enough apart that there is actually a large gap between the patrons' knees and the next row.
The Byrd and the Westhampton had made forget such a thing was possible in an old theater.
My only complaint was that there was no concession stand and no eating or drinking in the theater.
Too bad, really, since our culture all but requires eating while movie going.
I made do.
Somehow I'd never seen 1961's A Raisin in the Sun, despite having read it in what, high school, college?
I at least knew it was based on a play, so I wasn't expecting much in the way of varied locations.
And, unlike some people, I'm okay with films that mimic plays.
The claustrophobic feel of the apartment was a big component of the characters' lives, so it made sense to keep shots close and stage-like.
As usual, I loved the 60s-era details.
When Ruth gets up in the morning, her bottle of milk and newspaper are on the windowsill waiting for her.
The family shares a bathroom down the hall with other tenants.
When Mama comes back from shopping, her reusable tote in hand and full, Ruth chides her about wearing herself out going cross town to the markets instead of using one the new supermarkets.
But Mama wants none of a place with "buggies, belts and meat wrapped up like candy."
Come to think of it, Mama was espousing exactly the kind of food shopping many people are trying to go back to now.
And it wouldn't be the 1960s without cringe-worthy, politically incorrect dialogue, like "How come all you college boys wear those faggoty-looking white shoes?"
When Ruth unexpectedly finds herself pregnant, she puts down a five dollar deposit with the local back street abortionist.
On the more uplifting side, the film dealt with the emerging interest by blacks in their identity and African heritage.
The contrast between Mama, who had no knowledge of or interest in Africa, and her daughter, who was trying to embrace all things black, showed the cultural shift as the sixties took hold.
And of course, Sidney Poitier, such a superb actor and one of the handsomest men ever to grace a screen, was sheer pleasure to look at for two-plus hours, especially in tonal black and white film.
Naturally my favorite line of dialog came from his character.
Sometimes it's just hard to let the future begin.
And sometimes you just can't wait.
Ever since I saw the Design 2010 show at the Virginia Center for Architecture, I've been wanting to see the renovated interior of the art deco Henrico Theater, over in a part of town I seldom frequent (the last time was to Farmer Jack's to buy a turkey; don't ask).
And I'd never seen A Raisin in the Sun, surely an egregious omission.
I barely made it into the lobby before being surrounded by the myriad reasons the judges had chosen the theater for a design excellence award.
I paid my dollar admission and began to ogle.
The inside is beautifully restored, with carpeting recreated from a salvaged scrap, the original paint colors, lots of gleaming silver and the feel of a bygone era. In the lobby sits an enormous projector once used in the theater.
Movie posters decorate the walls.
And inside the auditorium are comfortable seats, with the rows spaced far enough apart that there is actually a large gap between the patrons' knees and the next row.
The Byrd and the Westhampton had made forget such a thing was possible in an old theater.
My only complaint was that there was no concession stand and no eating or drinking in the theater.
Too bad, really, since our culture all but requires eating while movie going.
I made do.
Somehow I'd never seen 1961's A Raisin in the Sun, despite having read it in what, high school, college?
I at least knew it was based on a play, so I wasn't expecting much in the way of varied locations.
And, unlike some people, I'm okay with films that mimic plays.
The claustrophobic feel of the apartment was a big component of the characters' lives, so it made sense to keep shots close and stage-like.
As usual, I loved the 60s-era details.
When Ruth gets up in the morning, her bottle of milk and newspaper are on the windowsill waiting for her.
The family shares a bathroom down the hall with other tenants.
When Mama comes back from shopping, her reusable tote in hand and full, Ruth chides her about wearing herself out going cross town to the markets instead of using one the new supermarkets.
But Mama wants none of a place with "buggies, belts and meat wrapped up like candy."
Come to think of it, Mama was espousing exactly the kind of food shopping many people are trying to go back to now.
And it wouldn't be the 1960s without cringe-worthy, politically incorrect dialogue, like "How come all you college boys wear those faggoty-looking white shoes?"
When Ruth unexpectedly finds herself pregnant, she puts down a five dollar deposit with the local back street abortionist.
On the more uplifting side, the film dealt with the emerging interest by blacks in their identity and African heritage.
The contrast between Mama, who had no knowledge of or interest in Africa, and her daughter, who was trying to embrace all things black, showed the cultural shift as the sixties took hold.
And of course, Sidney Poitier, such a superb actor and one of the handsomest men ever to grace a screen, was sheer pleasure to look at for two-plus hours, especially in tonal black and white film.
Naturally my favorite line of dialog came from his character.
Sometimes it's just hard to let the future begin.
And sometimes you just can't wait.
Serenaded by Smokers
Walking up Grace Street this morning, I heard someone coughing up a lung before I ever saw him.
And when I did see the source of the sound, it was actually two guys standing on their front porch, each with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. Grinning at their breakfast of champions I said good morning with a big smile.
As if on cue, they began singing in unison to me.
Baby, baby, baby girl
Baby, baby, baby girl
Baby, baby, baby girl
Baby, baby, be mine tonight
I couldn't help myself. I stopped. I turned around. I clapped.
They took a deep bow over the porch railing, smiling and nodding, acknowledging their fan base of one.
I can never overstate the random pleasures of a walk on Grace Street on a damp Saturday morning.
And when I did see the source of the sound, it was actually two guys standing on their front porch, each with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. Grinning at their breakfast of champions I said good morning with a big smile.
As if on cue, they began singing in unison to me.
Baby, baby, baby girl
Baby, baby, baby girl
Baby, baby, baby girl
Baby, baby, be mine tonight
I couldn't help myself. I stopped. I turned around. I clapped.
They took a deep bow over the porch railing, smiling and nodding, acknowledging their fan base of one.
I can never overstate the random pleasures of a walk on Grace Street on a damp Saturday morning.
From Bubbles to Barbera
If I'd known how many great things were going to be said to me at the party, I'd have gone the minute the doors opened.
Instead, I began my evening at the VMFA for their sparkler tasting in the Best Cafe.
Me and about a zillion other people, that is.
Nonetheless, I waited patiently for my turn at the tasting table behind a mild-mannered couple who were nice enough to snag me a glass and a spot when they finally achieved front-row status.
Amuse's manager had chosen four favorite bubblies for us to sample.
We started local with the Barboursville Brut and then the Domaine Ste. Michelle from Washington.
Next was the Kenwood Yulupa, my favorite of the quartet and finally the Simonet Vin Mousseux Blanc de Blancs.
Yielding my prime spot once I had my last glass, I heard, "Well, you can't stand around drinking free champagne all night."
This came from a guy I know who's in the business of business, so I'm sure he was thinking about the bottom line.
He had given up on waiting for the tasting and bought a glass in order to cut to the chase sooner.
Like me, he was sparkler sipping before heading over to First Fridays.
I was fortunate enough to walk in the door of Gallery 5 and be greeted by a man who dropped to his knees and kissed my hand.
Talk about a warm welcome!
