Dizzy in the Head

Only an idiot would go to the Roosevelt at 6:30 on a Saturday night.

Guilty as charged, but that's what the bench by the kitchen is for.

Eventually a seat opened up at the bar and White Hall Cab Franc in hand, I appropriated it while my partner in crime stood nearby.

I watched as the woman next to me tasted a wine, rejected it, tasted another and rejected it and finally gave up, saying, "Maybe it's my taste buds. Can I see your cocktail list?"

Or maybe it's that she wasn't aware of the all-Virginia wine list and was expecting a big California or Australian wine.

Silly woman.

Bartender Brandon, whom I'd seen play with his band, Sea of Storms, for the first time the other night, thanked me for coming to his show.

I felt reassured seeing him back as the mild-mannered guy I used to know.

Our order of crispy fried spicy pork rinds arrived on baking parchment, much like the fried onions we'd been served in Florence before dinner one night, and they got everyone's attention at the bar.

One guy immediately pointed and asked, "What are those?" and I barely answered before another guy asked me the same.

When I told him, he responded, "Not too worried about fat, are you?"

It's Saturday night, I reminded him.

Sheesh.

The airy rinds had an addictive spiciness to them so we tore through them.

I don't want to brag, but it wasn't long before two more plates of rinds came out for the people on either side of us.

Next came lamb neck crostini with pickled cranberries and it was like in those romantic movies where all of a sudden time slows.

The combination of earthy, spicy lamb set off by the piquancy of the pickled cranberries on toasted bread made the conversations around me go faint and the lights dim.

I have been and continue to be Lee Gregory's unabashed groupie for all these years for just that reason.

It was so good it gave me nerve.

One of tonight's specials was rockfish with pork cheeks, farro, red cabbage and Parmesan, but I wasn't in the mood for rockfish, having had an all-seafood lunch yesterday.

A polite request to bartender T. resulted in a big yes from the kitchen to deliver the cheeks and farro without the fish.

I don't care if you like cheeks or even know what farro is, the dish was out of this world.

Even the micro-greens on top enhanced the deep flavor of the cheeks and the nutty, toothsome texture of the farro.

Meanwhile, the dining room was bustling non-stop and the well-chosen music of the hillbilly/rockabilly variety kept the energy in the room  going musically.

For the next course, we chose the pork belly over refried black lentils with a soft-cooked egg and salsa verde.

Some might question why two people would order what we did, but bartender T. never wavered. "All pork all the time," he chuckled. "I like it."

Later, the woman next to me mentioned it was her first time there, and asked what I'd eaten.

After I told her, she looked surprised, saying, "Boy, you must really like pork."

Oh, does it show?

"Is this woman bothering you?" bartender Brandon asked tongue in cheek of my new curious friend.

Everyone's a comedian at the Roosevelt. Maybe that's why I like it so much.

I saw the director of the VMFA patiently waiting for a table and came *this* close to going over and telling him about the unbridled enthusiasm I'd encountered at the museum yesterday, here, but refrained.

After all, the man was out on a Saturday night and who was I to talk work with him?

So I did not become the woman that bothered him, just for the record.

Our meal had been just another reminder of how the Roosevelt kitchen just keeps on knocking my socks off, even on a stupid busy night when I had no business being there to add to the mayhem.

For shame, I'm a more experienced eater than that.

But, alas, we couldn't eat dessert there because the night was young and the Blood Brothers were both in town.

That required a change of venue to Ipanema, where the Brothers promised, "Wax sides to move your back sides!"

Irresistible, right?

Jamie and Duane used to do a regular gig before Duane abandoned River City for the Big Apple, so I have to catch them when I can.

Driving to Ipanema, Grace Street was backed up like a funeral was going by, but we don't do those at night, so it had to be something else.

We'd timed it perfectly; the VCU game had just ended.

Some of the game-goers decided to drown their sorrows at Ips, so the place was filling up quickly.

