I was invited to a cocktail party with a travel theme.
The wine was Anjos Vinho Verde, tasting of grapefruit and apples.
With logos of KLM and SAS for decoration, the conversation was all about how much time is required to prepare for a trip, how much napping should be done upon arrival and how enthusiastic a reception a woman might get in certain Latin countries.
I think I got some bets placed on me succeeding at that.
We noshed on Caprese with artichokes on baguette slices and fresh melon balls to keep up our strength for what was to come.
Once the wine kicked in, the conversation began to range off-theme and to music, not surprisingly given the soundtrack.
Somehow a discussion of what superior lyricists older men and writers can be led to discussion of The Police.
I shared how a former boyfriend had once told me that "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" was the most ardent tribute to a lover imaginable.
Someone else recalled seeing The Police on the "Ghost in the Machine " tour in 1982.
The best I could offer was seeing Sting on the "Dream of the Blue Turtles" tour in '85.
To the best of my abilities, I shared my memories of that late summer evening at Merriweather Post Pavilion.
And, forgive me, then I became a 21st-century creature and looked it up, finding a Washington Post review of that very show I'd seen.
I'd bet anything that I'd read it the day after.
It was mind-blowing to be reminded of the details of that long-ago night.
Let's face it, at that point, he was just going out on his own so the jury was still out on a post-Police career.
Would the public even care?
Reviewer Richard Harrington said that Sting had proved that night that he was "an arresting pop presence even outside the context of the Police."
Now that sounds like a "duh" moment, but not so in 1985.
Of his songs, he wrote,"Often built upon sinuous melodies, they are ambitious both lyrically and thematically."
Don't forget, this was before Sting the Activist with a capital A. Sting = causes was not yet a given.
And the review also reminded me about which Police songs Sting had performed that warm night.
"Every Breath' needs to be as starkly arranged as it was originally perceived [and] did not benefit from a fleshed-out arrangement."
In other words, don't mess with the Breath.
Clearly we were still taking our Police songs very seriously in 1985.
Not so tonight.
Music chit-chat yielded to theater-goer watching from a fifth floor window.
A couple of us made a game of guessing whether people walking toward the Virginia Repertory Theater were going to "Spring Awakening" or not.
Good thing we weren't betting.
It was funny when we saw a guy walking that way when all of a sudden, he darted behind a tree, not once but twice.
Trying to ditch a boring date? Unhappy at being dragged to the theater on a Friday evening?
Nope, just one of the theater's valets trying to sneak up on his fellow car-parker.
After a bit of street voyeurism, some of us decided that ice cream was in order and that meant Bev's.
Coldstone was within walking distance, but who wants to support a chain?
That point was driven home when I arrived first and waited for my partner in ice cream to catch up.
A woman eating a cone out front saw a friend walking by and explained why she was there.
"We just came from Mama Zu and we're so stuffed. But I told Mom and Dad," she said gesturing to the older ice cream-eating duo in nearby chairs, "That you can't come to Richmond and not go to Bev's."
A girl about to open the door to Bev's looked at her and said, "I haven't been here since 2005."
Aghast, the stuffed woman guided her roughly towards the door. "Go! Now!"
She did.
Inside, I tried one of tonight's special flavors, dirty chocolate, described as a triple fudge chocolate.
No additions, but a deep, rich chocolate fudge taste.
I was a little sorry I'd only ordered the kiddie size cup.
My fellow party-goer had been smart, getting a waffle cone of chocolate almond three times the size of my measly scoop.
Lesson learned.
We sat for a while and watched the Byrd crowd exit and saunter to their cars.
Once finished with our summer treat, we strolled the neighborhood, nostalgic because it was one in which we'd both lived back in the '90s.
To our surprise, new houses and even a new garage had been built.
A hand-written sign on the screen door of Tom French Flowers read, "Gone Fishin'."
Now there's a worthy summertime occupation.
Everyone knows "gone fishin" is just a euphemism for "gone to someplace more relaxing and pleasurable for a spell."
After tonight's travel-themed get-together, I can't wait to hang out my own hand-written sign.
It'll be my euphemism for "Off trying to prove that I can be an arresting presence even outside the context of RVA."
The jury's still out on whether or not I'll succeed.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Friday, July 20, 2012
Mini-Dress Balloon Fail
As a card-carrying dress wearer, of course I was intrigued by a lecture called "The Silk Dress Balloon."
Part of the Museum of the Confederacy's brown bag lunch series, the topic was handled by Bryce VanStavern with facts and humor ("Welcome to the Museum of the Confederacy's brown bag lunch series," he said. "There are some good smelling lunches in here").
Call me ignorant, but I hadn't known that hot air balloons were used during the Civil War, much less that they dated back to 1783.
The idea was apparently foreign to people back then, too, with one 1783 observer asking, "What good is it?" after seeing one demonstrated.
"What good is a newborn baby?" responded the always pithy Ben Franklin.
VanStavern told us about early balloon efforts and the military's distinct lack of enthusiasm for their usefulness.
Part of that indifference may have been the problems inherent in them.
Trying to get a balloon up in the air 1,000 feet to get it out of firing range of the enemy's gunshots could not have been easy or pleasant.
Not surprisingly, the area just above the tree line was referred to as the "danger zone."
What was even more surprising was that not a single balloon got shot down during the war.
After hearing about various predecessors, we finally got to the infamous silk dress balloon only to learn that it wasn't made of dresses at all.
I'm not gonna lie; it was a bit of a buzz kill.
Turns out it was made with $514 worth of dress silk, which represented all the maker could find in a fabric store at the time.
As even I recall from history lessons, shopping options were rather limited during the war.
With only so much fabric, the balloon was much smaller than normal and probably named "The Gazelle" for its lithesome figure.
But with its heavy fabric and use of coal gas (the Confederacy had no hydrogen), it could only stay aloft for a pitiful three or four hours instead of the usual several days.
Still, they managed to use it for reconnaissance during the Seven Days Battle, so it wasn't a complete loss.
Somewhat pathetically, the Gazelle ended up mounted on a tugboat, only to be captured when a Union boat sent cannon fire its way and the men jumped ship.
The Gazelle had flown for a brief eleven days, not exactly an illustrious career for a balloon, even way back then.
But it lived on because Union troops labeled it a "silk dress balloon" and cut it into pieces to be passed around along with the legend of it.
150 years later, there's a piece of it in the Smithsonian.
I was blown away to find that the only other known piece was in the room with us for today's lecture.
I'll be honest; it wasn't too impressive, faded as it was.
But VanStavern showed an image of it with its original colors recreated digitally and no doubt about it, it sure had been pretty.
So while it hadn't actually been made with dress donations off the backs of devoted Confederate women, it was still an awfully unique balloon.
Probably not as unique as if I tried to make a balloon out of my dress collection, but then given the "danger zone" length of my dresses, the resulting balloon would end up looking like a toy balloon even next to the under-sized Gazelle.
Good thing I don't have to sacrifice for the cause.
Part of the Museum of the Confederacy's brown bag lunch series, the topic was handled by Bryce VanStavern with facts and humor ("Welcome to the Museum of the Confederacy's brown bag lunch series," he said. "There are some good smelling lunches in here").
Call me ignorant, but I hadn't known that hot air balloons were used during the Civil War, much less that they dated back to 1783.
The idea was apparently foreign to people back then, too, with one 1783 observer asking, "What good is it?" after seeing one demonstrated.
"What good is a newborn baby?" responded the always pithy Ben Franklin.
VanStavern told us about early balloon efforts and the military's distinct lack of enthusiasm for their usefulness.
Part of that indifference may have been the problems inherent in them.
Trying to get a balloon up in the air 1,000 feet to get it out of firing range of the enemy's gunshots could not have been easy or pleasant.
Not surprisingly, the area just above the tree line was referred to as the "danger zone."
What was even more surprising was that not a single balloon got shot down during the war.
After hearing about various predecessors, we finally got to the infamous silk dress balloon only to learn that it wasn't made of dresses at all.
I'm not gonna lie; it was a bit of a buzz kill.
Turns out it was made with $514 worth of dress silk, which represented all the maker could find in a fabric store at the time.
As even I recall from history lessons, shopping options were rather limited during the war.
With only so much fabric, the balloon was much smaller than normal and probably named "The Gazelle" for its lithesome figure.
But with its heavy fabric and use of coal gas (the Confederacy had no hydrogen), it could only stay aloft for a pitiful three or four hours instead of the usual several days.
Still, they managed to use it for reconnaissance during the Seven Days Battle, so it wasn't a complete loss.
Somewhat pathetically, the Gazelle ended up mounted on a tugboat, only to be captured when a Union boat sent cannon fire its way and the men jumped ship.
The Gazelle had flown for a brief eleven days, not exactly an illustrious career for a balloon, even way back then.
But it lived on because Union troops labeled it a "silk dress balloon" and cut it into pieces to be passed around along with the legend of it.
150 years later, there's a piece of it in the Smithsonian.
I was blown away to find that the only other known piece was in the room with us for today's lecture.
I'll be honest; it wasn't too impressive, faded as it was.
But VanStavern showed an image of it with its original colors recreated digitally and no doubt about it, it sure had been pretty.
So while it hadn't actually been made with dress donations off the backs of devoted Confederate women, it was still an awfully unique balloon.
Probably not as unique as if I tried to make a balloon out of my dress collection, but then given the "danger zone" length of my dresses, the resulting balloon would end up looking like a toy balloon even next to the under-sized Gazelle.
Good thing I don't have to sacrifice for the cause.
It's Time for Us to Celebrate
The new moon delivered me all kinds of unexpected pleasures this evening.
Walking into Bistro 27 for dinner, I found the only other occupant of the bar to be a familiar face.
I'd expected a solo meal and instead had an erudite and cultured friend next to me.
A former actor and opera singer who is as devoted to art and conversation as I am, he seemed as glad for the company as I was.
Over tuna tartare and scallops wrapped in bacon with lentils, I told him about all the recent theater I'd seen, knowing he'd not only love to hear about it, but also have insights.
He did, describing how cast members would gather to see certain scenes in a play night after night.
I was flattered to hear that he'd read my piece in Style Weekly about the French street photography show at VMFA and was on his way to see it after dinner.
After telling him what I'd liked about Woody Allen's new film, "To Rome, with Love," we dissected "Midnight in Paris," a favorite of us both.
We even discovered a shared passion for simple oceanfront vacations with an emphasis on open windows and outside showers.
Amazing how much you can cover between bites with only a couple of hours.
A discussion of the museum's Maharajah exhibit led him to recommending the "Flashman" book series (notable for the Flashman anti-hero, who had only three good qualities, one of which was fornication), which took us right up to the bewitching hour.
Then he was off to the VMFA for street art and I to Gallery 5 for music.
Everyone was still in mingling mode when I walked in, so I joined a group for chatter.
A friend immediately told me she'd seen me on my walk recently and instantly recognized my gait.
"You've got the cutest switch in your hips," she said, explaining how I was so easy to identify near the Siegel Center. "I just plod."
I'm sure she doesn't but she does know how to maneuver a batteau and I don't and that's far more impressive.
Before long, we all moved upstairs to see Dave Watkins open the show.
I took a seat on the floor against the wall and Dave began his magic with his electric dulcitar and many looping pedals.
Barely one song in and the scientist came over to share my section of wall with me, sliding down to the floor next to me.
He sat his bag down, pulled out a bottle of water and then with a sly grin, pulled out a large candy bar labeled "dark chocolate with chili," holding it up so I'd see it.
It's certainly not the first time I've been at a show and he's offered me chocolate out of the blue, but I appreciate the gesture anew every time he does it.
He broke off a nice-sized square and I savored my heat-laced chocolate while I listened to Dave layering sounds of dulcitar strumming, tapping on the body, blowing into it and wailing on a drum.
When he did his one and only song with lyrics, "Pangea's Revenge," I saw a couple of people singing along in the audience.
His surprise tonight was covering Mogwai's "Helicon 1," with the warning, "There's going to be fuzz" and Joon Kim on violin.
Oh, there was fuzz alright and this fuzz-lover couldn't have been happier about it.
The crowd, which had grown to near capacity during his set, applauded thunderously afterwards, but not quite topping fuzz level.
During the break, I was talking to people when a photographer friend whizzed by.
"I gotta go now, but I want to talk about the movie!"
I've seen two this week, but given his predilection for dance parties, I'm guessing he wants to discuss last night's "Shut Up and Play the Hits."
And honestly, I'd like nothing better than to talk about LCD Soundsystem with another fan.
For Antlers' set, the lights were lowered to more atmospheric level, the better to suit their ambient, drone sound.
Which was actually pretty interesting for me, since it was in direct contrast to my unforgettable first Antlers experience.
Flash back to 2007 and the Silent Music Revival was being held at Rumors Boutique.
The place was packed, not only every square inch of the store, but the sidewalk outside as well.
Inside where I was, Antlers played an incredibly loud set while organizer Jameson rushed around with a roll of toilet paper, offering wads with which to plug our ears.
Even so, it was awesome music that took the silent movie being shown to another whole level.
Tonight's show had no drums or guitars and the volume required no adjustment, allowing me to get an update on the band's sound.
Impressive.
During the break, I complimented a friend on his natty attire, so different than his usual monochromatic uniform.
Smiling sheepishly, he said, "Well, I have someone dressing me now."
Judging by how much better he looked, it didn't take much figuring to guess that it was a girlfriend.
Bingo! He admitted as much.
And he's not even the first newly-attached guy I know to be suddenly looking far more attractively dressed.
Funny how that works.
Fashion statements acknowledged, we then got to tonight's stars, Lobo Marino, because it was their CD release show.
That fact was particularly salient to many of us in the room because we'd been in that very room on March 29th when Lobo Marino had recorded that CD.
It was a homecoming of sorts.
Unlike last time I'd see them play, Laney was no longer killing her knees and back playing her new harmonium.
Instead, she'd made a cloth-covered stand for the instrument and used a pillow to kneel on when playing it.
They began their first song only to stop short because they couldn't hear each other and Jameson may have been singing a bit off key.
Moving closer, Laney said, "Okay, everyone, in the key of C!"
Everyone was Jameson, so it was a pretty funny moment.
They played a lot off the new album, including the lovely "Young and Old," which included Joon on violin, Dave on dulcitar and Mark on bass.
The winds carry our kites
When we are old, when we were young
Jameson talked about being on tour so much, since they are about to leave on an extended tour that will take them on a square-shaped route around the U.S.
"People have one of three reactions when we say we're from Richmond," he explained. "They say they know what a cool scene it is. Or they ask where it is because there's a Richmond in every state - Richmond, Indiana. Or they say, GWAR!"
As shining examples of RVA's cool scene, we couldn't do better than having these two represent.
They also deserves kudos for the variety of sounds they make.
And I'm not even talking about their basics: drum, guitar, accordion and harmonium.
Both Laney and Jameson wore anklets with bells that they shook for sound.
For one song, he played the drum with the end of the guitar's neck while he strummed the other end.
And he played a mouth harp, causing many smiling faces in the audience for its distinctive twang.
He also played a painted metal vase, having hammered the bottom so that when he played it, it had a steel drum sound.
That's some creative music-making.
Before doing two of their older songs to close, Laney apologized, saying, "I didn't mean to flash you. I usually play more accordion."
In fact, her floor-length silver floral dress over a black tank top was the essence of bohemian chic and no one had seen anything inappropriate.
Or at least no one is saying if they did.
After closing with the perennial favorite "Animal Hands," people flocked to the merch table to buy the new CD, "Kite Festival."
Naturally I was one of them since I'd been there for the recording, but I was still in for a surprise.
Inside the CD was a square of onionskin-like paper, the top of which proclaimed, "Lobo Marino Community Recording Project."
It was covered in names and drawings, a reproduction of the sheet we'd all signed that magical March night.
Let's just say it was a thrill to see my name.
And a complete surprise.
Somehow I've been lucky enough to have had my name on two other albums by local artists, but it's still an undeniable kick every time it happens.
Tonight it was the last of my unexpected pleasures and one I will be able to revisit every time I listen to the new album.
Like right now under a new moon.
Walking into Bistro 27 for dinner, I found the only other occupant of the bar to be a familiar face.
I'd expected a solo meal and instead had an erudite and cultured friend next to me.
A former actor and opera singer who is as devoted to art and conversation as I am, he seemed as glad for the company as I was.
Over tuna tartare and scallops wrapped in bacon with lentils, I told him about all the recent theater I'd seen, knowing he'd not only love to hear about it, but also have insights.
He did, describing how cast members would gather to see certain scenes in a play night after night.
I was flattered to hear that he'd read my piece in Style Weekly about the French street photography show at VMFA and was on his way to see it after dinner.
After telling him what I'd liked about Woody Allen's new film, "To Rome, with Love," we dissected "Midnight in Paris," a favorite of us both.
We even discovered a shared passion for simple oceanfront vacations with an emphasis on open windows and outside showers.
Amazing how much you can cover between bites with only a couple of hours.
A discussion of the museum's Maharajah exhibit led him to recommending the "Flashman" book series (notable for the Flashman anti-hero, who had only three good qualities, one of which was fornication), which took us right up to the bewitching hour.
Then he was off to the VMFA for street art and I to Gallery 5 for music.
Everyone was still in mingling mode when I walked in, so I joined a group for chatter.
A friend immediately told me she'd seen me on my walk recently and instantly recognized my gait.
"You've got the cutest switch in your hips," she said, explaining how I was so easy to identify near the Siegel Center. "I just plod."
I'm sure she doesn't but she does know how to maneuver a batteau and I don't and that's far more impressive.
Before long, we all moved upstairs to see Dave Watkins open the show.
I took a seat on the floor against the wall and Dave began his magic with his electric dulcitar and many looping pedals.
Barely one song in and the scientist came over to share my section of wall with me, sliding down to the floor next to me.
He sat his bag down, pulled out a bottle of water and then with a sly grin, pulled out a large candy bar labeled "dark chocolate with chili," holding it up so I'd see it.
It's certainly not the first time I've been at a show and he's offered me chocolate out of the blue, but I appreciate the gesture anew every time he does it.