At the front table was the February fundraiser, four custom-designed Valentine's Day postcards, inspired by famous artists and movements.
Although I haven't got anyone in mind to send a Valentine to, I bought the Roy Lichtenstein and Piet Mondrian-inspired cards.
You know, just in case I get lucky in the next nine days.
Okay, to support the gallery.
Upstairs at GallowLily's was "Bikewords: Recycled Sculptures" by Eric Venditti, a show of such reasonably-priced art that seven pieces had already sold by 7:30.
The unique rose sculptures mounted on wood, some painted and some varnished, were unrecognizable as former bike parts.
Did I mention that Eric is co-owner of the bike shop Recycles?
Leaving Gallery 5, I couldn't resist a stop at Captain Slappy's hot dog cart just outside the door for a bacon-wrapped dog slathered in mustard and onions.
I was only the second customer behind two of the comedy improv performers I'd seen just a few weeks ago inside G5; tonight they seemed to be more hungry than funny, although plenty friendly.
Clutching my foil, I ate my dog as I made my way to the Renaissance for the WRIR Party for the Rest of Us.
As soon as I walked in, a friend spotted me and we made our way to the coat check room.
I'd just hung up my coat and turned to leave when a girl walked in and asked me to check her coat.
She was a little surprised and a lot mortified to learn that I wasn't the coat check girl.
Somehow, I wouldn't have thought I looked like a coat check girl.
Maybe I just looked like the volunteer type.
Yea, that must be it.
From there we went directly to the ballroom for Marionette's set, which I did not want to miss.
I've been going to their shows for over three years now and continue to hear something new every time.
Immediately I ran into guitarist Adam who told me that he'd be playing his grandfather's guitar tonight, which I thought was really kind of cool.
He explained that when his grandfather had originally given it to him, he'd been a teenager who was into metal and he was underwhelmed.
Now finally he appreciated the beauty of the gift.
Marionette played a strong set, at first for the devoted, but gradually for the converted (I saw the same thing happen when they opened for The National last summer).
The huge screen behind them gave plenty of room for their video projections as they sucked in the audience with their soundscapes.
Afterwards, I moved back out into the main area to look for friends who arrived just as the masses did.
Moving around the room, I chatted with all kinds of people.
One guy introduced to me asked me if I wrote ICGOAO, much to my surprise.
I had to know how he knew that.
"Oh, Enzo told me about your blog," he said.
Enzo is a WRIR DJ and old friend.
This guy complimented me for doing so much and sharing it, saying that his introversion kept him from doing quite as much.
When the birthday cake, always a highlight, was rolled out, my friends and I helped ourselves, not realizing the ramifications of doing so.
The black trim on the icing quickly turned our teeth and tongues a horrific shade of blue.
You can be sure when I got my second piece (don't judge), I got one with all white icing.
We were smart to stand in a central location near the food table where everyone eventually made their way past us and said hello.
A beautiful girl spoke to my friends, one of whom went to introduce her to me.
"Oh, we've met," she corrected him and then spoke to me.
"In fact, a friend asked me to vote for her blog on RVA News but when I saw your blog listed, I voted for you instead because your blog is better, even if she is a friend."
Now that's high praise indeed and from someone I didn't even know read me.
Apologies to the friend.
We made our way back inside for The Diamond Center's set (once again enhanced with liquid projections by the talented duo of Greg and Sara...so groovy).
It was truly the first time I'd heard them play in a room big enough for their shoegazing sound.
From the first few reverb-drenched notes, I was in my element, turning to my friend and telling him, "Music from a cave. You know how I love this."
He nodded because he knows that all too well after all these years of music companionship.
One of his friends leaned in during the set to tell me how much he liked the band, whom he was hearing for the first time.
I told him how lucky he was to be hearing them in such a large space.
He also told me he loved my tights, a compliment I was surprised to hear from him.
Apparently so was his partner, who said to me, "I don't know if I should be concerned..."
"Why? Because he's not supposed to notice?" I teased.
"Exactly," he said, laughing.
I like to think that it's okay for everyone to notice everything, regardless of sex.
Sometimes it's just about the tights.
Near the end of the set, my friends were ready to go so I retrieved my coat without being asked to do so for anyone else.
We got as far as the front steps before running into fellow music lovers who'd just come from the Gallery 5 show.
We compared notes with them and headed in different directions.
I made a final stop at Bistro 27 because I'd promised a friend I would, but he'd already left, leaving word that I would be by.
As long as I was there, I enjoyed a glass of Barbera, chatted with those I knew, was prodded to share a funny story about a mutual acquaintance and decided to head home with my art-inspired Valentines and blue tongue.
Perhaps I should send them to the people who said such great things to me tonight.
The blue tongue I'm hoping will just fade away.
Instead, I began my evening at the VMFA for their sparkler tasting in the Best Cafe.
Me and about a zillion other people, that is.
Nonetheless, I waited patiently for my turn at the tasting table behind a mild-mannered couple who were nice enough to snag me a glass and a spot when they finally achieved front-row status.
Amuse's manager had chosen four favorite bubblies for us to sample.
We started local with the Barboursville Brut and then the Domaine Ste. Michelle from Washington.
Next was the Kenwood Yulupa, my favorite of the quartet and finally the Simonet Vin Mousseux Blanc de Blancs.
Yielding my prime spot once I had my last glass, I heard, "Well, you can't stand around drinking free champagne all night."
This came from a guy I know who's in the business of business, so I'm sure he was thinking about the bottom line.
He had given up on waiting for the tasting and bought a glass in order to cut to the chase sooner.
Like me, he was sparkler sipping before heading over to First Fridays.
I was fortunate enough to walk in the door of Gallery 5 and be greeted by a man who dropped to his knees and kissed my hand.
Talk about a warm welcome!
At the front table was the February fundraiser, four custom-designed Valentine's Day postcards, inspired by famous artists and movements.
Although I haven't got anyone in mind to send a Valentine to, I bought the Roy Lichtenstein and Piet Mondrian-inspired cards.
You know, just in case I get lucky in the next nine days.
Okay, to support the gallery.
Upstairs at GallowLily's was "Bikewords: Recycled Sculptures" by Eric Venditti, a show of such reasonably-priced art that seven pieces had already sold by 7:30.
The unique rose sculptures mounted on wood, some painted and some varnished, were unrecognizable as former bike parts.
Did I mention that Eric is co-owner of the bike shop Recycles?
Leaving Gallery 5, I couldn't resist a stop at Captain Slappy's hot dog cart just outside the door for a bacon-wrapped dog slathered in mustard and onions.
I was only the second customer behind two of the comedy improv performers I'd seen just a few weeks ago inside G5; tonight they seemed to be more hungry than funny, although plenty friendly.
Clutching my foil, I ate my dog as I made my way to the Renaissance for the WRIR Party for the Rest of Us.
As soon as I walked in, a friend spotted me and we made our way to the coat check room.
I'd just hung up my coat and turned to leave when a girl walked in and asked me to check her coat.
She was a little surprised and a lot mortified to learn that I wasn't the coat check girl.