I grabbed a stool and my fellow criminal waited patiently for another to clear.

Then it was on to mixed berry pie a la mode with a couple of glasses of Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for the brothers to get set up.

Ah, simple pleasures.

The place was getting mobbed with distraught fans, a large birthday group and people like us who'd come for the wax sides.

I overheard a guy behind me tell his friend, "Dude, I'm telling you, in another 20 years, Richmond is going to be like a real city."

Someone needs to sit that boy down for a talk and tell him a thing or two, but it wasn't going to be me, at least tonight.

Finally the music started and because they're playing vinyl, the sound was wonderfully distinctive, even more so given the low-slung ceilings, so reminiscent of listening to records in somebody's basement.

Fact is, I only recognized a very few of the '60s and early '70s garage/soul/psych/pop rock they played, but I can totally wiggle my backside to almost all of it.

But I pat myself on the back when I hear the Who's "Can't Explain" or the Yardbirds "For Your Love," and recognize them on the first few notes.

Soon people begin dancing over by the turntables, but we are tucked into a corner by the brick wall, so I content myself with dancing in my seat, a fact my companion points out.

Better here than not at all.

It's like the fatty pork rinds.

It is, after all, Saturday night.

Guns 'n Gowns

All I wanted was a little Noel Coward.

But when I got to Movieland to buy my ticket , I couldn't remember the name of the movie.

Asking what the Movies and Mimosas feature was, I was told, "Logan's Run."

Wrong answer. I knew for sure I hadn't come out for a '70s sci-fi flick. No way I'd screwed up that badly.

A check with her manager revealed that it was, in fact, 1933's "Design for Living."

But when I hand her my card to buy a ticket, she charges me $7.50. Wrong again.

After a call to her manager asking why the Mimosas feature was coming up at full price (instead of the reduced price they wisely charge for people willing to be up at the ungodly hour of 11 a.am.), she got it corrected.

Am I the first person to buy a ticket for this show, I inquired. It was 10:59, so it seemed unlikely.

Nope. I was the first, hence the wrong title, wrong price and general confusion.

Inside, I had the theater to myself.

The Paramount picture began with a credit saying, "N.R.A. Member, We Do Our Part."

Who knew the gun lobby was in bed with Hollywood in the '30s?

The film begins on a train in France and the 3rd class car where the characters met looked surprisingly like the train I'd been on Italy a few months ago.

The entire first conversation between the three main characters took place in French (sans subtitles), perfectly appropriate but unlikely now in ADD-driven Hollywood.

Ten minutes into the movie, two women joined me in the audience. My private screening had been violated.

Frederick March and Gary Cooper played a playwright (of un-produced plays) and a starving artist, respectively.

Miriam Hopkins, the girl they met, was an artist for an ad agency who responded to their attentions and quickly took to both men.

And as all women know, it's problematic when you like two men.

A thing happened to me that usually happens to men. You see, a man can meet two, three or four women and fall in love with all of them, and then, by a process of interesting elimination, he is able to decide which he prefers. But a woman must decide purely on instinct, guesswork, if she wants to be considered nice. 

I feel your pain, honey.

The three become fast friends, ignoring that both men are attracted to her and want her for their own.

They live in a little flat near Montmartre where the painter paints and the playwright types and they welcome people to their home saying, "Welcome to Bohemia."

I intend to start saying the same when people come to visit me.

Miriam's character decides that her role will be as muse and critic to make them better artists ("I'm going to be the mother to the arts").

The movie walked a fine line between Depression-era decorum and innuendo-laced dialog and situations.

The Edward Everett Horton character was the fuddy duddy who tried to provide the moral compass, no doubt because he really doesn't play any other type of character.

Immorality may be fun, but it isn't fun enough to take the place of one hundred percent virtue and three square meals a day. 

Actually, I'm pretty sure that it is.

The film was pure '30s Hollywood escapism, with Hopkins wearing feathered satin dresses at breakfast after which March asks her, "What shall we do after lunch? Take a long walk for our digestion?"

