You've got a real type of thing going down, getting down
There's a whole lot of rhythm going round
I can always tell when the Down Home Family Reunion starts because I can hear it through my open windows.
After all, I'm only two blocks from Abner Clay Park.
I'd invited a non-family member to join me and he arrived with a picnic, so we took our chairs and dinner and walked the short distance toward the sound.
The Down Home Family Reunion isn't like any other festival I've been to, which is exactly what I love about it.
Besides the fact that it's two blocks away.
You see people dressed up at this one.
Like a leopard print jumpsuit.
Jean shorts, a red t-shirt and red and gold pumps.
His and her black leather chaps.
Skintight paisley bell-bottoms and a purple polyester shirt and hat.
I don't even try to compete with the likes of that.
Settling in with our picnic, the emcee said, "I wish y'all could see what y'all look like from up here!"
I'll bet the two of us looked starved, considering how we dug into roast chicken, caprese salad, bean and olive salad, hummus and peach pie.
We took a break to move closer when the Kenya Safari Acrobats took the stage.
Part dance, part magic, part gymnastic, part yoga, they amazed.
One condensed his body to almost nothing in the way they were taught to do in Kenya and Tanzania when confronted with a leopard.
Another got on a table and proceeded to bend his body backwards until his feet were resting on his head.
He even removed his hat with his toes.
There was a limbo dance (done to win a wife) with a stick on fire, making it essential to go as low as the limber, brave man could go.
He did.
For their final act, they created a human pyramid using a woman as the base.
It was significant because no acrobatic troupes there will use women because the men presume a woman will drop them.
Aminia, the female base, went on to support all kinds of men in various configurations, even walking a short distance while supporting them all.
The entire act required such skill and precision as to have been absolutely Olympic-worthy.
Meanwhile, I ran into a friend (and pianist for the Richmond Symphony) and caught up with his escapades (turkey burgers! Chopin! Pocahontas Park!)
And that's exactly what's supposed to happen at the Reunion.
I spent over six hours behind a woman who was serially greeted by no less than thirty people.
It was impressive to see.
A girl asked me to take a survey about the festival, inquiring about how far I'd come to see it, how much I might spend and if I'd been before.
I'm always happy to share my opinions.
Next onstage were NYCE, a local group who wore matching salmon-colored outfits while executing synchronized steps and singing '60s and '70s R & B.
Stuff like Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder and the Temptations, but not the Top 40 stuff.
Their set got people in the mood, like when a man walked by, spotted a friend and did a synchronized dance move in front of him before saying hello.
The Elegba Folklore performance group played drums and danced while a costumed figure on stilts moved through the crowd.
"If you can walk, you can dance," the group's director shouted.
I would have broken it down even more basically than that.
Periodically, the scent of incense wafted by.
Once the sun went down and I lost my companion to work, I was glad I had a blanket to drape over my legs.
"You had the right idea with that blanket," a man said to me when he saw me getting cozy.
By the time the big names arrived, the crowd was large and feisty.
Original P, comprised of four of the original members of Parliament Funkadelic and eight of their siblings and children, took the stage like they owned it.
"We're ready to party like it's 1975!" leader Calvin shouted to raucous response.
Almost at once, a freaky-looking guy started walking through the crowd with a large sign saying, "One Nation Under a Groove."
A guy came by to check on me. "How you doing?" he inquired sweetly. "You look comfortable! Enjoy yourself."
Of course the twelve piece had a big horn section and an array of back-up singers, but I was unprepared for the keytar.
Damn, we were taking it all the way back.
The crowd went wild for "We Want the Funk," but they also went crazy for tales of booty patrols and an extended psychedelic jam that had people dancing in the field.
By that point, audience and band were feeding off of each other under the night sky.
"Richmond Vee-Yay in the mother-fu*kin' house!" the bandleader yelled as people waved glow light swords and hands in the air.
I alternated between staying in my seat (where a guy came over to ask if I was okay by myself over there) and standing closer to the stage to enjoy the sheer spectacle of so many musicians clearly having a ball.
"If y'all don't get up off your asses now, I'm gonna be forced to get mean," we were informed.
It only took one warning for everyone but the oldest and most infirm to follow P-Funk's advice: "Free your mind and your ass will follow."
When the band finally ended, it was only because the organizers told them they had to.
The band made it clear that they wanted to keep playing.
Danced out, the crowd resignedly started packing up.
Original P serenaded us as we made our way out to the streets of Jackson Ward.
If you're not gonna get it on
Grab your date and take her home
My date long gone, it looked like I wasn't going to get it on.
But my answer to the final survey question had been confirmed in spades.
Would I come back to the festival next year?
Hell, yes. We want the funk.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Seeking Same
I figured I'd see a lot of my people tonight.
After all, if I go to the only restro-lounge in town, aren't I likely to see other enthusiastic eaters and loungers?
2113 had its usual orange, cool vibe presence when we arrived to music pulsing and a lively mostly male crowd.
Sliding in, we rearranged stools to put two together.
Conveniently, they were pouring Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose, meaning low-alcohol, but with far more fruit (not to mention a lovely pink color) than a typical Vinho Verde, along with the usual effervescence.
When I was given free rein to order, I couldn't resist ordering the kinds of dishes my companion didn't used to eat.
Say, pan-fried sweetbreads with sweet carrot and a Grenoblaise sauce, the portion so generous as to be startling or the beets with duck confit with a superb smoked balsamic vinaigrette that made the dish.
Someone's been having a ball with his smoker and the result was stellar.
A guy nearby noticed me and asks if we hadn't met. And it wasn't a line.
We had met at Patrick Henry's over a year ago and talked food and restaurants all evening.
Coincidentally, we did the same tonight.
Bypassing the dessert with tobacco-flavored cotton candy, we got vanilla and olive oil parfait with chocolate crumbles for our last course.
I'm definitely seeing an uptick in 2113's food quality and execution.
Now if only I could see more people coming in for the lounge portion of the equation.
But I couldn't be part of that group tonight because Balliceaux was calling.
Walking in to a mostly full room, I was happy to see a friend and her cute husband in attendance.
She's usually the early-to-bed type, but tonight she'd been to a work function and had a Tall Boy so was enjoying herself immensely now.
Someone noted that the crowd was heavily male and a look around confirmed that.
I believe the technical term is "sausagefest."
There were lots of musicians at the show, so there would have been a serious hardship to the local scene if Balliceaux had gone up in a puff of smoke tonight.
I saw the scientist, who only stayed long enough to say hello and catch up with people.
Every time I turned around to face Dave Watkin's swirling light show, there was a familiar face.
The organizer. The (tardy) photographer.
The former prickly and now sunny one.
The WRIR DJs. The former co-worker. The beer geek.
The expectant singer adjusting to the limitations of pregnancy. The friend who came with his Zep bandmates.
A drummer who just got back from South Africa so we could dish on that subject together.
I even did some Replacements matchmaking.
Simply put, the place was crawling with my people.
White Laces was doing their record release show and DJ Ohbliv was opening.
I'd heard him before and been impressed with his knob turning and mashups so I was unprepared when I overheard a guy observe to his friends, "He's not very good at changing songs. Doesn't he know transitions?"
Clearly he was not getting the point.
Meanwhile, my cute friend laughed at his ignorance and danced on.
The room was full of energy and packed by the time White Laces started playing.
Oh, sure, some of it was the "pretty people" kind.
You know, those people who stand around shouting and laughing loudly while the band tries to play over them.
But a lot of the energy was also the fan variety where people just wanted to listen to a band that keeps sounding better and better with each performance.
All four members are terrific musicians and with each show I see, they push their dynamic range a bit further.
Unfortunately, by the end of their set, my girlfriend was ready to push some of the pretty people in the face.
Not me.
I wouldn't want to risk knocking them into my people.
After all, if I go to the only restro-lounge in town, aren't I likely to see other enthusiastic eaters and loungers?
2113 had its usual orange, cool vibe presence when we arrived to music pulsing and a lively mostly male crowd.
Sliding in, we rearranged stools to put two together.
Conveniently, they were pouring Conde Villar Vinho Verde Rose, meaning low-alcohol, but with far more fruit (not to mention a lovely pink color) than a typical Vinho Verde, along with the usual effervescence.
When I was given free rein to order, I couldn't resist ordering the kinds of dishes my companion didn't used to eat.
Say, pan-fried sweetbreads with sweet carrot and a Grenoblaise sauce, the portion so generous as to be startling or the beets with duck confit with a superb smoked balsamic vinaigrette that made the dish.
Someone's been having a ball with his smoker and the result was stellar.
A guy nearby noticed me and asks if we hadn't met. And it wasn't a line.
We had met at Patrick Henry's over a year ago and talked food and restaurants all evening.
Coincidentally, we did the same tonight.
Bypassing the dessert with tobacco-flavored cotton candy, we got vanilla and olive oil parfait with chocolate crumbles for our last course.
I'm definitely seeing an uptick in 2113's food quality and execution.
Now if only I could see more people coming in for the lounge portion of the equation.
But I couldn't be part of that group tonight because Balliceaux was calling.
Walking in to a mostly full room, I was happy to see a friend and her cute husband in attendance.
She's usually the early-to-bed type, but tonight she'd been to a work function and had a Tall Boy so was enjoying herself immensely now.
Someone noted that the crowd was heavily male and a look around confirmed that.
I believe the technical term is "sausagefest."
There were lots of musicians at the show, so there would have been a serious hardship to the local scene if Balliceaux had gone up in a puff of smoke tonight.
I saw the scientist, who only stayed long enough to say hello and catch up with people.
Every time I turned around to face Dave Watkin's swirling light show, there was a familiar face.
The organizer. The (tardy) photographer.
The former prickly and now sunny one.
The WRIR DJs. The former co-worker. The beer geek.
The expectant singer adjusting to the limitations of pregnancy. The friend who came with his Zep bandmates.
A drummer who just got back from South Africa so we could dish on that subject together.
I even did some Replacements matchmaking.
Simply put, the place was crawling with my people.
White Laces was doing their record release show and DJ Ohbliv was opening.
I'd heard him before and been impressed with his knob turning and mashups so I was unprepared when I overheard a guy observe to his friends, "He's not very good at changing songs. Doesn't he know transitions?"
Clearly he was not getting the point.
Meanwhile, my cute friend laughed at his ignorance and danced on.
The room was full of energy and packed by the time White Laces started playing.
Oh, sure, some of it was the "pretty people" kind.
You know, those people who stand around shouting and laughing loudly while the band tries to play over them.
But a lot of the energy was also the fan variety where people just wanted to listen to a band that keeps sounding better and better with each performance.
All four members are terrific musicians and with each show I see, they push their dynamic range a bit further.
Unfortunately, by the end of their set, my girlfriend was ready to push some of the pretty people in the face.
Not me.
I wouldn't want to risk knocking them into my people.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Student of Life Maybe
I was just minding my own business.
Walking down Harrison Street, a man approaches me.
"Good morning, young lady," he says affably. "Are you a VCU student?"
I admit that I'm not.
"I give notebooks to VCU students," he says as if I hadn't just spoken. "Would you like a notebook?"
I demur even as he hands me a distinctive notebook.
It has a brushed metal front and a thick, cardboard back. It's a really nice notebook, easily the finest I've ever had.
"Here's a bag for you to carry it home in," he says as I thank him.
There's no doubt that I'll use my new notebook. Give me paper and I will write.
But I am not, and have never been, a VCU student.
Is this the grown-up equivalent of taking candy from a stranger?
If so, I think I'm okay with it.
Walking down Harrison Street, a man approaches me.
"Good morning, young lady," he says affably. "Are you a VCU student?"
I admit that I'm not.
"I give notebooks to VCU students," he says as if I hadn't just spoken. "Would you like a notebook?"
I demur even as he hands me a distinctive notebook.
It has a brushed metal front and a thick, cardboard back. It's a really nice notebook, easily the finest I've ever had.
"Here's a bag for you to carry it home in," he says as I thank him.
There's no doubt that I'll use my new notebook. Give me paper and I will write.
But I am not, and have never been, a VCU student.
Is this the grown-up equivalent of taking candy from a stranger?
If so, I think I'm okay with it.
We Just Had a Good Time* (*Julia Child)
By the time I'd finished driving back from the river and doing mad edits, it was suddenly time to go out.
Did I have plans? No.
How fortunate that when I called a friend and asked where to report, he responded "Amour."
I'd have been on time except that as I was approaching Amour, I ran into a J-Ward neighbor.
She was instantly recognizable and she claimed I was the same.
She'd been taking one for the team (that is, drinking gin and tonics) at Can Can as part of her job and was now finally off.
We bonded on Cary Street over layoffs, Sweet Fern and staying up late.
Naturally, I was late for my couple date at Amour.
In a pleasant twist, that meant that my Kir Royale was already in place when I arrived.
My friends immediately shared their vacation pics from Las Vegas, so I got to see the Eiffel Tower, untold fountains and views of tall buildings.
It sounded like they had a blast in the land of Celine Dion and 107 degrees.
Yes, the nights were late (they were operating on east coast time) and the food magnificent (I saw the menu from Bouchon), but mostly they raved about the sunsets and the views.
I was pleasantly surprised when Holmes gifted me with a CD, "Not Quite Beatles," a compilation he'd made of favorite songs derived from the masters.
It's true; I'm the type who can be won over by Bourgeois Tagg and Big Star.
Moving on to Provence rose, we ignored the rollicking parties in the front of the restaurant and ordered food.
I stayed honest with a large bistro salad, grilled mushroom caps with Comte and fresh chives while vichyssoise, frog legs and escargots showed up in front of my dates.
And without any fanfare, a fourth joined our group.
With a stylish hat, a quick wit and all kinds of life experience to share, he was a welcome addition to our trio.
Whether discussing peas in London, Chris Squire of Yes or compressed mp3 files, he was a worthy addition to our group.
We got to a point with wine where my friend Holmes mused, "Where should we go, red or white? How about blue?"
Oh, my. Don't give me an opening, because I'll take it.
When Holmes mentioned blue, I immediately suggested Jannison et Fils Bleu, a lovely champagne with a nose of flowers and a soft, round finish, that I knew Amour carried.
How could I not recommend a Frenchman who works on two continents, making bubbles both with Virginia and French grapes?
We included our new friend in our bleu tasting and blathered on about grand pianos, life in the Grenadines (him) and Hanover Avenue.
Dessert arrived and in addition to the sea salt chocolate creme bruelee and chocolate gelato, we ventured into hallowed ground.
Since we're a mere day past Julia Child's birthday, how could I not savor her classic cherry clafouti?
The dish, resembling a sweet, crustless quiche with a custard center and those lovely cherries, was the perfect nod to Julia on her 100th.
And who wouldn't want to celebrate Julia this week?
While our new best friend thoroughly explained steel drum making and playing, we shared desserts and Bleu.
Appropriately, the music was Django Reinhardt-inspired or even the great one himself, making for a superb soundtrack to our eating and drinking.
Props must go to our unexpected fourth who not only hung in until the end, but jumped in every art and music conversation with enough pertinent information to be a true asset to the group.
Holmes pontificated about the outsize girth of his own head and our fourth countered with details about Ignatius Hats, pleasing one of the native Richmonders no end.
Personally, I need neither hats nor a Petersburg hat shop, but the discussion was so lively and compelling that I felt interested despite no actual relevance to my little corner of the universe.
And considering I'd begun the evening with no real plans, having wound up with three clever people with whom I could eat, drink and be merry was a hugely unexpected bonus.
In fact, it may have been the perfect tribute to Julia.
As it is, I live by her words.
Life itself is the proper binge.
Best of all, with no desire to purge afterwards.
Did I have plans? No.
How fortunate that when I called a friend and asked where to report, he responded "Amour."
I'd have been on time except that as I was approaching Amour, I ran into a J-Ward neighbor.
She was instantly recognizable and she claimed I was the same.
She'd been taking one for the team (that is, drinking gin and tonics) at Can Can as part of her job and was now finally off.
We bonded on Cary Street over layoffs, Sweet Fern and staying up late.
Naturally, I was late for my couple date at Amour.
In a pleasant twist, that meant that my Kir Royale was already in place when I arrived.
My friends immediately shared their vacation pics from Las Vegas, so I got to see the Eiffel Tower, untold fountains and views of tall buildings.
It sounded like they had a blast in the land of Celine Dion and 107 degrees.
Yes, the nights were late (they were operating on east coast time) and the food magnificent (I saw the menu from Bouchon), but mostly they raved about the sunsets and the views.