Somehow, I wouldn't have thought I looked like a coat check girl.
Maybe I just looked like the volunteer type.
Yea, that must be it.
From there we went directly to the ballroom for Marionette's set, which I did not want to miss.
I've been going to their shows for over three years now and continue to hear something new every time.
Immediately I ran into guitarist Adam who told me that he'd be playing his grandfather's guitar tonight, which I thought was really kind of cool.
He explained that when his grandfather had originally given it to him, he'd been a teenager who was into metal and he was underwhelmed.
Now finally he appreciated the beauty of the gift.
Marionette played a strong set, at first for the devoted, but gradually for the converted (I saw the same thing happen when they opened for The National last summer).
The huge screen behind them gave plenty of room for their video projections as they sucked in the audience with their soundscapes.
Afterwards, I moved back out into the main area to look for friends who arrived just as the masses did.
Moving around the room, I chatted with all kinds of people.
One guy introduced to me asked me if I wrote ICGOAO, much to my surprise.
I had to know how he knew that.
"Oh, Enzo told me about your blog," he said.
Enzo is a WRIR DJ and old friend.
This guy complimented me for doing so much and sharing it, saying that his introversion kept him from doing quite as much.
When the birthday cake, always a highlight, was rolled out, my friends and I helped ourselves, not realizing the ramifications of doing so.
The black trim on the icing quickly turned our teeth and tongues a horrific shade of blue.
You can be sure when I got my second piece (don't judge), I got one with all white icing.
We were smart to stand in a central location near the food table where everyone eventually made their way past us and said hello.
A beautiful girl spoke to my friends, one of whom went to introduce her to me.
"Oh, we've met," she corrected him and then spoke to me.
"In fact, a friend asked me to vote for her blog on RVA News but when I saw your blog listed, I voted for you instead because your blog is better, even if she is a friend."
Now that's high praise indeed and from someone I didn't even know read me.
Apologies to the friend.
We made our way back inside for The Diamond Center's set (once again enhanced with liquid projections by the talented duo of Greg and Sara...so groovy).
It was truly the first time I'd heard them play in a room big enough for their shoegazing sound.
From the first few reverb-drenched notes, I was in my element, turning to my friend and telling him, "Music from a cave. You know how I love this."
He nodded because he knows that all too well after all these years of music companionship.
One of his friends leaned in during the set to tell me how much he liked the band, whom he was hearing for the first time.
I told him how lucky he was to be hearing them in such a large space.
He also told me he loved my tights, a compliment I was surprised to hear from him.
Apparently so was his partner, who said to me, "I don't know if I should be concerned..."
"Why? Because he's not supposed to notice?" I teased.
"Exactly," he said, laughing.
I like to think that it's okay for everyone to notice everything, regardless of sex.
Sometimes it's just about the tights.
Near the end of the set, my friends were ready to go so I retrieved my coat without being asked to do so for anyone else.
We got as far as the front steps before running into fellow music lovers who'd just come from the Gallery 5 show.
We compared notes with them and headed in different directions.
I made a final stop at Bistro 27 because I'd promised a friend I would, but he'd already left, leaving word that I would be by.
As long as I was there, I enjoyed a glass of Barbera, chatted with those I knew, was prodded to share a funny story about a mutual acquaintance and decided to head home with my art-inspired Valentines and blue tongue.
Perhaps I should send them to the people who said such great things to me tonight.
The blue tongue I'm hoping will just fade away.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Happy the WIld Child Inspirer
The problem with getting up at 11 is that you're not really ready for lunch before about 2:30 and plenty of the places that do lunch are just winding up lunch service by then.
Not wanting to be "that" customer who shows up just as the staff is looking to close the door on lunch, I've learned to seek out the places who have no set lunch hours. And Garnett's fits the bill perfectly.
Add in the charming chef Mac who greeted me with his sly smile and "S'up, Karen?" as I headed for the counter and I know I've made the right choice for my mid-afternoon meal.
We chatted about the difficulties of being a meat-lover in vegetarian surroundings, a situation he'd recently come from.
At the counter, my server handed me a menu and I handed it back, requesting the Cobb salad. She smiled knowingly and I noticed when her shift ended, her take-out container contained the same thing. Mac's Cobb rules.
Barely into my meal, a good friend arrived, making for a terrific surprise lunch companion. She got the chicken salad sandwich and we proceeded to discuss life while chowing down.
She'd seen my post about considering match.com and wanted to put in her two cents worth, voting an enthusiastic "yea," but insisting that I give it a full six-month trial to be fair. No dipping my toe in the water and yanking it out, so to speak.
It was interesting; she mentioned how different her life is now that she gets up/goes to bed early because of her boyfriend's schedule, while my nights and mornings continue to inch later. "We've switched lives," she laughed. Boyfriend aside, I think I got the better deal schedule-wise.
She'd recently taken the Myers-Briggs personality test and informed me that she was an ENFP, coincidentally the same type I am. I first took that test back in 1995 and I had yet to know another ENFP, so I got a kick out of hearing that she was the same type, someone who lives in the world of exciting possibilities.
It's in the nature of ENFPs to want to learn more about their personality type (more so than any other type), so she'd bought the same book I had sixteen years ago. She'll soon learn that an ENFP is thought of as both an inspirer and a wild child. Reconcile those two if you can.
The two of us decided to share dessert and ordered the chocolate-pecan pie because ENFPs love life and strive to make the most out of it, even at lunch.
Not to mention we both have a wicked sweet tooth. Funny, it doesn't mention that in the personality descriptions, but I'm sure it contributes to why ENFPs are basically happy people.
Not wanting to be "that" customer who shows up just as the staff is looking to close the door on lunch, I've learned to seek out the places who have no set lunch hours. And Garnett's fits the bill perfectly.
Add in the charming chef Mac who greeted me with his sly smile and "S'up, Karen?" as I headed for the counter and I know I've made the right choice for my mid-afternoon meal.
We chatted about the difficulties of being a meat-lover in vegetarian surroundings, a situation he'd recently come from.
At the counter, my server handed me a menu and I handed it back, requesting the Cobb salad. She smiled knowingly and I noticed when her shift ended, her take-out container contained the same thing. Mac's Cobb rules.
Barely into my meal, a good friend arrived, making for a terrific surprise lunch companion. She got the chicken salad sandwich and we proceeded to discuss life while chowing down.
She'd seen my post about considering match.com and wanted to put in her two cents worth, voting an enthusiastic "yea," but insisting that I give it a full six-month trial to be fair. No dipping my toe in the water and yanking it out, so to speak.
It was interesting; she mentioned how different her life is now that she gets up/goes to bed early because of her boyfriend's schedule, while my nights and mornings continue to inch later. "We've switched lives," she laughed. Boyfriend aside, I think I got the better deal schedule-wise.
She'd recently taken the Myers-Briggs personality test and informed me that she was an ENFP, coincidentally the same type I am. I first took that test back in 1995 and I had yet to know another ENFP, so I got a kick out of hearing that she was the same type, someone who lives in the world of exciting possibilities.