Oh, yes, darling, let's do, I'd answer.

Since it was pure Hollywood, the playwright sold his play and became a sensation and the painter got commissions (although he stood true to his art and refused to paint women with double chins) and Hopkins gave up her own career to support the men she loved.

The sorrows of life are the joys of art.

By the end, she'd tried marriage (unconsummated, naturally) to her boss but had returned to Bohemia and hr two favorite guys.

But no sex; this was a gentleman's agreement, despite one of the trio being a lady.

And they all three lived happily ever after, with Hopkins promising to continue using her "baseball bat" of criticism to make them better men.

Sigh. They sure don't make 'em like they used to.

The two other women in the theater clapped when the movie ended and as I joined in, I went over to say hello to the only other people in Richmond interested in seeing Noel Coward on a sunny Saturday morning at the crack of dawn.

Both raved about the movie and I agreed, chiming in about what an ideal platonic arrangement it would be to have two very different men to mold.

The look on their faces was borderline appalled, so I smiled and exited.

Not bohemian types, I'm guessing.

An Experimental Life

So here's my experimental memoir for the evening.

It's not easy finding an appropriate way to celebrate Burns' Night, at least in Richmond.

There is no haggis, so there can be no reading of "Address to a Haggis."

But there must be a way to have a poetic January 25, I felt certain.

So when a friend from Washington lets me know he'll be in town today, he stipulates, "If you know a spot that's open and does a great lunch - one of the best in RVA- I'm all ears."

I suggested several personal favorites and then threw out Rappahannock, telling him I'd had dinner there but never lunch.

It was there that we met, just as the snow began to fall, and with its two sides of windows, the restaurant turned out to be prime snow-watching vantage point.

Instead of offal and oatmeal in a sheep's stomach, though, we stayed strictly nautical.

Oysters with pearls (caviar) came highly recommended by our server who said he didn't usually like caviar.

I tried not to judge.

They were followed by a generous serving of fluke ceviche with toasted bread.

Our order of Barcat oyster chowder had thoughtfully been split into two bowls and one taste told me that a full bowl would have put most people in a food coma.

Cream plus flour = zzzzz.

And speaking of, our last order was rockfish brandade, an ideal winter dish of potatoes and fish spread on bread, but we barely put a dent in the large crock of it.

As far as honoring Robert Burns went, our meal from the sea was a far cry from what the bard himself would have expected.

But the company was good in that way that only someone who grew up where you did can relate so comfortably.

After he learned I wasn't a  coffee drinker, he joked, "So you're just naturally high," which he then translated to, "You've got great energy," a compliment, I felt certain.

It was still snowing when we walked outside, making Grace Street look as picaresque as a citified Currier and Ives print in the gray, late afternoon light.

I wasn't sure how the weather would affect the evening's activities, but enough places seemed to be promising to stay open to risk going out.

A slow but crunchy drive to Chop Suey for a poetry reading seemed as Burns-like as I was likely to get tonight.

Reading was Kate Greenstreet from her new book, an experimental memoir called, "Young Tambling."

Not many people had braved the weather for the sake of poetry (I have to assume they'd forgotten it was Burns' night), but Kate immediately honed in on three of us, thanking us for coming out in the bad weather.

Looking at me, she questioned, "Why did you come? I know these other people, but what brought you out?"

Nothing like having the teacher call on you the minute class begins.

I told her that I came to lots of poetry readings. That it was Robert Burns' birthday. That I thought snow was perfect for reading poetry.

"That's a good answer," she said, smiling.

She said she usually uses a mic, but for the half dozen of us, she eschewed amplification and just read.

He voice was tiny but her reading expressive and the overall effect was of someone very curious (or wise) and observant asking questions and drawing her own conclusions while we listened in.

We heard that she'd had a Catholic upbringing and for a while had considered whether she had a "calling" to God and she also compared addiction to having a calling.