He broke off a nice-sized square and I savored my heat-laced chocolate while I listened to Dave layering sounds of dulcitar strumming, tapping on the body, blowing into it and wailing on a drum.
When he did his one and only song with lyrics, "Pangea's Revenge," I saw a couple of people singing along in the audience.
His surprise tonight was covering Mogwai's "Helicon 1," with the warning, "There's going to be fuzz" and Joon Kim on violin.
Oh, there was fuzz alright and this fuzz-lover couldn't have been happier about it.
The crowd, which had grown to near capacity during his set, applauded thunderously afterwards, but not quite topping fuzz level.
During the break, I was talking to people when a photographer friend whizzed by.
"I gotta go now, but I want to talk about the movie!"
I've seen two this week, but given his predilection for dance parties, I'm guessing he wants to discuss last night's "Shut Up and Play the Hits."
And honestly, I'd like nothing better than to talk about LCD Soundsystem with another fan.
For Antlers' set, the lights were lowered to more atmospheric level, the better to suit their ambient, drone sound.
Which was actually pretty interesting for me, since it was in direct contrast to my unforgettable first Antlers experience.
Flash back to 2007 and the Silent Music Revival was being held at Rumors Boutique.
The place was packed, not only every square inch of the store, but the sidewalk outside as well.
Inside where I was, Antlers played an incredibly loud set while organizer Jameson rushed around with a roll of toilet paper, offering wads with which to plug our ears.
Even so, it was awesome music that took the silent movie being shown to another whole level.
Tonight's show had no drums or guitars and the volume required no adjustment, allowing me to get an update on the band's sound.
Impressive.
During the break, I complimented a friend on his natty attire, so different than his usual monochromatic uniform.
Smiling sheepishly, he said, "Well, I have someone dressing me now."
Judging by how much better he looked, it didn't take much figuring to guess that it was a girlfriend.
Bingo! He admitted as much.
And he's not even the first newly-attached guy I know to be suddenly looking far more attractively dressed.
Funny how that works.
Fashion statements acknowledged, we then got to tonight's stars, Lobo Marino, because it was their CD release show.
That fact was particularly salient to many of us in the room because we'd been in that very room on March 29th when Lobo Marino had recorded that CD.
It was a homecoming of sorts.
Unlike last time I'd see them play, Laney was no longer killing her knees and back playing her new harmonium.
Instead, she'd made a cloth-covered stand for the instrument and used a pillow to kneel on when playing it.
They began their first song only to stop short because they couldn't hear each other and Jameson may have been singing a bit off key.
Moving closer, Laney said, "Okay, everyone, in the key of C!"
Everyone was Jameson, so it was a pretty funny moment.
They played a lot off the new album, including the lovely "Young and Old," which included Joon on violin, Dave on dulcitar and Mark on bass.
The winds carry our kites
When we are old, when we were young
Jameson talked about being on tour so much, since they are about to leave on an extended tour that will take them on a square-shaped route around the U.S.
"People have one of three reactions when we say we're from Richmond," he explained. "They say they know what a cool scene it is. Or they ask where it is because there's a Richmond in every state - Richmond, Indiana. Or they say, GWAR!"
As shining examples of RVA's cool scene, we couldn't do better than having these two represent.
They also deserves kudos for the variety of sounds they make.
And I'm not even talking about their basics: drum, guitar, accordion and harmonium.
Both Laney and Jameson wore anklets with bells that they shook for sound.
For one song, he played the drum with the end of the guitar's neck while he strummed the other end.
And he played a mouth harp, causing many smiling faces in the audience for its distinctive twang.
He also played a painted metal vase, having hammered the bottom so that when he played it, it had a steel drum sound.
That's some creative music-making.
Before doing two of their older songs to close, Laney apologized, saying, "I didn't mean to flash you. I usually play more accordion."
In fact, her floor-length silver floral dress over a black tank top was the essence of bohemian chic and no one had seen anything inappropriate.
Or at least no one is saying if they did.
After closing with the perennial favorite "Animal Hands," people flocked to the merch table to buy the new CD, "Kite Festival."
Naturally I was one of them since I'd been there for the recording, but I was still in for a surprise.
Inside the CD was a square of onionskin-like paper, the top of which proclaimed, "Lobo Marino Community Recording Project."
It was covered in names and drawings, a reproduction of the sheet we'd all signed that magical March night.
Let's just say it was a thrill to see my name.
And a complete surprise.
Somehow I've been lucky enough to have had my name on two other albums by local artists, but it's still an undeniable kick every time it happens.
Tonight it was the last of my unexpected pleasures and one I will be able to revisit every time I listen to the new album.
Like right now under a new moon.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Every Day I Write the Book
Tonight was all about saying so long, farewell.
The first adieu was only temporary since Bistro Bobette isn't going away, just on vacation.
But they're doing it French style naturally, which means closing this Sunday and not reopening for over a month.
What a civilized way to handle summer.
So we slipped in early so I could prove to my partner in crime that they have the best hot dog in the entire city.
But first I had to kiss the Frenchmen: bartender and chef alike.
We caught their 5:00 drink special hour which fortified us to be told that they had no hot dogs in house.
Apparently Sausagecraft, who makes the dogs based on Chef's recipe, are also on vacation.
But I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead got the portobella stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and covered in swiss cheese.
It was as delicious a way to get a plate full of veggies as any I've had lately and with all that cheese, especially satisfying.
The pork and veal pate's richness was perfectly set off by the pickled vegetables, grainy mustard and cornichons, ensuring that each bite formed a complete range of complementary flavors on a toasted baguette.
I always enjoy the music at Bobette, but I could tell tonight's was a different station than the usual Pink Martini.
The Saint Germaine station was a tad more sophisticated and nicely suited an early evening summer meal at a local French bistro.
By the time my rose' glass was empty, we had to be going so as not to miss a one-time shot.
Showing at Movieland tonight only was "Shut Up and Play the Hits," a documentary about LCD Soundsytem's final show at Madison Square Garden.
Besides the outstanding concert footage, particularly appealing to someone who never got to see them live, the documentary provided a look at the 41-year old behind the sound.
The man who decided to disband the group at the height of its success.
The man who, after playing a sold-out show last year, comes backstage and asks his manager, "Did we not just pull off a high school play at Madison Square Garden?"
But make no mistake, it was nothing like a high school play.
A better description would be frontman Murphy's own words. "We're the best LCD Soundsystem cover band ever," since his records came first and a band was only assembled much later.
The band, including the additional musicians for that night, was incredibly tight.
The songs are satiric ("Losing My Edge"), thoughtful ("All My Friends"), feature big names (The Arcade Fire, Reggie Watts) and are so dance worthy I never stopped moving in my seat during the show footage.
But then, that's what fans love about LCD Soundsystem.
It's dance music par excellence and the MSG crowd moved non-stop through three sets, two encores and 29 songs.
Personally, I'm also a huge fan of Murphy's voice, hearing a crooner who just happened to have chosen to do stellar synth-pop for dance-crazed fans.
By the end of the film, it was clear that even Murphy had some regrets about reclaiming a normal life and giving up a successful band.
If they're smart, up and coming dance bands will take Murphy's lyrical advice: "Then it's the memories of our betters that are keeping us on our feet."
Guys, if the memory of LCD, definitely a better, doesn't keep you on your feet, check your pulse.
As proof, when we walked out of the theater, I felt as let down as if I'd just seen an amazing concert and was immediately plunged into regret that it was over.
How else to recover but with some live local music?
Goldrush was doing a combination homecoming/going-away show at Six Burner.
Which means they hadn't played at 6B in well over a year and are about to leave on a mid-west tour.
You say goodbye and I say hello.
We arrived in time to score bar stools in view of the stage area and took the first bottle of Gavi that came our way.
As violinist Treesa and bassist Matt quickly finished up their dinner next to us, people began to stream in for the show.
By the time they began, the place was packed and the owner was beaming.
No doubt beer and small plate specials helped, too.
We couldn't resist the mussels with bacon and garlic in a Gruyere and wine sauce, even though we'd just eaten a couple of hours before.
Or maybe I just needed something savory after downing a box of Milk Duds at the theater.
The group had no drummer tonight, but I've always liked how much easier it is to hear Matt's upright bass when there aren't any drums, so I didn't mind too much.
Talking about their upcoming tour with a stop in her hometown in Kansas, Treesa noted that Prabir has more Facebook friends than there are people in that town.
Yikes. And no doubt true.
They rolled through new material (always a pleasure since I've been seeing them for years now), a few old songs (would it be a Goldrush show without Prabir singing about rolling one?), tequila shots and their idols.
Goldrush are constitutionally unable to play a show without doing the Beatles and tonight we got the ubiquitous "Eleanor Rigby" (second time this week I've heard it live) and they closed with "I Am the Walrus."
By midnight they finished, saying a fond farewell as they head out on the road.
So to Bobette, I say a bientot until September.
To LCD Soundsystem, farewell and thanks for the memories. Everybody dance now.
To Goldrush, good luck and good fun, as if I need to tell you guys that.
And that's enough good-byes for a while.
The first adieu was only temporary since Bistro Bobette isn't going away, just on vacation.
But they're doing it French style naturally, which means closing this Sunday and not reopening for over a month.
What a civilized way to handle summer.
So we slipped in early so I could prove to my partner in crime that they have the best hot dog in the entire city.
But first I had to kiss the Frenchmen: bartender and chef alike.
We caught their 5:00 drink special hour which fortified us to be told that they had no hot dogs in house.
Apparently Sausagecraft, who makes the dogs based on Chef's recipe, are also on vacation.
But I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead got the portobella stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and covered in swiss cheese.
It was as delicious a way to get a plate full of veggies as any I've had lately and with all that cheese, especially satisfying.
The pork and veal pate's richness was perfectly set off by the pickled vegetables, grainy mustard and cornichons, ensuring that each bite formed a complete range of complementary flavors on a toasted baguette.
I always enjoy the music at Bobette, but I could tell tonight's was a different station than the usual Pink Martini.
The Saint Germaine station was a tad more sophisticated and nicely suited an early evening summer meal at a local French bistro.
By the time my rose' glass was empty, we had to be going so as not to miss a one-time shot.
Showing at Movieland tonight only was "Shut Up and Play the Hits," a documentary about LCD Soundsytem's final show at Madison Square Garden.
Besides the outstanding concert footage, particularly appealing to someone who never got to see them live, the documentary provided a look at the 41-year old behind the sound.
The man who decided to disband the group at the height of its success.
The man who, after playing a sold-out show last year, comes backstage and asks his manager, "Did we not just pull off a high school play at Madison Square Garden?"
But make no mistake, it was nothing like a high school play.
A better description would be frontman Murphy's own words. "We're the best LCD Soundsystem cover band ever," since his records came first and a band was only assembled much later.
The band, including the additional musicians for that night, was incredibly tight.
The songs are satiric ("Losing My Edge"), thoughtful ("All My Friends"), feature big names (The Arcade Fire, Reggie Watts) and are so dance worthy I never stopped moving in my seat during the show footage.
But then, that's what fans love about LCD Soundsystem.
It's dance music par excellence and the MSG crowd moved non-stop through three sets, two encores and 29 songs.
Personally, I'm also a huge fan of Murphy's voice, hearing a crooner who just happened to have chosen to do stellar synth-pop for dance-crazed fans.
By the end of the film, it was clear that even Murphy had some regrets about reclaiming a normal life and giving up a successful band.
If they're smart, up and coming dance bands will take Murphy's lyrical advice: "Then it's the memories of our betters that are keeping us on our feet."
Guys, if the memory of LCD, definitely a better, doesn't keep you on your feet, check your pulse.
As proof, when we walked out of the theater, I felt as let down as if I'd just seen an amazing concert and was immediately plunged into regret that it was over.
How else to recover but with some live local music?
Goldrush was doing a combination homecoming/going-away show at Six Burner.
Which means they hadn't played at 6B in well over a year and are about to leave on a mid-west tour.
You say goodbye and I say hello.
We arrived in time to score bar stools in view of the stage area and took the first bottle of Gavi that came our way.
As violinist Treesa and bassist Matt quickly finished up their dinner next to us, people began to stream in for the show.
By the time they began, the place was packed and the owner was beaming.
No doubt beer and small plate specials helped, too.
We couldn't resist the mussels with bacon and garlic in a Gruyere and wine sauce, even though we'd just eaten a couple of hours before.
Or maybe I just needed something savory after downing a box of Milk Duds at the theater.
The group had no drummer tonight, but I've always liked how much easier it is to hear Matt's upright bass when there aren't any drums, so I didn't mind too much.
Talking about their upcoming tour with a stop in her hometown in Kansas, Treesa noted that Prabir has more Facebook friends than there are people in that town.
Yikes. And no doubt true.
They rolled through new material (always a pleasure since I've been seeing them for years now), a few old songs (would it be a Goldrush show without Prabir singing about rolling one?), tequila shots and their idols.
Goldrush are constitutionally unable to play a show without doing the Beatles and tonight we got the ubiquitous "Eleanor Rigby" (second time this week I've heard it live) and they closed with "I Am the Walrus."
By midnight they finished, saying a fond farewell as they head out on the road.
So to Bobette, I say a bientot until September.
To LCD Soundsystem, farewell and thanks for the memories. Everybody dance now.
To Goldrush, good luck and good fun, as if I need to tell you guys that.
And that's enough good-byes for a while.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Number, Please
Really, despite my Washington birthplace, I'm just another Virginian at work.
So why not take a gallery walk at the Virginia Historical Society to escape the heat and hear about the exhibit "Virginians at Work"?
Our guide Chris was on the education staff and was knowledgeable and full of stories he'd heard from previous tours, making him a terrific person to shepherd us through the many objects in the exhibit.
He began by explaining that Virginia had been founded, not for the sake of religious freedom (good god, no; you had to be an Anglican!) but as a business venture.
They may have called the participants "adventurers," but the fact is, they were financial investors, plain and simple.
It wasn't until 1624 that the king started noticing how valuable the company was becoming and promptly made them a royal colony.
I was fascinated to learn that Virginian Cyrus McCormick had no luck selling his newly patented reaper to Virginia planters because they didn't need it.
Why would they with all the slave labor they had?
Fortunately, the mid-west farmers didn't have the same problem.
When Chris showed us a wooden corn sheller contraption, he said a visitor had told him that his uncle had lost part of his arm in just such a device and stuck his own arm down the chute.
I was one of several females who openly winced at that mental picture.
He said another visitor recognized the nearby straw cutter from his youth and held up his thumb, minus the last joint, to demonstrate why.
"And back in those days, there were no recalls," Chris said. "The companies figured if you bought it, you knew how to use it."
Boy, those were the days.
We heard about the massive debt Virginia took on to build an elaborate canal system, only to see it replaced by railroads for moving goods.
Then there were the hundred or so companies making cars in Virgina, many at a time when the state had one of the worst road systems, mostly rutted dirt.
Fortunately for safety's sake, there were reflector rings, large piece of red glass on a piece of jewelry that a motorist wore on his finger to make his turn signal movements more visible to others.
Bicyclists, take note.
Another delight was an old photograph of two of Richmond Police's bike patrol astride their cruisers in 1942.
I have to admit, I was amazed to learn that the bike patrol had begun in 1900.
You can imagine my thrill when I saw my neighborhood represented in the exhibit.
On display was the magnificent hearse of A.D. Price, the premiere funeral home in African-American Jackson Ward.
With large windows on the sides and back, red velvet curtains inside and gold fringe all the way around the outside, it was the grandest possible way to go to the cemetery.
I mean, if you had to go.
I was just as excited to see an old telephone operator switchboard because both of my grandmothers had been switchboard operators, one in Washington and one in Richmond.
What I hadn't know until Chris told us was that back in the day when telephone service was beginning, the phone company originally hired young men to be operators.
As he pointed out, how customer-service oriented are most teen-aged boys?
Exactly.
Once the companies had grown tired of the young men fighting with and yelling at people on the phone, they wisely began hiring young women for their superior skill at handling customers.
I remember thinking as a child how unlikely it seemed that not one but both of my grandmas had been operators their whole lives.
But Chris explained that women's options in the '20s and '30s were pretty much limited to teaching and nursing until men's jobs began giving way to women, much like those two professions had.
Likewise back then, secretaries were men and called clerks until women started taking over that menial task, too.
So while I might have come to the gallery walk to get out of the heat, I ended up having one of my eternal childhood questions answered.
Thanks, Virginia Historical Society, for giving me a reason to think of New Grandma and Old Grandma today.
P.S.: The neighborhood hearse was pure gravy.
So why not take a gallery walk at the Virginia Historical Society to escape the heat and hear about the exhibit "Virginians at Work"?
Our guide Chris was on the education staff and was knowledgeable and full of stories he'd heard from previous tours, making him a terrific person to shepherd us through the many objects in the exhibit.
He began by explaining that Virginia had been founded, not for the sake of religious freedom (good god, no; you had to be an Anglican!) but as a business venture.
They may have called the participants "adventurers," but the fact is, they were financial investors, plain and simple.
It wasn't until 1624 that the king started noticing how valuable the company was becoming and promptly made them a royal colony.
I was fascinated to learn that Virginian Cyrus McCormick had no luck selling his newly patented reaper to Virginia planters because they didn't need it.
Why would they with all the slave labor they had?
Fortunately, the mid-west farmers didn't have the same problem.
When Chris showed us a wooden corn sheller contraption, he said a visitor had told him that his uncle had lost part of his arm in just such a device and stuck his own arm down the chute.
I was one of several females who openly winced at that mental picture.
He said another visitor recognized the nearby straw cutter from his youth and held up his thumb, minus the last joint, to demonstrate why.
"And back in those days, there were no recalls," Chris said. "The companies figured if you bought it, you knew how to use it."
Boy, those were the days.
We heard about the massive debt Virginia took on to build an elaborate canal system, only to see it replaced by railroads for moving goods.
Then there were the hundred or so companies making cars in Virgina, many at a time when the state had one of the worst road systems, mostly rutted dirt.
Fortunately for safety's sake, there were reflector rings, large piece of red glass on a piece of jewelry that a motorist wore on his finger to make his turn signal movements more visible to others.
Bicyclists, take note.