I was pleasantly surprised when Holmes gifted me with a CD, "Not Quite Beatles," a compilation he'd made of favorite songs derived from the masters.
It's true; I'm the type who can be won over by Bourgeois Tagg and Big Star.
Moving on to Provence rose, we ignored the rollicking parties in the front of the restaurant and ordered food.
I stayed honest with a large bistro salad, grilled mushroom caps with Comte and fresh chives while vichyssoise, frog legs and escargots showed up in front of my dates.
And without any fanfare, a fourth joined our group.
With a stylish hat, a quick wit and all kinds of life experience to share, he was a welcome addition to our trio.
Whether discussing peas in London, Chris Squire of Yes or compressed mp3 files, he was a worthy addition to our group.
We got to a point with wine where my friend Holmes mused, "Where should we go, red or white? How about blue?"
Oh, my. Don't give me an opening, because I'll take it.
When Holmes mentioned blue, I immediately suggested Jannison et Fils Bleu, a lovely champagne with a nose of flowers and a soft, round finish, that I knew Amour carried.
How could I not recommend a Frenchman who works on two continents, making bubbles both with Virginia and French grapes?
We included our new friend in our bleu tasting and blathered on about grand pianos, life in the Grenadines (him) and Hanover Avenue.
Dessert arrived and in addition to the sea salt chocolate creme bruelee and chocolate gelato, we ventured into hallowed ground.
Since we're a mere day past Julia Child's birthday, how could I not savor her classic cherry clafouti?
The dish, resembling a sweet, crustless quiche with a custard center and those lovely cherries, was the perfect nod to Julia on her 100th.
And who wouldn't want to celebrate Julia this week?
While our new best friend thoroughly explained steel drum making and playing, we shared desserts and Bleu.
Appropriately, the music was Django Reinhardt-inspired or even the great one himself, making for a superb soundtrack to our eating and drinking.
Props must go to our unexpected fourth who not only hung in until the end, but jumped in every art and music conversation with enough pertinent information to be a true asset to the group.
Holmes pontificated about the outsize girth of his own head and our fourth countered with details about Ignatius Hats, pleasing one of the native Richmonders no end.
Personally, I need neither hats nor a Petersburg hat shop, but the discussion was so lively and compelling that I felt interested despite no actual relevance to my little corner of the universe.
And considering I'd begun the evening with no real plans, having wound up with three clever people with whom I could eat, drink and be merry was a hugely unexpected bonus.
In fact, it may have been the perfect tribute to Julia.
As it is, I live by her words.
Life itself is the proper binge.
Best of all, with no desire to purge afterwards.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Italians and the Jefferson
I figured if I was going to hear tales of the Jefferson, I should go with someone I met at the Jefferson.
The Library of Virginia was hosting author Paul Herbert as he spoke about his book, "The Jefferson Hotel: The History of a Richmond Landmark."
And while the title is snooze-worthy, the subject was overdue for re-examination since the last book on the Jefferson had been in 1941.
As it turned out, the stories he shared were fascinating.
When he heard that the Jefferson had used a 12-year old clock cleaner, he tracked down the now 72-year old man to get the story.
When he was told a story of two young girls being asleep in the hotel when it caught on fire, he tracked down the girls.
"The thing about history is," he said with understated but obvious enthusiasm, "If you can find the people who were there."
Most of his stories ended with him meeting or talking to the person something happened to as a way yo corroborate the tales told in the book.
He clarified once and for all that the Jefferson's famed alligators lasted only until 1948, except for special occasions.
Billy Joel was an investor in the Jefferson, albeit a silent one. Herbert said he did once visit and play the piano, though.
I learned that the check-in desks used to be downstairs by the Main Street entrance, in front of what is now TJ's.
That there was a writing room in the lobby.
And, when it opened in 1895, a rooftop garden where entertainment was held.
Vaudeville from the roof of the Jefferson, can you imagine?
In the hotel's restaurant, Elvis ate bacon with his fingers, to the horror of one of the employees.
At one point in the evening, Herbert looked at the crowd and said, "In Richmond, everything ties back to the Jefferson. Everyone has a connection. It's like that seven degrees of separation with Kevin Bacon game. Everyone has a Jefferson story."
Who was I to argue?
I was sitting next to someone I'd met at the Jefferson two decades ago. Clearly there's a story there.
Dinner followed further east at Maximo's, the new tapas place in the Bottom.
It was livelier than I'd expected and the Spanish music was, too.
The menu was a bit of a split personality with tapas on one side and Italian on the other.
With a bottle of Verdejo, we ate around the tapas side, trying apple salad, chorizo in cherry sauce and a soft shell crab in a white wine cream sauce.
The people watching was colorful inside and outside the restaurant, with both Italian and New Jersey being spoken.
We finished with Warre's "Warrior" Port, leaving some Verdejo to go.
Our eager sever rushed off to get a bag for it, returning with a large brown grocery bag and saying apologetically, "We have one size bag: giant!"
So it was that we left with a giant bag with our leftover Verdejo and full bellies.
As if the evening needed any further enhancement, we made for Strange Matter to see an Italian band, Sultan Bathery.
What are young guys from Venice playing these days, you wonder?
Let me tell you. The best kind of lo-fi, garage (almost surf) pop in two to three minute bursts.
The bass player wore a long orange scarf wrapped around his forehead in that Steven Tyler-kind of way.
The guitarist would have looked right at home in the Trillions. Even better, he sang every song peering through curly bangs.
The drummer's non-stop arms were encased in a Cramps t-shirt with sleeves so short it looked like a girl's t-shirt.
In other words, they were adorable. And very young.
Even so, what came through was their Euro-swagger as they rocked hard and fast without ever really losing it.
And everyone, repeat, everyone in that room was constitutionally unable to stand still as a result.
After their 45-minute set (fact: you can only go so hard so long), the band made a plea in mostly Italian for support.
"We have not so much money," the singer said sweetly.
I bet they have no place finding a place to stay tonight, either.
And while I doubt it'll be the Jefferson, no doubt they'll find southern hospitality in Richmond.
I figure if I got to see a dynamite Italian band here on a Wednesday night, they're going to be just as lucky.
Cute can take Italians a long way.
The Library of Virginia was hosting author Paul Herbert as he spoke about his book, "The Jefferson Hotel: The History of a Richmond Landmark."
And while the title is snooze-worthy, the subject was overdue for re-examination since the last book on the Jefferson had been in 1941.
As it turned out, the stories he shared were fascinating.
When he heard that the Jefferson had used a 12-year old clock cleaner, he tracked down the now 72-year old man to get the story.
When he was told a story of two young girls being asleep in the hotel when it caught on fire, he tracked down the girls.
"The thing about history is," he said with understated but obvious enthusiasm, "If you can find the people who were there."
Most of his stories ended with him meeting or talking to the person something happened to as a way yo corroborate the tales told in the book.
He clarified once and for all that the Jefferson's famed alligators lasted only until 1948, except for special occasions.
Billy Joel was an investor in the Jefferson, albeit a silent one. Herbert said he did once visit and play the piano, though.
I learned that the check-in desks used to be downstairs by the Main Street entrance, in front of what is now TJ's.
That there was a writing room in the lobby.
And, when it opened in 1895, a rooftop garden where entertainment was held.
Vaudeville from the roof of the Jefferson, can you imagine?
In the hotel's restaurant, Elvis ate bacon with his fingers, to the horror of one of the employees.
At one point in the evening, Herbert looked at the crowd and said, "In Richmond, everything ties back to the Jefferson. Everyone has a connection. It's like that seven degrees of separation with Kevin Bacon game. Everyone has a Jefferson story."
Who was I to argue?
I was sitting next to someone I'd met at the Jefferson two decades ago. Clearly there's a story there.
Dinner followed further east at Maximo's, the new tapas place in the Bottom.
It was livelier than I'd expected and the Spanish music was, too.
The menu was a bit of a split personality with tapas on one side and Italian on the other.
With a bottle of Verdejo, we ate around the tapas side, trying apple salad, chorizo in cherry sauce and a soft shell crab in a white wine cream sauce.
The people watching was colorful inside and outside the restaurant, with both Italian and New Jersey being spoken.
We finished with Warre's "Warrior" Port, leaving some Verdejo to go.
Our eager sever rushed off to get a bag for it, returning with a large brown grocery bag and saying apologetically, "We have one size bag: giant!"
So it was that we left with a giant bag with our leftover Verdejo and full bellies.
As if the evening needed any further enhancement, we made for Strange Matter to see an Italian band, Sultan Bathery.
What are young guys from Venice playing these days, you wonder?
Let me tell you. The best kind of lo-fi, garage (almost surf) pop in two to three minute bursts.
The bass player wore a long orange scarf wrapped around his forehead in that Steven Tyler-kind of way.
The guitarist would have looked right at home in the Trillions. Even better, he sang every song peering through curly bangs.
The drummer's non-stop arms were encased in a Cramps t-shirt with sleeves so short it looked like a girl's t-shirt.
In other words, they were adorable. And very young.
Even so, what came through was their Euro-swagger as they rocked hard and fast without ever really losing it.
And everyone, repeat, everyone in that room was constitutionally unable to stand still as a result.
After their 45-minute set (fact: you can only go so hard so long), the band made a plea in mostly Italian for support.
"We have not so much money," the singer said sweetly.
I bet they have no place finding a place to stay tonight, either.
And while I doubt it'll be the Jefferson, no doubt they'll find southern hospitality in Richmond.
I figure if I got to see a dynamite Italian band here on a Wednesday night, they're going to be just as lucky.
Cute can take Italians a long way.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Tales of Romance at Cucina
It's embarrassing how little I know of getting around in Church Hill.
Sure, I can get to the Roosevelt or Alamo, but that's about it.
So when a friend suggested lunch at a new place on the Hill, his neighborhood now since a recent move, I had to call (gasp!) him to get the specifics of getting there.
And, yes, I know it's barely two and a half miles from home.
But with exacting directions, I was able to find his new digs and we sat on his front porch while he drank his life-giving coffee wearing a hat that said, "Bartenders are gods."
Once properly caffeinated, the god and I made our way to Street Deli.
The charming little spot got high points right away for its cool, stone floor and tables laden with goodies like homemade coconut and chocolate cake.
As an enormous catering order was being loaded into a van, we ordered our lunch.
I couldn't resist the albacore tuna stuffed Hanover tomato (although it arrived minus the billed pesto cheese tortellini) and my friend got a turkey pesto panini.
While our food was being concocted, we went outside to the little patio area next door.
Technically, it doesn't belong to the owners, but their next-door neighbor (and landlord) cleared a space for al fresco dining.
The little enclosed area was winsome, with clay pots, an old tire-less scooter acting as outdoor sculpture and all kinds of blooming plants scattered around.
As we sat there eating our food, dog walkers from the nearby pet sitting service strolled by and people trickled in and out of the deli.
Over triple chocolate cake, Friend and I traded stories of the pleasures and pitfalls of dating at our age, citing how both good and bad traits are more firmly entrenched in a person.
I shared how I had once been informed that I was in a romance (unbeknownst to me) and he threw his head back laughing at me.
No big deal, because we've been friends long enough that he has a right to laugh at me when I'm that dense.
I'm just glad that he's found someone to appreciate his great qualities: perseverance, humor and a willingness to be open to whatever comes along.
His hat got it wrong.
It's smart, thoughtful men of a certain age who are gods.
But then who's going to put that on a hat?
Sure, I can get to the Roosevelt or Alamo, but that's about it.
So when a friend suggested lunch at a new place on the Hill, his neighborhood now since a recent move, I had to call (gasp!) him to get the specifics of getting there.
And, yes, I know it's barely two and a half miles from home.
But with exacting directions, I was able to find his new digs and we sat on his front porch while he drank his life-giving coffee wearing a hat that said, "Bartenders are gods."
Once properly caffeinated, the god and I made our way to Street Deli.
The charming little spot got high points right away for its cool, stone floor and tables laden with goodies like homemade coconut and chocolate cake.
As an enormous catering order was being loaded into a van, we ordered our lunch.
I couldn't resist the albacore tuna stuffed Hanover tomato (although it arrived minus the billed pesto cheese tortellini) and my friend got a turkey pesto panini.
While our food was being concocted, we went outside to the little patio area next door.
Technically, it doesn't belong to the owners, but their next-door neighbor (and landlord) cleared a space for al fresco dining.
The little enclosed area was winsome, with clay pots, an old tire-less scooter acting as outdoor sculpture and all kinds of blooming plants scattered around.
As we sat there eating our food, dog walkers from the nearby pet sitting service strolled by and people trickled in and out of the deli.
Over triple chocolate cake, Friend and I traded stories of the pleasures and pitfalls of dating at our age, citing how both good and bad traits are more firmly entrenched in a person.
I shared how I had once been informed that I was in a romance (unbeknownst to me) and he threw his head back laughing at me.
No big deal, because we've been friends long enough that he has a right to laugh at me when I'm that dense.
I'm just glad that he's found someone to appreciate his great qualities: perseverance, humor and a willingness to be open to whatever comes along.
His hat got it wrong.
It's smart, thoughtful men of a certain age who are gods.
But then who's going to put that on a hat?
Not Mistaken for Candy
I'd absolutely love to join you at the Firehouse on Tuesday evening for a $5 bongo thrumming soiree of pseudo-intellectual, empathetical thinking. When does the Beat generation begin? Do we have time for a nosh beforehand?
So it was that we began at Garnett's and ended with Gordon.
While it might not compare to Beat-era prices, twenty bucks for two glasses of wine and four small plates seemed positively square to the beat. Dates wrapped in bacon with Gorgonzola, crostini with mayhaw jelly and Gorgonzola, toasted tea sandwiches of ham and garlic aioli, and prosciutto wrapped cantaloupe neatly took care of our noshing needs.
At the Firehouse, we took primo seats in the front row, the better to get up close and personal with Gordon Ball.
Never heard of him? Me, either. Turns out he was the filmmaker who'd been hired by Beat poet Allen Ginsberg back in the '60s to manage his farm in upstate New York.
Why did a Beat need a farm, you may wonder. Well, where else could his drug and alcohol-dependent friends and fellow poets go to escape the evils of NYC and dry out?
As we sat there waiting for the talk to begin, I got a visit from a non-Beat poet, a friend who'd just returned from writing poetry in Vermont. As we caught up, a man walked up and stood in front of me.
"Hi," he said smiling shyly. "Are you Kathy?" I had to admit I wasn't, that the best I could do was Karen.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, beginning to return to his front row seat near us. Don't worry, I told him. I'm probably not half as interesting as Kathy is.
"I'm sure that's not true," he said.
Imagine my surprise when he was the one who walked onstage to do the reading. I'd been mistaken for Kathy by Gordon Ball.
He began by showing photographs from the farm taken from 1968-70. Everyone had that late sixties hippie look going - beards, long hair, lean bodies (no high fructose corn syrup in those days) - and the farm, which he described as "in the snow belt" looked remote beyond belief.
"So there's the line-up," he said at the end of the slide show, having introduced us to the cast of characters who regularly inhabited the bucolic Beat getaway.
We were then treated to him reading three chapters from his book, "East Hill Farm: Seasons with Allen Ginsberg." I loved how he referred to his girlfriend of the time, Candy, as "shapely energy."
Now I wished he'd mistaken me for Candy instead of Kathy.
As he was reading about being hassled by the police, a siren screamed down Broad Street outside and he paused and grinned. Over the next hour, we heard tales of under-appreciated Thanksgivings, black eyes and drunken poets beating their heads on flagstones.
He referred to the farm as a refuge for needy poets (there are other kinds?) but in the most affectionate way.
During the stage interview, host Liz referred to him repeatedly as Allen rather than Gordon. Considering Allen is dead, not to mention he was a heavy man with a dark beard and Gordon was still lean and light-haired, it was rather disconcerting.
The evening concluded with Gordon showing his film "Mexican Jail Footage," shot in 1968, he said, and made with "chewing gum and love" and not intended to be anything but a documentation of time spent illegally detained in a jail south of the border.
Frankly, it was fascinating to see how he and his friends had occupied themselves during their incarceration. Yoga, smoking pot (one handful acquired from the jailer), being taken to a Chinese restaurant by said jailer (and a whorehouse), being taken to a fancy hotel for dinner by a friend's mother and, obviously, shooting film footage.
Boy, they don't make jails like they used to, do they?
It wasn't all fun and games, though. They had to pay a local to go out and buy them food during their stay, meaning they quickly ran through their money. But it finished happily with a plane ticket to Texas (okay, relatively happily) and freedom.