It's in the nature of ENFPs to want to learn more about their personality type (more so than any other type), so she'd bought the same book I had sixteen years ago. She'll soon learn that an ENFP is thought of as both an inspirer and a wild child. Reconcile those two if you can.
The two of us decided to share dessert and ordered the chocolate-pecan pie because ENFPs love life and strive to make the most out of it, even at lunch.
Not to mention we both have a wicked sweet tooth. Funny, it doesn't mention that in the personality descriptions, but I'm sure it contributes to why ENFPs are basically happy people.
Coveting a Heart-Shaped Box
Is there a better way to start an evening than with wine and chocolate?
Since the obvious answer to that is no, I started at Barrel Thief, where they were doing a wine and chocolate pairing for a mere five bucks. Count me in since I won't likely get a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine's Day.
The first pairing was 2009 Saracco Moscato d'Asti with a Gearhart's apricot-brandy dark chocolate. I am a huge fan of this local chocolate-maker and the beautiful asti with fruit and flowers on the nose called out for the fruity chocolate that accompanied it. This was going to be my favorite pairing, I just knew it.
Next up was the Broadbent 5-Year Madeira, paired with a maple-pecan chocolate. Sweet and nutty with acidity and complexity, the Madeira was just lovely with the chocolate's pecan.
The last pairing was the Lustau PX San Emilio to be enjoyed with the beautifully striped Earl Gray chocolate.
The abundance of sugar in this sherry made it perfect for the bitter chocolate and bergamot of the Earl Gray. This ended up probably being my favorite pairing of the three, because the contrast was so well done.
With a start like that, I needed to follow up with something just as enjoyable. That turned out to be the opening of the Chris Milk Hulbert show at Ghostprint Gallery.
I'm already partial to his work and amongst the local art on my walls is one of his pieces, "Guitar Player," so I knew going in that I was going to be tempted. It's good to know that you're going to be weak in advance,
Tonight's show included a similar piece, called "Gold Strings" where the guitar player had a gold guitar, but I still preferred mine.
The show was whimsical and colorful and if I were going to buy myself another piece, I know exactly which one it would be (just trying to figure out if I can justify the price).
The room was full of Hulbert's friends as well as local art collectors sipping wine and beer and wanting to get first shot at buying his new works. It felt like a lot like a party.
By the time I left the gallery, a couple of pieces had already been sold; I can only imagine what will happen tomorrow night when the show opens to the public.
From there I went to Bonvenu for dinner. The unexpected pleasure was walking in to find an acquaintance already at the bar and insisting that I join him at an adjacent bar stool.
Wine was poured, conversation began and it was like we had planned to meet up. Conversation flowed while he finished his French onion soup and then we both had the crab cake.
Kudos to Bonvenu and Chef Chaz for all the lump back fin and absence of binder in this fine cake. And I say that as one who grew up in Maryland and knows from well-made crab cakes.
The music was 70s and 80s and featured lots of Hall and Oats (sorry, but I did find Daryl Hall attractive in my youth), Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Sheila E. and Cameo.
Not surprisingly, my friend and I used it as a launching point for discussing dance clubs in D.C. in the a previous lifetime (cause we were in Dupont Circle at the same time, although not together).
When he said Blackie's and I responded with Deja Vu, it was like I'd run into my past and then owner Susan jumped in for a discussion of post-club eating in DC and the absence of such in RVA.
How can people be expected to drink and dance for hours and not sop with fatty food immediately afterwards? It's what makes the next day doable, we all agreed.
Dessert was a blueberry cobbler served in an onion soup ramekin and covered in a sweet crust with vanilla ice cream floating on top.
This we shared (along with more wine) while savoring its contrast of warm fruit and cold ice cream. I am a sucker for blueberries and the South American ones in the stores right now are absolutely delicious.
We were barely done with that when a couple came in and asked if the bar was still open (it was; we were proof of that).
A little conversation and we discovered we had a mutual friend; next thing I knew, that friend was being summoned by text from Bamboo.
He showed up with two friends and the wild conversation and imbibing began. My friend and I stayed the course with wine while the newcomers had Mind Erasers (shudder) and added to the mix with their defense of and disdain for their generation's musical competency.
It's amazing how often I find myself defending the current generation's music to the current generation, so many of whom seem fixated on their parents' music. Very odd.
I had to listen to them make a case for both Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga (double shudder), while they also sang the praises of Led Zeppelin and Dave Matthews Band.
I tried not to judge, but it wasn't easy. Kings of Leon seems to be the band that everyone can agree on, for whatever that's worth.
Eventually, I realized that I'd stayed so long that I'd missed the show I'd intended to see. My acquaintance, now a friend after sharing the details of our personal lives, bade me good night. I finished up my music discussion with the newcomers before deciding to make my exit as well.
Is there a better way to end an evening than after a satisfying meal, much good wine and interesting conversation?
Let's not state the obvious.
Since the obvious answer to that is no, I started at Barrel Thief, where they were doing a wine and chocolate pairing for a mere five bucks. Count me in since I won't likely get a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine's Day.
The first pairing was 2009 Saracco Moscato d'Asti with a Gearhart's apricot-brandy dark chocolate. I am a huge fan of this local chocolate-maker and the beautiful asti with fruit and flowers on the nose called out for the fruity chocolate that accompanied it. This was going to be my favorite pairing, I just knew it.
Next up was the Broadbent 5-Year Madeira, paired with a maple-pecan chocolate. Sweet and nutty with acidity and complexity, the Madeira was just lovely with the chocolate's pecan.
The last pairing was the Lustau PX San Emilio to be enjoyed with the beautifully striped Earl Gray chocolate.
The abundance of sugar in this sherry made it perfect for the bitter chocolate and bergamot of the Earl Gray. This ended up probably being my favorite pairing of the three, because the contrast was so well done.
With a start like that, I needed to follow up with something just as enjoyable. That turned out to be the opening of the Chris Milk Hulbert show at Ghostprint Gallery.
I'm already partial to his work and amongst the local art on my walls is one of his pieces, "Guitar Player," so I knew going in that I was going to be tempted. It's good to know that you're going to be weak in advance,
Tonight's show included a similar piece, called "Gold Strings" where the guitar player had a gold guitar, but I still preferred mine.
The show was whimsical and colorful and if I were going to buy myself another piece, I know exactly which one it would be (just trying to figure out if I can justify the price).
The room was full of Hulbert's friends as well as local art collectors sipping wine and beer and wanting to get first shot at buying his new works. It felt like a lot like a party.
By the time I left the gallery, a couple of pieces had already been sold; I can only imagine what will happen tomorrow night when the show opens to the public.
From there I went to Bonvenu for dinner. The unexpected pleasure was walking in to find an acquaintance already at the bar and insisting that I join him at an adjacent bar stool.
Wine was poured, conversation began and it was like we had planned to meet up. Conversation flowed while he finished his French onion soup and then we both had the crab cake.