An interesting woman.

Sometimes she would begin reciting a poem before she'd even located it in the book.

This was a poet who made the reading seem effortless, although I got the impression she was an introvert, so even small performances are likely anything but for her.

Someone asked her about the pictures in her book and she said they were from her own photographs and paintings.

Now that's impressive, having talent with words and images.

After she finished reading,  Kate said that it felt like we were in church and now was the time for refreshments.

I almost hated to leave such a welcoming little group on this cold night.

But my fellow poetry lover (and Catholic school attendee who didn't have the "calling") and I left, me feeling pretty good at this point.

Then it was on to the VMFA for no particular reason other than they'd insisted that they'd be open despite the snow.

Walking up to the members desk, I told the woman that I was a regular at the museum but wanted to know if there was anything new to see.

Her face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Have you seen the new Rembrandts?" she inquired enthusiastically.

Bingo. Upstairs we went to find the Baroque gallery and see some early Dutch masters.

But you can't just jump into something like that feet first, either, so we did a spin around the French and Italian Baroque gallery first.

Then it was on to the two new small works, "The Stone Operation" and "The Three Musicians."

In one, a man is having a stone removed from his head to cure his craziness. It looks pretty painful.

In the other, three musicians, young, middle-aged and old, try to sing together but judging by their looks, the result probably wasn't terribly harmonious.

Compositionally, they were similar with three figures arranged in a triangle, but with more vivid colors than the master used in his well-known later works.

I saw that these two were early, early Rembrandts done when he was only eighteen and hadn't yet been taught by his best teacher.

Even so, the basics of a Rembrandt were there.

Striking contrasts between light and dark. Exaggerated facial features. Thick layers of paint.

Shoot, that's Rembrandt 101 stuff. And here was proof of just how early he'd come to that major talent of his.

Surely Burns, who had been only fifteen when he was inspired by a girl to write his first poem, would see the poetry in taking in Rembrandts on his night.

Surely Burns would understand wanting to hear a quiet poet read on that snowy night.

Surely Burns would concede that haggis is hard to come by in Virginia and sometimes seafood shared with the kind of friend you can discuss politics and quality of life with serves a similar purpose.

You weren't forgotten here, old man.

If I start on my "Rebuke to a Fluke" now, I could have it ready by next January 25.

I'm afraid my experimental life memoir will take a good while longer.

I Got It

Not sure which was more random, Stonewall Jackson or The Stranger.

With a show in Charlottesville tonight, the plan was to hit White Hall Vineyards, eat dinner and hear fuzzed out music.

Kind of a perfect day, actually.

By a lucky coincidence, it had snowed lightly last night  so heading into the mountains was a visual treat.

Fields and pastures were covered in a thin layer of snow so barns sat on white against the brilliant blue sky.

In some shadier patches of curving back roads, there was even still ice on the road at late afternoon.

Arriving at White Hall, we found neither cars nor people.

Apparently the weather had closed them down tight, which wasn't a problem except I'd been hoping to use their, ahem, facilities.

Back up the road we went to Stinson Vineyards, a tiny boutique winery at the foot of the mountains.

The kind of place where you pull up to the tasting room and the owners come running from their house across the driveway.

It was that 1790 house, the one they're busy refurbishing, that had hosted Stonewall Jackson during the Valley campaign. His troops had slept on the lawn.

As if that historical tidbit wasn't cool enough, it turned out that the original vines had been planted 40 years ago by Gabriele Rausse, one of my very favorite Virginia winemakers.

The Mrs. did the tasting with us, saying that she and her husband had moved down from Bethesda and that their daughter was the winemaker.

When her husband heard I was a native Washingtonian, we compared births only to find that we'd been born in the same hospital.

Small world.

We tasted through a Provencal-style Rose, a non-oak monster Chardonnay, both red and white table wines, a lovely Meritage, a late harvest Petit Manseng and a port-style Imperialis, made with Tannat, a rustic grape I'd discovered through a Uruguayan winemaker and loved.