The evening ended with me purchasing his book so I could get it signed by the man who'd known Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti and Burroughs. He opted to inscribe it to Karen rather than Kathy, saying I was much younger than she was.
Despite the absence of bongo thrumming, I know I'll never get closer to a Beat than I did tonight.
Kind of makes me want to howl.
So it was that we began at Garnett's and ended with Gordon.
While it might not compare to Beat-era prices, twenty bucks for two glasses of wine and four small plates seemed positively square to the beat. Dates wrapped in bacon with Gorgonzola, crostini with mayhaw jelly and Gorgonzola, toasted tea sandwiches of ham and garlic aioli, and prosciutto wrapped cantaloupe neatly took care of our noshing needs.
At the Firehouse, we took primo seats in the front row, the better to get up close and personal with Gordon Ball.
Never heard of him? Me, either. Turns out he was the filmmaker who'd been hired by Beat poet Allen Ginsberg back in the '60s to manage his farm in upstate New York.
Why did a Beat need a farm, you may wonder. Well, where else could his drug and alcohol-dependent friends and fellow poets go to escape the evils of NYC and dry out?
As we sat there waiting for the talk to begin, I got a visit from a non-Beat poet, a friend who'd just returned from writing poetry in Vermont. As we caught up, a man walked up and stood in front of me.
"Hi," he said smiling shyly. "Are you Kathy?" I had to admit I wasn't, that the best I could do was Karen.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, beginning to return to his front row seat near us. Don't worry, I told him. I'm probably not half as interesting as Kathy is.
"I'm sure that's not true," he said.
Imagine my surprise when he was the one who walked onstage to do the reading. I'd been mistaken for Kathy by Gordon Ball.
He began by showing photographs from the farm taken from 1968-70. Everyone had that late sixties hippie look going - beards, long hair, lean bodies (no high fructose corn syrup in those days) - and the farm, which he described as "in the snow belt" looked remote beyond belief.
"So there's the line-up," he said at the end of the slide show, having introduced us to the cast of characters who regularly inhabited the bucolic Beat getaway.
We were then treated to him reading three chapters from his book, "East Hill Farm: Seasons with Allen Ginsberg." I loved how he referred to his girlfriend of the time, Candy, as "shapely energy."
Now I wished he'd mistaken me for Candy instead of Kathy.
As he was reading about being hassled by the police, a siren screamed down Broad Street outside and he paused and grinned. Over the next hour, we heard tales of under-appreciated Thanksgivings, black eyes and drunken poets beating their heads on flagstones.
He referred to the farm as a refuge for needy poets (there are other kinds?) but in the most affectionate way.
During the stage interview, host Liz referred to him repeatedly as Allen rather than Gordon. Considering Allen is dead, not to mention he was a heavy man with a dark beard and Gordon was still lean and light-haired, it was rather disconcerting.
The evening concluded with Gordon showing his film "Mexican Jail Footage," shot in 1968, he said, and made with "chewing gum and love" and not intended to be anything but a documentation of time spent illegally detained in a jail south of the border.
Frankly, it was fascinating to see how he and his friends had occupied themselves during their incarceration. Yoga, smoking pot (one handful acquired from the jailer), being taken to a Chinese restaurant by said jailer (and a whorehouse), being taken to a fancy hotel for dinner by a friend's mother and, obviously, shooting film footage.
Boy, they don't make jails like they used to, do they?
It wasn't all fun and games, though. They had to pay a local to go out and buy them food during their stay, meaning they quickly ran through their money. But it finished happily with a plane ticket to Texas (okay, relatively happily) and freedom.
The evening ended with me purchasing his book so I could get it signed by the man who'd known Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti and Burroughs. He opted to inscribe it to Karen rather than Kathy, saying I was much younger than she was.
Despite the absence of bongo thrumming, I know I'll never get closer to a Beat than I did tonight.
Kind of makes me want to howl.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Far from Faultless
The funny thing is, they live on the Northern Neck.
And yet when I suggested lunch at Merroir, my parents, despite decades on the river, said they hadn't been.
Road trip.
So they drove one way and we drove another to meet in Topping at the home of Rappahannock River Oyster Company.
I'll be honest, it was my third time in five weeks.
My name is Karen and I'm an oysterholic.
So on a flawless August afternoon, I enjoyed lunch with my parents at a table riverside.
Three kinds of oysters, lamb sliders with spicy mustard mayo and celery/onion slaw and a foot-long lamb dog with onions sauteed in mustard.
Over a bottle of Wimmer Gruner Veltliner, I became the target, enjoying all kinds of well-intentioned (and very funny) jabs about myself.
Let's just say my Dad is still telling the story of why he should never have let me play kickball in the street.
I was eight at the time.
Naturally, I was ribbed about my track record.
And faults.
"One?" he said with great hilarity.
I may have even been called an idiot.
And four hours later when I left, replete and calmed by a post-lunch hour sitting on the dock, I felt lucky to have such great role models.
As a friend wrote to me just today after gushing about missing me, "I know that was corny but it just felt right."
Must be all that salt air. Besides, Mom and Dad never mind corny.
And yet when I suggested lunch at Merroir, my parents, despite decades on the river, said they hadn't been.
Road trip.
So they drove one way and we drove another to meet in Topping at the home of Rappahannock River Oyster Company.
I'll be honest, it was my third time in five weeks.
My name is Karen and I'm an oysterholic.
So on a flawless August afternoon, I enjoyed lunch with my parents at a table riverside.
Three kinds of oysters, lamb sliders with spicy mustard mayo and celery/onion slaw and a foot-long lamb dog with onions sauteed in mustard.
Over a bottle of Wimmer Gruner Veltliner, I became the target, enjoying all kinds of well-intentioned (and very funny) jabs about myself.
Let's just say my Dad is still telling the story of why he should never have let me play kickball in the street.
I was eight at the time.
Naturally, I was ribbed about my track record.
And faults.
"One?" he said with great hilarity.
I may have even been called an idiot.
And four hours later when I left, replete and calmed by a post-lunch hour sitting on the dock, I felt lucky to have such great role models.
As a friend wrote to me just today after gushing about missing me, "I know that was corny but it just felt right."
Must be all that salt air. Besides, Mom and Dad never mind corny.
Spice Up Your Life
I passed up the Spice Girls for Nirvana, with a stop at Fort Knox along the way.
And by Fort Knox, I mean the pop-up called "And Now for the Last Course" held at Avalon by Chef Knox Vaughan and Mattias Haglund of Comfort.
It may not have been a true pop-up since Avalon used to be Knox's kitchen, but the one-night only event was a send -off for Knox, who's leaving RVA.
Naturally, he broke all the rules, meaning no set time for the dinner and no set menu.
Instead he'd created a one-night only menu to tempt the faithful and from which to order.
So many choices - cumin lamb lollipops, skirt steak Oscar, ants on a log- made it hard to pick just a few.
An amuse bouche of heirloom cherry tomatoes, red and yellow, with EVOO and fresh basil merely whetted our appetites for more.
We began with the Misto to Share, a plate of peppery arugula with a creamy arugula, leek and Manchego pesto atop it, along with Spanish olives, sliced Manchego and saffron crackers.
It was the perfect starter.
Corn-husk wrapped escolar came with cilantro corn and tequila lime reduction.
As promised by our server, the escolar melted in our mouths while the sweet corn was as summery as an August day.
I could have eaten an entire bowl of that corn.
We finished with melon panna cotta, the melon puree a vivid orange and tasting like the melon was barely hours old.
Usually panna cotta is not my thing, but this was too fresh-tasting not to savor.
The chef worked the dining room, saying goodbye to diners as they scarfed his delicious work.
Thus fortified, it was time for us to get in the way-back machine and revisit the '90s.
We did that at the Ghost Light Afterparty at Richmond Triangle Players.
This month's theme, "Saved By The GLAP" was a shoe-in for a Sunday funday kind of evening.
Host Matt was late, although we got a report from the stage that he'd be there the moment he finished eating McDonald's in his apartment.
Apparently, rehearsals for "All Fall Down" ran late.
But The GLAP audience is a patient one and we had plenty of alcohol and company to amuse us.
I was disappointed to hear that a talented friend is pulling up stakes for San Diego, but absolutely charmed when she described how she felt about RVA.
"We've been stupidly happy here," she said, smiling widely.
When Matt did arrive wearing a "This is Hardcore" t-shirt (hardcore never looked so adorable), the party swung into full gear.
Even his mother had come down from Jersey to join the fun.
Co-host Maggie kicked things off by saying, "This is what the '90s is to me," before singing "Groove is in the Heart."
Her Mom and Dad and assorted kin had also come down to be part of the GLAP festivities.
It was a family affair.
As usual, lots of people got into the act, dancing or playing instruments.
"Marquise is starting to turn into our resident bongo player," Matt observed after he'd added some nice percussion to a song.
We took a turn from Top 40 to punk when Matt did Green Day's "Long View," albeit in a slightly more Broadway style than Billie Joe had likely intended.
Or maybe not. The man did go on to write a musical, after all.
Afterwards at the mic, Maggie chatted up the crowd.
"First," she said dramatically, "Marvin Hamlisch."
There was a collective "Ohhhh," as only a theater crowd can do and not surprisingly, several Hamlisch songs were sung tonight.
The talented Robyn O'Neill (looking fabulous in green pants, green sandals with green toenail polish) did a stunning version of Hamlisch's "I Still Believe in Love."
Liz, in undone overalls and with a hat on, returned us to Top 40 with Four Non Blondes' "What's Going On."
We heard a mad-lib sung to which I'd contributed (tangoing, swimming and kissed) to REM's "Losing My Religion," and Matt rapped.
Seriously, sometimes you have to be there to believe some of this stuff you see.
We got an audience lesson in how to beatbox from Annie, who told us afterwards, "That's on my resume."
Sadly, I was slow on the uptake so I don't think beat boxing will ever be on my resume.
"In a minute, the acoustic guitar is going to come out an then it'll get real '90s," Matt solemnly informed the crowd.
With a little tuning and very little previous practice they said, we heard the Goo Goo Dolls "Name" and Third Eye Blind's "Jumper" and we were suddenly knee-deep in the '90s.
It was awesome.
Maggie took the microphone looking uncharacteristically serious.
"My mother has harbored some bad feelings all these years about Kurt Cobain because of the pain he caused me," she mugged.
Which could only mean that it was time for some Nirvana worship in the form of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
It could be the anthem for Ghost Light Afterparty audience: "Here we are now, entertain us."
And month after month, they do. Hilariously. With an array of talent. With corny jokes and raffle prizes. With songs we'd like to forget and ones we're thrilled to hear live.
"Now Nirvana has been done at GLAP," Matt said mock-seriously, as if looking for meaning. "Never saw that one coming!"
Of course, as a loyal butt in the audience, I never see any of it coming.
I just show up prepared to be unprepared for whatever happens.
And I inevitably leave with my face sore from smiling and laughing.
Maybe like my friend, I'm aspiring to be stupidly happy from here on out.
And by Fort Knox, I mean the pop-up called "And Now for the Last Course" held at Avalon by Chef Knox Vaughan and Mattias Haglund of Comfort.
It may not have been a true pop-up since Avalon used to be Knox's kitchen, but the one-night only event was a send -off for Knox, who's leaving RVA.
Naturally, he broke all the rules, meaning no set time for the dinner and no set menu.
Instead he'd created a one-night only menu to tempt the faithful and from which to order.
So many choices - cumin lamb lollipops, skirt steak Oscar, ants on a log- made it hard to pick just a few.
An amuse bouche of heirloom cherry tomatoes, red and yellow, with EVOO and fresh basil merely whetted our appetites for more.
We began with the Misto to Share, a plate of peppery arugula with a creamy arugula, leek and Manchego pesto atop it, along with Spanish olives, sliced Manchego and saffron crackers.
It was the perfect starter.
Corn-husk wrapped escolar came with cilantro corn and tequila lime reduction.
As promised by our server, the escolar melted in our mouths while the sweet corn was as summery as an August day.
I could have eaten an entire bowl of that corn.
We finished with melon panna cotta, the melon puree a vivid orange and tasting like the melon was barely hours old.
Usually panna cotta is not my thing, but this was too fresh-tasting not to savor.
The chef worked the dining room, saying goodbye to diners as they scarfed his delicious work.
Thus fortified, it was time for us to get in the way-back machine and revisit the '90s.
We did that at the Ghost Light Afterparty at Richmond Triangle Players.
This month's theme, "Saved By The GLAP" was a shoe-in for a Sunday funday kind of evening.
Host Matt was late, although we got a report from the stage that he'd be there the moment he finished eating McDonald's in his apartment.
Apparently, rehearsals for "All Fall Down" ran late.
But The GLAP audience is a patient one and we had plenty of alcohol and company to amuse us.
I was disappointed to hear that a talented friend is pulling up stakes for San Diego, but absolutely charmed when she described how she felt about RVA.
"We've been stupidly happy here," she said, smiling widely.
When Matt did arrive wearing a "This is Hardcore" t-shirt (hardcore never looked so adorable), the party swung into full gear.
Even his mother had come down from Jersey to join the fun.
Co-host Maggie kicked things off by saying, "This is what the '90s is to me," before singing "Groove is in the Heart."
Her Mom and Dad and assorted kin had also come down to be part of the GLAP festivities.
It was a family affair.
As usual, lots of people got into the act, dancing or playing instruments.
"Marquise is starting to turn into our resident bongo player," Matt observed after he'd added some nice percussion to a song.
We took a turn from Top 40 to punk when Matt did Green Day's "Long View," albeit in a slightly more Broadway style than Billie Joe had likely intended.
Or maybe not. The man did go on to write a musical, after all.
Afterwards at the mic, Maggie chatted up the crowd.
"First," she said dramatically, "Marvin Hamlisch."
There was a collective "Ohhhh," as only a theater crowd can do and not surprisingly, several Hamlisch songs were sung tonight.
The talented Robyn O'Neill (looking fabulous in green pants, green sandals with green toenail polish) did a stunning version of Hamlisch's "I Still Believe in Love."
Liz, in undone overalls and with a hat on, returned us to Top 40 with Four Non Blondes' "What's Going On."
We heard a mad-lib sung to which I'd contributed (tangoing, swimming and kissed) to REM's "Losing My Religion," and Matt rapped.
Seriously, sometimes you have to be there to believe some of this stuff you see.
We got an audience lesson in how to beatbox from Annie, who told us afterwards, "That's on my resume."
Sadly, I was slow on the uptake so I don't think beat boxing will ever be on my resume.
"In a minute, the acoustic guitar is going to come out an then it'll get real '90s," Matt solemnly informed the crowd.
With a little tuning and very little previous practice they said, we heard the Goo Goo Dolls "Name" and Third Eye Blind's "Jumper" and we were suddenly knee-deep in the '90s.
It was awesome.
Maggie took the microphone looking uncharacteristically serious.
"My mother has harbored some bad feelings all these years about Kurt Cobain because of the pain he caused me," she mugged.
Which could only mean that it was time for some Nirvana worship in the form of "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
It could be the anthem for Ghost Light Afterparty audience: "Here we are now, entertain us."
And month after month, they do. Hilariously. With an array of talent. With corny jokes and raffle prizes. With songs we'd like to forget and ones we're thrilled to hear live.
"Now Nirvana has been done at GLAP," Matt said mock-seriously, as if looking for meaning. "Never saw that one coming!"
Of course, as a loyal butt in the audience, I never see any of it coming.
I just show up prepared to be unprepared for whatever happens.
And I inevitably leave with my face sore from smiling and laughing.
Maybe like my friend, I'm aspiring to be stupidly happy from here on out.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Universal Q & A
Sundays are different.
Even though I walk every day of the week, there's always a different vibe to my Sunday stroll.
For one thing, walking through the VCU part of it is usually like walking through a ghost town.
Not so today because hell block was buzzing with move-in activity.
As a new crop of students eagerly take over the apartments that have played host to countless games of beer pong and anonymous hook-ups, it's funny to see the parents looking so worried about this next big step.
Let 'em go, I say. If you've done a good job as a parent, they'll be fine.
Ahh, I see. No wonder you're looking so concerned. A little late now.
But don't get me started.
Walking down Belvidere, a man approaching me steps off the sidewalk on to the grass to let me pass.
"Pretty girls scare me," he says with a smile and a sweep of his arm. "So, please go on."
Only on Sunday.
Heading home, I walk by a porch where two women are talking to a young girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old.
"Walk outside every day and ask the universe for answers," one of the women tells the child as I pass.