Kudos to Bonvenu and Chef Chaz for all the lump back fin and absence of binder in this fine cake. And I say that as one who grew up in Maryland and knows from well-made crab cakes.
The music was 70s and 80s and featured lots of Hall and Oats (sorry, but I did find Daryl Hall attractive in my youth), Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Sheila E. and Cameo.
Not surprisingly, my friend and I used it as a launching point for discussing dance clubs in D.C. in the a previous lifetime (cause we were in Dupont Circle at the same time, although not together).
When he said Blackie's and I responded with Deja Vu, it was like I'd run into my past and then owner Susan jumped in for a discussion of post-club eating in DC and the absence of such in RVA.
How can people be expected to drink and dance for hours and not sop with fatty food immediately afterwards? It's what makes the next day doable, we all agreed.
Dessert was a blueberry cobbler served in an onion soup ramekin and covered in a sweet crust with vanilla ice cream floating on top.
This we shared (along with more wine) while savoring its contrast of warm fruit and cold ice cream. I am a sucker for blueberries and the South American ones in the stores right now are absolutely delicious.
We were barely done with that when a couple came in and asked if the bar was still open (it was; we were proof of that).
A little conversation and we discovered we had a mutual friend; next thing I knew, that friend was being summoned by text from Bamboo.
He showed up with two friends and the wild conversation and imbibing began. My friend and I stayed the course with wine while the newcomers had Mind Erasers (shudder) and added to the mix with their defense of and disdain for their generation's musical competency.
It's amazing how often I find myself defending the current generation's music to the current generation, so many of whom seem fixated on their parents' music. Very odd.
I had to listen to them make a case for both Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga (double shudder), while they also sang the praises of Led Zeppelin and Dave Matthews Band.
I tried not to judge, but it wasn't easy. Kings of Leon seems to be the band that everyone can agree on, for whatever that's worth.
Eventually, I realized that I'd stayed so long that I'd missed the show I'd intended to see. My acquaintance, now a friend after sharing the details of our personal lives, bade me good night. I finished up my music discussion with the newcomers before deciding to make my exit as well.
Is there a better way to end an evening than after a satisfying meal, much good wine and interesting conversation?
Let's not state the obvious.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
More Amour and Getting Matched
I revisited Amour Wine Bistro tonight for the first time since June, not that I actually remembered the last time I was there.
But owner Paul recognized me, welcomed me back and mentioned that it had been June when I was last in and Alsace had been the featured region. That's a man with a far better memory than mine; he said it was because he loves his job.
This month's featured region was Burgundy so I opted for a glass of the Macon-villages Verget, medium-bodied, elegant and tasting of apples.
As I sat at the bar sipping, I tried to decide what to eat off the bar menu. The bacon-wrapped veal medallion sounded wonderful (yum, pig wrapped cow? ) but so did the grilled half lobster tail with beurre blanc. Sea won over land tonight.
When my plate arrived, I knew I'd made the right choice. Besides the tail, there was a veggie medley of sauteed haricots vert, onions, and red peppers and a potato gratin made with Yukon Golds and Jarlsburg.
Everything tasted as good as it looked. The vegetables were perfectly cooked and seasoned, the potatoes creamy and decadent. I dunked chunks of lobster meat in the beurre blanc until both were gone. It was a heavenly meal.
Best of all, it was exactly the right portion size (and price: $14). Because I rarely order entrees, I miss out on a lot of dishes that are seldom offered anywhere but on the entree menu (short ribs, for instance). Here was lobster made for my appetite (and wallet). Score!
I took my time enjoying my meal and wine before moving on to the musical part of my evening at Balliceaux. Fight the Big Bull was playing and since I hadn't heard music since Sunday, it was inevitable that I seek some out.
Since I arrived before the band started, I could enjoy some time at the front bar with Austin, my fellow music geek and bartender. He's another one over the moon about the Flaming Lips show being announced for the National; I foresee this show selling out very quickly.
At the end of the little bar were two guys, one of whom was telling Austin about how he'd met his girlfriend on match.com and subsequently brought her to Balliceaux to woo her. I couldn't let that pass, inquiring of him if online dating was really worth it.
Turns out he's a huge proponent of it, saying,"I got matched! But you have to put a lot into it to get results." He said he'd had a dozen dates, only two of which were dull ("I just ate and left") before meeting his girlfriend, whom he raved about, saying "We had so much to talk about right away!"
"Every time she kisses me, I have to wipe off her lipstick, but she's incredibly hot, so she could wear asphalt on her lips and it'd be fine with me," he explained enthusiastically. I love the way some men think.
His friend was more interested in talking music and I had far more to contribute to that conversation, which worked out well. When I asked what he's currently listening to, he answered, "Eno and Black Keys." Now there's a starting point for discussion.
A friend of mine came in having just played in a jazz duo out in the counties. I expressed surprise that after playing all evening, he'd come out for more music.
"Yea, well, I'm not very good at playing jazz, so I came out to hear them to remind me what good jazz is," he explained, shrugging his shoulders. It sounded like as good a reason as any.
Heading back to hear the music, the happily dating guy gave me one last reminder before I left. "Try it," he enthused, pointing his finger at me. "I'm telling you, it really works. I got matched!"
Good gawd. Now I can add strangers to the list of people pushing me to look for amour online.
But owner Paul recognized me, welcomed me back and mentioned that it had been June when I was last in and Alsace had been the featured region. That's a man with a far better memory than mine; he said it was because he loves his job.
This month's featured region was Burgundy so I opted for a glass of the Macon-villages Verget, medium-bodied, elegant and tasting of apples.
As I sat at the bar sipping, I tried to decide what to eat off the bar menu. The bacon-wrapped veal medallion sounded wonderful (yum, pig wrapped cow? ) but so did the grilled half lobster tail with beurre blanc. Sea won over land tonight.
When my plate arrived, I knew I'd made the right choice. Besides the tail, there was a veggie medley of sauteed haricots vert, onions, and red peppers and a potato gratin made with Yukon Golds and Jarlsburg.
Everything tasted as good as it looked. The vegetables were perfectly cooked and seasoned, the potatoes creamy and decadent. I dunked chunks of lobster meat in the beurre blanc until both were gone. It was a heavenly meal.
Best of all, it was exactly the right portion size (and price: $14). Because I rarely order entrees, I miss out on a lot of dishes that are seldom offered anywhere but on the entree menu (short ribs, for instance). Here was lobster made for my appetite (and wallet). Score!
I took my time enjoying my meal and wine before moving on to the musical part of my evening at Balliceaux. Fight the Big Bull was playing and since I hadn't heard music since Sunday, it was inevitable that I seek some out.
Since I arrived before the band started, I could enjoy some time at the front bar with Austin, my fellow music geek and bartender. He's another one over the moon about the Flaming Lips show being announced for the National; I foresee this show selling out very quickly.
At the end of the little bar were two guys, one of whom was telling Austin about how he'd met his girlfriend on match.com and subsequently brought her to Balliceaux to woo her. I couldn't let that pass, inquiring of him if online dating was really worth it.