Unexpectedly, we also had a bonus red, Tusk Mountain Vineyards' La Tour d'Afton, a Bordeaux-style blend.

Tusk's wines are not available to the public, but the engineer/winemaker allows Stinson to round out their list with his.

So a pit stop at Stinson had served up all kinds of unexpected treats.

Dinner followed at the Blue Moon Diner, mainly to avoid the downtown mall and because they had so many great album covers in the window.

I'm not going to lie, it was a little cool at our window table, but the vibe was relaxed and clearly most people were regulars with names the staff knew.

Shrimp dumplings came with cabbage and angry mayo, an apt name for a habanero-infused mayo.

While eating them, we realized that Billy Joel's "The Stranger" album was on.

Not a song, or two, but the entire album, which I'd never heard.

When I asked, our sever said he'd been "grandfathered in as the DJ" and he'd chosen the music, gesturing to the long rows of record albums in the two front windows.

I gotta say, any time a Richmond restaurant wants to jump on this trend and play records during dinner service, I will be your devoted fan.

Given temperatures in the teens, I wanted the chicken pot pie, made with Polyface farms organic chicken, carrots, peas, corn, celery and onions with a puff pastry crust.

Personally, I'd rather have  traditional biscuit crust on a pot pie, but the choice wasn't mine.

Digging in deep to the little Dutch oven, I found a bottom layer of mashed potatoes under the meaty pot pie, a filling and welcome addition to a dish that easily served two.

We finished with Barry White on the stereo and the grills-wich, as classic a diner dessert as I could imagine.

Grilled Krispy Kreme donuts were topped with Chaps ice cream (a local thing) and chocolate syrup.

It certainly wasn't ice cream weather, but the grilled doughnuts turned out to be far tastier than you might expect.

On the other hand, I don't need to eat them again any time soon.

As I got up to leave, I heard my name called and there were two Richmond friends having dinner at the bar.

Smaller world.

From there, we headed to the Jefferson to see Yo La Tengo, where I was certain I'd see more people I knew.

I didn't even get inside before spotting an "old rocker" (his words, not mine) at the box office.

Inside, I found a couple of young rockers I knew.

The pace was crawling with familiar faces.

Not enough to sell out, which surprised me, but a good-sized crowd nonetheless.

The stage was set with three green wooden trees before the three members of YLT came out.

"Our Way to Fall" set the tone for the first set with a simple acoustic bent that carried through till intermission.

All slow songs, no screaming feedback. Highly suspicious for YLT.

And the devoted audience got it, shutting up entirely.

It was beautiful.

In between songs, a fan called out a request and leader Ira said, "That doesn't exactly fit the format," before pausing.

"Although I don't know why I said that. We have an a capella version of that song that would knock your socks off."

Of course they do. Only Yo la Tengo.

A few songs more in and Ira told the crowd, "I'm sorry to see the Jefferson go."

What was this?

"Every venue Yo La Tengo has played in Charlottesville has closed. So either this is Yo la Tengo's last show in Charlottesville or this place is closing."

Yo la Tengo humor.

But come to think of it, I'd seen them five yars ago at the Satellite Ballroom and that was long-gone. Hmmm...

Before their last song, Ira said they were going to take a break, move some shrubbery and come back for a second set.

As my guitarist friend had guessed after the very first song, the plan was for the second set to be full on electric.

They came screaming back with "Nothing to Hide" and all the fuzz the crowd had hoped for.

Well, we're gonna wait, wait
See what comes after
Wait, wait, harder not faster

As I heard the first notes of "Sugarcube," my guitarist friend leaned in and beamed. "That's my guitar."

I'm sure he meant the brand not that instrument.

"Little Honda" got cranked up until it exploded into a guitar solo with Ira playing his guitar in the air, on the floor and swinging it 360 degrees around to make sound.