If that isn't the most appropriate Sunday advice I could hope for, I don't know what is.
My walks are an opportunity to ask my questions. Every single day.
Even though I walk every day of the week, there's always a different vibe to my Sunday stroll.
For one thing, walking through the VCU part of it is usually like walking through a ghost town.
Not so today because hell block was buzzing with move-in activity.
As a new crop of students eagerly take over the apartments that have played host to countless games of beer pong and anonymous hook-ups, it's funny to see the parents looking so worried about this next big step.
Let 'em go, I say. If you've done a good job as a parent, they'll be fine.
Ahh, I see. No wonder you're looking so concerned. A little late now.
But don't get me started.
Walking down Belvidere, a man approaching me steps off the sidewalk on to the grass to let me pass.
"Pretty girls scare me," he says with a smile and a sweep of his arm. "So, please go on."
Only on Sunday.
Heading home, I walk by a porch where two women are talking to a young girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old.
"Walk outside every day and ask the universe for answers," one of the women tells the child as I pass.
If that isn't the most appropriate Sunday advice I could hope for, I don't know what is.
My walks are an opportunity to ask my questions. Every single day.
Get a Little Action In
Saturday night's alright for fighting.
That and dating, 'cause Saturday is definitely date night.
Which means if I decide to go eat by myself in a restaurant, I am guaranteed to be surrounded by couples.
So it was at the Magpie.
With me at the bar were the aging blond rock star and his date (she paid the bill) and how she put up with his endless bragging, I'll never know.
Two seats away and I got tired of hearing how the girls adored him onstage.
There was the couple who spent the length of two drinks talking about stuff: the number of diamonds in her new ring, the options on his new car, how chilly she was in her new leather jacket.
Boring.
In other words, I was pretty satisfied being by myself.
When I ordered a glass of Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero, a Greek blend promising crisp acidity and an intense nose of peach and rose petals, the bartender informed me that it was the owner's favorite.
I continue to be impressed with the array of Greek wines showing up locally lately and their low price points don't hurt, either.
"I like value in wine," the owner laughed matter-of-factly when I told her how much I liked the Feast.
While all around me couples did the mating game (or, in some cases, spent more time looking at their phones than talking to their date), I took advantage of the cooler evening and ordered tonight's soup.
It was a roasted corn with bacon and, as it turns out, some unbilled poblano, making for an unexpected but welcome heat.
I can always count on Magpie's soundtrack to relive the old days and tonight's music was no exception.
"Listen Like Thieves" gave way to "Show Me" which begot "Girlfriend in a Coma," et cetera, et cetera, et cetera (can you tell I saw "The King and I" a few days ago?).
For my next course, I got banana-crusted scallops with spiced rum reduction and (wait for it) vanilla gelato.
The thick, sweet sauce was beautiful with the scallops and the gelato, which conveniently also satisfied my sweet tooth.
By the time the bartender asked me about dessert, I had no need of anything further.
Well, except perhaps a date. It is Saturday night, after all.
And I'm really not a fighter.
That and dating, 'cause Saturday is definitely date night.
Which means if I decide to go eat by myself in a restaurant, I am guaranteed to be surrounded by couples.
So it was at the Magpie.
With me at the bar were the aging blond rock star and his date (she paid the bill) and how she put up with his endless bragging, I'll never know.
Two seats away and I got tired of hearing how the girls adored him onstage.
There was the couple who spent the length of two drinks talking about stuff: the number of diamonds in her new ring, the options on his new car, how chilly she was in her new leather jacket.
Boring.
In other words, I was pretty satisfied being by myself.
When I ordered a glass of Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero, a Greek blend promising crisp acidity and an intense nose of peach and rose petals, the bartender informed me that it was the owner's favorite.
I continue to be impressed with the array of Greek wines showing up locally lately and their low price points don't hurt, either.
"I like value in wine," the owner laughed matter-of-factly when I told her how much I liked the Feast.
While all around me couples did the mating game (or, in some cases, spent more time looking at their phones than talking to their date), I took advantage of the cooler evening and ordered tonight's soup.
It was a roasted corn with bacon and, as it turns out, some unbilled poblano, making for an unexpected but welcome heat.
I can always count on Magpie's soundtrack to relive the old days and tonight's music was no exception.
"Listen Like Thieves" gave way to "Show Me" which begot "Girlfriend in a Coma," et cetera, et cetera, et cetera (can you tell I saw "The King and I" a few days ago?).
For my next course, I got banana-crusted scallops with spiced rum reduction and (wait for it) vanilla gelato.
The thick, sweet sauce was beautiful with the scallops and the gelato, which conveniently also satisfied my sweet tooth.
By the time the bartender asked me about dessert, I had no need of anything further.
Well, except perhaps a date. It is Saturday night, after all.
And I'm really not a fighter.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Giving in to My Heart's Desire
If you're going to hang a man's print on your bedroom wall, the least you can do is go to his festival.
So, for the fifth year in a row, I was at the Jonny Z. Festival on the closed block in front of Joe's Inn.
I know that three things are likely to happen every year at this particular street fest.
Inevitably, I will see all kinds of people I know.
Today, that included a rocker buying a Dave Edmunds album, a former co-worker and friend who informs me I was incapable of being unhappy or bitter, and the only other person I know who goes to (almost, according to her) as many shows as I do.
And that's not even counting the photographer friend who bought a dozen mini-cupcakes and shared one with me.
Secondly, I will hear local music.
Today, that was a performance by Gull, he of the octopus-like arms playing guitar and drums simultaneously (not to mention singing), which surprisingly included several songs done bare-faced.
Gull! Unmasked at the Jonny Z Fest!
Lastly, I will likely return home with a piece of local art to add to my collection.
The first year, it was that print (number 17 of 150) by the reason for the festival, Jonny Zanin himself.
Today it occupies a place of honor above my bed.
One year, it was a Travis Robertson mixed media piece of an old man's face, still one of my favorites today.
And this year it was a Natalie Kay piece discovered in her 50% off collection.
"More than This," was the mixed screen print and intaglio that caught my eye and wouldn't let me go.
An anatomically correct and delicately drawn red heart sits surrounded on three sides by a curving arc of intertwining designs.
Underneath, a black, flat map of the globe drips toward the bottom of the paper.
"The heart desires" is written in pencil at the bottom opposite Natalie's signature and the letters "AP" for artist's print.
After much hand-wringing (I really am too poor to be buying art right now), my companion and I split the difference and bought the print.
So instead of just eating cupcakes and hearing music, I was celebrating Jonny Z's spirit.
By supporting artists in memory of a guy I never knew, but whose legacy will always be a part of the local art scene, I was dong exactly what the buttons say.
"Live your life like Jonny Z."
I am doing my best.
And what better reminder than another piece of local art to do so.
More than this? There's nothing.
So, for the fifth year in a row, I was at the Jonny Z. Festival on the closed block in front of Joe's Inn.
I know that three things are likely to happen every year at this particular street fest.
Inevitably, I will see all kinds of people I know.
Today, that included a rocker buying a Dave Edmunds album, a former co-worker and friend who informs me I was incapable of being unhappy or bitter, and the only other person I know who goes to (almost, according to her) as many shows as I do.
And that's not even counting the photographer friend who bought a dozen mini-cupcakes and shared one with me.
Secondly, I will hear local music.
Today, that was a performance by Gull, he of the octopus-like arms playing guitar and drums simultaneously (not to mention singing), which surprisingly included several songs done bare-faced.
Gull! Unmasked at the Jonny Z Fest!
Lastly, I will likely return home with a piece of local art to add to my collection.
The first year, it was that print (number 17 of 150) by the reason for the festival, Jonny Zanin himself.
Today it occupies a place of honor above my bed.
One year, it was a Travis Robertson mixed media piece of an old man's face, still one of my favorites today.
And this year it was a Natalie Kay piece discovered in her 50% off collection.
"More than This," was the mixed screen print and intaglio that caught my eye and wouldn't let me go.
An anatomically correct and delicately drawn red heart sits surrounded on three sides by a curving arc of intertwining designs.
Underneath, a black, flat map of the globe drips toward the bottom of the paper.
"The heart desires" is written in pencil at the bottom opposite Natalie's signature and the letters "AP" for artist's print.
After much hand-wringing (I really am too poor to be buying art right now), my companion and I split the difference and bought the print.
So instead of just eating cupcakes and hearing music, I was celebrating Jonny Z's spirit.
By supporting artists in memory of a guy I never knew, but whose legacy will always be a part of the local art scene, I was dong exactly what the buttons say.
"Live your life like Jonny Z."
I am doing my best.
And what better reminder than another piece of local art to do so.
More than this? There's nothing.
Got Me Some Tail
Southern met fantasy tonight, not once, but twice.
The unexpected began at the Roosevelt, where I ran into a friend and heard of her passage to India, got the latest local restaurant scuttlebutt from a cheap food lover and heard of the challenges of composing music for Tic-Tacs.
One of my favorite moments came when I was told that a friend, when asked the source of her recent hangover, had responded, "Karen."
Since I'm not the boss of her, I'm sure I don't know what she's talking about.
We ordered a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris (the one the winemaker calls a "happy mistake") at a mostly empty bar.
Bartender T got as far as telling us the first special - pigs' tails in a bourbon barrel teriyaki sauce - before we ordered it.
The Roosevelt's chef is the one who first introduced me to crispy fried pig's head many moons ago, so if he was offering up tail tonight, I wanted in.
The sauce was finger-licking' good on the outer thick crispy part of the tails while the inner fatty bits were just obscene.
Wisely, there were pickled veggies to balance the palate and no doubt help digest all that fat.
When all was said and done, we left a pile of little round bones on a sticky plate.
And went to the bathroom to wash our hands.
As the room began to fill up, we got our next dish, octopus fried rice.
Clearly the usually southern kitchen was having Asian fantasies tonight.
The fried rice had the freshest-tasting tiny sliced carrots and corn in it while the octopus was perfectly cooked.
And a great, big fried egg sat atop the whole thing, its bright yellow yolk imparting an unbelievable richness to the already-decadent flavors.
But two dishes in and we were already getting stuffed.
No fools, we followed such rich food with a lighter course to clear our arteries while we still had feeling in our left arms.
Roasted beet and watermelon salad with Caramont goat cheese and lemon oil was a refreshing break but it was the avocado mousse on it that took it over the top.
The creaminess of the avocado enhanced both beets and melon in an unexpectedly complementary way.
Over a discussion of noun and verb usage (no, really), we finished our wine while sharing a slice of Coca Cola cake, not because we needed it but because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Three layer cake after pigs' tails, why it's simply how it's done in the south.
That, or the wine was doing the ordering.
Best overheard conversation:
#1: I keep forgetting I'm in this country and want to say bonjour when I talk to people.
#2: Man, don't worry about it. Say whatever you want. This is America!
Honestly, I couldn't make this stuff up.
After losing my dinner companion to the daily grind, I made the cultural shift from Church Hill to the near west end and the Westhampton Theater.
I was there to see "Beasts of the Southern Wild," the Sundance grand jury prize winner and the one all the critics have been raving about.
It wasn't hard to see why.
The beautifully shot story of bayou folks who live on the wrong side of the levee used two first-time actors in the lead roles of father and daughter.
Watching non-actors carry a completely believable story about a Katrina-like storm that all but wipes out their tiny community was mesmerizing.
Mostly a hardscrabble story, at times it had a certain poignant humor.
When the father tells the little girl about her long-missing mother, he says, "She was so pretty, she never had to turn the stove on. She'd just walk in the kitchen and the water would start boiling."
Now that's pretty.
The movie's story of natural devastation and the resulting loss was wrapped around a fantasy element of nature being out of whack (Katrina being proof of that).
As a result, ice caps melt, ancient beasts are released from ice blocks and begin to roman the world, threatening even the bayou.
I'd be the first to admit I'm not much on fantasy, whether in books or movies. I'm more the non-fiction type.
But actually, there was so much honesty about the devotion of the small group of delta dwellers refusing to abandon their homes even after a mandatory evacuation, that I could swallow a few stampeding beasts as part of the plot.
And I'm glad I did. The moving story was unlike anything I've ever seen before.
Sometimes you need a little fiction to remind you of the basic tenets of life and death.
The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece, the whole universe will get busted.
I guess Sundance proves that the talented ones can make this stuff up...beautifully.
The unexpected began at the Roosevelt, where I ran into a friend and heard of her passage to India, got the latest local restaurant scuttlebutt from a cheap food lover and heard of the challenges of composing music for Tic-Tacs.
One of my favorite moments came when I was told that a friend, when asked the source of her recent hangover, had responded, "Karen."
Since I'm not the boss of her, I'm sure I don't know what she's talking about.
We ordered a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris (the one the winemaker calls a "happy mistake") at a mostly empty bar.
Bartender T got as far as telling us the first special - pigs' tails in a bourbon barrel teriyaki sauce - before we ordered it.
The Roosevelt's chef is the one who first introduced me to crispy fried pig's head many moons ago, so if he was offering up tail tonight, I wanted in.
The sauce was finger-licking' good on the outer thick crispy part of the tails while the inner fatty bits were just obscene.
Wisely, there were pickled veggies to balance the palate and no doubt help digest all that fat.
When all was said and done, we left a pile of little round bones on a sticky plate.
And went to the bathroom to wash our hands.
As the room began to fill up, we got our next dish, octopus fried rice.
Clearly the usually southern kitchen was having Asian fantasies tonight.
The fried rice had the freshest-tasting tiny sliced carrots and corn in it while the octopus was perfectly cooked.
And a great, big fried egg sat atop the whole thing, its bright yellow yolk imparting an unbelievable richness to the already-decadent flavors.
But two dishes in and we were already getting stuffed.
No fools, we followed such rich food with a lighter course to clear our arteries while we still had feeling in our left arms.
Roasted beet and watermelon salad with Caramont goat cheese and lemon oil was a refreshing break but it was the avocado mousse on it that took it over the top.
The creaminess of the avocado enhanced both beets and melon in an unexpectedly complementary way.
Over a discussion of noun and verb usage (no, really), we finished our wine while sharing a slice of Coca Cola cake, not because we needed it but because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Three layer cake after pigs' tails, why it's simply how it's done in the south.
That, or the wine was doing the ordering.
Best overheard conversation:
#1: I keep forgetting I'm in this country and want to say bonjour when I talk to people.
#2: Man, don't worry about it. Say whatever you want. This is America!
Honestly, I couldn't make this stuff up.
After losing my dinner companion to the daily grind, I made the cultural shift from Church Hill to the near west end and the Westhampton Theater.
I was there to see "Beasts of the Southern Wild," the Sundance grand jury prize winner and the one all the critics have been raving about.
It wasn't hard to see why.
The beautifully shot story of bayou folks who live on the wrong side of the levee used two first-time actors in the lead roles of father and daughter.
Watching non-actors carry a completely believable story about a Katrina-like storm that all but wipes out their tiny community was mesmerizing.
Mostly a hardscrabble story, at times it had a certain poignant humor.
When the father tells the little girl about her long-missing mother, he says, "She was so pretty, she never had to turn the stove on. She'd just walk in the kitchen and the water would start boiling."
Now that's pretty.
The movie's story of natural devastation and the resulting loss was wrapped around a fantasy element of nature being out of whack (Katrina being proof of that).
As a result, ice caps melt, ancient beasts are released from ice blocks and begin to roman the world, threatening even the bayou.
I'd be the first to admit I'm not much on fantasy, whether in books or movies. I'm more the non-fiction type.
But actually, there was so much honesty about the devotion of the small group of delta dwellers refusing to abandon their homes even after a mandatory evacuation, that I could swallow a few stampeding beasts as part of the plot.
And I'm glad I did. The moving story was unlike anything I've ever seen before.
Sometimes you need a little fiction to remind you of the basic tenets of life and death.
The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece, the whole universe will get busted.
I guess Sundance proves that the talented ones can make this stuff up...beautifully.
Friday, August 10, 2012
This Kind of Thing Can Happen
Ice cream, it's what's for dinner.
Maybe it was the late lunch, maybe it was the busy day, but when I got to that point in the day, I ended up at Bev's for a double hot fudge sundae and called it a meal.
Honestly, I didn't have a lot of time because I wanted to make it to the Classics in the Courtyard series tonight because they were showing "The King and I" on the big screen in the garden at First Baptist.
Admittedly, I'm a heathen so what do I know about what's inside churches, but my foray inside to go to the bathroom revealed a few surprises.
Like a computer in the vestibule.