Another delight was an old photograph of two of Richmond Police's bike patrol astride their cruisers in 1942.
I have to admit, I was amazed to learn that the bike patrol had begun in 1900.
You can imagine my thrill when I saw my neighborhood represented in the exhibit.
On display was the magnificent hearse of A.D. Price, the premiere funeral home in African-American Jackson Ward.
With large windows on the sides and back, red velvet curtains inside and gold fringe all the way around the outside, it was the grandest possible way to go to the cemetery.
I mean, if you had to go.
I was just as excited to see an old telephone operator switchboard because both of my grandmothers had been switchboard operators, one in Washington and one in Richmond.
What I hadn't know until Chris told us was that back in the day when telephone service was beginning, the phone company originally hired young men to be operators.
As he pointed out, how customer-service oriented are most teen-aged boys?
Exactly.
Once the companies had grown tired of the young men fighting with and yelling at people on the phone, they wisely began hiring young women for their superior skill at handling customers.
I remember thinking as a child how unlikely it seemed that not one but both of my grandmas had been operators their whole lives.
But Chris explained that women's options in the '20s and '30s were pretty much limited to teaching and nursing until men's jobs began giving way to women, much like those two professions had.
Likewise back then, secretaries were men and called clerks until women started taking over that menial task, too.
So while I might have come to the gallery walk to get out of the heat, I ended up having one of my eternal childhood questions answered.
Thanks, Virginia Historical Society, for giving me a reason to think of New Grandma and Old Grandma today.
P.S.: The neighborhood hearse was pure gravy.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
I Do for an Evening
If you're going to go to dinner with a husband, always pick a happily married one.
They make the best company because they have no agenda.
Besides, it had been months since we'd gotten together and he'd missed celebrating my birthday with me.
And we can't start the lead-up to his birthday until we finish celebrating mine.
Okay, so that's my rule, but he graciously went along with it.
I've no doubt he tolerates such peccadilloes solely because I'm not his real wife.
His busy schedule had left no time for new restaurants, so that was priority one.
We decided on Deco in the Museum District once we heard about the Sicilian street food part of the menu.
The tiny bar has backless, red Lucite stools and while they didn't look particularly comfy, we were wrong.
Hubby and I decided they fit our backsides awfully well.
He got his usual heavily bruised martini and I went with a glass of Analissa Pinot Grigio while I heard tales of our time apart.
Biggest laugh goes to the knife skills class he taught where he sliced his finger open and had to staunch the blood running down his arm out of sight of his eager pupils.
The scar was impressive.
Eventually, our server asked if we wanted to order and did we ever.
A look at the menu and there it was, a selection of small plates featuring the kinds of food you'd find on the streets of Sicily.
That's when our server lowered the boom, informing us that they were out of all of them except the salad and the olives.
No meatballs, no arancini, no chickpea fritters or battered cauliflower.
"Where do you want to go to eat?" the borrowed husband asked, not willing to settle for pasta or an entree.
No longer would red Lucite cradle our butts.
Since he was still in the mood for small plates, I suggested Six Burner, knowing he hadn't been in since they went to an all tapas menu.
As a bonus, it was half off wine by the glass night and my favorite man in pumps was bartending.
Some things are just meant to be.
After scoring some Gavi and another bruised martini, this one with three olives on steroids, we began ordering.
Hubby was all but salivating over so many interesting flavor profiles on the menu.
Our first must-have was the crowder peas, butter beans and Hubbs peanuts in sorghum molasses.
Toothsome beans and crunchy peanuts in a sauce best described as sweet and heat made for a dish both us could have eaten a lot more of.
Based on my last visit, we got the huevos rancheros-style calamari with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs.
For the second time, the combination of spicy calamari and sausage with melt-in-your-mouth soft-cooked eggs was irresistible.
Bluefish with sauteed shitakes in sorrel sauce took me back to the Friday dinners of my childhood where we alternated rockfish one week and bluefish the next.
But let's be clear here, my mother never did anything half so interesting as this dish of succulent mushrooms married to beautifully strong-tasting bluefish with a mild (and very green) sorrel sauce.
And then came the nerdy part of the ordering.
Being a language geek, how could I not choose something that came with an adjective?
King mackerel with awesome Spanish chorizo succotash proved why the modifier had been required.
Yes, the mackerel was delicious, firm and meaty, but that succotash was to die for.
The mixture of butter beans, corn, grape tomatoes and okra tasted like a summer vegetable stand had exploded in our mouths.
Add chorizo to it and we were practically swooning over the party we were chewing.
Completely stuffed, we could only enjoy the dessert menu in audio form.
But I knew I'd made the right restaurant choice when he started talking about bringing the wife there.
Soon, very soon.
If there's one way to ensure a husband enjoys a night out, it's by providing a completely different experience for him than his wife would.
With this particular husband, that's by eating absolutely everything, being an extrovert and not expecting him to call me by 10:00.
I'm only good at it because I can send him on his way at the end of the night.
Hell, I'm a natural for the role of occasional wife.
They make the best company because they have no agenda.
Besides, it had been months since we'd gotten together and he'd missed celebrating my birthday with me.
And we can't start the lead-up to his birthday until we finish celebrating mine.
Okay, so that's my rule, but he graciously went along with it.
I've no doubt he tolerates such peccadilloes solely because I'm not his real wife.
His busy schedule had left no time for new restaurants, so that was priority one.
We decided on Deco in the Museum District once we heard about the Sicilian street food part of the menu.
The tiny bar has backless, red Lucite stools and while they didn't look particularly comfy, we were wrong.
Hubby and I decided they fit our backsides awfully well.
He got his usual heavily bruised martini and I went with a glass of Analissa Pinot Grigio while I heard tales of our time apart.
Biggest laugh goes to the knife skills class he taught where he sliced his finger open and had to staunch the blood running down his arm out of sight of his eager pupils.
The scar was impressive.
Eventually, our server asked if we wanted to order and did we ever.
A look at the menu and there it was, a selection of small plates featuring the kinds of food you'd find on the streets of Sicily.
That's when our server lowered the boom, informing us that they were out of all of them except the salad and the olives.
No meatballs, no arancini, no chickpea fritters or battered cauliflower.
"Where do you want to go to eat?" the borrowed husband asked, not willing to settle for pasta or an entree.
No longer would red Lucite cradle our butts.
Since he was still in the mood for small plates, I suggested Six Burner, knowing he hadn't been in since they went to an all tapas menu.
As a bonus, it was half off wine by the glass night and my favorite man in pumps was bartending.
Some things are just meant to be.
After scoring some Gavi and another bruised martini, this one with three olives on steroids, we began ordering.
Hubby was all but salivating over so many interesting flavor profiles on the menu.
Our first must-have was the crowder peas, butter beans and Hubbs peanuts in sorghum molasses.
Toothsome beans and crunchy peanuts in a sauce best described as sweet and heat made for a dish both us could have eaten a lot more of.
Based on my last visit, we got the huevos rancheros-style calamari with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs.
For the second time, the combination of spicy calamari and sausage with melt-in-your-mouth soft-cooked eggs was irresistible.
Bluefish with sauteed shitakes in sorrel sauce took me back to the Friday dinners of my childhood where we alternated rockfish one week and bluefish the next.
But let's be clear here, my mother never did anything half so interesting as this dish of succulent mushrooms married to beautifully strong-tasting bluefish with a mild (and very green) sorrel sauce.
And then came the nerdy part of the ordering.
Being a language geek, how could I not choose something that came with an adjective?
King mackerel with awesome Spanish chorizo succotash proved why the modifier had been required.
Yes, the mackerel was delicious, firm and meaty, but that succotash was to die for.
The mixture of butter beans, corn, grape tomatoes and okra tasted like a summer vegetable stand had exploded in our mouths.
Add chorizo to it and we were practically swooning over the party we were chewing.
Completely stuffed, we could only enjoy the dessert menu in audio form.
But I knew I'd made the right restaurant choice when he started talking about bringing the wife there.
Soon, very soon.
If there's one way to ensure a husband enjoys a night out, it's by providing a completely different experience for him than his wife would.
With this particular husband, that's by eating absolutely everything, being an extrovert and not expecting him to call me by 10:00.
I'm only good at it because I can send him on his way at the end of the night.
Hell, I'm a natural for the role of occasional wife.
Light Envy
I'm hearing an an awful lot about Italy lately.
Friends recently returned from a couple of weeks there and are still glowing from it, raving about it and recommending it.
With that in mind, a hot afternoon seemed like the ideal time to motor to the Westhampton Theater and see Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love."
When I asked for two tickets to "To Rome," the ticket seller said, "Alright, if you want to," disdain dripping from his voice.
When I asked if he'd seen it, he got adamant. "I don't like Woody Allen and I don't like some life choices he's made."
Whoa.
How about you just hand us the tickets and keep your editorializing to yourself?
Shaking that off, we headed upstairs and took front row seats.
The movie was as convincing as my friends had been about Italy.
Between lingering shots of the architecture and the city's uniquely beautiful light, it'd be hard to walk out without at least dreaming of a visit to the land of adultery and ruins.
As a Woody Allen fan dating back to college, I got a kick out of Allen's role in the movie.
Once again, he played himself.
So he worried about airplane turbulence, questioned food he was offered and tossed off one-liners that made me laugh out loud.
"You want our little darling to marry into Eurotrash?" he asks in all sincerity when he meets her handsome Italian fiance.
Not necessarily, but I want Woody Allen to say things like that.
Like "Midnight in Paris," the movie is basically a love letter to a city and its people.
Of all the many subplots and threads dangling from there, I especially enjoyed the one about the young architect being tempted by his girlfriend's best friend.
It wasn't so much the tempting that amused me as the Alec Baldwin character, an older architect, who advises the young man along the treacherous path to adultery.
With his years of experience, he is the voice of reason as the young man falls under the spell of the erratic, glib and out-of-work actress.
Each time he warned him of what the woman was doing, whether throwing out one line of a poem to indicate familiarity she didn't have or making up lesbian encounters to get him hot, his advice came from the mind, heart and lips of a guy who'd been there.
We should all be so lucky as to have such an alter-ego/ghost/other self.
And, good god, Penelope Cruz has to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and I hope Allen never stops using her in his films.
If ever there was a woman I wanted to gawk at, it's her.
As a call girl who teaches a young newlywed how to properly make love, she undoubtedly left that poor guy wondering, "How did I get so lucky?"
Parts of the movie were downright ridiculous, like the Joe Average guy who ends up being hounded by the paparazzi (simply for being famous) and liking it.
Parts were funny in that Woody Allen-literate kind of way, with references to psychoanalysis, Rilke and Freud.
Everyone cheated on their wives (it was Italy, after all), all the women, old and young, were beautiful and Woody Allen never stopped with his self-deprecating shtick.
In other words, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Woody Allen movie.
And if I wasn't 100% sure I needed to visit Italy before I went into it, I'm quite certain now.
The requisite post-film discussion was done at the revamped Ipanema, positively beautiful after its recent renovation.
Walking in, the soft glow of the new light fight fixture globes reflected softly off the blond wood bar.
That's right; the dark, rec-room-like vibe of Ipanema is passe.
As in, so 1998 and so gloriously 2012 now.
Welcome to my favorite dessert and cocktail lounge, it seemed to say.
The well-lit back bar is sleek and black, vintage lamps adorn both ends of the bar and the tabletops are now a soft shade of dove gray.
There are even a couple of new two-tops, one near the front window and the other where the bench used to be.
I'm betting that those become the most desirable seats in the house: out of the way but with great views of the action.
A paisley curtain (made by a poor writer) hangs near the front and in the back, a green stenciled wall provides a homey touch.
We were there for wine and dessert and my choice was Vinho Verde and Mexican chocolate pie.
The music was set to Spotify (starting point: Future Islands) so we enjoyed Helio Sequence and XX, among others.
In other words, the music was as cool as the vibe.
In other breaking news, Ipanema now has paper menus so the era of the chalkboard menu is on its way out, much like paper library cards and corner traffic lights.
But don't worry, kids, Mondays are still $2 draught nights, so by 10:15, the place was awash in fresh-faced customers looking to find their beer goggles on a budget.
If they're lucky, their inner Alec Baldwin will give them advice about the members of the opposite sex who strike their fancy, saving them from unnecessary and potentially awkward life lessons.
If not, they can make their mistakes and learn the hard way like the rest of us did.
And, chances are, once they learn their lessons, they'll want to find someone with whom they can go to Italy.
Who wouldn't want to be seen in that light?
Friends recently returned from a couple of weeks there and are still glowing from it, raving about it and recommending it.
With that in mind, a hot afternoon seemed like the ideal time to motor to the Westhampton Theater and see Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love."
When I asked for two tickets to "To Rome," the ticket seller said, "Alright, if you want to," disdain dripping from his voice.
When I asked if he'd seen it, he got adamant. "I don't like Woody Allen and I don't like some life choices he's made."
Whoa.
How about you just hand us the tickets and keep your editorializing to yourself?
Shaking that off, we headed upstairs and took front row seats.
The movie was as convincing as my friends had been about Italy.
Between lingering shots of the architecture and the city's uniquely beautiful light, it'd be hard to walk out without at least dreaming of a visit to the land of adultery and ruins.
As a Woody Allen fan dating back to college, I got a kick out of Allen's role in the movie.
Once again, he played himself.
So he worried about airplane turbulence, questioned food he was offered and tossed off one-liners that made me laugh out loud.
"You want our little darling to marry into Eurotrash?" he asks in all sincerity when he meets her handsome Italian fiance.
Not necessarily, but I want Woody Allen to say things like that.
Like "Midnight in Paris," the movie is basically a love letter to a city and its people.
Of all the many subplots and threads dangling from there, I especially enjoyed the one about the young architect being tempted by his girlfriend's best friend.
It wasn't so much the tempting that amused me as the Alec Baldwin character, an older architect, who advises the young man along the treacherous path to adultery.
With his years of experience, he is the voice of reason as the young man falls under the spell of the erratic, glib and out-of-work actress.
Each time he warned him of what the woman was doing, whether throwing out one line of a poem to indicate familiarity she didn't have or making up lesbian encounters to get him hot, his advice came from the mind, heart and lips of a guy who'd been there.
We should all be so lucky as to have such an alter-ego/ghost/other self.
And, good god, Penelope Cruz has to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and I hope Allen never stops using her in his films.
If ever there was a woman I wanted to gawk at, it's her.
As a call girl who teaches a young newlywed how to properly make love, she undoubtedly left that poor guy wondering, "How did I get so lucky?"
Parts of the movie were downright ridiculous, like the Joe Average guy who ends up being hounded by the paparazzi (simply for being famous) and liking it.
Parts were funny in that Woody Allen-literate kind of way, with references to psychoanalysis, Rilke and Freud.
Everyone cheated on their wives (it was Italy, after all), all the women, old and young, were beautiful and Woody Allen never stopped with his self-deprecating shtick.
In other words, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Woody Allen movie.
And if I wasn't 100% sure I needed to visit Italy before I went into it, I'm quite certain now.
The requisite post-film discussion was done at the revamped Ipanema, positively beautiful after its recent renovation.
Walking in, the soft glow of the new light fight fixture globes reflected softly off the blond wood bar.
That's right; the dark, rec-room-like vibe of Ipanema is passe.
As in, so 1998 and so gloriously 2012 now.
Welcome to my favorite dessert and cocktail lounge, it seemed to say.
The well-lit back bar is sleek and black, vintage lamps adorn both ends of the bar and the tabletops are now a soft shade of dove gray.
There are even a couple of new two-tops, one near the front window and the other where the bench used to be.
I'm betting that those become the most desirable seats in the house: out of the way but with great views of the action.
A paisley curtain (made by a poor writer) hangs near the front and in the back, a green stenciled wall provides a homey touch.
We were there for wine and dessert and my choice was Vinho Verde and Mexican chocolate pie.
The music was set to Spotify (starting point: Future Islands) so we enjoyed Helio Sequence and XX, among others.
In other words, the music was as cool as the vibe.
In other breaking news, Ipanema now has paper menus so the era of the chalkboard menu is on its way out, much like paper library cards and corner traffic lights.
But don't worry, kids, Mondays are still $2 draught nights, so by 10:15, the place was awash in fresh-faced customers looking to find their beer goggles on a budget.
If they're lucky, their inner Alec Baldwin will give them advice about the members of the opposite sex who strike their fancy, saving them from unnecessary and potentially awkward life lessons.
If not, they can make their mistakes and learn the hard way like the rest of us did.
And, chances are, once they learn their lessons, they'll want to find someone with whom they can go to Italy.
Who wouldn't want to be seen in that light?
Monday, July 16, 2012
What is the City but the People?
Never let it be said that my tastes aren't diverse.
There's the emo lover in me.
She's the reason I was at Plan 9 for an in-store performance by Derek Evry, a pop/punk musician from Arlington.
Think Jimmy Eat World or even Green Day.
The first half of his set was just him and an acoustic guitar and included a stellar cover of A-ha's "Take on Me."
As my companion noted, "He's brave to do an acoustic cover of this."
And yes, I love No BS Brass band's instrumental cover of the '80s classic, but slowed down and with only acoustic accompaniment, it was a truly beautiful song.
He even got the crowd to join in on the chorus and a surprising number of people did.
Drummer Ben joined him for the second half of the set and it was then that I turned around to see it pouring rain through the open door.
We hadn't heard a drop over the music.
The music got louder and fuller with Ben's drumming and included a song about playing shows ("Tell Everyone") and Derek's comment, "On this one I get to play riffy stuff instead of just rhythm guitar."
You know, riffy stuff. It's a musical term.
Both guys were excellent musicians and despite the volume, sounded terrific.
By the time the music stopped, so had the rain. I picked up a couple of albums and we were off to 821 Cafe for eats.
Although I am devoted to 821's black bean nachos, I went renegade and got the smoked salmon instead.
I thought it would go better with my iced tequila since 821 isn't much of a wine place.
Delivering my plate, my server (a former Sprout favorite) apologized for the absence of pita.
Instead I had wheat toast points, which were a fine vehicle for the enormous slab of smoked salmon, dill cream cheese, capers and red onions on my plate.
Really, it was an appetizer for two and I was only one.