First gear, it's alright
Second gear, hang on tight
Third gear, ain't I right?
Faster, it's all right

Only Yo la Tengo cover a Beach Boys motorcycle song.

Meanwhile, a distressingly large number of twenty-somethings around me plugged their ears with their fingers.

Really, kids? If not now, when?

Haven't you heard that youth is when you destroy your hearing with loud shows?

After feeding our feedback frenzy, the band said goodnight and stayed away until it seemed unlikely they'd come back.

When they did, it was  as their alter-ego, Condo Fucks, a proto-punk band who played "Whatcha Gonna Do About It?" with snarl and volume.

Explaining that Condo had been on hiatus, Ira announced some new material and they did "Bastards of Love."

Because there's nowhere to go after a Condo Fucks set, they finished with a simple version of The Troggs' "With a Girl Like You," sung simply by Georgia.

It was as far away from their screaming guitar sound as could be had, making it the perfect finish.

Only Yo la Tengo.

Completely satisfied, we went to leave, only to have them return for one last song before calling it a night.

A cold night. It was thirteen degrees on the way home from the show.

And totally worth venturing out on such a frigid night.

At least with a girl like me. Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba.

I Like My Strumpets

I was told more than once that I'll go see anything, no matter how obscure or obtuse, just to go out.

Tahitian acrobat cymbalists? Sure.  Moroccan throat singing mimes? Okay.

So naturally I perked up when I saw that the next in the Richmond Shakespeare Bawdy Bard staged reading series was just such a hybrid.

Improv comedians and Shakespearean actors doing, what else, Shakesprov.

Shoot, I was at Capital Ale House an hour before doors opened.

Don't tempt my sense of humor and my intellect unless you mean it.

I'd brought along an improv master (or so he claimed) to laugh with me.

When the host said we had to wait until 7:30 to go in, I asked of him the time.

Glancing at his watch, he told me it was 7:11, much to my amazement.

That's so cool that you wear a watch, I told him.

He instinctively went to thank me and instead got a knowing grin on his face and said, "Right?"

Right, indeed. We had a ten-minute conversation about the lost art of watch-wearing and I got a peek into why a 25-year old chooses to daily wear the watch his mother gave him for his eighteenth birthday.

Pulling it off his wrist, he pointed to the back of the face proudly. "No battery!" he boasted. "It's got a spring."

Just like in the olden days.

But food waits for no time talk, so we sent him on his way and began by scoring white chicken chili at the bar while waiting for the doors to open.

On the plus side, the cannelini was toothsome and the bits of fresh jalapeno added a nice heat to each bite. On the minus side, it wasn't nearly hot enough, especially on a frigid night like this.

Once the doors opened, it was an easy walk to a front table in the music hall.

Part of the beauty of comedy and iambic pentameter intersecting tonight was that it was happening in a bar, meaning we were supposed, nay, even encouraged, to eat, drink and chatter during the show.

You don't have to tell me twice (Cobb salad, chocolate cake and any number of asides).

The Shakesproving jumped right in with a game where two people had to argue the pluses and minuses of an issue thrown out by the audience.

You now, stuff like, global warming (yea or nay) or lead paint poisoning (good or bad?).

I see now that was just to warm us up, get our laughing muscles loosened up.

Next came a game called Replay where crowd suggestions formed the device, in this case, cross dressing, murder and love, all then executed Shakespearean-style.

The replay came in when they then had to redo that scene through other lenses.

We saw it done with hate, as a coking show and Al Capone gangster-style.

You might be surprised at how the same scene was funny all four ways.

The next game, Playwright, used technology, so I would have been useless to them.

Each of the four onstage had their phone set on the script of one of three plays (Othello, Taming of the Shrew, Julius Cesar), ready to use whatever lines from it they chose.

With an improv comedian to facilitate the scene between them, each actor had to use only lines from the play he'd been given to further the dialog.

When Adam grabbed himself and uttered, "I fear it is too choleric a meat," the audience about lost it.