A rack of plastic umbrella bags like the kind I've seen in Kroger.
And a sign on the doors to the sanctuary saying "No food, drink pagers or cell phones."
People need to be told that those things are inappropriate in a room where services are held?
Hell, I'm a heathen and I could have guessed that.
Back in my chair in the courtyard, a church official announced that the movie would start at 8:00 or dusk, whichever came later.
"Dusk is going to win tonight," he predicted. It did.
The air was fragrant with the scent of bug spray as the overture finally began playing and people settled down.
I might have seen "The King and I" once, but if so it had been so long that a lot of it seemed new to me, including several of the songs.
Of course, it was 1956 Hollywood's version of Siam, so it was riddled with things like non-Asian actors (the king of Siam played by a Russian and a Burmese princess played by a Puerto Rican, for instance) and African elephants.
But I wasn't there for historical or geographical accuracy, I was there for songs by Rodgers and Hammerstein and Technicolor sets and costumes.
The blatant sexism of the king's character was an unexpectedly funny bonus, even given an 1862 setting.
Anna: Then how do you explain, your majesty, that many men remain faithful to only one wife?
King: They are sick.
Anna: Oh, but you do expect women to be faithful.
King; Naturally.
That's one way to look at it.
A woman is designed for pleasing a man. That is all. A man is designed to be pleased by many women.
It was a convenient philosophy for a man who had a harem of wives (and the resultant 104 children).
Why should I discuss what matters with a woman?
Um, because we're smart?
I don't think I was the only one surprised when the screen changed to say "Intermission" with part of the score once again being played.
The line, "We danced to that once in Richmond, remember?" got a big reaction from the audience, even given that it was a Richmond on Thames reference.
Of course there was all kinds of implied romance.
A man, even a king, doesn't say, "You are very difficult woman!" unless he's seriously attracted to you, whether it's 1862 or 2012.
And "Shall We Dance?" has to be one of the most rousing acts of foreplay ever committed to film.
Polka-ing with bare shoulders, bare feet and a man's hand on a corseted waist had enough sexual tension to elevate the whole story suddenly to a romance.
And if this heathen is going to sit in a church courtyard on a summer night, the least I can hope for is a little romance to go with the rustling treetops and flitting fireflies.
Or perchance
When the last little star has left the sky
Shall we still be together
And shall you be my new romance?
On the clear understanding
That this kind of thing can happen
Shall we dance?
Maybe it was the late lunch, maybe it was the busy day, but when I got to that point in the day, I ended up at Bev's for a double hot fudge sundae and called it a meal.
Honestly, I didn't have a lot of time because I wanted to make it to the Classics in the Courtyard series tonight because they were showing "The King and I" on the big screen in the garden at First Baptist.
Admittedly, I'm a heathen so what do I know about what's inside churches, but my foray inside to go to the bathroom revealed a few surprises.
Like a computer in the vestibule.
A rack of plastic umbrella bags like the kind I've seen in Kroger.
And a sign on the doors to the sanctuary saying "No food, drink pagers or cell phones."
People need to be told that those things are inappropriate in a room where services are held?
Hell, I'm a heathen and I could have guessed that.
Back in my chair in the courtyard, a church official announced that the movie would start at 8:00 or dusk, whichever came later.
"Dusk is going to win tonight," he predicted. It did.
The air was fragrant with the scent of bug spray as the overture finally began playing and people settled down.
I might have seen "The King and I" once, but if so it had been so long that a lot of it seemed new to me, including several of the songs.
Of course, it was 1956 Hollywood's version of Siam, so it was riddled with things like non-Asian actors (the king of Siam played by a Russian and a Burmese princess played by a Puerto Rican, for instance) and African elephants.
But I wasn't there for historical or geographical accuracy, I was there for songs by Rodgers and Hammerstein and Technicolor sets and costumes.
The blatant sexism of the king's character was an unexpectedly funny bonus, even given an 1862 setting.
Anna: Then how do you explain, your majesty, that many men remain faithful to only one wife?
King: They are sick.
Anna: Oh, but you do expect women to be faithful.
King; Naturally.
That's one way to look at it.
A woman is designed for pleasing a man. That is all. A man is designed to be pleased by many women.
It was a convenient philosophy for a man who had a harem of wives (and the resultant 104 children).
Why should I discuss what matters with a woman?
Um, because we're smart?
I don't think I was the only one surprised when the screen changed to say "Intermission" with part of the score once again being played.
The line, "We danced to that once in Richmond, remember?" got a big reaction from the audience, even given that it was a Richmond on Thames reference.
Of course there was all kinds of implied romance.
A man, even a king, doesn't say, "You are very difficult woman!" unless he's seriously attracted to you, whether it's 1862 or 2012.
And "Shall We Dance?" has to be one of the most rousing acts of foreplay ever committed to film.
Polka-ing with bare shoulders, bare feet and a man's hand on a corseted waist had enough sexual tension to elevate the whole story suddenly to a romance.
And if this heathen is going to sit in a church courtyard on a summer night, the least I can hope for is a little romance to go with the rustling treetops and flitting fireflies.
Or perchance
When the last little star has left the sky
Shall we still be together
And shall you be my new romance?
On the clear understanding
That this kind of thing can happen
Shall we dance?
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Afternoon with a Water View
As far as water views go, today's were both superb.
The first came courtesy of a woman I was interviewing at her home in Windsor Farms. "I thought it might be nice to do it here," she said, indicating two leather chairs in an alcove. "So you can enjoy the view."
Given the magnificence of the view, only a blind person or an idiot wouldn't have been thrilled. A curved window looked over the canal running at the edge of her property line. Behind that ran a train track and just to the left of the tracks was the James River.
People live like this?
Let's just say I took my time with the interview and after we finished, we sat there chatting about solving the world's problems while I admired the scenery. Much as I hated to leave, I knew I was in for another treat at the VMFA.
Today is the second day of the Chihuly installation of "Red Reeds" in the reflecting pool by the sculpture garden. After choosing lunch at Best Cafe, I took my tray outside for a front row seat for the installation.
Looking like red cattails, the varying heights of the red glass had been positioned between water lilies and lotus growing in the pool. The tips of the reeds varied from clear to dark. A steady procession of people walked up to the rail next to my ringside table to snap photos of the reeds.
As I sat there eating my turkey and swiss on herbed focaccia and Sprecher root beer, I was a little disappointed that no work was being done at the moment. Biting into a potato chip, it occurred to me that surely the workers, like me, were having lunch now.
So I decided to wait it out.
Sure enough, within half an hour, two men crossed into the cordoned-off area and began pulling on chest-high waders. Now we were talking.
With one female, straw-hatted member of Team Chihuly on the deck and two rubber-clad guys in the water, they proceeded to meticulously adjust the angle of the errant reeds. She would tell them which one was askew and they would painstakingly adjust it to her eye.
Since she was right there and I was right there, it wasn't long before we ended up talking. I learned that the glass is blown in Finland because of the enormous ovens that allow them to make bigger pieces.
Some of the reeds are ten feet tall.
What surprised me the most was that technically the reeds were all the same color, despite the fact that they seemed to vary from bright red to dark red. Turns out they all come from the same vat of color but it's the pulling of the material over a period that results in variations in the shades.
So they weren't all the same color, just all made from the same color of red glass. And that red is apparently a color not made in this country.
From my vantage point on the deck, I found the complementary colors of red glass against a background of green grass to be stunning. From my take as visitor to the VMFA, I found the installation of columns of red reeds in the reflecting pool to be inspired.
From my perspective of an art lover in Richmond, I found the continuing brilliance of the museum's choices to be world class.
Truly fine art at its finest.
The first came courtesy of a woman I was interviewing at her home in Windsor Farms. "I thought it might be nice to do it here," she said, indicating two leather chairs in an alcove. "So you can enjoy the view."
Given the magnificence of the view, only a blind person or an idiot wouldn't have been thrilled. A curved window looked over the canal running at the edge of her property line. Behind that ran a train track and just to the left of the tracks was the James River.
People live like this?
Let's just say I took my time with the interview and after we finished, we sat there chatting about solving the world's problems while I admired the scenery. Much as I hated to leave, I knew I was in for another treat at the VMFA.
Today is the second day of the Chihuly installation of "Red Reeds" in the reflecting pool by the sculpture garden. After choosing lunch at Best Cafe, I took my tray outside for a front row seat for the installation.
Looking like red cattails, the varying heights of the red glass had been positioned between water lilies and lotus growing in the pool. The tips of the reeds varied from clear to dark. A steady procession of people walked up to the rail next to my ringside table to snap photos of the reeds.
As I sat there eating my turkey and swiss on herbed focaccia and Sprecher root beer, I was a little disappointed that no work was being done at the moment. Biting into a potato chip, it occurred to me that surely the workers, like me, were having lunch now.
So I decided to wait it out.
Sure enough, within half an hour, two men crossed into the cordoned-off area and began pulling on chest-high waders. Now we were talking.
With one female, straw-hatted member of Team Chihuly on the deck and two rubber-clad guys in the water, they proceeded to meticulously adjust the angle of the errant reeds. She would tell them which one was askew and they would painstakingly adjust it to her eye.
Since she was right there and I was right there, it wasn't long before we ended up talking. I learned that the glass is blown in Finland because of the enormous ovens that allow them to make bigger pieces.
Some of the reeds are ten feet tall.
What surprised me the most was that technically the reeds were all the same color, despite the fact that they seemed to vary from bright red to dark red. Turns out they all come from the same vat of color but it's the pulling of the material over a period that results in variations in the shades.
So they weren't all the same color, just all made from the same color of red glass. And that red is apparently a color not made in this country.
From my vantage point on the deck, I found the complementary colors of red glass against a background of green grass to be stunning. From my take as visitor to the VMFA, I found the installation of columns of red reeds in the reflecting pool to be inspired.
From my perspective of an art lover in Richmond, I found the continuing brilliance of the museum's choices to be world class.
Truly fine art at its finest.
Look What the Cat Dragged In
Some people are trouble.
Like the friend you haven't been out with at night for a couple of years.
You know the kind.
When her husband dropped her off at my house for an evening of debauchery, I asked when I should have her home.
Without missing a beat, he said, "Sun-up."
Well, that certainly gave us some wiggle room.
After much back and forth about where to spend our evening, we started fairly early at C'est le Vin since she'd never been there.
Given the choice of a table on the dining room side or on the bar side, we opted for the latter, taking a high wooden table near the bar.
Our affable server set the tone for the evening by telling us to take our time and order at our own pace.
We didn't need to be told twice.
It had been ages since we'd had a girls' night out and we only had about a hundred things to discuss.
Like who's opening new restaurants where. And why beagles are the best dogs ever. And how satisfying it is to make a mix CD and have people hear a song they love on it.
The Verdejo we ordered was out of stock until Friday, so we settled on a Spanish blend to whet our whistles and began ordering.
Since it was small plates, we justified ordering an endless stream of them.
Stuffed poquillo peppers with herbed goat cheese and toasted pine nuts, a dish I've had several times, were an immediate hit with my friend.
Peppered crab with asparagus and roasted corn delivered summer flavors.
Shrimp with roasted garlic aioli was as good as I remembered from my last visit.
Mid-meal, a train lumbered by on the track right behind Havana, making a picture-perfect view from where we sat.
The seared polenta with poblano peppers was crispy on the outside and creamy inside.
Sirloin and Chorizo meatballs with shaved Parmesan were so good we ended up ordering a second plate of them.
Broiled endive with Gorgonzola, orange candied walnuts and blueberry vinaigrette managed to be both light and rich at the same time.
As we sat there blathering away about men, day trips and exes, a gallery-owning friend came in with an antiques dealer.
Not long after, the tango crowd arrived and lessons were being given while other couples tangoed up and down the room.
Watching them tango almost made me want to try to learn but I'm not sure I could have talked my friend into dancing cheek to cheek with me.
I did mention to our server that I thought he looked like Luther Vandross in his young, skinny phase (coincidentally, not long before our server was born) and he was so intrigued that he immediately asked the owner to Google pictures of the singer so he could see.
As we walked out, he thanked us for coming in and gave me the thumbs up for the comparison.
Since we'd missed the Purple Martin Festival by four days, we decided to do a little bird watching on our own.
Heading down 17th Street toward the Bradford pear trees where the martins roost, we reluctantly admitted to ourselves that we should have come out at dusk to see their swooping sky maneuvers.
But although they were no longer airborne, they were still wide awake and the chattering of hundreds of birds in the trees above us made clear that no one had settled down for the night yet.
So we weren't the only ones.
Every branch was alive with purple martins nearly as numerous as leaves on the pear trees against the midnight-blue sky.
It was our own mini-martin festival.
Leaving the the birds in the Bottom, we headed back to Jackson Ward for a nightcap.
At the Belvidere at Broad, we found a full nearly full bar with two seats available.
Sliding into them, bartender Matt introduced a new bartender, saying, "This is Karen. She's been here longer than I have."
What do you expect for a place two blocks from my house?
While music from the '80s blared, we chatted with the owner about sailing (which I haven't done), painting (I can't imagine going home after a night out and getting out my brushes) and his new digs (not far from my own).
By the time we finished our drinks and conversation, we were the sole occupants of the restaurant.
Reluctantly, we ended our evening.
And it wasn't even sun-up.
But now that I look outside, I'm seeing a different story.
Debauching takes time. I'm thinking we shouldn't wait so long next time.
Like the friend you haven't been out with at night for a couple of years.
You know the kind.
When her husband dropped her off at my house for an evening of debauchery, I asked when I should have her home.
Without missing a beat, he said, "Sun-up."
Well, that certainly gave us some wiggle room.
After much back and forth about where to spend our evening, we started fairly early at C'est le Vin since she'd never been there.
Given the choice of a table on the dining room side or on the bar side, we opted for the latter, taking a high wooden table near the bar.
Our affable server set the tone for the evening by telling us to take our time and order at our own pace.
We didn't need to be told twice.
It had been ages since we'd had a girls' night out and we only had about a hundred things to discuss.
Like who's opening new restaurants where. And why beagles are the best dogs ever. And how satisfying it is to make a mix CD and have people hear a song they love on it.
The Verdejo we ordered was out of stock until Friday, so we settled on a Spanish blend to whet our whistles and began ordering.
Since it was small plates, we justified ordering an endless stream of them.
Stuffed poquillo peppers with herbed goat cheese and toasted pine nuts, a dish I've had several times, were an immediate hit with my friend.
Peppered crab with asparagus and roasted corn delivered summer flavors.
Shrimp with roasted garlic aioli was as good as I remembered from my last visit.
Mid-meal, a train lumbered by on the track right behind Havana, making a picture-perfect view from where we sat.
The seared polenta with poblano peppers was crispy on the outside and creamy inside.
Sirloin and Chorizo meatballs with shaved Parmesan were so good we ended up ordering a second plate of them.
Broiled endive with Gorgonzola, orange candied walnuts and blueberry vinaigrette managed to be both light and rich at the same time.
As we sat there blathering away about men, day trips and exes, a gallery-owning friend came in with an antiques dealer.
Not long after, the tango crowd arrived and lessons were being given while other couples tangoed up and down the room.
Watching them tango almost made me want to try to learn but I'm not sure I could have talked my friend into dancing cheek to cheek with me.
I did mention to our server that I thought he looked like Luther Vandross in his young, skinny phase (coincidentally, not long before our server was born) and he was so intrigued that he immediately asked the owner to Google pictures of the singer so he could see.
As we walked out, he thanked us for coming in and gave me the thumbs up for the comparison.
Since we'd missed the Purple Martin Festival by four days, we decided to do a little bird watching on our own.
Heading down 17th Street toward the Bradford pear trees where the martins roost, we reluctantly admitted to ourselves that we should have come out at dusk to see their swooping sky maneuvers.
But although they were no longer airborne, they were still wide awake and the chattering of hundreds of birds in the trees above us made clear that no one had settled down for the night yet.
So we weren't the only ones.
Every branch was alive with purple martins nearly as numerous as leaves on the pear trees against the midnight-blue sky.
It was our own mini-martin festival.
Leaving the the birds in the Bottom, we headed back to Jackson Ward for a nightcap.
At the Belvidere at Broad, we found a full nearly full bar with two seats available.
Sliding into them, bartender Matt introduced a new bartender, saying, "This is Karen. She's been here longer than I have."
What do you expect for a place two blocks from my house?
While music from the '80s blared, we chatted with the owner about sailing (which I haven't done), painting (I can't imagine going home after a night out and getting out my brushes) and his new digs (not far from my own).