So, nutritional needs met, we moved on to Virginia Repertory Theater at Willow Lawn.
Okay, let's just call a spade a spade: Barksdale.
Tonight was a gender-reversed exploration of "Coriolanus," a Shakespearean tragedy I'd never read, much less seen produced.
Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's will; 'tis strongly wedged up in a blockhead.
The story of a celebrated warrior who refused to exploit his war wounds and victories for political gain was fascinating on a number of levels.
First, there was the A-list female cast playing all the male roles.
Twenty five women and four men.
It's not the odds I'd want in the real world, but onstage for Shakespeare, it made for a singularly distinctive theater experience.
He is a lion that I am proud to hunt.
Susan Sanford was commanding and funny in the tile role, much as she was "Spring Awakening," which I'd seen for the second time yesterday.
Having seen her perform and enjoy herself at the Ghost Light Afterparty several times now, I had to laugh out loud when her line was, "Have we no wine here?"
Her occasional "huh?" added contemporary touches to her couplets.
But then so did the cell phone exchange between her and her enemy.
Let her alone, lady, as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.
The story of a disgruntled people who cast out their warrior leader because of the way he treats them had particular resonance during this, an election year.
No Shakespearean tragedy is short, but the pacing on this one kept things moving and never lagged for a moment.
Before I knew it, Coriolanus had been victorious, dumped by his people, embraced his enemy (Molly Hood, as always strong, as Aufidius) and won back over by his tearful mother (a magnificent Alan Sader as Volumnia).
For certain, drops of salt have always been part of a woman's arsenal.
I know; I grew up with five sisters.
So, while I've seen some first class female drama in my lifetime, last night's was right up there.
I can only hope that director BC Maupin continues to charge ahead with his intent to produce the Bard's entire canon with gender-reversed explorations.
Count me in for watching girls take over boy parts.
You can take that any way you like.
The evening ended with music at Balliceaux because after great tragedy, I needed a little Brazilica.
Amazingly, I got world class stuff with Quarteto Olinda, four Brazilian guys on their first tour of the U.S.
That's right; they'd payed the Kennedy Center and Lincoln Center and now they were in Richmond.
I won't even bore you with my usual "is this a great town or what?" lecture, but there it is.
Kudos to the Virginia Center for Latin American Art for sponsoring the event.
The group's music, forro de rabeca, is based on the Brazilian folk fiddle, which I was surprised to see is played not on the shoulder and under the chin, but from just in front of the armpit.
And tonight it was played by Claudio in a vibrant orange flowered shirt, singing in Portuguese and moving his hips most seductively.
My partner in crime and I got our cold beverages and took seats on the back of the second booth so as to see all the dancing and the energetic band.
The four piece had that fiddle, a drummer, percussionist and, most surprisingly, an electric bass.
The percussion was zydeco-like and all four musicians traded vocals which were almost like chants.
And the crowd responded by dancing up a storm.
Toward the end, pairs of dancers would lock hands and other couples would dance through the "tower" of their arms.
After that, boys lined up on one side and girls on another, and people danced through the middle, Soul-Train-like.
The best way I can describe it is to say I felt like I was at a Brazilian hoedown.
I especially liked a song called "Carolina" maybe because I could imagine them singing "Karina" instead.
But at the end of their exuberant second set, it was time to bring the party to a close.
Reading phonetically from a piece of paper, bandleader Claudio said, "This is the last song. Thank you very much.We will see you next time."
But they gave that last song their all, blending traditional, rural Brazilian music with the unmistakable strains of "Eleanor Rigby" throughout.
Frickin' brilliant.
It was a closing masterpiece that put an exclamation point to a day that began with exuberant emo, fought its way through an estrogen-soaked tragedy and spit us out on the other end with a Brazilian dance party.
And all without having to disease my better mirth by driving to the Kennedy Center.
What blockhead wouldn't take advantage of such a smorgasbord on a Sunday night?
There's the emo lover in me.
She's the reason I was at Plan 9 for an in-store performance by Derek Evry, a pop/punk musician from Arlington.
Think Jimmy Eat World or even Green Day.
The first half of his set was just him and an acoustic guitar and included a stellar cover of A-ha's "Take on Me."
As my companion noted, "He's brave to do an acoustic cover of this."
And yes, I love No BS Brass band's instrumental cover of the '80s classic, but slowed down and with only acoustic accompaniment, it was a truly beautiful song.
He even got the crowd to join in on the chorus and a surprising number of people did.
Drummer Ben joined him for the second half of the set and it was then that I turned around to see it pouring rain through the open door.
We hadn't heard a drop over the music.
The music got louder and fuller with Ben's drumming and included a song about playing shows ("Tell Everyone") and Derek's comment, "On this one I get to play riffy stuff instead of just rhythm guitar."
You know, riffy stuff. It's a musical term.
Both guys were excellent musicians and despite the volume, sounded terrific.
By the time the music stopped, so had the rain. I picked up a couple of albums and we were off to 821 Cafe for eats.
Although I am devoted to 821's black bean nachos, I went renegade and got the smoked salmon instead.
I thought it would go better with my iced tequila since 821 isn't much of a wine place.
Delivering my plate, my server (a former Sprout favorite) apologized for the absence of pita.
Instead I had wheat toast points, which were a fine vehicle for the enormous slab of smoked salmon, dill cream cheese, capers and red onions on my plate.
Really, it was an appetizer for two and I was only one.
So, nutritional needs met, we moved on to Virginia Repertory Theater at Willow Lawn.
Okay, let's just call a spade a spade: Barksdale.
Tonight was a gender-reversed exploration of "Coriolanus," a Shakespearean tragedy I'd never read, much less seen produced.
Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's will; 'tis strongly wedged up in a blockhead.
The story of a celebrated warrior who refused to exploit his war wounds and victories for political gain was fascinating on a number of levels.
First, there was the A-list female cast playing all the male roles.
Twenty five women and four men.
It's not the odds I'd want in the real world, but onstage for Shakespeare, it made for a singularly distinctive theater experience.
He is a lion that I am proud to hunt.
Susan Sanford was commanding and funny in the tile role, much as she was "Spring Awakening," which I'd seen for the second time yesterday.
Having seen her perform and enjoy herself at the Ghost Light Afterparty several times now, I had to laugh out loud when her line was, "Have we no wine here?"
Her occasional "huh?" added contemporary touches to her couplets.
But then so did the cell phone exchange between her and her enemy.
Let her alone, lady, as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.
The story of a disgruntled people who cast out their warrior leader because of the way he treats them had particular resonance during this, an election year.
No Shakespearean tragedy is short, but the pacing on this one kept things moving and never lagged for a moment.
Before I knew it, Coriolanus had been victorious, dumped by his people, embraced his enemy (Molly Hood, as always strong, as Aufidius) and won back over by his tearful mother (a magnificent Alan Sader as Volumnia).
For certain, drops of salt have always been part of a woman's arsenal.
I know; I grew up with five sisters.
So, while I've seen some first class female drama in my lifetime, last night's was right up there.
I can only hope that director BC Maupin continues to charge ahead with his intent to produce the Bard's entire canon with gender-reversed explorations.
Count me in for watching girls take over boy parts.
You can take that any way you like.
The evening ended with music at Balliceaux because after great tragedy, I needed a little Brazilica.
Amazingly, I got world class stuff with Quarteto Olinda, four Brazilian guys on their first tour of the U.S.
That's right; they'd payed the Kennedy Center and Lincoln Center and now they were in Richmond.
I won't even bore you with my usual "is this a great town or what?" lecture, but there it is.
Kudos to the Virginia Center for Latin American Art for sponsoring the event.
The group's music, forro de rabeca, is based on the Brazilian folk fiddle, which I was surprised to see is played not on the shoulder and under the chin, but from just in front of the armpit.
And tonight it was played by Claudio in a vibrant orange flowered shirt, singing in Portuguese and moving his hips most seductively.
My partner in crime and I got our cold beverages and took seats on the back of the second booth so as to see all the dancing and the energetic band.
The four piece had that fiddle, a drummer, percussionist and, most surprisingly, an electric bass.
The percussion was zydeco-like and all four musicians traded vocals which were almost like chants.
And the crowd responded by dancing up a storm.
Toward the end, pairs of dancers would lock hands and other couples would dance through the "tower" of their arms.
After that, boys lined up on one side and girls on another, and people danced through the middle, Soul-Train-like.
The best way I can describe it is to say I felt like I was at a Brazilian hoedown.
I especially liked a song called "Carolina" maybe because I could imagine them singing "Karina" instead.
But at the end of their exuberant second set, it was time to bring the party to a close.
Reading phonetically from a piece of paper, bandleader Claudio said, "This is the last song. Thank you very much.We will see you next time."
But they gave that last song their all, blending traditional, rural Brazilian music with the unmistakable strains of "Eleanor Rigby" throughout.
Frickin' brilliant.
It was a closing masterpiece that put an exclamation point to a day that began with exuberant emo, fought its way through an estrogen-soaked tragedy and spit us out on the other end with a Brazilian dance party.
And all without having to disease my better mirth by driving to the Kennedy Center.
What blockhead wouldn't take advantage of such a smorgasbord on a Sunday night?
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Living the Life, er, Dream
Best kind of day to hang around and goof off: a rainy day like today.
In fact, I could have happily stayed home after my walk, but of course I didn't.
No, I went back to see "Spring Awakening" for the second time. And once again, I saw it from a stage seat.
And the best reason to see it a mere three weeks after I last saw it?
I mean, besides the five dollar ticket?
To sit on the opposite side of the stage from last time and notice things I hadn't when I was experiencing the story for the first time.
Like how when the boys in the cast are onstage singing "The Bitch of Living" I could see some of the girls in the cast just offstage dancing with abandon.
From my new vantage point, I could see the band, too, like when the guitarist switched from an electric to an acoustic guitar in full view of me.
Or when I could see the music director, her back to the band and facing the cast onstage, keeping tempo enthusiastically during "Totally F**ked."
But probably the best reason for sitting on the left side of the stage was the up close and personal view of the hilarious masturbation scene.
I'll tell you what, it's moments like that that make lifelong theater fans.
By the time the matinee let out, we were overdue to eat so we headed to Lunch.
It was an ideal time: after the lunch crowd and before the dinner crowd.
Even better, their happy hour runs every day of the week, so our Martin Codax Albarino was a mere $3.50 a glass.
Hello hay and honeysuckle on the cheap.
The River City Smokehouse and the Fay (house made chicken salad on multi-grain) preceded the very berry pound cake with mixed berries and whipped cream.
Best part of the meal: the pulled pork with coleslaw on a bun.
Our soundtrack was pure '60s Motown ("Baby Love," "Ain't No Woman") and while it was suggested I dance, I didn't.
I did, however, compliment our server on her beautiful breasts and she thanked me, saying, "That means so much more coming from a woman instead of a man. Like a woman telling you how good your make-up looks."
Actually her make-up looked great, too, but I didn't want to push my luck.
The best reason to finish up at Gallery 5 for the Commonwealth of Notions show was to benefit WRIR and Gallery 5.
WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had assembled a stellar cast of bands for our philanthropic dollar.
Best reason to get to a show on time: so you don't miss anything you'd love to have heard.
I missed Snowy Owls' set and they not only played a new song but covered a White Laces song.
Damn, I could have smacked myself for missing out on those.
Best substitute for what I missed: catching the end of White Laces' incredibly tight set from the ticket desk.
Best surround sound set: Colloquial Orchestra's dynamic smorgasbord of eight musicians placed around the room and following the lead of the amazingly talented Dave Watkins on electric dulcitar.
The 27-minute improvised piece featured some of my favorite people, including Adam of Marionette, Matt of Snowy Owls and PJ, a guy who changes from mild-mannered photographer to a beast of a guitar god when he has an instrument in his hand.
Also of note was Brandon, who entered the fray late in the game, setting up a drum and taking over percussion duties impressively a bit after the set had begun.
Best act to overcome technical difficulties: Swordplay.
Isaac's rapping over vinyl is always a testament to his lyrical skills, but tonight he had so much snap, crackle and pop that he finally gave up using the mic and just sang a capella.
Later he told me that he felt like the sound problems were smacking him in the face, fighting him even.
To his credit, he fought back and won.
Best instinctive crowd direction: when the Low Branches' Christina opened her mouth to sing, what sounded like a half dozen people immediately shushed the crowd.
And they stayed quiet for the most part, even (or especially) when she covered the Boss.
For that matter, her comment, "We're the Low Branches and we're living the life. Er, dream. This is why we don't do stage talk," had the crowd, and even fellow bandmate Matt, cracking up.
Best multi-tasking by one musician in three bands: Matt, who played in Snowy Owls, Colloquial Orchestra and The Low Branches.
I don't know how my favorite fuzz-master even had time to do a shot of whiskey.
Best way to get a crowd dancing: having Bermuda Triangles play on the floor in front of the stage.
Their tribal drumming and wailing sax sound immediately got everyone moving and eventually there was full-on dancing going on as people lost their inhibitions and let the music take them away.
Best seamless transition: during Bermuda Triangles' last song, the final band, Canary, oh, Canary, took the stage.
Drummer Mark jumped into the drumming fray, playing along with the Triangles while CoC's guitarist and bass player held their instruments but stayed silent.
After Triangles' last note, they were thanked and Canary, oh, Canary began their set.
Theirs are some of my favorite bass lines.
Later in their set, guitarist Micheal announced, "Mark has broken his snare. Any drummer out there have a spare he can borrow?"
Not surprisingly, the show went on given the number of instruments in the room.
It was exceeded only by the number of musicians in the room.
Which made Gallery 5 the best possible place to spend my Saturday night.
And, just for the record, the light rain falling when I left made for the best possible walk home.
In fact, I could have happily stayed home after my walk, but of course I didn't.
No, I went back to see "Spring Awakening" for the second time. And once again, I saw it from a stage seat.
And the best reason to see it a mere three weeks after I last saw it?
I mean, besides the five dollar ticket?
To sit on the opposite side of the stage from last time and notice things I hadn't when I was experiencing the story for the first time.
Like how when the boys in the cast are onstage singing "The Bitch of Living" I could see some of the girls in the cast just offstage dancing with abandon.
From my new vantage point, I could see the band, too, like when the guitarist switched from an electric to an acoustic guitar in full view of me.
Or when I could see the music director, her back to the band and facing the cast onstage, keeping tempo enthusiastically during "Totally F**ked."
But probably the best reason for sitting on the left side of the stage was the up close and personal view of the hilarious masturbation scene.
I'll tell you what, it's moments like that that make lifelong theater fans.
By the time the matinee let out, we were overdue to eat so we headed to Lunch.
It was an ideal time: after the lunch crowd and before the dinner crowd.
Even better, their happy hour runs every day of the week, so our Martin Codax Albarino was a mere $3.50 a glass.
Hello hay and honeysuckle on the cheap.
The River City Smokehouse and the Fay (house made chicken salad on multi-grain) preceded the very berry pound cake with mixed berries and whipped cream.
Best part of the meal: the pulled pork with coleslaw on a bun.
Our soundtrack was pure '60s Motown ("Baby Love," "Ain't No Woman") and while it was suggested I dance, I didn't.
I did, however, compliment our server on her beautiful breasts and she thanked me, saying, "That means so much more coming from a woman instead of a man. Like a woman telling you how good your make-up looks."
Actually her make-up looked great, too, but I didn't want to push my luck.
The best reason to finish up at Gallery 5 for the Commonwealth of Notions show was to benefit WRIR and Gallery 5.
WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had assembled a stellar cast of bands for our philanthropic dollar.
Best reason to get to a show on time: so you don't miss anything you'd love to have heard.
I missed Snowy Owls' set and they not only played a new song but covered a White Laces song.
Damn, I could have smacked myself for missing out on those.
Best substitute for what I missed: catching the end of White Laces' incredibly tight set from the ticket desk.
Best surround sound set: Colloquial Orchestra's dynamic smorgasbord of eight musicians placed around the room and following the lead of the amazingly talented Dave Watkins on electric dulcitar.
The 27-minute improvised piece featured some of my favorite people, including Adam of Marionette, Matt of Snowy Owls and PJ, a guy who changes from mild-mannered photographer to a beast of a guitar god when he has an instrument in his hand.
Also of note was Brandon, who entered the fray late in the game, setting up a drum and taking over percussion duties impressively a bit after the set had begun.
Best act to overcome technical difficulties: Swordplay.
Isaac's rapping over vinyl is always a testament to his lyrical skills, but tonight he had so much snap, crackle and pop that he finally gave up using the mic and just sang a capella.
Later he told me that he felt like the sound problems were smacking him in the face, fighting him even.
To his credit, he fought back and won.
Best instinctive crowd direction: when the Low Branches' Christina opened her mouth to sing, what sounded like a half dozen people immediately shushed the crowd.
And they stayed quiet for the most part, even (or especially) when she covered the Boss.
For that matter, her comment, "We're the Low Branches and we're living the life. Er, dream. This is why we don't do stage talk," had the crowd, and even fellow bandmate Matt, cracking up.
Best multi-tasking by one musician in three bands: Matt, who played in Snowy Owls, Colloquial Orchestra and The Low Branches.
I don't know how my favorite fuzz-master even had time to do a shot of whiskey.
Best way to get a crowd dancing: having Bermuda Triangles play on the floor in front of the stage.
Their tribal drumming and wailing sax sound immediately got everyone moving and eventually there was full-on dancing going on as people lost their inhibitions and let the music take them away.
Best seamless transition: during Bermuda Triangles' last song, the final band, Canary, oh, Canary, took the stage.
Drummer Mark jumped into the drumming fray, playing along with the Triangles while CoC's guitarist and bass player held their instruments but stayed silent.
After Triangles' last note, they were thanked and Canary, oh, Canary began their set.
Theirs are some of my favorite bass lines.
Later in their set, guitarist Micheal announced, "Mark has broken his snare. Any drummer out there have a spare he can borrow?"
Not surprisingly, the show went on given the number of instruments in the room.
It was exceeded only by the number of musicians in the room.
Which made Gallery 5 the best possible place to spend my Saturday night.