There was a game where they had to mime pre-determined components of a murder (dog park, painter, gouging out eyes and then poisoning) and get the contestant to guess the scenario, "Clue"-like.

You can't imagine how amusing miming eye gouging can be until you've seen it.

Buzz/Ding, the next amusement, required the Bawdy Bard's guiding light, Kerry, to come onstage and, much like with Richmond Comedy Coalition's "Richmond Famous" nights, share tidbits about her life, job and friends.

It's overshare and then be skewered for it, pretty much.

From there, four of them improved Kerry's life while she sat there with a human "buzzer" and a human "dinger" and hit the appropriate one depending on how accurately her life was being depicted.

Hysterical as their depictions seemed to the audience, most of the time she was buzzing.

And now all the room knows her boss likes booze humor and bathroom jokes.

So, yes, laughter always comes back to potty humor, even with the Bard.

The longest game was Story, wherein we helped create a many-chaptered book while eliminating people from the stage.

"The Dark Prince Emerges," became the title by default when a man yelled it out first.

He continued to announce the name before each new chapter, varying his voice for dramatic value.

From there we had eight chapters, including a particularly enthusiastic and protracted one on breasts, nipples and milk.

The guys could have run with that all night, but Katie tried to curtail them eventually, suggesting we moved on from mammaries.

Aw, do we have to, their faces seemed to say.

There was a different component added in for each new chapter and whichever person lost the thread (sometimes in mid-syllable or final consonant) was eliminated.

Stacie ended up being last breasts standing, no small accomplishment.

The Dating Game used stock Shakespeare types - Ophelia, a rich father and sad blood (the most melancholy Thomas ever)- as the bachelors while the lusty bachelorette asked animated questions to find her Mr. Right.

Only occasionally did things get a little skeevy.

"We'll edit that out later," host David said to the studio audience more than once.

Soliloquy required any of the four people in the skit to stop and do a monologue when pointed to.

To their credit, each one was fearless about taking center stage with made-up words while all froze around him.

After so much effort on their part (all we'd had to do was cackle), we closed with a fun game, a little number called I Like My Strumpets.

We'd throw out something (clowns, chainsaws, Julius Cesar, ruffled shirts) and they'd take turns making analogies.

"Shakespeare used a lot of puns," host Matt said, "But he also talked about butts a lot."

So you can imagine where that took us.

I like my strumpets like I like my chainsaws...with teeth!

The women in the group quickly tired of strumpets and began using lords instead to convey their points.

I like my lords like I like my ruffled collars...a little rumpled and stiff.

Wah, wah.

So here goes.

I like my evenings like I like my dark princes...funny, smart and good kissers.

And they can mime their choleric meat, but I don't need to see it.

Of course, with Shakesprov, we can always edit that out later.

Take It Easy

So, Holmes says and the night is on.

I am curious about Dutch and Co. and he and his beloved agree to go along for the ride.

I'd tempted Holmes and Co. out to Church Hill to check out the handiwork of Aziza's former chef, whose food I'd introduced them to almost three years ago, here.

We arrive to find three bar stools empty, although they are not three adjacent bar stools.

The hostess makes an adjustment and we are seated together, not surprisingly near someone Holmes knows..

Initial impression: it looks surprisingly like the Roosevelt, right down to the ceiling and chandelier.

My small group requests  Brandbourg Pinot Noir, all the more enthusiastically when we hear that its limited distribution means Dutch & Co. is one of the few local places offering it.

Who doesn't like to be exclusive? Some of us are so easily led.

SubRosa Bakery (mere blocks away) bread arrives in a napkin charmingly closed with a clothes pin stamped D & Co.

Second impression: the vibe is low-key and there is no need to be cool here.

Like we could if we tried.

Even Holmes had to admit that the vibe was terribly comfortable, demanding nothing more than admiring the tin ceiling, slurping the Pinot Noir and savoring every bite that came from the kitchen.