By the time we finished our drinks and conversation, we were the sole occupants of the restaurant.
Reluctantly, we ended our evening.
And it wasn't even sun-up.
But now that I look outside, I'm seeing a different story.
Debauching takes time. I'm thinking we shouldn't wait so long next time.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
This Charming Man
Sometimes you just need to have dinner with someone you've never had dinner with before.
As lovely as lunch can be, there just isn't as much time to hear restaurant gossip, talk to the staff and introduce me to a millionaire over a mid-day meal.
Obviously the gossip is unrepeatable, but I had to laugh about the staff chats.
Not once, but twice, my dinner companion guessed where the person went to high school based on the same information I heard and I had no idea where they'd been schooled.
To make it even more unbelievable, he knew people at both those schools.
And one of them wasn't even in central Virginia.
I don't even know where my own friends went to high school, much less guessing where strangers went.
But the staff was less interesting than the millionaire in shorts who came over to say hello to my companion.
It's not like I knew his financial status as we were being introduced and since I'm friendly to practically anybody (some would say overly friendly), I just smiled, shook hands and made witty banter.
But now I can say I've met a millionaire.
"And he's the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet," my friend told me when he left, as if he had to convince me that the charming man was indeed nice.
After stuffing ourselves silly, we walked up the block together before going our separate ways.
He's an early riser (like 5 a.am. early) so while I was going out, he wasn't.
When I got to the Nile, a crowd was already forming for the "86 Reality" premiere after party show.
The new cable series "86 Reality" had aired at 10 and afterwards, the bands who had been featured on the show were playing live.
I ran into some friends, talked for a while and, like the others there, patiently waited for the show to start.
Only it didn't.
Finally Michael of Canary, oh, Canary, tonight's headliner, told me that the opening band was waiting for P.A.
That band was Charlottesville's Manorlady, a band I'd seen and liked very much at Sprout back in March 2011.
"We could do our set a cappella," Manorlady's guitarist Aaron says. "We started that way."
But when your sound is based on synths, guitar and bass with two vocalists, microphones are helpful.
So there was an indefinite pause until the equipment arrived.
It didn't bother me.
I heard about a friend's Scandinavian vacation and how several seemingly unfortunate events had led to wonderful things happening to him.
From another friend, I got his take on friendship and how he thinks we are similar.
A girl I met tonight who'd just come from stuffing herself at Mama Zu explained how after a filling meal she likes to go home and lay on the floor before going out to a show.
Good to know because I hadn't.
When the mics finally arrived and were being set up, I noticed that we were going to have a light show with the music.
Except that instead of using a computer, this guy was kicking it old school.
He had an overhead projector, the kind I remember from school.
On the light table were four glass plates of varying sizes, between which he put oil and food coloring.
Then once the set started, he proceeded to lift and drop the plates, sometimes twirling them, sometimes twisting them in time to the music.
The effect on the wall behind Manorlady was very groovy and certainly more labor intensive than using technology.
Finally the band began, with Aaron saying, "This is very D.I.Y., so let us know if something doesn't sound good."
I would have put bass player Melissa's vocals a bit higher in the mix, but overall, their funky take on shoegaze, which segued from song to song in many cases without pause, was sounding just fine.
No surprise that having liked them a year and a half ago, I liked them still now.
They said they'd just come back from tour ("our best ever") and that they have a new CD coming out.
Because they'd started an hour late, their set seemed too short.
Because I was stuffed and hadn't laid on the floor before the show, I said my good nights knowing the other two bands were going to have to do even shorter sets to end by a legal time.
Sometimes you just need to hear a little shoegaze after meeting a millionaire.
That much I'd done.
As lovely as lunch can be, there just isn't as much time to hear restaurant gossip, talk to the staff and introduce me to a millionaire over a mid-day meal.
Obviously the gossip is unrepeatable, but I had to laugh about the staff chats.
Not once, but twice, my dinner companion guessed where the person went to high school based on the same information I heard and I had no idea where they'd been schooled.
To make it even more unbelievable, he knew people at both those schools.
And one of them wasn't even in central Virginia.
I don't even know where my own friends went to high school, much less guessing where strangers went.
But the staff was less interesting than the millionaire in shorts who came over to say hello to my companion.
It's not like I knew his financial status as we were being introduced and since I'm friendly to practically anybody (some would say overly friendly), I just smiled, shook hands and made witty banter.
But now I can say I've met a millionaire.
"And he's the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet," my friend told me when he left, as if he had to convince me that the charming man was indeed nice.
After stuffing ourselves silly, we walked up the block together before going our separate ways.
He's an early riser (like 5 a.am. early) so while I was going out, he wasn't.
When I got to the Nile, a crowd was already forming for the "86 Reality" premiere after party show.
The new cable series "86 Reality" had aired at 10 and afterwards, the bands who had been featured on the show were playing live.
I ran into some friends, talked for a while and, like the others there, patiently waited for the show to start.
Only it didn't.
Finally Michael of Canary, oh, Canary, tonight's headliner, told me that the opening band was waiting for P.A.
That band was Charlottesville's Manorlady, a band I'd seen and liked very much at Sprout back in March 2011.
"We could do our set a cappella," Manorlady's guitarist Aaron says. "We started that way."
But when your sound is based on synths, guitar and bass with two vocalists, microphones are helpful.
So there was an indefinite pause until the equipment arrived.
It didn't bother me.
I heard about a friend's Scandinavian vacation and how several seemingly unfortunate events had led to wonderful things happening to him.
From another friend, I got his take on friendship and how he thinks we are similar.
A girl I met tonight who'd just come from stuffing herself at Mama Zu explained how after a filling meal she likes to go home and lay on the floor before going out to a show.
Good to know because I hadn't.
When the mics finally arrived and were being set up, I noticed that we were going to have a light show with the music.
Except that instead of using a computer, this guy was kicking it old school.
He had an overhead projector, the kind I remember from school.
On the light table were four glass plates of varying sizes, between which he put oil and food coloring.
Then once the set started, he proceeded to lift and drop the plates, sometimes twirling them, sometimes twisting them in time to the music.
The effect on the wall behind Manorlady was very groovy and certainly more labor intensive than using technology.
Finally the band began, with Aaron saying, "This is very D.I.Y., so let us know if something doesn't sound good."
I would have put bass player Melissa's vocals a bit higher in the mix, but overall, their funky take on shoegaze, which segued from song to song in many cases without pause, was sounding just fine.
No surprise that having liked them a year and a half ago, I liked them still now.
They said they'd just come back from tour ("our best ever") and that they have a new CD coming out.
Because they'd started an hour late, their set seemed too short.
Because I was stuffed and hadn't laid on the floor before the show, I said my good nights knowing the other two bands were going to have to do even shorter sets to end by a legal time.
Sometimes you just need to hear a little shoegaze after meeting a millionaire.
That much I'd done.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Of Tingas, Ties and Trains
When shall we do something, a friend inquires.
I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.
What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.
Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.
I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."
He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.
If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.
Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.
I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.
Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.
Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.
I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.
By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.
Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.
When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."
My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."
His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.
With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.
No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.
On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.
I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.
With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.
He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.
We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.
And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.
About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.
This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.
We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.
When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.
After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.
There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.
A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.
The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.
"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.
The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.
The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."
Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.
Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?
I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.
What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.
Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.
I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."
He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.
If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.
Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.
I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.
Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.
Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.
I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.
By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.
Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.
When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."
My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."
His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.
With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.
No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.
On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.
I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.
With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.
He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.
We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.
And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.
About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.
This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.
We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.
When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.
After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.
There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.
A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.
The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.
"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.
The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.
The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."
Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.
Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?
Monday, August 6, 2012
Glowing a Golden Haze of Sweat
It's a damn shame when you can't even find your way to a party.
A friend had provided directions, but after multiple trips up and down the street, his house was nowhere to be found.
In my own defense, I don't know southside very well.
So, we abandoned Plan A and moved on to Plan B, which involved barbecue at Alamo.
After ordering a pig and slaw sandwich and a sampler platter (brisket, barbecued chicken, cornbread, cowboy beans and collard greens), we headed up the hill to the park.
There was a lovely breeze blowing, a welcome contrast to the late afternoon sun and heat.
There, from our lofty perch atop Chimborazo, we poured Adega de Pegoes, a Portuguese blend made for barbecue.
It was a meal eaten with sporks and fingers and a couple of dog visitors, no doubt attracted by the mounds of meat.
We took our sticky fingers directly to Strange Matter, where the perennial latecomer greeted me as I got my wristband by making sure I knew he'd arrived first.
Since he's usually the late or later type, I ceded the victory to him. This time.
Super Vacations were already playing and it was barely 8:10 and still light outside.
Such is the nature of an all ages show. Get 'em in early and get 'em out to their parents early.
I'd seen Super Vacations before, so knew what to expect with their psych-surf, albeit a dark and sometimes aggressive sound.
As their energetic set progressed, I began to feel as hot and sweaty as they looked.
And the night was young.
White Laces played next and they continue to sound tighter with every show I hear them.
Their set was essentially a preview of their soon-to-be released album, "Moves," which promises to be a game-changer for them.
Since I first saw them play at Fridays in the Courtyard back in May 2010, I have watched in amazement as they have grown as a band and developed their distinctive sound.
I remember the drummer breaking a drumstick that breezy May night (and bandleader Landis imploring the crowd, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?" No one did) and tonight's set ended with the drummer sending a stick flying out into the crowd.
Afterwards, I grabbed some hot people and headed outside in search of oxygen and a chance to cool my core.
It was hot as hell inside Strange Matter, so you take your breaks where you can.
But I made sure to be back in my spot by the sound booth when Wild Nothing took the stage.
This is a band I was turned on to by a new friend last year.
Listening to his album of bedroom pop, I remember being awed at how one guy had created so much sound all by himself.
And now that he was touring, he'd necessarily had to assemble a band around him to recreate what he'd once done solo.
I wasn't even sure how many musicians it would take to do that.
The answer was five (all very young and earnest looking) and the sound was spot-on.
Jack, who was once all of Wild Nothing, acknowledged the show as like a homecoming, since he went to college at Tech and recorded the CD that won my heart there.
Did I mention it was called "Gemini," also this fan's astrological sign?
In fact, his parents were at the show along with other relatives, he said.
From the first guitar strains that proclaimed "I love the '80s" to the final sweaty song, I was thrilled to be as impressed with the sound live as I had been with the record.
My date, who knew nothing of the band, turned to me four songs in and said, "Well, he's certainly done his Cure homework."
And for those of us who loved the Cure the first time around, it was a real pleasure to hear it being reinterpreted by a younger generation.
Another WRIR DJ made his opinion known by pantomiming "83" to indicate the year of the sound we were hearing.
Frankly, I don't care how derivative a band is when they're delivering catchy choruses, longing dreamgaze and jangly guitars with an unabashed nod to their predecessors.
The crowd seemed to agree with me no matter the age, dancing in place and sometimes even singing along to lyrics no doubt learned in their own bedrooms.
By the final sweaty song (the one with the riff reminiscent of Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart"), Jack looked justifiably well pleased with himself and his band.
"You could start a Slip 'n Slide with my body," he joked.
By that point, every body in the room had that potential because all the oxygen in the room was long gone and sweat was running down everyone's neck, face and any other exposed body parts.
Perhaps my date put it best.
"You should call your post "Sweating to the Oldies," he cracked.
Considering my penchant for twenty somethings interpreting music I liked the first time around, I'd rather call it "When Bedroom Pop Goes Live."
No, no. Check that.
"When Young Man's Music Made Me Hot." That's it.
A friend had provided directions, but after multiple trips up and down the street, his house was nowhere to be found.
In my own defense, I don't know southside very well.
So, we abandoned Plan A and moved on to Plan B, which involved barbecue at Alamo.
After ordering a pig and slaw sandwich and a sampler platter (brisket, barbecued chicken, cornbread, cowboy beans and collard greens), we headed up the hill to the park.
There was a lovely breeze blowing, a welcome contrast to the late afternoon sun and heat.
There, from our lofty perch atop Chimborazo, we poured Adega de Pegoes, a Portuguese blend made for barbecue.
It was a meal eaten with sporks and fingers and a couple of dog visitors, no doubt attracted by the mounds of meat.
We took our sticky fingers directly to Strange Matter, where the perennial latecomer greeted me as I got my wristband by making sure I knew he'd arrived first.
Since he's usually the late or later type, I ceded the victory to him. This time.
Super Vacations were already playing and it was barely 8:10 and still light outside.
Such is the nature of an all ages show. Get 'em in early and get 'em out to their parents early.
I'd seen Super Vacations before, so knew what to expect with their psych-surf, albeit a dark and sometimes aggressive sound.
As their energetic set progressed, I began to feel as hot and sweaty as they looked.
And the night was young.
White Laces played next and they continue to sound tighter with every show I hear them.
Their set was essentially a preview of their soon-to-be released album, "Moves," which promises to be a game-changer for them.
Since I first saw them play at Fridays in the Courtyard back in May 2010, I have watched in amazement as they have grown as a band and developed their distinctive sound.
I remember the drummer breaking a drumstick that breezy May night (and bandleader Landis imploring the crowd, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?" No one did) and tonight's set ended with the drummer sending a stick flying out into the crowd.
Afterwards, I grabbed some hot people and headed outside in search of oxygen and a chance to cool my core.
It was hot as hell inside Strange Matter, so you take your breaks where you can.
But I made sure to be back in my spot by the sound booth when Wild Nothing took the stage.
This is a band I was turned on to by a new friend last year.
Listening to his album of bedroom pop, I remember being awed at how one guy had created so much sound all by himself.
And now that he was touring, he'd necessarily had to assemble a band around him to recreate what he'd once done solo.
I wasn't even sure how many musicians it would take to do that.
The answer was five (all very young and earnest looking) and the sound was spot-on.
Jack, who was once all of Wild Nothing, acknowledged the show as like a homecoming, since he went to college at Tech and recorded the CD that won my heart there.
Did I mention it was called "Gemini," also this fan's astrological sign?
In fact, his parents were at the show along with other relatives, he said.
From the first guitar strains that proclaimed "I love the '80s" to the final sweaty song, I was thrilled to be as impressed with the sound live as I had been with the record.
My date, who knew nothing of the band, turned to me four songs in and said, "Well, he's certainly done his Cure homework."
And for those of us who loved the Cure the first time around, it was a real pleasure to hear it being reinterpreted by a younger generation.
Another WRIR DJ made his opinion known by pantomiming "83" to indicate the year of the sound we were hearing.
Frankly, I don't care how derivative a band is when they're delivering catchy choruses, longing dreamgaze and jangly guitars with an unabashed nod to their predecessors.
The crowd seemed to agree with me no matter the age, dancing in place and sometimes even singing along to lyrics no doubt learned in their own bedrooms.
By the final sweaty song (the one with the riff reminiscent of Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart"), Jack looked justifiably well pleased with himself and his band.
"You could start a Slip 'n Slide with my body," he joked.
By that point, every body in the room had that potential because all the oxygen in the room was long gone and sweat was running down everyone's neck, face and any other exposed body parts.
Perhaps my date put it best.
"You should call your post "Sweating to the Oldies," he cracked.
Considering my penchant for twenty somethings interpreting music I liked the first time around, I'd rather call it "When Bedroom Pop Goes Live."
No, no. Check that.
"When Young Man's Music Made Me Hot." That's it.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Happy Birthday Hovering
In a way, I went to two birthday parties tonight.
The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.
At least at first.
Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.
As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.
Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.
You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.
Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.
Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.
Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.
We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.
The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.
He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.
After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.
"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.
Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.
The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.
Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.
During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."
Ba-dum bum.
Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.
I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."
We all know there's a difference.
Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.
Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.
The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.
From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.
Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.
Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."
Illusion or not, I did, too.
Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply
Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.
"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."
That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.
Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.
Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.
The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.
After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.
"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."
Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."
"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."
He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."
Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.
Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.
Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.
Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?
It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.
The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.
At least at first.
Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.
As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.
Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.
You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.
Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.
Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.
Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.
We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.
The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.
He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.
After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.
"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.
Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.
The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.
Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.
During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."
Ba-dum bum.
Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.
I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."
We all know there's a difference.
Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.
Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.
The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.
From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.
Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.
Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."
Illusion or not, I did, too.
Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply
Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.
"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."
That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.
Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.
Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.
The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.
After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.
"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."
Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."
"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."
He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."
Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.
Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.
Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.
Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?
It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Off the Rack
As a female who doesn't like to shop, I am a bit of a traitor to my sex.
But sometimes a companion needs to go to Diversity Thrift and why would I not at least browse through the dress choices?