And, just for the record, the light rain falling when I left made for the best possible walk home.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
People Got a Lotta Nerve
I don't care if forever never comes
'Cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling
And what teenager wouldn't want to eat at the food court?
Our food court of choice was the Virginia Historical Society's food court and it was mobbed.
I had a first-timer with me, so we walked the length of the parking lot first to consider all the choices.
I opted for Sustenance's southern salad, an enticing combination of mixed greens, donut peach slices, artichokes, hearts of palm and Asiago in a Vidalia onion vinaigrette.
I took it to a table and set up camp while my partner in crime went off to score his dinner from the Boka truck.
When he returned with a pork belly taco and a short rib taco (with white beans and red wine au jus), we were all set.
Favorite taco: the long-cooked short ribs.
Our table was conveniently located next to the King of Pop truck, so without even standing up, we scored a fresh peach pop so frozen I had to put it between my legs to bring it to edible temperature.
And boy, was it good then. The pop was clearly made from peach pulp and juice.
How do I know?
Three bites immediately set off my peach allergy, causing the roof of my mouth to itch and my tongue to swell.
Even so, it was well worth it.
Before we left, we spent some time listening to the music of Grant Hunnicutt and Allison Self and company, doing bluegrass and Americana under a canopy on the grass.
When we finally tore ourselves away, it was to head to the National to see Neko Case.
Happily, we immediately ran into friends with tales of their recent trip to Italy.
Summary: the food is always good, the people always friendly and I probably need to make a visit.
Opening was Kelly Hogan, aka Neko Case's back-up singer, with her own band.
She did a short but strong set, covering Vic Chesnutt and John Wesley Harding, among others, in between all kinds of humorous remarks and tambourine shaking.
And then the red-headed one took the stage and all was right in my world.
I've probably seen Neko Case five or six times (not including seeing her withe the New Pornographers) and I never fail to be overcome with the sound of her distinctive voice.
How will you know if you found me at last?
Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight
To me, her humor is icing on the cake (and I'm sure her looks are the same to males).
After yet another heartbreaking song, she observed, "How f**king lame is it to tear up over your own song?"
Hogan piped up, saying, "Puffs, brought to you by Neko Case."
The crowd was an adoring one, singing along, but also annoying her.
"Those of you recording this, I see you," she said. "Just because Apple gives you an app doesn't mean you should use it. It makes us nervous, so stop."
I was gratified to see Security come over and tell a couple people near me to stop filming since Neko had specifically dictated no recording.
Come out to meet me
Run out to meet me
Come into the light
They referred to guitar player John as "Gandalf on pedal steel," a worthy compliment for a guy whose playing added immeasurably to her sound.
"You're putting me into hyper-swoon," she raved about him. That made two of us.
When Hogan mentioned the mu-mu she was wearing ("You could have a party in this dress!"), Neko agreed, saying her loose-fitting top did the same job of covering up her body flaws.
"My hip bones and my ribs touch," she admitted, making her my hero since mine do the same.
Short-waisted women of the world unite!
I can't give up acting tough
It's all that I'm made of
Can't scrape together quite enough
To ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love
During "This Tornado Loves You," my friend turned to me to say how much she loved the song.
I do, too, but given the lyrics, you could replace "tornado" with "Gemini" and it would totally work, I pointed out.
But then she's a Gemini, so she knew exactly what I meant.
But I know that I'm your favorite'
And I said "Amen"
And to the gospel of Neko Case, I too say a heartfelt "amen."
'Cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling
And what teenager wouldn't want to eat at the food court?
Our food court of choice was the Virginia Historical Society's food court and it was mobbed.
I had a first-timer with me, so we walked the length of the parking lot first to consider all the choices.
I opted for Sustenance's southern salad, an enticing combination of mixed greens, donut peach slices, artichokes, hearts of palm and Asiago in a Vidalia onion vinaigrette.
I took it to a table and set up camp while my partner in crime went off to score his dinner from the Boka truck.
When he returned with a pork belly taco and a short rib taco (with white beans and red wine au jus), we were all set.
Favorite taco: the long-cooked short ribs.
Our table was conveniently located next to the King of Pop truck, so without even standing up, we scored a fresh peach pop so frozen I had to put it between my legs to bring it to edible temperature.
And boy, was it good then. The pop was clearly made from peach pulp and juice.
How do I know?
Three bites immediately set off my peach allergy, causing the roof of my mouth to itch and my tongue to swell.
Even so, it was well worth it.
Before we left, we spent some time listening to the music of Grant Hunnicutt and Allison Self and company, doing bluegrass and Americana under a canopy on the grass.
When we finally tore ourselves away, it was to head to the National to see Neko Case.
Happily, we immediately ran into friends with tales of their recent trip to Italy.
Summary: the food is always good, the people always friendly and I probably need to make a visit.
Opening was Kelly Hogan, aka Neko Case's back-up singer, with her own band.
She did a short but strong set, covering Vic Chesnutt and John Wesley Harding, among others, in between all kinds of humorous remarks and tambourine shaking.
And then the red-headed one took the stage and all was right in my world.
I've probably seen Neko Case five or six times (not including seeing her withe the New Pornographers) and I never fail to be overcome with the sound of her distinctive voice.
How will you know if you found me at last?
Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight
To me, her humor is icing on the cake (and I'm sure her looks are the same to males).
After yet another heartbreaking song, she observed, "How f**king lame is it to tear up over your own song?"
Hogan piped up, saying, "Puffs, brought to you by Neko Case."
The crowd was an adoring one, singing along, but also annoying her.
"Those of you recording this, I see you," she said. "Just because Apple gives you an app doesn't mean you should use it. It makes us nervous, so stop."
I was gratified to see Security come over and tell a couple people near me to stop filming since Neko had specifically dictated no recording.
Come out to meet me
Run out to meet me
Come into the light
They referred to guitar player John as "Gandalf on pedal steel," a worthy compliment for a guy whose playing added immeasurably to her sound.
"You're putting me into hyper-swoon," she raved about him. That made two of us.
When Hogan mentioned the mu-mu she was wearing ("You could have a party in this dress!"), Neko agreed, saying her loose-fitting top did the same job of covering up her body flaws.
"My hip bones and my ribs touch," she admitted, making her my hero since mine do the same.
Short-waisted women of the world unite!
I can't give up acting tough
It's all that I'm made of
Can't scrape together quite enough
To ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love
During "This Tornado Loves You," my friend turned to me to say how much she loved the song.
I do, too, but given the lyrics, you could replace "tornado" with "Gemini" and it would totally work, I pointed out.
But then she's a Gemini, so she knew exactly what I meant.
But I know that I'm your favorite'
And I said "Amen"
And to the gospel of Neko Case, I too say a heartfelt "amen."
Friday, July 13, 2012
Goodbye, Good Friends
I am the magnet and the world is the steel.
Or, put another way, I can always count on strangers talking to me. Always.
The Virginia Center for Architecture was my first stop for the opening of the new exhibit "Young Architects of Spain."
I found it to be a fascinating look at the design skills for buildings that would never get built in this country, or at the very least, on this coast.
There was an apartment in Madrid made of plastic, which was odd enough, but it had a a pink and white kitchen.
I think we stopped making pink and white kitchens sometime in the Kennedy era.
The Vega Sicilia Garden Pavilion had been designed because the winery needed a place to receive clients and guests.
Naturally, the Spaniard responsible for the design created a place where you could sip wine while overlooking a magnificent, surrounding garden.
As I stood admiring a glass and cedar collective housing project, I wondered aloud what the term "collective housing" meant.
The guy next to me looked as perplexed as I was.
To our rescue came a handsome bystander who explained in a charming accent that it was like a condo, a group building with shared ownership.
Ah-ha.
That led to a discussion of the next panel, which was of a public housing project in Madrid, basically a white box with modules set into it randomly, making for a pastiche of windows, balconies and jutting promontories.
I mentioned that it appeared to me to be a structure light years more stylish and unique than any public housing ever built in this country.
"Are you an architect?" he asked and I had to disappoint him.
Turns out he was and had come to this country from Poland to practice a few years ago.
He admitted that when he'd first come here, he was all about form (as only a young architect can be), only to gradually realize that he's developed a passion for cornices and such.
"Now I feel differently," he said. "It's too cold looking. I didn't like it anymore."
Somehow I'd lucked into having the ideal person to share the exhibit with since clearly he knew way more about architecture than I did.
Score!
He asked what I did and said he wished he had a knack for writing, while I only wish I could design buildings, making for a chat about the other man's grass always being greener.
When he left to get more sangria, I soldiered on without him, marveling at a "Space for Youth Creation" made from a former water tank with three-foot thick walls.
These young Spaniards were nothing if not out-of-the-box thinkers.
Exiting the VCA, I almost ran into the Man About Town, walking home from work.
He was recently back from a sojourn in NYC, and knwoing what a theater geek I am, he shared some theater experiences (masks! liability! six-inch heels!) he'd seen there while we lingered on the brick sidewalk in the early evening air.
My friend sauntered on while I was on to Amuse to meet a friend.
I got the last free barstool and hugs from four people in the first five minutes. Clearly it had been too long.
With a split of Cava and a bowl of mussels with Surry sausage, white wine and garlic (no kissing tonight!), I was happy as a clam.
When I looked up from inhaling my dinner, I noticed that I was now alone at the bar.
Where had everybody gone?
When I mentioned it to the bartender, he wryly observed, "Yea, you seem to do that a lot."
That's my kind of bartender.
My friend filled me in on his recent trip out west and his upcoming plans that will take him from Richmond for at least a couple of years and maybe forever.
I'm happy he's going to pursue something he loves, but I'll miss his good company here.
We brought out our planners, mine a small purple book and his a phone, and coordinated a date to do debauched things before he leaves.
Next thing I know, a man is asking if the recently vacant stool next to me is free.
Come on in, I told him and next thing I knew he was introducing himself and telling me where he worked, about his dislike for a class he's taking and about his carrying on at the Beer and Bourbon Festival.
When he heard my friend talking about his move, he said he'd come and visit, "And I'll even bring Karen!"
Let's be clear here; he'd met me fifteen minutes ago.
And when my Cava was gone, he kindly offered to buy me more, but I had places to be.
I had to go say goodbye to another friend.
His farewell soiree was at Balliceaux and one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, was playing.
The beauty of that is that the friend leaving has been designing Marionette's merch for the past five years.
The Marionette t-shirt I have? His design.
The Marionette postcard on my desk? His design.
And now he's off to San Diego to go to graduate school and continue his artistic bent.
When the band got ready to begin, drummer Kevin announced, "Where's the man of the hour? We need Austin front and center!"
Once he was in full view of the band, they started their set, which included a lot of the new songs that will be on the upcoming album.
The room was packed and I saw at least three musicians from other local bands in the crowd.
A friend came up to chat about my love life before asking me point blank, "Do you think that's the bass player's "O" face? I think it is."
It might very well have been, but as I pointed out, guitarist Adam seemed to be using his "O" face on certain solos, too.
Maybe that's part of the appeal of live music.
Later in the set Adam spoke a few words about Austin leaving and what a contribution he'd made to the band over the years by essentially defining the Marionette aesthetic with his posters and t-shirts.
"If it weren't for Austin's posters, Karen would never have come to see us," Adam informed the crowd.
I turned to Austin then, admitting, "It's true."
Back in the Stone Age of 2007/2008, I was an avid admirer of show posters, stopping to read them every chance I got.
It used to be how I found out about shows in the pre-Facebook days.
And Austin's Marionette posters were uniquely and beautifully artistic. In fact, I still have several of them squirreled away.
For the final song of the set, the vintage video montage that always plays behind Marionette included several of Austin's posters followed by wishes of good luck for his new adventure.
It was a fitting tribute to him and his art. When it ended, he'd disappeared.
As I went to leave Balliceaux, the front room was playing Beach House's "Teen Dream" album.
It was bittersweet because that was an album Austin and I bonded over many times, both of us obsessed with its sound and having listened to it for months on end.
I left to find Austin just outside the door, smoking and talking to people.
Holding the door open so he could hear what was playing, I told him how fitting it was that I got to say goodbye to him to Beach House.
Before I could say the rest of what I wanted to say to him, he said the exact words in my head to me.
"I'm so glad that I got to know you," he said, hugging me.
Luck is having strangers talk to me because I never know which ones will end up being friends.
Even if I have to eventually bid them farewell.
Or, put another way, I can always count on strangers talking to me. Always.
The Virginia Center for Architecture was my first stop for the opening of the new exhibit "Young Architects of Spain."
I found it to be a fascinating look at the design skills for buildings that would never get built in this country, or at the very least, on this coast.
There was an apartment in Madrid made of plastic, which was odd enough, but it had a a pink and white kitchen.
I think we stopped making pink and white kitchens sometime in the Kennedy era.
The Vega Sicilia Garden Pavilion had been designed because the winery needed a place to receive clients and guests.
Naturally, the Spaniard responsible for the design created a place where you could sip wine while overlooking a magnificent, surrounding garden.
As I stood admiring a glass and cedar collective housing project, I wondered aloud what the term "collective housing" meant.
The guy next to me looked as perplexed as I was.
To our rescue came a handsome bystander who explained in a charming accent that it was like a condo, a group building with shared ownership.
Ah-ha.
That led to a discussion of the next panel, which was of a public housing project in Madrid, basically a white box with modules set into it randomly, making for a pastiche of windows, balconies and jutting promontories.
I mentioned that it appeared to me to be a structure light years more stylish and unique than any public housing ever built in this country.
"Are you an architect?" he asked and I had to disappoint him.
Turns out he was and had come to this country from Poland to practice a few years ago.
He admitted that when he'd first come here, he was all about form (as only a young architect can be), only to gradually realize that he's developed a passion for cornices and such.
"Now I feel differently," he said. "It's too cold looking. I didn't like it anymore."
Somehow I'd lucked into having the ideal person to share the exhibit with since clearly he knew way more about architecture than I did.
Score!
He asked what I did and said he wished he had a knack for writing, while I only wish I could design buildings, making for a chat about the other man's grass always being greener.
When he left to get more sangria, I soldiered on without him, marveling at a "Space for Youth Creation" made from a former water tank with three-foot thick walls.
These young Spaniards were nothing if not out-of-the-box thinkers.
Exiting the VCA, I almost ran into the Man About Town, walking home from work.
He was recently back from a sojourn in NYC, and knwoing what a theater geek I am, he shared some theater experiences (masks! liability! six-inch heels!) he'd seen there while we lingered on the brick sidewalk in the early evening air.
My friend sauntered on while I was on to Amuse to meet a friend.
I got the last free barstool and hugs from four people in the first five minutes. Clearly it had been too long.
With a split of Cava and a bowl of mussels with Surry sausage, white wine and garlic (no kissing tonight!), I was happy as a clam.
When I looked up from inhaling my dinner, I noticed that I was now alone at the bar.
Where had everybody gone?
When I mentioned it to the bartender, he wryly observed, "Yea, you seem to do that a lot."
That's my kind of bartender.
My friend filled me in on his recent trip out west and his upcoming plans that will take him from Richmond for at least a couple of years and maybe forever.
I'm happy he's going to pursue something he loves, but I'll miss his good company here.
We brought out our planners, mine a small purple book and his a phone, and coordinated a date to do debauched things before he leaves.
Next thing I know, a man is asking if the recently vacant stool next to me is free.
Come on in, I told him and next thing I knew he was introducing himself and telling me where he worked, about his dislike for a class he's taking and about his carrying on at the Beer and Bourbon Festival.
When he heard my friend talking about his move, he said he'd come and visit, "And I'll even bring Karen!"
Let's be clear here; he'd met me fifteen minutes ago.
And when my Cava was gone, he kindly offered to buy me more, but I had places to be.
I had to go say goodbye to another friend.
His farewell soiree was at Balliceaux and one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, was playing.
The beauty of that is that the friend leaving has been designing Marionette's merch for the past five years.
The Marionette t-shirt I have? His design.
The Marionette postcard on my desk? His design.
And now he's off to San Diego to go to graduate school and continue his artistic bent.
When the band got ready to begin, drummer Kevin announced, "Where's the man of the hour? We need Austin front and center!"
Once he was in full view of the band, they started their set, which included a lot of the new songs that will be on the upcoming album.
The room was packed and I saw at least three musicians from other local bands in the crowd.
A friend came up to chat about my love life before asking me point blank, "Do you think that's the bass player's "O" face? I think it is."
It might very well have been, but as I pointed out, guitarist Adam seemed to be using his "O" face on certain solos, too.
Maybe that's part of the appeal of live music.
Later in the set Adam spoke a few words about Austin leaving and what a contribution he'd made to the band over the years by essentially defining the Marionette aesthetic with his posters and t-shirts.
"If it weren't for Austin's posters, Karen would never have come to see us," Adam informed the crowd.
I turned to Austin then, admitting, "It's true."
Back in the Stone Age of 2007/2008, I was an avid admirer of show posters, stopping to read them every chance I got.
It used to be how I found out about shows in the pre-Facebook days.
And Austin's Marionette posters were uniquely and beautifully artistic. In fact, I still have several of them squirreled away.
For the final song of the set, the vintage video montage that always plays behind Marionette included several of Austin's posters followed by wishes of good luck for his new adventure.
It was a fitting tribute to him and his art. When it ended, he'd disappeared.
As I went to leave Balliceaux, the front room was playing Beach House's "Teen Dream" album.
It was bittersweet because that was an album Austin and I bonded over many times, both of us obsessed with its sound and having listened to it for months on end.
I left to find Austin just outside the door, smoking and talking to people.
Holding the door open so he could hear what was playing, I told him how fitting it was that I got to say goodbye to him to Beach House.
Before I could say the rest of what I wanted to say to him, he said the exact words in my head to me.
"I'm so glad that I got to know you," he said, hugging me.
Luck is having strangers talk to me because I never know which ones will end up being friends.
Even if I have to eventually bid them farewell.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
That Was Then
According to one of the out-of-towners, we were "raging on a Wednesday night."
But we got things rolling with Popeye and Olive Oil.
The Anderson Gallery's happy hour this week featured classic cartoons along with the usual wine and beer.
We were no fools; we scored a spot on the banquette and settled in to watch the 1939 "Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp," part of the fabulous Fleischer folio.