Turns out he's a huge proponent of it, saying,"I got matched! But you have to put a lot into it to get results." He said he'd had a dozen dates, only two of which were dull ("I just ate and left") before meeting his girlfriend, whom he raved about, saying "We had so much to talk about right away!"
"Every time she kisses me, I have to wipe off her lipstick, but she's incredibly hot, so she could wear asphalt on her lips and it'd be fine with me," he explained enthusiastically. I love the way some men think.
His friend was more interested in talking music and I had far more to contribute to that conversation, which worked out well. When I asked what he's currently listening to, he answered, "Eno and Black Keys." Now there's a starting point for discussion.
A friend of mine came in having just played in a jazz duo out in the counties. I expressed surprise that after playing all evening, he'd come out for more music.
"Yea, well, I'm not very good at playing jazz, so I came out to hear them to remind me what good jazz is," he explained, shrugging his shoulders. It sounded like as good a reason as any.
Heading back to hear the music, the happily dating guy gave me one last reminder before I left. "Try it," he enthused, pointing his finger at me. "I'm telling you, it really works. I got matched!"
Good gawd. Now I can add strangers to the list of people pushing me to look for amour online.
Good Morning, Vietnam & Richmond
I am what is known in the business as a "radio rat." I loved both my stints working in radio and I continue to listen to the radio daily (although I've given up entirely on commercial radio).
All of which is just a prelude to explaining how excited I was when I discovered that Adrian Cronauer, the DJ portrayed by Robin Williams in Good Morning, Vietnam, was speaking at the Virginia War Memorial today.
The topic of the talk was "Radio During War" and also featured Vietnam-era DJs Tony Booth and Paul Bottoms. When I arrived, it was to a rapidly-filling room of mostly men and judging by the caps and jackets, a lot of them were former soldiers.
When Tony asked how many in the room were Vietnam vets, probably 60% of the room raised their hands. It made for the kind of audience who nodded at references to Hanoi Hannah, Chicken Man and the floating Mekong Bar.
Cronauer, looking much more handsome than Robin Williams could ever hope to, began by telling a story about when Gypsy Rose Lee visited Vietnam.
The men expected her to strip, but instead, "She put on one of the best song and dance shows I'd ever seen," he said, including an hour and a half encore.
He was interviewing her for Armed Forces Radio and said that, "She had the most gorgeous set of legs of any woman I'd ever seen. During the interview, she crossed them and I was stumped for words. That doesn't happen much with me."
Cronauer's two-year tour of duty launched his signature opening, "Good morning, Vietnam" which continued to be used by successive DJs after he was discharged in spring 1966.
Because most of his audience were teenagers and guys in their early 20s who had never been out of their hometowns, much less the country before, culture shock "set in with a vengeance" so the DJs felt their mission was to be an antidote to the soldiers' homesickness.
They did that with block programming, two and three hour sets of music geared to one genre at a time. That way, a G.I. who was a fan of soul music or country music could count on a certain period every day when that music would be played.
All three of the speakers spoke a lot about the military's censorship, not just of news items (no mention of napalm, drug use by soldiers or that U.S. troops were ever ambushed) but of inappropriate music.
Paul played a medley of some of the songs that were axed by the brass, including "Where Have All the Flowers Gone," Hendrix's version of the Star Spangled Banner (blasphemous!), the theme to Hair (the line, "Oh, say can you see my eyes? If you can then my hair's too short" also because it messed with our national anthem) and "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" (because of a reference to "the crazy Asian war," actually about Korea).
Cronauer asked how many in the audience had seen the movie and most people raised their hands. "If I'd done all the things Robin Williams did in the film, I'd still be in jail," he laughed. That's war Hollywood-style for you.
The talk wound down with a couple of lists. Cronauer said that there were three things anyone who listened to Armed Forces radio remembers. "Hearing 'good morning, Vietnam,' Chris Noel, the sexy starlet who taped shows for AFR, and Chicken Man."
During the question and answer period, a vet stood up and thanked the speakers, saying that "The four most important things in Vietnam were not getting shot, the food, mail call and Armed Forces Radio." Applause backed him up on that.
Cronauer acknowledged at least one soldier who might not have agreed with that sentiment. "I was told he heard me say 'Good morning, Vietnam' and picked up his 45 and shot the radio."
From what I heard today, it sounds like he was in the minority.
All of which is just a prelude to explaining how excited I was when I discovered that Adrian Cronauer, the DJ portrayed by Robin Williams in Good Morning, Vietnam, was speaking at the Virginia War Memorial today.
The topic of the talk was "Radio During War" and also featured Vietnam-era DJs Tony Booth and Paul Bottoms. When I arrived, it was to a rapidly-filling room of mostly men and judging by the caps and jackets, a lot of them were former soldiers.
When Tony asked how many in the room were Vietnam vets, probably 60% of the room raised their hands. It made for the kind of audience who nodded at references to Hanoi Hannah, Chicken Man and the floating Mekong Bar.
Cronauer, looking much more handsome than Robin Williams could ever hope to, began by telling a story about when Gypsy Rose Lee visited Vietnam.
The men expected her to strip, but instead, "She put on one of the best song and dance shows I'd ever seen," he said, including an hour and a half encore.
He was interviewing her for Armed Forces Radio and said that, "She had the most gorgeous set of legs of any woman I'd ever seen. During the interview, she crossed them and I was stumped for words. That doesn't happen much with me."
Cronauer's two-year tour of duty launched his signature opening, "Good morning, Vietnam" which continued to be used by successive DJs after he was discharged in spring 1966.
Because most of his audience were teenagers and guys in their early 20s who had never been out of their hometowns, much less the country before, culture shock "set in with a vengeance" so the DJs felt their mission was to be an antidote to the soldiers' homesickness.
They did that with block programming, two and three hour sets of music geared to one genre at a time. That way, a G.I. who was a fan of soul music or country music could count on a certain period every day when that music would be played.
All three of the speakers spoke a lot about the military's censorship, not just of news items (no mention of napalm, drug use by soldiers or that U.S. troops were ever ambushed) but of inappropriate music.
Paul played a medley of some of the songs that were axed by the brass, including "Where Have All the Flowers Gone," Hendrix's version of the Star Spangled Banner (blasphemous!), the theme to Hair (the line, "Oh, say can you see my eyes? If you can then my hair's too short" also because it messed with our national anthem) and "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" (because of a reference to "the crazy Asian war," actually about Korea).
Cronauer asked how many in the audience had seen the movie and most people raised their hands. "If I'd done all the things Robin Williams did in the film, I'd still be in jail," he laughed. That's war Hollywood-style for you.
The talk wound down with a couple of lists. Cronauer said that there were three things anyone who listened to Armed Forces radio remembers. "Hearing 'good morning, Vietnam,' Chris Noel, the sexy starlet who taped shows for AFR, and Chicken Man."