It's not like the pants hold any interest for me.
Among a lot of school marm-looking dresses, I found a couple of things worth trying on because you never really know until you see something on your own body.
The first, a black and red print dress had a vaguely European peasant look to it, not my usual style.
On the other hand, I'd look right at home in Italy in it.
The other was more of a dressing gown with a prairie look. Again, not my style.
So now I can look right at home on the prairie, too.
Maybe it was the heat that had me imagining myself in different ways.
Lunch followed at Lunch where, conveniently, it was happy hour.
The Wolf Trap White Blend from South Africa jumped out at us both for its grapes: viognier, chenin blanc and grenache blanc.
It had everything: floral notes, a woody nose and nicely balanced acidity, making it a fine August afternoon indulgence.
While revisiting the '80s via the restaurant's soundtrack, we tried new-to-us sandwiches like the Parker Field and the 10K.
I know from my Richmond-born father that Parker Field disappeared long before I arrived and I did once walk a 10K, so that was enough justification for our choices.
A few other tables joined us in our late afternoon meal, although no one seemed to be enjoying Men at Work and Depeche Mode quite as much as we were.
We opted out of dessert only because I had homemade peach ice cream in the freezer at home.
With my peach allergy, I shouldn't be eating it in the first place, but the richness of peaches and cream is too alluring.
After the amount I dared to eat, I could have one of two problems.
One, my tongue will swell and my mouth will itch in reaction.
Two, my fitted little peasant dress will display a slightly more well-rounded peasant in it.
Sometimes a woman's just got to take those chances.
But sometimes a companion needs to go to Diversity Thrift and why would I not at least browse through the dress choices?
It's not like the pants hold any interest for me.
Among a lot of school marm-looking dresses, I found a couple of things worth trying on because you never really know until you see something on your own body.
The first, a black and red print dress had a vaguely European peasant look to it, not my usual style.
On the other hand, I'd look right at home in Italy in it.
The other was more of a dressing gown with a prairie look. Again, not my style.
So now I can look right at home on the prairie, too.
Maybe it was the heat that had me imagining myself in different ways.
Lunch followed at Lunch where, conveniently, it was happy hour.
The Wolf Trap White Blend from South Africa jumped out at us both for its grapes: viognier, chenin blanc and grenache blanc.
It had everything: floral notes, a woody nose and nicely balanced acidity, making it a fine August afternoon indulgence.
While revisiting the '80s via the restaurant's soundtrack, we tried new-to-us sandwiches like the Parker Field and the 10K.
I know from my Richmond-born father that Parker Field disappeared long before I arrived and I did once walk a 10K, so that was enough justification for our choices.
A few other tables joined us in our late afternoon meal, although no one seemed to be enjoying Men at Work and Depeche Mode quite as much as we were.
We opted out of dessert only because I had homemade peach ice cream in the freezer at home.
With my peach allergy, I shouldn't be eating it in the first place, but the richness of peaches and cream is too alluring.
After the amount I dared to eat, I could have one of two problems.
One, my tongue will swell and my mouth will itch in reaction.
Two, my fitted little peasant dress will display a slightly more well-rounded peasant in it.
Sometimes a woman's just got to take those chances.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Hip Shaking Hindi Hits
Alright, so nobody asked me to dance.
Still, I wouldn't have missed DJ Carlito's Bollywood dance party at VMFA for anything.
By the time we arrived, the dance floor was mobbed with people moving to an Indian techno beat while clips of Bollywood films showed on the screen.
The energy was electric.
Best of all, there were more Indian people there than I've ever seen at a Bollywood dance party, much less at the VMFA.
Chalk it up to beats per minute, but I think the upbeat Indian dance music was irresistible to anyone, white or brown.
The best part was seeing so many Indians singing (while they danced) along to every song.
I only wished I knew the words.
The smell of sweat emanated from the dance floor in the best possible way while Hindu and Punjabi beats raged on.
My date went for wine while my hips wished I was dancing.
I ran into a friend who now works at the VMFA and is working on bringing the new Replacements documentary, "Color Me Obsessed" to Richmond.
Even better, he's organizing an evening of bands covering Repalcements songs to lead off the screening.
You know I'll be there.
Should anyone be looking for some input (hint, hint), I'd like to suggest "The Last," even though it's from their very last album, "All Shook Down," which is no one's favorite Replacements album.
Would it hurt to fall in love a little slower
I know it hurts at any speed
So you have another drink
And get down on your knees
You been swearing to god
Now maybe if you'd ask
That this one be your last
Cause this one, child, is killing you
This one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last
It's gotta last for always
So while I didn't dance, I thoroughly enjoyed standing at the edge of the dance floor watching so many people getting their Punjabi groove on.
The tough part was that it ended not long after 8:00, long before most people wanted to stop dancing.
A girl read my eyes and asked if I'd enjoyed the evening.
I had, but maybe not to the degree I could have and she seemed to sense that.
My date invited me upstairs to Amuse to finish off the evening.
With Boxwood Rose in hand (and Virginia roots attended to), we ordered a couple of dishes to, one of which also had a local connection.
Potato patties of green peas and cilantro with tamarind chutney were uniquely flavorful with a divine consistency.
We also went for the mussels with Surry sausage in wine and fresh herb broth with Pecorino and toasted bread because it never disappoints.
The evening had been anything but a disappointment and ended especially strong with two absinthe drips to put the loveliest finishing touch on it.
It's too early to run to Momma
It's too late to run like hell
I guess I will tell you
Cause I don't want to ask
That this one be your last
And this one, child, is killing you
But this one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last
By that point, everyone involved knew it was too late to run like hell.
Still, it had been a hell of a Hindi evening.
I only hope there'll be another before the Maharajah exhibit departs.
One last chance to make this last one really the last.
Still, I wouldn't have missed DJ Carlito's Bollywood dance party at VMFA for anything.
By the time we arrived, the dance floor was mobbed with people moving to an Indian techno beat while clips of Bollywood films showed on the screen.
The energy was electric.
Best of all, there were more Indian people there than I've ever seen at a Bollywood dance party, much less at the VMFA.
Chalk it up to beats per minute, but I think the upbeat Indian dance music was irresistible to anyone, white or brown.
The best part was seeing so many Indians singing (while they danced) along to every song.
I only wished I knew the words.
The smell of sweat emanated from the dance floor in the best possible way while Hindu and Punjabi beats raged on.
My date went for wine while my hips wished I was dancing.
I ran into a friend who now works at the VMFA and is working on bringing the new Replacements documentary, "Color Me Obsessed" to Richmond.
Even better, he's organizing an evening of bands covering Repalcements songs to lead off the screening.
You know I'll be there.
Should anyone be looking for some input (hint, hint), I'd like to suggest "The Last," even though it's from their very last album, "All Shook Down," which is no one's favorite Replacements album.
Would it hurt to fall in love a little slower
I know it hurts at any speed
So you have another drink
And get down on your knees
You been swearing to god
Now maybe if you'd ask
That this one be your last
Cause this one, child, is killing you
This one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last
It's gotta last for always
So while I didn't dance, I thoroughly enjoyed standing at the edge of the dance floor watching so many people getting their Punjabi groove on.
The tough part was that it ended not long after 8:00, long before most people wanted to stop dancing.
A girl read my eyes and asked if I'd enjoyed the evening.
I had, but maybe not to the degree I could have and she seemed to sense that.
My date invited me upstairs to Amuse to finish off the evening.
With Boxwood Rose in hand (and Virginia roots attended to), we ordered a couple of dishes to, one of which also had a local connection.
Potato patties of green peas and cilantro with tamarind chutney were uniquely flavorful with a divine consistency.
We also went for the mussels with Surry sausage in wine and fresh herb broth with Pecorino and toasted bread because it never disappoints.
The evening had been anything but a disappointment and ended especially strong with two absinthe drips to put the loveliest finishing touch on it.
It's too early to run to Momma
It's too late to run like hell
I guess I will tell you
Cause I don't want to ask
That this one be your last
And this one, child, is killing you
But this one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last
By that point, everyone involved knew it was too late to run like hell.
Still, it had been a hell of a Hindi evening.
I only hope there'll be another before the Maharajah exhibit departs.
One last chance to make this last one really the last.
Church Popcorn for Beginners
Firsts abounded tonight.
At the preview opening of "Beyond Skin: A New Vision of Tattooing," I saw tattoo art like I'd never seen it before.
Amanda Wachob's abstract expressionist-inspired tattoos were on oranges, acrylic paintings and leather.
The latter were my favorite for their textural quality as well as the warm beauty of the material.
Actually, one of her tattoos was also on curator Thea's arm, but it was so fresh that it still had a bandage on it, so I couldn't actually see it.
And, really, that was perfect since the whole point of the show was to see her non-skin work.
Considering Richmond is the third most tattooed city in the country, the unique show will undoubtedly be a popular one.
Besides, I can't possibly be the only un-inked one curious about non-skin tattoos.
It's enough that I'm one of the very few with unadorned flesh.
Leaving the gallery, I saw a clutch of actors in period costumes down the block.
Honestly, we've become Lincoln-filming central and no one is even surprised anymore to see guys in breeches and beards in the 'hood.
And in most cases, probably tattoos underneath.
Dinner followed at Don't Look Back, which was mobbed on my arrival, but there was one bar stool open at the end.
The Man About Town was at the far end of the bar, but stopped to talk theater with me before crossing the street to "The Hunger Games."
To each his own.
Claiming the stool, I ordered a Frito pie and scarfed it down while listening to the three women next to me discuss how they didn't think their lives were proceeding at the same rate as friends of a comparable age.
Had I not had places to be, I might have insinuated myself into that conversation and suggested that they measure themselves by their own yardsticks and not that of anyone else's life.
But there wasn't time because I had to get myself to First Baptist.
I joined dozens of other musical lovers in the courtyard for an outdoor showing of "Oklahoma," a movie I've never seen.
I'm betting it was a first for only me and the two twelve-year olds behind me, but I'm okay with that.
I know, I know. The gaping holes in my film viewing are downright embarrassing sometimes.
What struck me as particularly funny, though, was how many of the songs I knew.
And not just sort of recognized, but actually knew most of.
The evening began with the minister telling us, "If you'd like to sing along, feel free."
Given my singing voice, I wouldn't do that to a group of god-fearing people, one of whom had shared his bug spray with me.
As the movie began with Curly trotting through the cornfield singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," the buzz of the cicadas grew louder.
"Why don't you just grab her and kiss her when she acts like that?"
As night fell, fireflies came out and the moon came up, it became clear that this was a movie choreographed by the legendary Agnes de Mille.
I may not be a dancer, but I've seen "Rodeo" often enough to know a de Mille move when I see one.
"Must be plenty of men trying to spark her."
It was an unexpected treat in what I expected to be a standard Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Me being at church was apparently cause for fireworks because we started hearing them an hour into the film.
Some people looked around nervously, apparently not sure of what they were hearing, but I figured gunshots on Monument Avenue were unlikely at best.
The Diamond, I figured, barely half a mile away.
"You can't just go around kissing every man who asks you."
Like many '50s movies, period details were subject to interpretation.
The interior of the farmhouse looked like something from a big city house and not the simple dwelling a farmer would have had in the Oklahoma territory at the end of the 19th century.
A surprisingly high number of women wore red petticoats (you know, so practical for plains living).
Peddlers were from Persia and had American accents.
One thing I found charming was when Laurey kisses Curly for the first time.
"That's about all a man can stand in public," he warned her after the second kiss.
Oh, my, and what they can stand now!
The minister had warned us that the movie was long at two-plus hours ("Folks used to have plenty of time to sit in air-conditioned theaters and watch long movies." Yea, that and attention spans), but between the exquisite ballet dancing, familiar songs and two very different romances, I agreed with Laurey's sentiment.
Never have I asked an August sky
Where has last July gone?
What do I care about July giving way to August when I'm watching romance under a moonlit sky?
It may have been a first, but I'll risk being a heathen among believers to experience that again.
As Ado Annie said in the movie, "I cain't say no."
And why would I want to?
At the preview opening of "Beyond Skin: A New Vision of Tattooing," I saw tattoo art like I'd never seen it before.
Amanda Wachob's abstract expressionist-inspired tattoos were on oranges, acrylic paintings and leather.
The latter were my favorite for their textural quality as well as the warm beauty of the material.
Actually, one of her tattoos was also on curator Thea's arm, but it was so fresh that it still had a bandage on it, so I couldn't actually see it.
And, really, that was perfect since the whole point of the show was to see her non-skin work.
Considering Richmond is the third most tattooed city in the country, the unique show will undoubtedly be a popular one.
Besides, I can't possibly be the only un-inked one curious about non-skin tattoos.
It's enough that I'm one of the very few with unadorned flesh.
Leaving the gallery, I saw a clutch of actors in period costumes down the block.
Honestly, we've become Lincoln-filming central and no one is even surprised anymore to see guys in breeches and beards in the 'hood.
And in most cases, probably tattoos underneath.
Dinner followed at Don't Look Back, which was mobbed on my arrival, but there was one bar stool open at the end.
The Man About Town was at the far end of the bar, but stopped to talk theater with me before crossing the street to "The Hunger Games."
To each his own.
Claiming the stool, I ordered a Frito pie and scarfed it down while listening to the three women next to me discuss how they didn't think their lives were proceeding at the same rate as friends of a comparable age.
Had I not had places to be, I might have insinuated myself into that conversation and suggested that they measure themselves by their own yardsticks and not that of anyone else's life.
But there wasn't time because I had to get myself to First Baptist.
I joined dozens of other musical lovers in the courtyard for an outdoor showing of "Oklahoma," a movie I've never seen.
I'm betting it was a first for only me and the two twelve-year olds behind me, but I'm okay with that.
I know, I know. The gaping holes in my film viewing are downright embarrassing sometimes.
What struck me as particularly funny, though, was how many of the songs I knew.
And not just sort of recognized, but actually knew most of.
The evening began with the minister telling us, "If you'd like to sing along, feel free."
Given my singing voice, I wouldn't do that to a group of god-fearing people, one of whom had shared his bug spray with me.
As the movie began with Curly trotting through the cornfield singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," the buzz of the cicadas grew louder.
"Why don't you just grab her and kiss her when she acts like that?"
As night fell, fireflies came out and the moon came up, it became clear that this was a movie choreographed by the legendary Agnes de Mille.
I may not be a dancer, but I've seen "Rodeo" often enough to know a de Mille move when I see one.
"Must be plenty of men trying to spark her."
It was an unexpected treat in what I expected to be a standard Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Me being at church was apparently cause for fireworks because we started hearing them an hour into the film.
Some people looked around nervously, apparently not sure of what they were hearing, but I figured gunshots on Monument Avenue were unlikely at best.
The Diamond, I figured, barely half a mile away.
"You can't just go around kissing every man who asks you."
Like many '50s movies, period details were subject to interpretation.
The interior of the farmhouse looked like something from a big city house and not the simple dwelling a farmer would have had in the Oklahoma territory at the end of the 19th century.
A surprisingly high number of women wore red petticoats (you know, so practical for plains living).
Peddlers were from Persia and had American accents.
One thing I found charming was when Laurey kisses Curly for the first time.
"That's about all a man can stand in public," he warned her after the second kiss.
Oh, my, and what they can stand now!
The minister had warned us that the movie was long at two-plus hours ("Folks used to have plenty of time to sit in air-conditioned theaters and watch long movies." Yea, that and attention spans), but between the exquisite ballet dancing, familiar songs and two very different romances, I agreed with Laurey's sentiment.
Never have I asked an August sky
Where has last July gone?
What do I care about July giving way to August when I'm watching romance under a moonlit sky?
It may have been a first, but I'll risk being a heathen among believers to experience that again.
As Ado Annie said in the movie, "I cain't say no."
And why would I want to?
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Dancing on the Balcony Under a Full Moon
With August arrived and with it a full moon, it's time to kick into summer overdrive.
I figured the best way to do that was with Secco's Summer of Riesling.
Let's face it, if anyone can change the popular perception of this grape, it's Secco.
Apparently we weren't the only people needing to do something summery because there were only three bar stools open when we arrived.
We took two next to a wine-loving publisher I know and two flights of Riesling too.
Dr. Fischer Ockfener Bernstein 201 had delicate fruit and a nice acidity. It made clear why Secco is calling their special time "the acid hour."
Food was in order and we chose the arugula salad with dried cherries, Stilton, walnuts and a roasted shallot vinaigrette and the lamb sliders.
If ever there was a stroke of genius, it was the date relish on those sliders.