Because it was in Technicolor, we got to see just how green every can of spinach Popeye opened was. And don't even get me started on seeing Olive in harem pants.
Next came "Gopher Spinach" from 1954 and not nearly as interestingly animated.
It did feature a classic cartoon moment when Popeye was chasing the spinach-eating gopher with a lawn mower.
The gopher threw a barrel of nails into the mower's path and they spit out the back of the mower, nailing Popeye to the nearby barn wall with their force.
They'd saved the best for last: "Betty Boop: A Song a Day" was about Betty's animal hospital.
It was like a catalog of animals, each with an appropriate illness tag on its sickbed.
Herring, Condition: pickled.
Giraffe: Condition: pain in the neck.
You get the idea.
As cute as Betty looked in her nurse's uniform, it wasn't enough to stop the animals' pain and she called in Professor Grampy to sing and dance so everyone felt better.
The funniest part was we were told that that was the only Betty Boop film suitable for the family audience the Anderson was expecting tonight.
Seems that most Boop shorts feature her in a skimpy dress and usually wiggling seductively.
And while it was okay to show kids vampy, scantily-clad cartoon characters in 1936, we're a bit more circumspect in 2012.
You gotta give the Anderson Gallery credit for creativity; a happy hour of vintage cartoons is a terrific way to start a Wednesday.
Once that fun ended, we went to Xtra's Cafe in Carytown to get jacked up on some cheap champagne (a la Scissor Sisters) and eat dinner.
Naturally on an evening headed into the mid-seventies, the balcony was full, so we did bar time.
The Simonet Blanc de Blanc Brut was cold (if poured in wine glasses rather than flutes), the Nantucket Nexus salad (mesclun, cranberries, Gorgonzola, Granny Smith apples, cucumbers, pecans and bacon) full of complementary flavors and the music just good enough (XX, Bon Iver and extra points for Youth Group).
All around us were other bubbles drinkers laughing and talking more loudly as the night wore on.
We went with the house-made dessert of the day, Mexican chocolate cookies with Kahlua ice cream, especially good when the ice cream was spread on the crumbly cookies.
Properly sated, we headed out to music at, of all places, Bogart's.
Playing tonight was a Jacksonville duo called Folk is People. They're in the middle of an East Coast tour promoting their EP, headed to Boston tomorrow night.
I don't envy them that drive.
But I'd done my online research and I not only liked their sound, but their claim to deliver good looks and offensive banter.
Truth be told, I often aim for the same.
We took a front table, the better to hear them (the bar crowd wasn't as attentive as they could have been at times), and admire their good looks.
Banjo in hand, Stacey cleared up a few things immediately.
"We're not brother and sister and we don't do it," she deadpanned. "We're just in a band."
I'd have to say that that was more informative than offensive.
"Here's a song we started doing yesterday," she said before the lovely "Tell Me Love."
Both Stacey and Rick had strong voices and with their handful of songs, continued to impress.
After reminding us of our midweek raging tonight, they did the Tom Petty (a fellow Floridian) cover "Yer So Bad."
But not me, baby, I've got you to save me
Oh, yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad
Rick's vocal take on Petty was spot on, giving the phrasing the Petty nod but also making it his own.
The crowd ate it up and Rick acknowledged, "It's tricky with Petty. People just keep wanting more. Alright then, this song is not as good. It's called 'Gift Horse."
Depending on your Petty fandom, it was damn fine, though.
Rick stuck to guitar while Stacey played banjo, guitar (but not Rick's, she made clear), mandolin and mouth harp.
Considering the two have only been playing together for ten months, their set was satisfying and strong.
From "Becoming Unbecoming" to "Ships and Shades," we were treated to lots of stringed instruments, harmonies and well-written songs.
One, two, three
You said you loved me
But you just wanted the company
Oh, I wanted the company alright.
But I also wanted the distinct pleasure of hearing an out-of-town band woo me with their sound tonight.
And as good-looking as they were, I'd have gotten their CD even if they'd been ugly.
In a world gone mad, I'm a sucker for well-executed folk rock raging on a Wednesday night.
Well, that and offensive banter.
But we got things rolling with Popeye and Olive Oil.
The Anderson Gallery's happy hour this week featured classic cartoons along with the usual wine and beer.
We were no fools; we scored a spot on the banquette and settled in to watch the 1939 "Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp," part of the fabulous Fleischer folio.
Because it was in Technicolor, we got to see just how green every can of spinach Popeye opened was. And don't even get me started on seeing Olive in harem pants.
Next came "Gopher Spinach" from 1954 and not nearly as interestingly animated.
It did feature a classic cartoon moment when Popeye was chasing the spinach-eating gopher with a lawn mower.
The gopher threw a barrel of nails into the mower's path and they spit out the back of the mower, nailing Popeye to the nearby barn wall with their force.
They'd saved the best for last: "Betty Boop: A Song a Day" was about Betty's animal hospital.
It was like a catalog of animals, each with an appropriate illness tag on its sickbed.
Herring, Condition: pickled.
Giraffe: Condition: pain in the neck.
You get the idea.
As cute as Betty looked in her nurse's uniform, it wasn't enough to stop the animals' pain and she called in Professor Grampy to sing and dance so everyone felt better.
The funniest part was we were told that that was the only Betty Boop film suitable for the family audience the Anderson was expecting tonight.
Seems that most Boop shorts feature her in a skimpy dress and usually wiggling seductively.
And while it was okay to show kids vampy, scantily-clad cartoon characters in 1936, we're a bit more circumspect in 2012.
You gotta give the Anderson Gallery credit for creativity; a happy hour of vintage cartoons is a terrific way to start a Wednesday.
Once that fun ended, we went to Xtra's Cafe in Carytown to get jacked up on some cheap champagne (a la Scissor Sisters) and eat dinner.
Naturally on an evening headed into the mid-seventies, the balcony was full, so we did bar time.
The Simonet Blanc de Blanc Brut was cold (if poured in wine glasses rather than flutes), the Nantucket Nexus salad (mesclun, cranberries, Gorgonzola, Granny Smith apples, cucumbers, pecans and bacon) full of complementary flavors and the music just good enough (XX, Bon Iver and extra points for Youth Group).
All around us were other bubbles drinkers laughing and talking more loudly as the night wore on.
We went with the house-made dessert of the day, Mexican chocolate cookies with Kahlua ice cream, especially good when the ice cream was spread on the crumbly cookies.
Properly sated, we headed out to music at, of all places, Bogart's.
Playing tonight was a Jacksonville duo called Folk is People. They're in the middle of an East Coast tour promoting their EP, headed to Boston tomorrow night.
I don't envy them that drive.
But I'd done my online research and I not only liked their sound, but their claim to deliver good looks and offensive banter.
Truth be told, I often aim for the same.
We took a front table, the better to hear them (the bar crowd wasn't as attentive as they could have been at times), and admire their good looks.
Banjo in hand, Stacey cleared up a few things immediately.
"We're not brother and sister and we don't do it," she deadpanned. "We're just in a band."
I'd have to say that that was more informative than offensive.
"Here's a song we started doing yesterday," she said before the lovely "Tell Me Love."
Both Stacey and Rick had strong voices and with their handful of songs, continued to impress.
After reminding us of our midweek raging tonight, they did the Tom Petty (a fellow Floridian) cover "Yer So Bad."
But not me, baby, I've got you to save me
Oh, yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad
Rick's vocal take on Petty was spot on, giving the phrasing the Petty nod but also making it his own.
The crowd ate it up and Rick acknowledged, "It's tricky with Petty. People just keep wanting more. Alright then, this song is not as good. It's called 'Gift Horse."
Depending on your Petty fandom, it was damn fine, though.
Rick stuck to guitar while Stacey played banjo, guitar (but not Rick's, she made clear), mandolin and mouth harp.
Considering the two have only been playing together for ten months, their set was satisfying and strong.
From "Becoming Unbecoming" to "Ships and Shades," we were treated to lots of stringed instruments, harmonies and well-written songs.
One, two, three
You said you loved me
But you just wanted the company
Oh, I wanted the company alright.
But I also wanted the distinct pleasure of hearing an out-of-town band woo me with their sound tonight.
And as good-looking as they were, I'd have gotten their CD even if they'd been ugly.
In a world gone mad, I'm a sucker for well-executed folk rock raging on a Wednesday night.
Well, that and offensive banter.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Silk Degrees Smackdown
I make a great date of last resort.
What I mean is, when a friend suddenly finds him or herself free, I'm a good one to ask the obvious.
Today's was pretty basic.
"Hey, whatcha up to?"
Nothing yet, I wrote.
"Wanna grab something quick?" he shot back.
Don't we all want to grab something quick?
Since it was half priced wine night, I suggested Six Burner, knowing my friend hadn't yet experienced the new menu.
I walked in to find my usual stool occupied, but made do in a foreign stool.
Moments later the owner noticed my strange location and said, "My new upstairs tenants didn't know they were in your seat."
The two girls laughed and apologized, but I assured them it was my stool in name only.
Unlike my friend who went red with a Pinotage (Paarl Heights), I went the Provence route with Rose Mas de Gourrgonnier, nutty on the nose and fresh and fruity on the palate.
After we dispensed with restaurant and wine gossip, we eyed the menu.
Since my pal was unfamiliar with it, I let him decide what we should nibble on.
The potato gnocchi with seasonal mushrooms caught his eye and while he loved the mushrooms, we found the dish a tad salty, unlike last time I'd had it.
But the second dish made our taste buds sing.
Huevos rancheros style calamari came with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs in a spicy tomato broth arrived in an asymmetrical bowl.
The tiny soft cooked egg melted in my mouth and the spicy chorizo imparted just enough heat.
Best of all, the broth was completely sop-worthy and we all but wiped the dish clean savoring it.
Meanwhile, I had bigger fish to fry.
A music person like me couldn't help but notice tonight's soundtrack, an ode to the late '70s and early '80s.
No, no, not again.
I'm talking Steely Dan, Spinners, Pablo Cruise and (wait for it) Gino Vanelli doing his big hit "I Just Want to Stop."
Let's just say I wanted that music to stop.
When I inquired, I learned it was Pandora set to Boz Skaggs, which explained a lot.
It didn't make it any better, but at least now I understood.
Later the owner came over and asked what we thought of his music choice.
Before I could formulate a way to express my opinion of being subjected to 35-year old music, my friend piped up.
"With the hip, new vibe in here, I think you need something newer."
And this from a guy who plays in both a hip hop band and a country band.
To his credit, the owner asked for some departure points for newer music, admitting he had no expertise in that area.
I'll send you a list, I promised.
Honestly, I have to applaud a man who admits when he doesn't know something.
After resolving the restaurant's music issues for them, we moved on to discussing my friend's impending career change.
I'm excited for him, almost sure that he'll be happier with less driving and more cooking.
"Well, at this age, I've got to do that or else sell my body," he shrugged.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
No one told me about the age at which you have to either cook or sell your body.
I'm not sure I'd be good enough at either one to leave enough time for the important stuff.
You know, like telling people what music to play or being everyone's date of last resort.
Pardon me while I stick to my strong suits.
What I mean is, when a friend suddenly finds him or herself free, I'm a good one to ask the obvious.
Today's was pretty basic.
"Hey, whatcha up to?"
Nothing yet, I wrote.
"Wanna grab something quick?" he shot back.
Don't we all want to grab something quick?
Since it was half priced wine night, I suggested Six Burner, knowing my friend hadn't yet experienced the new menu.
I walked in to find my usual stool occupied, but made do in a foreign stool.
Moments later the owner noticed my strange location and said, "My new upstairs tenants didn't know they were in your seat."
The two girls laughed and apologized, but I assured them it was my stool in name only.
Unlike my friend who went red with a Pinotage (Paarl Heights), I went the Provence route with Rose Mas de Gourrgonnier, nutty on the nose and fresh and fruity on the palate.
After we dispensed with restaurant and wine gossip, we eyed the menu.
Since my pal was unfamiliar with it, I let him decide what we should nibble on.
The potato gnocchi with seasonal mushrooms caught his eye and while he loved the mushrooms, we found the dish a tad salty, unlike last time I'd had it.
But the second dish made our taste buds sing.
Huevos rancheros style calamari came with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs in a spicy tomato broth arrived in an asymmetrical bowl.
The tiny soft cooked egg melted in my mouth and the spicy chorizo imparted just enough heat.
Best of all, the broth was completely sop-worthy and we all but wiped the dish clean savoring it.
A music person like me couldn't help but notice tonight's soundtrack, an ode to the late '70s and early '80s.
No, no, not again.
I'm talking Steely Dan, Spinners, Pablo Cruise and (wait for it) Gino Vanelli doing his big hit "I Just Want to Stop."
Let's just say I wanted that music to stop.
When I inquired, I learned it was Pandora set to Boz Skaggs, which explained a lot.
Later the owner came over and asked what we thought of his music choice.
Before I could formulate a way to express my opinion of being subjected to 35-year old music, my friend piped up.
"With the hip, new vibe in here, I think you need something newer."
And this from a guy who plays in both a hip hop band and a country band.
To his credit, the owner asked for some departure points for newer music, admitting he had no expertise in that area.
I'll send you a list, I promised.
Honestly, I have to applaud a man who admits when he doesn't know something.
After resolving the restaurant's music issues for them, we moved on to discussing my friend's impending career change.
I'm excited for him, almost sure that he'll be happier with less driving and more cooking.
"Well, at this age, I've got to do that or else sell my body," he shrugged.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
I'm not sure I'd be good enough at either one to leave enough time for the important stuff.
You know, like telling people what music to play or being everyone's date of last resort.
Folks Sure are Friendly in These Parts
Barely back two days from vacation and I headed out again.
I've been missing the ocean anyway, so I was more than happy to go to the river today.
I just didn't expect so much stranger love.
With my WRIR cooler packed with hydration, I gathered up some CDs (Richard Hawley's "Lady's Bridge," Grimes' "Visions," Richmanian Ramblers "World, Sister World" and Mat Kearney's "City of Black and White") for the drive and headed east.
My destination was Kinsale, a tiny Northern Neck town on the Yeocomico River, to talk to a man who's been in the oyster business since 1966.
Arriving at the complex, a man in a golf cart approached me presuming I was lost, but I told him who I was there to see.
A huge smile erupted on his face. "Come on, baby," he grinned, putting his golf cart in gear, "I'll show you."
Inside, the receptionist called the boss and said there was a "young lady" here to see him.
You talking about me?
After a satisfying interview with a man who loves what he does, I got back on the road and before long saw a sign for Vault Fields Winery.
Mid-afternoon grape? Why not?
So I made the turn, winding my way through sunny cornfields, curious about a wine I knew a few Richmond restaurants are now carrying.
But today being Tuesday and all meant no dice.The tasting room is only open Thursdays through Sundays.
Back on the road again.
Coming through Tappahannock, I decided to stop at Parr's Drive-in, two blocks off the riverfront, for ice cream.
Parr's is a throwback: concrete floors, 25-cent gumball machines and a gray-haired guy behind the counter making corny jokes.
Seeing me looking at my choices, he cracked, "One of each?"
I finally decided on a dip-top cone, anticipating it even more when I heard they had chocolate/vanilla swirl soft serve.
Let's just say it had been a while since I'd had a zebra cone.
The guy asked if I wanted small or medium and I told him I'd have a medium, even if it meant I was going to hell in a hand basket after a week of trashy beach eating.
"I won't tell anyone" he said conspiratorially and then winked at me.
My total came to $3.04 ("Just give me three dollars," he said, but I dug out four pennies anyway) and I took my towering treat out to my car to enjoy.
With all the windows down, I enjoyed the 80-degree breeze blowing in from the river while I watched a woman contently sitting on a porch swing on a nearby white house.
Seems like just a few days ago I was sitting on a porch swing overlooking the ocean. Ah, well.
A car pulled up next to me and a guy got out and went in, glancing over at me.
He soon came back out with stuff in his hands, which he put in his car before going back in.
This time he returned with a dip-top cone in hand and looked right at me.
I raised my cone in salute and he did the same.
"Nice idea!" he said, smiling and nodding at me, apparently giving me credit for his decision to dip along with me.
No problem, I told him as he got in his car to leave.
Aw, shucks. Just spreading the gospel of stopping to smell the roses.
Nice idea, if you ask me.
But what do I know? I had chocolate all over my chin.
I've been missing the ocean anyway, so I was more than happy to go to the river today.
I just didn't expect so much stranger love.
With my WRIR cooler packed with hydration, I gathered up some CDs (Richard Hawley's "Lady's Bridge," Grimes' "Visions," Richmanian Ramblers "World, Sister World" and Mat Kearney's "City of Black and White") for the drive and headed east.
My destination was Kinsale, a tiny Northern Neck town on the Yeocomico River, to talk to a man who's been in the oyster business since 1966.
Arriving at the complex, a man in a golf cart approached me presuming I was lost, but I told him who I was there to see.
A huge smile erupted on his face. "Come on, baby," he grinned, putting his golf cart in gear, "I'll show you."
Inside, the receptionist called the boss and said there was a "young lady" here to see him.
You talking about me?
After a satisfying interview with a man who loves what he does, I got back on the road and before long saw a sign for Vault Fields Winery.
Mid-afternoon grape? Why not?
So I made the turn, winding my way through sunny cornfields, curious about a wine I knew a few Richmond restaurants are now carrying.
But today being Tuesday and all meant no dice.The tasting room is only open Thursdays through Sundays.
Back on the road again.
Coming through Tappahannock, I decided to stop at Parr's Drive-in, two blocks off the riverfront, for ice cream.
Parr's is a throwback: concrete floors, 25-cent gumball machines and a gray-haired guy behind the counter making corny jokes.
Seeing me looking at my choices, he cracked, "One of each?"
I finally decided on a dip-top cone, anticipating it even more when I heard they had chocolate/vanilla swirl soft serve.
Let's just say it had been a while since I'd had a zebra cone.
The guy asked if I wanted small or medium and I told him I'd have a medium, even if it meant I was going to hell in a hand basket after a week of trashy beach eating.
"I won't tell anyone" he said conspiratorially and then winked at me.