During the question and answer period, a vet stood up and thanked the speakers, saying that "The four most important things in Vietnam were not getting shot, the food, mail call and Armed Forces Radio." Applause backed him up on that.
Cronauer acknowledged at least one soldier who might not have agreed with that sentiment. "I was told he heard me say 'Good morning, Vietnam' and picked up his 45 and shot the radio."
From what I heard today, it sounds like he was in the minority.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Read to Me of Antigone
Trying to park on VCU's campus at night while classes are in session is an exercise in futility.
Knowing this, I decided to walk over for an 8:00 reading; it just seemed easier.
And if I was going to walk, I decided that I might as well go earlier and walk first to 821 Cafe for dinner.
The only interesting thing I overheard on the way was a freshman-looking girl telling her two friends, "Well, I read in Cosmo that guys like it!"
It wasn't my job to confirm or deny, so I kept moving.
For a change, I didn't know my server, so I had to actually tell her that I wanted the black bean nachos.
I grabbed a magazine from the rack and got comfy on the center stool, anticipating my food.
When she set a bag with two to-go containers down in front of me, my face must have clarified things for her.
"Oh, you didn't want it to go?" she asked. "I thought you said to go."
Nope.
She took the boxes to the kitchen and returned with their contents emptied onto a plate.
And since they'd been put into the container right side up, they were now wrong side up.
All the cheese and beans were somewhere on the bottom of the plate.
They looked like hell.
But, what was I going to do, complain about aesthetics?
Instead, I dove in, attempting to pull the good stuff from the bottom and mix it with what I could see.
It was ugly, but it tasted just fine.
Seriously full, I walked over to the Student Commons for a poetry reading by Richard Jackson, a man who has published ten collections of poetry and teaches at the University of Tennessee Chattanooga.
The Virginia Room was small and the audience smaller and Jackson warned us, "This won't be the most uplifting night you've encountered."
He had a hushed voice, causing the audience to lean in to hear his rhythmic language enhanced by the poet's nuanced delivery.
Explaining the poem "Night Sky," he said he found great metaphors in science.
"Sometimes I think we're all hurtling through love at the speed of light."
Such a sad commentary.
"Residence" was particularly moving, as in the line, "And my love starts to ache like a phantom limb."
It's tough to convey just how evocative his language was, both in terms of its beauty and its sadness.
Between poems, he amused us by sharing bad country music song titles ("The thing is, they get paid better than poets") like "I Flushed You From the Toilet of My Heart" and "You Were Only a Splinter as I Slid Down the Bannister of Life."
Seriously laugh-worthy.
The hour with this charming and erudite man ended all too soon for me; I could have listened to him read for another hour and then some.
He finished with "No Turn on Red," with a line containing the eternal question, "Who says any love makes sense?"
Walking back toward Jackson Ward with his words still floating around in my head (like "So much of what we feel is habit," from "Otherness"), I had only to decide where to stop for some conviviality.
Comfort won out and although most of the tables were empty, the bar was lively.
As I approached it, I heard my name yelled out accusingly.
"So THIS is where you come to cheat on me on a Tuesday night!"
It was Josh from Six Burner, giving me a hard time because I have been known to spend a fair number of Tuesdays at 6B.
But I was as quick as he was, reminding him that there was no reason for me to go there on a night he wasn't there.
"Well done," he acknowledged. "Here, have my stool."
He was there for "one and done," except that he was on his second PBR.
As is our usual habit, we chatted music; he's beyond thrilled about the just-announced Flaming Lips show.
Actually there's been a flurry of show announcements lately.
We've become a regular stop on the circuit and music geeks like us couldn't be happier about it.
On my other side were a couple from the neighborhood.
We run into each other frequently at our local establishments because we share a fondness for neighborhood dining and music shows.
Like me, they're excited about the progress and potential of the Hippodrome, not to mention Ettamae's adding dinner hours (and liquor!).
We discussed further enhancements to the 'hood and that the Broad and Third Street area is the ideal location for a city Target.
It's so satisfying being with other J-Ward lovers.
Bartender Greg checked to see if we wanted more libations by arching an eyebrow and asking, "Shots?"
To me he inquired, "Mas tequila?" but I explained that one was probably enough for Tuesday night.
"Not for some people," he grinned.
"Well, I didn't say every Tuesday night, either. I don't want to be penned in on future Tuesdays," I back-pedaled.
The couple and I walked out together, immediately feeling and smelling the warmer air.
We're all anticipating tomorrow's mid-sixties temperatures, even if they're only supposed to last a day.
As it was, on the first of February I got to walk to all my evening's pleasures.
Most satisfying of all was hearing Richard Jackson read his magnificent poems while I let them wash over me.
A line from "Residence" said it best: "Words avalanching like clouds on top of each other."
Ah yes, words. One of life's greatest pleasures.
Knowing this, I decided to walk over for an 8:00 reading; it just seemed easier.
And if I was going to walk, I decided that I might as well go earlier and walk first to 821 Cafe for dinner.
The only interesting thing I overheard on the way was a freshman-looking girl telling her two friends, "Well, I read in Cosmo that guys like it!"
It wasn't my job to confirm or deny, so I kept moving.
For a change, I didn't know my server, so I had to actually tell her that I wanted the black bean nachos.
I grabbed a magazine from the rack and got comfy on the center stool, anticipating my food.
When she set a bag with two to-go containers down in front of me, my face must have clarified things for her.
"Oh, you didn't want it to go?" she asked. "I thought you said to go."
Nope.
She took the boxes to the kitchen and returned with their contents emptied onto a plate.
And since they'd been put into the container right side up, they were now wrong side up.
All the cheese and beans were somewhere on the bottom of the plate.
They looked like hell.
But, what was I going to do, complain about aesthetics?
Instead, I dove in, attempting to pull the good stuff from the bottom and mix it with what I could see.
It was ugly, but it tasted just fine.
Seriously full, I walked over to the Student Commons for a poetry reading by Richard Jackson, a man who has published ten collections of poetry and teaches at the University of Tennessee Chattanooga.
The Virginia Room was small and the audience smaller and Jackson warned us, "This won't be the most uplifting night you've encountered."
He had a hushed voice, causing the audience to lean in to hear his rhythmic language enhanced by the poet's nuanced delivery.
Explaining the poem "Night Sky," he said he found great metaphors in science.
"Sometimes I think we're all hurtling through love at the speed of light."
Such a sad commentary.
"Residence" was particularly moving, as in the line, "And my love starts to ache like a phantom limb."
It's tough to convey just how evocative his language was, both in terms of its beauty and its sadness.
Between poems, he amused us by sharing bad country music song titles ("The thing is, they get paid better than poets") like "I Flushed You From the Toilet of My Heart" and "You Were Only a Splinter as I Slid Down the Bannister of Life."
Seriously laugh-worthy.
The hour with this charming and erudite man ended all too soon for me; I could have listened to him read for another hour and then some.
He finished with "No Turn on Red," with a line containing the eternal question, "Who says any love makes sense?"