Our second wine was Dr. Thanisch Berncasteler Doctor 2009, overflowing with peach and mineral notes.
We finished with Munster d'Alsace, fruity and funky and perfect for off-dry drinking, which we just happened to be doing.
Last up was Erbes Urziger Wurzgarten 2010, the most off-dry of the trio and perfectly balanced sweetness and acidity.
My companion was blown away with our lesson in Riesling, surprised to discover that cloying and Riesling are not synonymous.
Properly sated, we got ourselves to the Firehouse Theater.
Tonight was the second showing of "Trojans," a new play by Augustin Correro being produced by the young bucks at TheaterLAB.
Explaining TheaterLAB's mission, Creative Director Deejay Gray explained that, "It's important to produce new theater or else there'll just be a thousand productions of 'Nunsense!"
Thankfully, TheaterLAB is saving us from that.
The play began on a completely dark stage with two men having sex on a bed.
Once the lights came up, we began to learn the unusual circumstances of what was going on.
The play was set in a time after the "Testament Initiative,"when Fundamentalist types had decided that women would only be used for breeding, leaving men to resort to sex clubs where they got their needs serviced.
The main character, Gabriel, so named because everyone was required to have Old Testament names, had been in the underground club since he was thirteen years old.
He had no memory of women at all despite a huge curiosity to know, see, and experience them.
"I think a healthy bit of chat is stimulating."
Because he never got to leave his subterranean chamber, the action revolved around the clients and other men workers who came to see him there.
There was Peter, a shy man who saved his money in order to come to the club and have sex two or three times a year.
There was Bradley, who told him about the "pre-Santa" world before women were taken away, a world Gabe never knew.
"I'm just an old man who likes to make an entrance," he said, dismissing the gift his words had been to Gabe.
There was Helena Troy, resplendent in a pink robe and matching lipstick, a man whose daughter had been killed and who was in the process of having surgeries to make him more women-like.
The only female character was a runaway girl speaking French, meaning Gabe couldn't understand a word she said, but he hid her anyway.
He paid a violent price for touching her when Adam, the man who'd procured her, discovered her in Gabe's room.
The only other visitor in his lonely world was Cleanup, a guy whose name defined his role at the club.
Despite only a week and a half in rehearsals, the cast was strong and the story riveting for its notion of a woman-less world.
At the talk back afterwards, playwright Augustin Correro joined the cast in answering questions about the play.
He said it had been written as a reaction to legislation being proposed in Virginia for pregnant women to have trans-vaginal ultrasounds, legislation proposed by men naturally.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating.
Keep your laws off my body.
And while every women I know shares that opinion, it's always affirming when I hear how strongly some men feel about it, too.
Correro envisioned the legacy of such legislation as this all-male dystopia with women kept in tubes as breeders only.
Let's just say an all-male world is a really bad idea.
Listening to the playwright speak, I was glad we'd come tonight instead of opening night since he hadn't come that night and it seemed special having n his energy in the room.
We learned he had allowed the director, Melissa Rayford, to make many decisions about staging his work.
"My responsibility as a playwright is not to be Arthur Miller," he said, explaining his latitude with how the play was interpreted.
The talk back allowed many women in the audience to express their thoughts on a male-dominated play that was essentially all about females.
It was brought up that playwrights need to write more roles for women (this one had only one) and while I support that idea 100%, this particular play was about an all-male world and it had the potential to be a very strong piece of theater, so I understood the absence of female roles.
There was a fair amount of back and forth on that topic, but as far as I was concerned it was comparing apples and oranges.
Yes, I'd been impressed by the play and yes, we need more female roles written.
And, yes, we need companies like TheaterLAB producing new and provocative work that sheds a light on the what ifs of our society.
"More like a shell in the shape of something vital."
Because we don't want to end up in a world merely in the shape of something vital, but actually vital.
Fortunately, there are still two more nights to catch this arresting new piece of theater, this coming Monday and Tuesday.
I don't know how any theater lover could miss it.
Or honestly, anyone who cares about the direction our society seems to be taking.
I figured the best way to do that was with Secco's Summer of Riesling.
Let's face it, if anyone can change the popular perception of this grape, it's Secco.
Apparently we weren't the only people needing to do something summery because there were only three bar stools open when we arrived.
We took two next to a wine-loving publisher I know and two flights of Riesling too.
Dr. Fischer Ockfener Bernstein 201 had delicate fruit and a nice acidity. It made clear why Secco is calling their special time "the acid hour."
Food was in order and we chose the arugula salad with dried cherries, Stilton, walnuts and a roasted shallot vinaigrette and the lamb sliders.
If ever there was a stroke of genius, it was the date relish on those sliders.
Our second wine was Dr. Thanisch Berncasteler Doctor 2009, overflowing with peach and mineral notes.
We finished with Munster d'Alsace, fruity and funky and perfect for off-dry drinking, which we just happened to be doing.
Last up was Erbes Urziger Wurzgarten 2010, the most off-dry of the trio and perfectly balanced sweetness and acidity.
My companion was blown away with our lesson in Riesling, surprised to discover that cloying and Riesling are not synonymous.
Properly sated, we got ourselves to the Firehouse Theater.
Tonight was the second showing of "Trojans," a new play by Augustin Correro being produced by the young bucks at TheaterLAB.
Explaining TheaterLAB's mission, Creative Director Deejay Gray explained that, "It's important to produce new theater or else there'll just be a thousand productions of 'Nunsense!"
Thankfully, TheaterLAB is saving us from that.
The play began on a completely dark stage with two men having sex on a bed.
Once the lights came up, we began to learn the unusual circumstances of what was going on.
The play was set in a time after the "Testament Initiative,"when Fundamentalist types had decided that women would only be used for breeding, leaving men to resort to sex clubs where they got their needs serviced.
The main character, Gabriel, so named because everyone was required to have Old Testament names, had been in the underground club since he was thirteen years old.
He had no memory of women at all despite a huge curiosity to know, see, and experience them.
"I think a healthy bit of chat is stimulating."
Because he never got to leave his subterranean chamber, the action revolved around the clients and other men workers who came to see him there.
There was Peter, a shy man who saved his money in order to come to the club and have sex two or three times a year.
There was Bradley, who told him about the "pre-Santa" world before women were taken away, a world Gabe never knew.
"I'm just an old man who likes to make an entrance," he said, dismissing the gift his words had been to Gabe.
There was Helena Troy, resplendent in a pink robe and matching lipstick, a man whose daughter had been killed and who was in the process of having surgeries to make him more women-like.
The only female character was a runaway girl speaking French, meaning Gabe couldn't understand a word she said, but he hid her anyway.
He paid a violent price for touching her when Adam, the man who'd procured her, discovered her in Gabe's room.
The only other visitor in his lonely world was Cleanup, a guy whose name defined his role at the club.
Despite only a week and a half in rehearsals, the cast was strong and the story riveting for its notion of a woman-less world.
At the talk back afterwards, playwright Augustin Correro joined the cast in answering questions about the play.
He said it had been written as a reaction to legislation being proposed in Virginia for pregnant women to have trans-vaginal ultrasounds, legislation proposed by men naturally.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating.
Keep your laws off my body.
And while every women I know shares that opinion, it's always affirming when I hear how strongly some men feel about it, too.
Correro envisioned the legacy of such legislation as this all-male dystopia with women kept in tubes as breeders only.
Let's just say an all-male world is a really bad idea.
Listening to the playwright speak, I was glad we'd come tonight instead of opening night since he hadn't come that night and it seemed special having n his energy in the room.
We learned he had allowed the director, Melissa Rayford, to make many decisions about staging his work.
"My responsibility as a playwright is not to be Arthur Miller," he said, explaining his latitude with how the play was interpreted.
The talk back allowed many women in the audience to express their thoughts on a male-dominated play that was essentially all about females.
It was brought up that playwrights need to write more roles for women (this one had only one) and while I support that idea 100%, this particular play was about an all-male world and it had the potential to be a very strong piece of theater, so I understood the absence of female roles.
There was a fair amount of back and forth on that topic, but as far as I was concerned it was comparing apples and oranges.
Yes, I'd been impressed by the play and yes, we need more female roles written.
And, yes, we need companies like TheaterLAB producing new and provocative work that sheds a light on the what ifs of our society.
"More like a shell in the shape of something vital."
Because we don't want to end up in a world merely in the shape of something vital, but actually vital.
Fortunately, there are still two more nights to catch this arresting new piece of theater, this coming Monday and Tuesday.
I don't know how any theater lover could miss it.
Or honestly, anyone who cares about the direction our society seems to be taking.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Revolving Drummers
I'm a big believer in birthday celebrations.
So since my fabulous friend had had a miserable birthday yesterday, we intended to make up for that today.
Hence our meeting at Six Burner to raise a glass and dish.
Lunetta Prosecco provided the bubbles as we discussed her trip to Boston (modern art, not so much), the Outer Banks (watch out for troughs) and men who don't know how to gift their womenfolk (tragic).
Over fried oysters with a very spicy tartar sauce and bacon-wrapped dates in a blue cheese sauce, I heard about koi-seeking raccoons, blockage and being felt up by a drunk cousin.
Did she just do what I think she did?
We encountered a favorite theater type who jumped into our discussion to explain Kimmy Gibler ("Full House"), Theater Lab ("Trojans") and the beauty of staying put ("You don't have to go to L.A. or NYC to make it in theater").
Dessert was housemade some'ores with toffee, a decadent take on the Girl Scout favorite.
Did I mention it had a burning birthday candle atop it?
She blew it. Out.
We didn't even try to eat the oozy concoction as an entity, preferring to use our fingers to pull out choice bits until it was no more.
In all likelihood, we'd have sat there all night sipping Verdejo and talking about men and beach vacations, but her beloved texted and she had to be off.
One of the distinct pleasures of leading a cell phone-less life is never having to be interrupted when having fun.
So she went off to meet her man and I sallied forth to Ballcieaux.
It was a quadruple bill with some familiar faces, if not bands, on it.
I ran into a fiend's husband who informed me that I was his surrogate wife, meaning I attend his shows on the nights when his cute wife is home in bed.
I do what I can to help out my friends.
The show began with a small crowd and Lynchburg's Asentimentalsong, which is really a guy named Joe paying guitar and looping it.
His sound, aptly described by a friend as "A one-man Explosions in the Sky" was lush and dynamic.
I had it from a reliable source that Joe used the same loop pedal as the inimitable Dave Watkins.
During the break, I had the distinct pleasure of hearing the classic Delphonics tune, "Didn't I Blow Your Mind?"
Matt Northrup from Charlottesville played next, doing fast-paced guitar jams and looping them endlessly.
A friend saw his sound as classic-rock oriented, but he got my attention with his his sharpness and speed.
An audience member clamored for "Small Snacks" and Matt obliged.
Turns out that the audience member suggesting music was Andrew, also a musician.
And, surprise, surprise, next up was Oakland California's The Andrew Weathers Ensemble, doing a sort of ambient folk.
The trio took the stage shoeless and when Joe joined them, he was also exhorted to remove his.
It made for a quartet of three guitars,one concertina/harmonica and forty toes.
Things got very post-rock as one guitarist began playing his instrument with a screwdriver.
A friend arrived, pulled up bar stool and we began dissecting his recent love life.
After a few well-placed questions, he asked if I was like a therapist.
Doubtful, but maybe I could play one on TV.
We were both excited to see the English Majors, comprised of Dave Watkins (Colloquial Orchestra), Matt Klimas (Snowy Owls) and PJ Sykes (Hoax Hunters).
Interestingly, they began with Dave on drums and Matt and PJ on guitars, but for the second song, Matt took drum duties and the other two shredded.
Friend looked at me, marveling, "Did you know Dave could do that?"
No, indeed.
By the third song, it was PJ on drums (and almost as much of a beast as he can be on guitar) with Dave and Matt doing guitar duty.
The sound was without vocals but fast-paced, with the guitars always pushing forward.
And no effects on those guitars, which must have been a challenge for certain members of the Majors.
You know who I'm talking to.
Another friend came over, looking dapper again thanks to his new girlfriend ("Usually I try to date women who don't come to shows with me, but..." and there she was) and asking if he could buy me a drink.
Not necessary.
As it was, the English Majors (and I'm pretty sure none of them were actually English majors) finished their set and Balliceaux wanted us out of there.
Which was fine.
By that time, I'd celebrated a friend, been called a surrogate, heard a favorite musician say "By the time we play, it'll be just Karen and the bartenders," and dispensed relationship advice.
Not sure I blew anyone's mind this time, but then there's always tomorrow night.
So since my fabulous friend had had a miserable birthday yesterday, we intended to make up for that today.
Hence our meeting at Six Burner to raise a glass and dish.
Lunetta Prosecco provided the bubbles as we discussed her trip to Boston (modern art, not so much), the Outer Banks (watch out for troughs) and men who don't know how to gift their womenfolk (tragic).
Over fried oysters with a very spicy tartar sauce and bacon-wrapped dates in a blue cheese sauce, I heard about koi-seeking raccoons, blockage and being felt up by a drunk cousin.
Did she just do what I think she did?
We encountered a favorite theater type who jumped into our discussion to explain Kimmy Gibler ("Full House"), Theater Lab ("Trojans") and the beauty of staying put ("You don't have to go to L.A. or NYC to make it in theater").
Dessert was housemade some'ores with toffee, a decadent take on the Girl Scout favorite.
Did I mention it had a burning birthday candle atop it?
She blew it. Out.
We didn't even try to eat the oozy concoction as an entity, preferring to use our fingers to pull out choice bits until it was no more.
In all likelihood, we'd have sat there all night sipping Verdejo and talking about men and beach vacations, but her beloved texted and she had to be off.
One of the distinct pleasures of leading a cell phone-less life is never having to be interrupted when having fun.
So she went off to meet her man and I sallied forth to Ballcieaux.
It was a quadruple bill with some familiar faces, if not bands, on it.
I ran into a fiend's husband who informed me that I was his surrogate wife, meaning I attend his shows on the nights when his cute wife is home in bed.
I do what I can to help out my friends.
The show began with a small crowd and Lynchburg's Asentimentalsong, which is really a guy named Joe paying guitar and looping it.
His sound, aptly described by a friend as "A one-man Explosions in the Sky" was lush and dynamic.
I had it from a reliable source that Joe used the same loop pedal as the inimitable Dave Watkins.
During the break, I had the distinct pleasure of hearing the classic Delphonics tune, "Didn't I Blow Your Mind?"
Matt Northrup from Charlottesville played next, doing fast-paced guitar jams and looping them endlessly.
A friend saw his sound as classic-rock oriented, but he got my attention with his his sharpness and speed.
An audience member clamored for "Small Snacks" and Matt obliged.
Turns out that the audience member suggesting music was Andrew, also a musician.
And, surprise, surprise, next up was Oakland California's The Andrew Weathers Ensemble, doing a sort of ambient folk.
The trio took the stage shoeless and when Joe joined them, he was also exhorted to remove his.
It made for a quartet of three guitars,one concertina/harmonica and forty toes.
Things got very post-rock as one guitarist began playing his instrument with a screwdriver.
A friend arrived, pulled up bar stool and we began dissecting his recent love life.
After a few well-placed questions, he asked if I was like a therapist.
Doubtful, but maybe I could play one on TV.
We were both excited to see the English Majors, comprised of Dave Watkins (Colloquial Orchestra), Matt Klimas (Snowy Owls) and PJ Sykes (Hoax Hunters).
Interestingly, they began with Dave on drums and Matt and PJ on guitars, but for the second song, Matt took drum duties and the other two shredded.
Friend looked at me, marveling, "Did you know Dave could do that?"
No, indeed.
By the third song, it was PJ on drums (and almost as much of a beast as he can be on guitar) with Dave and Matt doing guitar duty.
The sound was without vocals but fast-paced, with the guitars always pushing forward.
And no effects on those guitars, which must have been a challenge for certain members of the Majors.
You know who I'm talking to.
Another friend came over, looking dapper again thanks to his new girlfriend ("Usually I try to date women who don't come to shows with me, but..." and there she was) and asking if he could buy me a drink.
Not necessary.
As it was, the English Majors (and I'm pretty sure none of them were actually English majors) finished their set and Balliceaux wanted us out of there.
Which was fine.
By that time, I'd celebrated a friend, been called a surrogate, heard a favorite musician say "By the time we play, it'll be just Karen and the bartenders," and dispensed relationship advice.
Not sure I blew anyone's mind this time, but then there's always tomorrow night.
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