My total came to $3.04 ("Just give me three dollars," he said, but I dug out four pennies anyway) and I took my towering treat out to my car to enjoy.
With all the windows down, I enjoyed the 80-degree breeze blowing in from the river while I watched a woman contently sitting on a porch swing on a nearby white house.
Seems like just a few days ago I was sitting on a porch swing overlooking the ocean. Ah, well.
A car pulled up next to me and a guy got out and went in, glancing over at me.
He soon came back out with stuff in his hands, which he put in his car before going back in.
This time he returned with a dip-top cone in hand and looked right at me.
I raised my cone in salute and he did the same.
"Nice idea!" he said, smiling and nodding at me, apparently giving me credit for his decision to dip along with me.
No problem, I told him as he got in his car to leave.
Aw, shucks. Just spreading the gospel of stopping to smell the roses.
Nice idea, if you ask me.
But what do I know? I had chocolate all over my chin.
I Am Trying to Break Your Heart
Some nights. it's all about the heartbreak.
But before there was that, there was pie at Pie with a bartender who didn't look old enough to shave.
I don't think I'd been to Pie since the first month they'd opened, so tonight's foray was off my beaten path.
Over a pie of marinara, basil, spinach, mushrooms, red pepper flakes and oodles of garlic, my companion informed me that tonight's event was going to be trite.
"I'm telling you now that all the stories are going to be the same," Mr. Pessimist warned while I begged to differ.
We had only to walk across the street to Balliceaux to see who was right.
Tonight was Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story and the theme was "Heartbreak Hotel."
So right there you know this girl wasn't going to get up and tell a story.
But we paid our admission and each of us got a little black heart drawn on our hands to show we were worthy to listen.
Inside, we quickly grabbed seats in the second row (I would have preferred the first) as the room continued to fill up.
It had to have been the biggest crowd yet for storytelling on a Monday night.
As everyone claimed drinks and seats, the music playing set the tone for the evening with songs like "The Things We Do for Love" and "Bye, Bye, Love."
Oh, it was going to get heartbreaking alright.
Things began with "Rainy Day at Rose's," a story about a guy making a bad call letting his date run to the locked car while he stayed dry with the keys.
I'd say that's a young man's mistake.
"Fangirl Confession" was about how having a crush on Jim Carrey and Lauren Holly when you're 13 years old is bound to eventually beak your heart.
She talked about how tough her dilemma had been in the pre-Internet days. "This was the 90s so it was all 90s problems for a fan."
"Twenty Year Crush" had to do with devotion to singer/activist Billy Bragg and how no matter how often she told someone (usually her husband), "I'm over Billy Bragg," she never really was.
The next storyteller (who also had the best ensemble: white and black fringed shirt, white pants and checkered Vans) got a build-up of an introduction, including his phone number for any interested females.
"The Romance Novel that is My Life: Shower Scene" had some funny/telling moments about how some people are just not right for each other.
His observations were hysterical.
"After the breakup, I descended into single dudedom. But I'm better now. I shave almost every day."
There was a story called "Corazon Roto" about drinking tequila with his Mexican friend who tried to win his former girlfriend's love back by hiring a ten-piece mariachi band to back him as he sang to her.
Te amo, Olivia!
The lesson?
In some cultures, heartbreak is a community event.
After intermission, we got the stories not previously vetted by the Secretly Y'All crew, the ones told by audience members who put their names in a hat hoping to be called onstage.
"Buckeyes and Board Checks" was introduced as being a story to make up for the fact that so far no one had told a story where they were the heartbreaker.
"I think I have that story," he assured us.
Breaking up with your girlfriend during a weekend visit on Valentine's Day so he could go back to New Orleans and party hearty?
Yep, he had that story.
She showed him, though, by claiming to be preganant and ruining three solid hours of his life before taking a pregnancy test (negative).
My favorite storyteller of the evening was the girl who told us about "Failed First Kiss."
Between her charismatic persona, a story of being raised in a seven-children hippie family (Mom was a second-wave feminist) and her impeccable timing, she had the room in stitches.
"I was smitten by Gandhi," she confessed.
To be clear, it wasn't that Gandhi.
This one was the younger brother of the handsome Lotus, but despite going off with Gandhi while sick and attempting to be cool enough to smoke pot with him, the kiss never happened.
That's some serious 13-year old heartbreak.
Chris Milk told a story of being arrested in Mexico for drunkenness, spending a night in jail and then being taken out the next day by the cop who'd arrested him.
They drank together all day. Obviously Mexican cops do things a little differently.
The last story was about leaving the Richmond bubble to go live in San Francisco where the storyteller learned people are not nearly so friendly as they are here.
In fact, in Richmond, California, strangers may even want to kill you at night at a closed BART station. Now that's a heartbreaking lesson to learn 3,000 miles from home.
But if there was one thing tonight's stories proved it was that they were definitely not all the same. They weren't even close.
You want to hear about heartbreak? I could tell a story about heartbreak. Come to think of it, nah.
I wouldn't want to tell another story that's just the same.
But before there was that, there was pie at Pie with a bartender who didn't look old enough to shave.
I don't think I'd been to Pie since the first month they'd opened, so tonight's foray was off my beaten path.
Over a pie of marinara, basil, spinach, mushrooms, red pepper flakes and oodles of garlic, my companion informed me that tonight's event was going to be trite.
"I'm telling you now that all the stories are going to be the same," Mr. Pessimist warned while I begged to differ.
We had only to walk across the street to Balliceaux to see who was right.
Tonight was Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story and the theme was "Heartbreak Hotel."
So right there you know this girl wasn't going to get up and tell a story.
But we paid our admission and each of us got a little black heart drawn on our hands to show we were worthy to listen.
Inside, we quickly grabbed seats in the second row (I would have preferred the first) as the room continued to fill up.
It had to have been the biggest crowd yet for storytelling on a Monday night.
As everyone claimed drinks and seats, the music playing set the tone for the evening with songs like "The Things We Do for Love" and "Bye, Bye, Love."
Oh, it was going to get heartbreaking alright.
Things began with "Rainy Day at Rose's," a story about a guy making a bad call letting his date run to the locked car while he stayed dry with the keys.
I'd say that's a young man's mistake.
"Fangirl Confession" was about how having a crush on Jim Carrey and Lauren Holly when you're 13 years old is bound to eventually beak your heart.
She talked about how tough her dilemma had been in the pre-Internet days. "This was the 90s so it was all 90s problems for a fan."
"Twenty Year Crush" had to do with devotion to singer/activist Billy Bragg and how no matter how often she told someone (usually her husband), "I'm over Billy Bragg," she never really was.
The next storyteller (who also had the best ensemble: white and black fringed shirt, white pants and checkered Vans) got a build-up of an introduction, including his phone number for any interested females.
"The Romance Novel that is My Life: Shower Scene" had some funny/telling moments about how some people are just not right for each other.
His observations were hysterical.
"After the breakup, I descended into single dudedom. But I'm better now. I shave almost every day."
There was a story called "Corazon Roto" about drinking tequila with his Mexican friend who tried to win his former girlfriend's love back by hiring a ten-piece mariachi band to back him as he sang to her.
Te amo, Olivia!
The lesson?
In some cultures, heartbreak is a community event.
After intermission, we got the stories not previously vetted by the Secretly Y'All crew, the ones told by audience members who put their names in a hat hoping to be called onstage.
"Buckeyes and Board Checks" was introduced as being a story to make up for the fact that so far no one had told a story where they were the heartbreaker.
"I think I have that story," he assured us.
Breaking up with your girlfriend during a weekend visit on Valentine's Day so he could go back to New Orleans and party hearty?
Yep, he had that story.
She showed him, though, by claiming to be preganant and ruining three solid hours of his life before taking a pregnancy test (negative).
My favorite storyteller of the evening was the girl who told us about "Failed First Kiss."
Between her charismatic persona, a story of being raised in a seven-children hippie family (Mom was a second-wave feminist) and her impeccable timing, she had the room in stitches.
"I was smitten by Gandhi," she confessed.
To be clear, it wasn't that Gandhi.
This one was the younger brother of the handsome Lotus, but despite going off with Gandhi while sick and attempting to be cool enough to smoke pot with him, the kiss never happened.
That's some serious 13-year old heartbreak.
Chris Milk told a story of being arrested in Mexico for drunkenness, spending a night in jail and then being taken out the next day by the cop who'd arrested him.
They drank together all day. Obviously Mexican cops do things a little differently.
The last story was about leaving the Richmond bubble to go live in San Francisco where the storyteller learned people are not nearly so friendly as they are here.
In fact, in Richmond, California, strangers may even want to kill you at night at a closed BART station. Now that's a heartbreaking lesson to learn 3,000 miles from home.
But if there was one thing tonight's stories proved it was that they were definitely not all the same. They weren't even close.
You want to hear about heartbreak? I could tell a story about heartbreak. Come to think of it, nah.
I wouldn't want to tell another story that's just the same.
Monday, July 9, 2012
All or Nothing at All
It's always bittersweet.
The last day of vacation means one last time in the ocean, a sweaty drive back to Richmond and a mental readjustment of place and purpose.
As it shook down today, the water was warm, but still refreshing at 10 a.m.
The drive took less than three hours from cottage door to city door.
Getting my head back into real life mode, though, took a bit longer.
It's not that I'm not glad to be back in Richmond, a city I love with plenty of ways to keep me interested and busy.
But here I don't go around in my bathing suit all day long and the non-stop crash of waves is conspicuously absent.
(heave post-vacation sigh)
Clothes and city sounds? It's a lot of transition to ask of a person in one day.
On the plus side, I had an invitation for dinner (meaning a chance to share some of my vacation stories) and enough time beforehand to do my beach laundry and put away the contents of my bags.
Looking for a cool place to eat and share tales from the beach, we settled on Cellar Door and a corner booth.
The music was satisfyingly eclectic, from Sinatra's "All or Nothing at All" to Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" with Hendrix in between.
Not surprisingly, it was the owner's iPod and not a satellite radio station.
I started with an Italian, the Annalisa Pinot Grigio, since anything but a dry white would be unthinkable on a day I come home to a thermostat that read 99 degrees.
I'm sure it was actually hotter, but the device only goes as high as two digits.
The heat also kept our appetites in check; my choice of the River House was suitably light, with sauteed garlic shrimp over mesclun, avocado, red onion, cukes and grape tomatoes and a house-made Italian vinaigrette.
After our salads, we had the cremini mushrooms sauteed in sherry with garlic and parsley, a generous dish of garlicky mushrooms that ensured that no one would want to kiss either of us later.
Okay, maybe someone but not most people.
While waiting for dessert to arrive, musicians began to set up, but we hadn't a clue as to what to expect.
The Limoncello flute had been described to us as a sorbet but it was creamier than that, almost like a lemon meringue pie in a glass (but minus the crust).
It may have been the perfect hot weather dessert, light and refreshing.
Soon a guy began rapping, but only after announcing before his second song, "I got my epic cheesy ass introduction for this."
With a recommendation like that, who wouldn't want to stay and hear what other bon mots he had to offer?
Okay, us, but one of us had had a late night and for me it had been a long day traversing states and states of mind.
So despite the sweetness of being home and in great company at a favorite subterranean restaurant, I was closing out my day far from a lot of the things that have been giving me pleasure this week.
Bittersweetness aside, as long as I'm back I may as well jump right back in.
I happen to know I can find pleasure wherever I am.
Even with garlic breath.
The last day of vacation means one last time in the ocean, a sweaty drive back to Richmond and a mental readjustment of place and purpose.
As it shook down today, the water was warm, but still refreshing at 10 a.m.
The drive took less than three hours from cottage door to city door.
Getting my head back into real life mode, though, took a bit longer.
It's not that I'm not glad to be back in Richmond, a city I love with plenty of ways to keep me interested and busy.
But here I don't go around in my bathing suit all day long and the non-stop crash of waves is conspicuously absent.
(heave post-vacation sigh)
Clothes and city sounds? It's a lot of transition to ask of a person in one day.
On the plus side, I had an invitation for dinner (meaning a chance to share some of my vacation stories) and enough time beforehand to do my beach laundry and put away the contents of my bags.
Looking for a cool place to eat and share tales from the beach, we settled on Cellar Door and a corner booth.
The music was satisfyingly eclectic, from Sinatra's "All or Nothing at All" to Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" with Hendrix in between.
Not surprisingly, it was the owner's iPod and not a satellite radio station.
I started with an Italian, the Annalisa Pinot Grigio, since anything but a dry white would be unthinkable on a day I come home to a thermostat that read 99 degrees.
I'm sure it was actually hotter, but the device only goes as high as two digits.
The heat also kept our appetites in check; my choice of the River House was suitably light, with sauteed garlic shrimp over mesclun, avocado, red onion, cukes and grape tomatoes and a house-made Italian vinaigrette.
After our salads, we had the cremini mushrooms sauteed in sherry with garlic and parsley, a generous dish of garlicky mushrooms that ensured that no one would want to kiss either of us later.
Okay, maybe someone but not most people.
While waiting for dessert to arrive, musicians began to set up, but we hadn't a clue as to what to expect.
The Limoncello flute had been described to us as a sorbet but it was creamier than that, almost like a lemon meringue pie in a glass (but minus the crust).
It may have been the perfect hot weather dessert, light and refreshing.
Soon a guy began rapping, but only after announcing before his second song, "I got my epic cheesy ass introduction for this."
With a recommendation like that, who wouldn't want to stay and hear what other bon mots he had to offer?
Okay, us, but one of us had had a late night and for me it had been a long day traversing states and states of mind.
So despite the sweetness of being home and in great company at a favorite subterranean restaurant, I was closing out my day far from a lot of the things that have been giving me pleasure this week.
Bittersweetness aside, as long as I'm back I may as well jump right back in.
I happen to know I can find pleasure wherever I am.
Even with garlic breath.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Summer Breeze
A pictures's worth a thousand words.
Hanging in one of the bedrooms of this little white house on the ocean that I have been renting for eighteen years now, is an enlargement of a black and white photograph.
In the old (pre-Photoshop days) picture, an enormous wave, hurricane like in its size and menacing swell, curls over a few tiny oceanfront houses scattered along the mostly undeveloped shoreline of Kitty Hawk.
A closer look reveals that the small house near the center of the photo is the one I am standing in.
The one I come back to every year for a week or two, depending on my pocketbook.
The house in the picture looks exactly the same as it does today; only the proximity of the other houses has changed.
Where there was once long stretches between houses, now they are filled with other cottages, some rustic and many newer.
When I first began renting this particular house, it had no telephone, which I loved.
Until last summer, it had no air conditioning. Now it has three window units which I resent mightily.
The house sits close to the ocean, more so now even than before Hurricane Isabel in 2003.
With every window open during the time I am here, it's like being surrounded by the sun, wind and water.
All three come through every door and window from sunrise to sunset, ensuring that we never have to wonder what the weather is.
Today the water reached a week-long high of seventy five degrees, so warm it is like bath water.
Not once but twice today, a school of dolphins swam so close by that some people floated on rafts further out than where they jumped.
After an extended happy hour on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, we took a group vote and decided to let someone else cook for our last night.
We played "follow the leader" the eighth of a mile to the Rundown Cafe, which is no longer rundown.
When I first started going there in the '90s, it was a beach shack with a limited menu for locals.
Once they built a rickety deck on the roof, it was the perfect place for a few drinks once the sun went down.
And if the deck shifted a bit as we lingered on the roof, we chalked it up to the cocktails.
It's since been renovated (twice, I think) and is a bloated shadow of its former self, although the vintage surfboards and other beach ephemera haven't changed.
So we sat on the deck facing the ocean and ate locally caught mahi, fried up into fish bites, served with a ginger habanero sauce and some fabulous pickled cabbage.
I sipped tequila as we ate pound after pound of locally caught shrimp and the sun finally sank behind the sound.
Walking back toward the house, many of the houses were lit up from within, providing a voyeuristic thrill for the nosy among us.
Me, I couldn't have cared less what was going on anywhere else on the beach.
Let's just say that vacation has been very, very good to me.
But I will miss the constant sound of the surf. It unwinds me like nothing else can.
After nearly a week at the seaside, I am as relaxed as I could hope to be.
Someone even told me today that it showed on my face.
Maybe I should take a picture.
Hanging in one of the bedrooms of this little white house on the ocean that I have been renting for eighteen years now, is an enlargement of a black and white photograph.
In the old (pre-Photoshop days) picture, an enormous wave, hurricane like in its size and menacing swell, curls over a few tiny oceanfront houses scattered along the mostly undeveloped shoreline of Kitty Hawk.
A closer look reveals that the small house near the center of the photo is the one I am standing in.
The one I come back to every year for a week or two, depending on my pocketbook.
The house in the picture looks exactly the same as it does today; only the proximity of the other houses has changed.
Where there was once long stretches between houses, now they are filled with other cottages, some rustic and many newer.
When I first began renting this particular house, it had no telephone, which I loved.
Until last summer, it had no air conditioning. Now it has three window units which I resent mightily.
The house sits close to the ocean, more so now even than before Hurricane Isabel in 2003.
With every window open during the time I am here, it's like being surrounded by the sun, wind and water.
All three come through every door and window from sunrise to sunset, ensuring that we never have to wonder what the weather is.
Today the water reached a week-long high of seventy five degrees, so warm it is like bath water.
Not once but twice today, a school of dolphins swam so close by that some people floated on rafts further out than where they jumped.
After an extended happy hour on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, we took a group vote and decided to let someone else cook for our last night.
We played "follow the leader" the eighth of a mile to the Rundown Cafe, which is no longer rundown.
When I first started going there in the '90s, it was a beach shack with a limited menu for locals.
Once they built a rickety deck on the roof, it was the perfect place for a few drinks once the sun went down.
And if the deck shifted a bit as we lingered on the roof, we chalked it up to the cocktails.
It's since been renovated (twice, I think) and is a bloated shadow of its former self, although the vintage surfboards and other beach ephemera haven't changed.
So we sat on the deck facing the ocean and ate locally caught mahi, fried up into fish bites, served with a ginger habanero sauce and some fabulous pickled cabbage.
I sipped tequila as we ate pound after pound of locally caught shrimp and the sun finally sank behind the sound.