Walking back toward Jackson Ward with his words still floating around in my head (like "So much of what we feel is habit," from "Otherness"), I had only to decide where to stop for some conviviality.
Comfort won out and although most of the tables were empty, the bar was lively.
As I approached it, I heard my name yelled out accusingly.
"So THIS is where you come to cheat on me on a Tuesday night!"
It was Josh from Six Burner, giving me a hard time because I have been known to spend a fair number of Tuesdays at 6B.
But I was as quick as he was, reminding him that there was no reason for me to go there on a night he wasn't there.
"Well done," he acknowledged. "Here, have my stool."
He was there for "one and done," except that he was on his second PBR.
As is our usual habit, we chatted music; he's beyond thrilled about the just-announced Flaming Lips show.
Actually there's been a flurry of show announcements lately.
We've become a regular stop on the circuit and music geeks like us couldn't be happier about it.
On my other side were a couple from the neighborhood.
We run into each other frequently at our local establishments because we share a fondness for neighborhood dining and music shows.
Like me, they're excited about the progress and potential of the Hippodrome, not to mention Ettamae's adding dinner hours (and liquor!).
We discussed further enhancements to the 'hood and that the Broad and Third Street area is the ideal location for a city Target.
It's so satisfying being with other J-Ward lovers.
Bartender Greg checked to see if we wanted more libations by arching an eyebrow and asking, "Shots?"
To me he inquired, "Mas tequila?" but I explained that one was probably enough for Tuesday night.
"Not for some people," he grinned.
"Well, I didn't say every Tuesday night, either. I don't want to be penned in on future Tuesdays," I back-pedaled.
The couple and I walked out together, immediately feeling and smelling the warmer air.
We're all anticipating tomorrow's mid-sixties temperatures, even if they're only supposed to last a day.
As it was, on the first of February I got to walk to all my evening's pleasures.
Most satisfying of all was hearing Richard Jackson read his magnificent poems while I let them wash over me.
A line from "Residence" said it best: "Words avalanching like clouds on top of each other."
Ah yes, words. One of life's greatest pleasures.
Opening the Front Door to the Past
Front doors. I'm a big fan of going in the front door. It probably stems from growing up in a house where people always entered through the side door.
So here's the big news: the Virginia Historical Society is reopening their front door. Grand buildings require grand entrances and after ten years of entering through the back of this grand building, visitors will once again be welcomed from the Boulevard entrance.
I, for one, will never again enter through the back, much the way I am a convert to the VMFA's reopened Boulevard entrance. I think it's exciting to know that visitors can once again enter these places the way they were intended to welcome the public.
And much the way the Picasso show is going to draw people from all over, the new exhibit at the VHS is sure to do the same.
American Turning Point: The Civil War in Virginia is a blockbuster of a show of over 3,000 square feet and featuring objects, art and audio-visual displays that are like nothing seen at the VHS before.
At this morning's preview, which had that great "new exhibit" smell, there were still some unfinished pieces, but the overall impact of the show was terribly impressive and in a non-traditional way.
This is not an exhibit focusing just on battles; the civilian experience is explored in depth as is the back story of waging the war.
A three-sided mural shows a holographic image of a battle while the speaker overhead provides the sound of horses, gun shots, and screaming. It's harrowing to stand inside this area and hear the chaos and terror of battle. I felt totally in another place and time, but couldn't linger long because it was so unsettling.
It made me understand how soldiers could say that they had no clear memories of battle; the assault on the senses and overwhelming nature of it all would probably be impossible to process at the time.
Equally realistic was a display of a medical procedure going on inside a tent. Silhouetted by a light from inside, you watch as medical personnel perform surgery, peeling back layers of skin, muscle and ligaments and eventually sewing the man back up. It's a look at an important part of the war effort, but conveyed in a more visceral way than a picture could ever do.
After having driven by Hanger Prosthetics on Belvidere hundreds of times, I was fascinated to learn the story behind the company and the exhibit delivered that.
I'd always thought it was a terrible name, not realizing that the company was named after James Hanger, the first amputee of the war; heartbreakingly, Hanger had only been a soldier for a day when it happened.
While recovering, the 18-year old designed and made an improved prosthetic leg with a hinged knee and foot.
Naturally, other soldiers clamored for the same and a company was born that survives today, with a facility five blocks from my house. Now I know.
There are more than 200 objects in this exhibit and not all of them were yet in place today, but I would be planning to go back and see the exhibit again even if they had been.
The emphasis on everybody involved in the war, not just the men, not just the Confederates and not just the soldiers, makes it a well-rounded look at our country's most tragic period.
It's a must-see. And that front door is a must-enter. It's an impressive combination.
So here's the big news: the Virginia Historical Society is reopening their front door. Grand buildings require grand entrances and after ten years of entering through the back of this grand building, visitors will once again be welcomed from the Boulevard entrance.
I, for one, will never again enter through the back, much the way I am a convert to the VMFA's reopened Boulevard entrance. I think it's exciting to know that visitors can once again enter these places the way they were intended to welcome the public.
And much the way the Picasso show is going to draw people from all over, the new exhibit at the VHS is sure to do the same.
American Turning Point: The Civil War in Virginia is a blockbuster of a show of over 3,000 square feet and featuring objects, art and audio-visual displays that are like nothing seen at the VHS before.
At this morning's preview, which had that great "new exhibit" smell, there were still some unfinished pieces, but the overall impact of the show was terribly impressive and in a non-traditional way.
This is not an exhibit focusing just on battles; the civilian experience is explored in depth as is the back story of waging the war.
A three-sided mural shows a holographic image of a battle while the speaker overhead provides the sound of horses, gun shots, and screaming. It's harrowing to stand inside this area and hear the chaos and terror of battle. I felt totally in another place and time, but couldn't linger long because it was so unsettling.
It made me understand how soldiers could say that they had no clear memories of battle; the assault on the senses and overwhelming nature of it all would probably be impossible to process at the time.
Equally realistic was a display of a medical procedure going on inside a tent. Silhouetted by a light from inside, you watch as medical personnel perform surgery, peeling back layers of skin, muscle and ligaments and eventually sewing the man back up. It's a look at an important part of the war effort, but conveyed in a more visceral way than a picture could ever do.
After having driven by Hanger Prosthetics on Belvidere hundreds of times, I was fascinated to learn the story behind the company and the exhibit delivered that.
I'd always thought it was a terrible name, not realizing that the company was named after James Hanger, the first amputee of the war; heartbreakingly, Hanger had only been a soldier for a day when it happened.
While recovering, the 18-year old designed and made an improved prosthetic leg with a hinged knee and foot.
Naturally, other soldiers clamored for the same and a company was born that survives today, with a facility five blocks from my house. Now I know.
There are more than 200 objects in this exhibit and not all of them were yet in place today, but I would be planning to go back and see the exhibit again even if they had been.
The emphasis on everybody involved in the war, not just the men, not just the Confederates and not just the soldiers, makes it a well-rounded look at our country's most tragic period.
It's a must-see. And that front door is a must-enter. It's an impressive combination.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