Walking back toward the house, many of the houses were lit up from within, providing a voyeuristic thrill for the nosy among us.
Me, I couldn't have cared less what was going on anywhere else on the beach.
Let's just say that vacation has been very, very good to me.
But I will miss the constant sound of the surf. It unwinds me like nothing else can.
After nearly a week at the seaside, I am as relaxed as I could hope to be.
Someone even told me today that it showed on my face.
Maybe I should take a picture.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Under a Blood Red Moon
A heat wave isn't much of a heat wave when you're staying on the oceanfront.
We started the day with breakfast on the pier served by an ancient waitress named Paula who informed us that the grill had just died.
One in our group who works in a restaurant looked stricken at the news, knowing the hardship it would cause the kitchen staff.
"Only thing worse that could happen during breakfast would be for the pier to collapse," he noted with the assurance of one who knows.
The grill came back to life and we were saved.
As proof, my pancakes and sausage arrived unscathed.
Coming back from my daily walk on the beach, I saw that the lifeguard's chalkboard had a big warning.
"The west wind will take you and your raft out to sea!" it announced.
Warning or promise, I couldn't decide.
An hour later, we watched as a guy took a raft and a six pack and headed out, soon to be sound asleep in his raft.
He drifted further and further out until he was barely a speck on the sea.
It came to the attention of the beach patrol, one of whom stationed himself directly in front of where the idiot had drifted out.
Eventually, he woke up, realized how far out he was (and probably saw the lifeguard in his vehicle glaring his way) and drunkenly began to try to paddle back in.
With the wind so strong, it took a long while for him to get back to even a reasonable distance and by then it was clear he was exhausted.
But he also knew he was in trouble, so rather than come back to shore while the beach patrol was waiting for him, he lingered in the raft until the authorities deemed him out of harm's way and left to rescue other idiots.
We were more mindful of the warnings and while we spent almost the entire afternoon in the 72-degree ocean, we were too busy admiring how clear the water was (the crabs! the fish!) to allow ourselves to be put in harm's way.
Or maybe it was just that we didn't have a six pack out there with us.
Silly moron, imbibing works better out of the water.
After cool showers in the outside shower, we convened for libations on napkins reading "Why limit happy to an hour?"
Don't worry, we didn't.
One of the more talented in the group made grilled pizzas for dinner and we scarfed them sitting at the big table on the porch while watching the dolphins and pelicans have a feeding frenzy over an enormous school of fish darkening the water right in front of our cottage.
Like last night, it was past 10:00 when the moon finally appeared, once again blood red, and began its ascent into the night sky, eventually turning orange and casting a shimmering reflection on the ocean.
"Are you anywhere close to being ready to go back home?" one of the group asked me as I gazed at it, knowing we have only a few days left.
Sadly, no.
But as the Finn brothers reminded me, better be home soon.
We started the day with breakfast on the pier served by an ancient waitress named Paula who informed us that the grill had just died.
One in our group who works in a restaurant looked stricken at the news, knowing the hardship it would cause the kitchen staff.
"Only thing worse that could happen during breakfast would be for the pier to collapse," he noted with the assurance of one who knows.
The grill came back to life and we were saved.
As proof, my pancakes and sausage arrived unscathed.
Coming back from my daily walk on the beach, I saw that the lifeguard's chalkboard had a big warning.
"The west wind will take you and your raft out to sea!" it announced.
Warning or promise, I couldn't decide.
An hour later, we watched as a guy took a raft and a six pack and headed out, soon to be sound asleep in his raft.
He drifted further and further out until he was barely a speck on the sea.
It came to the attention of the beach patrol, one of whom stationed himself directly in front of where the idiot had drifted out.
Eventually, he woke up, realized how far out he was (and probably saw the lifeguard in his vehicle glaring his way) and drunkenly began to try to paddle back in.
With the wind so strong, it took a long while for him to get back to even a reasonable distance and by then it was clear he was exhausted.
But he also knew he was in trouble, so rather than come back to shore while the beach patrol was waiting for him, he lingered in the raft until the authorities deemed him out of harm's way and left to rescue other idiots.
We were more mindful of the warnings and while we spent almost the entire afternoon in the 72-degree ocean, we were too busy admiring how clear the water was (the crabs! the fish!) to allow ourselves to be put in harm's way.
Or maybe it was just that we didn't have a six pack out there with us.
Silly moron, imbibing works better out of the water.
After cool showers in the outside shower, we convened for libations on napkins reading "Why limit happy to an hour?"
Don't worry, we didn't.
One of the more talented in the group made grilled pizzas for dinner and we scarfed them sitting at the big table on the porch while watching the dolphins and pelicans have a feeding frenzy over an enormous school of fish darkening the water right in front of our cottage.
Like last night, it was past 10:00 when the moon finally appeared, once again blood red, and began its ascent into the night sky, eventually turning orange and casting a shimmering reflection on the ocean.
"Are you anywhere close to being ready to go back home?" one of the group asked me as I gazed at it, knowing we have only a few days left.
Sadly, no.
But as the Finn brothers reminded me, better be home soon.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Snapshots from Beach Week
Of course I don't want to be one of those people who bores others with their vacation pictures.
Instead, I'll use my weapon of choice and bore you with some vacation stories.
Sunday: Driving down caravan style, we eventually stop at a small produce stand to procure the essentials of beach produce, namely watermelon, corn and shelled butter beans.
Waiting for the rest of the wagon train to catch up, I take shade by sitting on a swing hung from a tree.
It's a flat piece of wood long ago painted white and strung up with rope which is then wrapped around a sizable branch.
In other words, it's a rustic, old fashioned swing completely unlike the variety found on mother approved swingsets.
The best part is the give; the rope and branch mean that every pump of my legs, every arch of my back makes the swing react with my weight and action.
I would guess it's the difference between a wooden roller coaster and a metal one.
It feels like the way swings felt when I was a kid: exhilarating and just a little risky.
Monday: The day starts with thick sliced bacon and pancakes.
Out on the beach, the water is sixty eight degrees and I'm reading Suzan Lori Parks' Pulitzer Prize winning "Getting Mother's Body."
Despite multiple umbrellas, a hat and SPF 70, by the end of the first full day I have burnt my chest and am teased about it by the group.
All derision is forgotten when I have my first outdoor shower of the week, the sky so blue above the wooden boards of the shower's roof.
The day ends with birthday Temperanillo, described by the giver as "not a trivial wine," and an exquisite moonrise, almost translucent until it is high in the night sky.
Tuesday: At breakfast, we hear tales of 4 a.m.planet sightings, but most of us were sound asleep and missed it.
A strong breeze off the land has taken the water temperature even higher into the low 70s and I'm now reading "The Italians," a mid-sixties survey about the Italian people, their history and their attitudes.
Cliff Notes version: move slow, can't be faithful (even when in love) and prefer gestures to words.
Now I know.
A walk less than a mile down the beach puts us at Ocean Boulevard for dinner and wine.
Walking out afterwards, we hear a singer doing "Hallelujah," on the restaurant's patio and I lean on the brick wall to listen to it all.
Just the evening before, that song had been the topic of a roundtable (picnic table, that is) discussion of Leonard Cohen.
What are the chances we'd walk out and hear it being sung tonight, I wonder aloud.
"When I'm with you," my companion says, "About one in two."
Damn fine odds, I think.
We greet Wednesday by getting up at 4:30 to see Venus and Jupiter shining brightly over the horizon.
It's a beautiful thing to witness and others have also wandered from their bedrooms to check it out.
It's a pre-dawn meeting of astronomy enthusiasts. We all return to bed and sleep as if we'd never awakened.
Sunrise brings the day visitors for the holiday.
The water is now up to 74 degrees and so calm it resembles a giant blue/green swimming pool.
For our Independence Day dinner, we go traditional.
During a lunch stop at the Weeping Radish Brewpub on the way down, we'd bought some of the German butcher's signature hot dogs.
We pair the foot longs with corn on the cob, watermelon, fruit salad and butter beans.
We postpone dessert for a walk on the Nature Conservancy's Sweetgum Trail, a hike through a maritime forest.
Until you've gone from pine forest to high sand dune, you can't fully appreciate the juxtaposition of pine needles and fine sand footpaths.
Seeing a red fox shoot through the underbrush is an unexpected pleasure, as is the box turtle in the middle of the trail as we round a bend.
A stop for ice cream (mint chocolate chip over dark chocolate orange) is our reward for the two and a half mile trek.
Back at our little house on the ocean, we take wine and chairs out back to watch fireworks from every direction.
"Sky rockets in flight," one of us sings.
Afternoon delight, indeed, despite the fact that it's nearing long past noon.
The moon is slow to make an appearance tonight, finally showing itself as a red ball low over the horizon.
With infinite slowness, perhaps so as not be a distraction from the explosions in the sky, the red ball rises, turns orange and begin to cast a golden reflection on the ocean.
It's a full two hours later than the moon rose the night before and we have no idea why.
Nearby, one of us is paying his guitar on the beach and another is singing along to old REM songs.
"Driver 8," "Gardening at Night," even "Talk About the Passion."
Yes, let me talk about my passion for spending my days in a bathing suit walking the beach or under an umbrella reading books or floating in the ocean with barely any breakers to disturb the gentle movements of the raft.
And if you think that's boring, you should see what I left out.
Instead, I'll use my weapon of choice and bore you with some vacation stories.
Sunday: Driving down caravan style, we eventually stop at a small produce stand to procure the essentials of beach produce, namely watermelon, corn and shelled butter beans.
Waiting for the rest of the wagon train to catch up, I take shade by sitting on a swing hung from a tree.
It's a flat piece of wood long ago painted white and strung up with rope which is then wrapped around a sizable branch.
In other words, it's a rustic, old fashioned swing completely unlike the variety found on mother approved swingsets.
The best part is the give; the rope and branch mean that every pump of my legs, every arch of my back makes the swing react with my weight and action.
I would guess it's the difference between a wooden roller coaster and a metal one.
It feels like the way swings felt when I was a kid: exhilarating and just a little risky.
Monday: The day starts with thick sliced bacon and pancakes.
Out on the beach, the water is sixty eight degrees and I'm reading Suzan Lori Parks' Pulitzer Prize winning "Getting Mother's Body."
Despite multiple umbrellas, a hat and SPF 70, by the end of the first full day I have burnt my chest and am teased about it by the group.
All derision is forgotten when I have my first outdoor shower of the week, the sky so blue above the wooden boards of the shower's roof.
The day ends with birthday Temperanillo, described by the giver as "not a trivial wine," and an exquisite moonrise, almost translucent until it is high in the night sky.
Tuesday: At breakfast, we hear tales of 4 a.m.planet sightings, but most of us were sound asleep and missed it.
A strong breeze off the land has taken the water temperature even higher into the low 70s and I'm now reading "The Italians," a mid-sixties survey about the Italian people, their history and their attitudes.
Cliff Notes version: move slow, can't be faithful (even when in love) and prefer gestures to words.
Now I know.
A walk less than a mile down the beach puts us at Ocean Boulevard for dinner and wine.
Walking out afterwards, we hear a singer doing "Hallelujah," on the restaurant's patio and I lean on the brick wall to listen to it all.
Just the evening before, that song had been the topic of a roundtable (picnic table, that is) discussion of Leonard Cohen.
What are the chances we'd walk out and hear it being sung tonight, I wonder aloud.
"When I'm with you," my companion says, "About one in two."
Damn fine odds, I think.
We greet Wednesday by getting up at 4:30 to see Venus and Jupiter shining brightly over the horizon.
It's a beautiful thing to witness and others have also wandered from their bedrooms to check it out.
It's a pre-dawn meeting of astronomy enthusiasts. We all return to bed and sleep as if we'd never awakened.
Sunrise brings the day visitors for the holiday.
The water is now up to 74 degrees and so calm it resembles a giant blue/green swimming pool.
For our Independence Day dinner, we go traditional.
During a lunch stop at the Weeping Radish Brewpub on the way down, we'd bought some of the German butcher's signature hot dogs.
We pair the foot longs with corn on the cob, watermelon, fruit salad and butter beans.
We postpone dessert for a walk on the Nature Conservancy's Sweetgum Trail, a hike through a maritime forest.
Until you've gone from pine forest to high sand dune, you can't fully appreciate the juxtaposition of pine needles and fine sand footpaths.
Seeing a red fox shoot through the underbrush is an unexpected pleasure, as is the box turtle in the middle of the trail as we round a bend.
A stop for ice cream (mint chocolate chip over dark chocolate orange) is our reward for the two and a half mile trek.
Back at our little house on the ocean, we take wine and chairs out back to watch fireworks from every direction.
"Sky rockets in flight," one of us sings.
Afternoon delight, indeed, despite the fact that it's nearing long past noon.
The moon is slow to make an appearance tonight, finally showing itself as a red ball low over the horizon.
With infinite slowness, perhaps so as not be a distraction from the explosions in the sky, the red ball rises, turns orange and begin to cast a golden reflection on the ocean.
It's a full two hours later than the moon rose the night before and we have no idea why.
Nearby, one of us is paying his guitar on the beach and another is singing along to old REM songs.
"Driver 8," "Gardening at Night," even "Talk About the Passion."
Yes, let me talk about my passion for spending my days in a bathing suit walking the beach or under an umbrella reading books or floating in the ocean with barely any breakers to disturb the gentle movements of the raft.
And if you think that's boring, you should see what I left out.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Steady Slurp
It's so easy to justify a milkshake when it's 101 degrees outside.
So when I got asked to lunch, my thoughts went immediately to the nearest source for a long, tall glass of ice cream and that would be The Village.
The place was packed and since I'm not a Village regular, I don't know if that's typical for a Saturday or a result of overheated people (like me) trying to escape the heat.
We took the two-top by the ladies room and got a witty server in return.
My chocolate shake got ordered first and when she brought it, I asked for a second straw so my companion and I could share.
Pushing it into the frozen contents of the glass, she announced, "Now you're going steady!"
What? No steady ring, no puka shell necklace, no nothing? Clearly going steady doesn't mean what it used to.
She insisted we order onion rings with our BLT and Reuben because the Food Network had raved about them in years gone by.
Back then they'd noted that the batter used PBR and Richbrau, but obviously there have been some modifications since Richbrau went under.
That said, they were better than average onion rings and neither of us was able to finish them.
While slugging the shake and eating the rings, we were visited by one of my walking regulars, totally out of context there.
He wiggled his eyebrows and made a face behind my lunch companion's back, apparently not used to seeing me in a social situation.
Looking at my mondo BLT and onion rings, he noted, "I'd like to see how all that food is going to fit in your little body."
He should have come back fifteen minutes later.
After gorging ourselves (because let's face it, having a milkshake with a meal is like having dessert throughout), we went to my favorite neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, who'd bragged on Facebook that their store was a cool 73 degrees.
Count me in.
Today was the first in a four-date series called "Summer Sounds at Steady" and featured two performers for our afternoon's pleasure.
Producer/DJ Ohbliv (he of the very smooth mustache) got things started, twisting nobs and calling forth samples, all the while smiling and dancing in place.
After a while, White Laces' guitarist Alex French's solo project, Flossed in Paradise, took over, layering sounds from guitars, drum machines and synthesizers with his effects-laden voice for a sound I instantly fell in love with.
As recently as last night, I had described a favorite sound of mine as reverb-laden with unintelligible lyrics, affectionately known to those who know my taste as "music from a cave."
And ta-da! Here i was getting exactly that in post-punk style four feet from my sweaty, smiling face.
For the next hour and a half, the two traded off the spotlight, (mostly) seamlessly segueing from one set of long, musical-looking fingers to the other.
If there was a better way to spend a hot Saturday afternoon than with a milkshake and Flossed in Paradise, I couldn't tell you what it was.
And two straws do not mean you're going steady.
What is this, the malt shop era?
So when I got asked to lunch, my thoughts went immediately to the nearest source for a long, tall glass of ice cream and that would be The Village.
The place was packed and since I'm not a Village regular, I don't know if that's typical for a Saturday or a result of overheated people (like me) trying to escape the heat.
We took the two-top by the ladies room and got a witty server in return.
My chocolate shake got ordered first and when she brought it, I asked for a second straw so my companion and I could share.
Pushing it into the frozen contents of the glass, she announced, "Now you're going steady!"
What? No steady ring, no puka shell necklace, no nothing? Clearly going steady doesn't mean what it used to.
She insisted we order onion rings with our BLT and Reuben because the Food Network had raved about them in years gone by.
Back then they'd noted that the batter used PBR and Richbrau, but obviously there have been some modifications since Richbrau went under.
That said, they were better than average onion rings and neither of us was able to finish them.
While slugging the shake and eating the rings, we were visited by one of my walking regulars, totally out of context there.
He wiggled his eyebrows and made a face behind my lunch companion's back, apparently not used to seeing me in a social situation.
Looking at my mondo BLT and onion rings, he noted, "I'd like to see how all that food is going to fit in your little body."
He should have come back fifteen minutes later.
After gorging ourselves (because let's face it, having a milkshake with a meal is like having dessert throughout), we went to my favorite neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, who'd bragged on Facebook that their store was a cool 73 degrees.
Count me in.
Today was the first in a four-date series called "Summer Sounds at Steady" and featured two performers for our afternoon's pleasure.
Producer/DJ Ohbliv (he of the very smooth mustache) got things started, twisting nobs and calling forth samples, all the while smiling and dancing in place.
After a while, White Laces' guitarist Alex French's solo project, Flossed in Paradise, took over, layering sounds from guitars, drum machines and synthesizers with his effects-laden voice for a sound I instantly fell in love with.
As recently as last night, I had described a favorite sound of mine as reverb-laden with unintelligible lyrics, affectionately known to those who know my taste as "music from a cave."
And ta-da! Here i was getting exactly that in post-punk style four feet from my sweaty, smiling face.
For the next hour and a half, the two traded off the spotlight, (mostly) seamlessly segueing from one set of long, musical-looking fingers to the other.
If there was a better way to spend a hot Saturday afternoon than with a milkshake and Flossed in Paradise, I couldn't tell you what it was.
And two straws do not mean you're going steady.
What is this, the malt shop era?
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