I couldn't resist beginning with what the kitchen called porridge.

Please, sir, more.

It was a savory/sweet concoction that involved malted barley, smoked maitake mushrooms, roasted pear, kale and almond cream.

The mushrooms are so earthy as to be like chewing dirt, a much tastier thing than it probably sounds.

As someone who eats oatmeal every day, let me just say that this porridge was the exact opposite of oatmeal.

Predominantly savory, the dish had occasional flashes of sweetness with the pear and almond cream, but mostly stuck to the savory side. Every bite delivered savory where I expected sweet, an exquisite play on my taste buds.

It didn't taste like anything else in Richmond.

Both my companions had the perfect egg (a former Aziza staple and aptly named) with cured salmon, herbs, sprouted quinoa, braised cabbage and cumin yogurt.

As Holmes pointed out, it sounds like a lot, but once you break it down, it's mighty satisfying, especially that buttery salmon.

Tonight's special was three Anderson's Neck oysters for five bones, so Holmes generously ordered oysters for everyone.

It's been a good week for tasting brine, that's all I'm saying.

After another bottle, I ordered the pork and winter squash rillette with honey-roasted nuts, pig skin cornbread, cabbage and cumin yogurt.

Creamy rillette and hot and dense cornbread were a match made in heaven.

Meanwhile, the hanger steak and smoked pork belly with celery root, persimmon, bitter greens and ginger herb sauce impressed Homes and the missus no end.

"I thought those were carrots," Holmes said of the brightly-colored persimmons.

At one point, Holmes turned to me and had to admit, "I like the relaxed vibe here. They didn't spend a million dollars redecorating and it's comfortable."

True that and the food was just as impressive as when I'd first taken them to Aziza.

For our next course, we looked at the dessert menu, deciding on the honey pot and the chocolate.

The winter's honey pot was made of warm milk, honey, pound cake, lavender ice cream, assorted citrus and candied nuts.

Holmes' beloved had spotted it before she'd even decided on dinner; it was that appealing and unique.

It arrived in a little ceramic honeypot decorated with bees. When the guy next to us ordered it, his came in a straw-colored honeypot sans bees.

I forsook the caramel waffle (for which our server gave us hell) for the chicory chocolate toffee cake with orange ginger Chantilly, candied fennel and olive oil anglaise.

By the time we finished, most of the room had cleared out and we had little desire to be the "campers" of the room.

Abandoning Church Hill, we headed back downtown for a nightcap.

By default, Tarrant's won out, offering one last glass and a couple of sassy barkeeps.

A bottle of Prosecco greased the wheels for a discussion of the 130 herbs in Green Chartreuse, reminding me of covering that topic recently with another bartender.

This one suggested we add the Green Chartreuse to our bubbly, an unlikely but totally doable combination.'

"Green Chartreuse is like Lalique glass," my comrade-in-art-history observed.

Well put, my friend, even if no one else besides me knows what you mean.

We sipped the 130 herbs in a very un-monk-like fashion, but quite appreciative of the unusual flavors.

It was almost as satisfying as finding a relaxed vibe in a trendy, new Church Hill eatery.

Fact was, I owed them one after our last meal out a few weeks ago where I'd chosen a dud and we'd all paid the price.

You ebb and you flow, my friends. It's all an experience, right?

Like What I Love

The message was clear.

Meet me tonight for dinner...TONIGHT...I say.

You'd think it had been a while since we'd been out together.

Oh, wait. It had.

Between a perpetually busy job, a move and massive house redecoration, he'd had no time to catch up with a friend since I don't know when.

All of a sudden, we were on for tonight.

Once we got together, his conversation focused on how a favorite restaurant had disappointed him the last three or four times he'd gone.

In fact, his beloved had stated for the record that they'd made their last visit there.

So naturally, the first place he suggests is that restaurant.

Fortunately, it's closed so we soldier on to Julep because, as he says, "I haven't been there in 100 years."

And I hadn't been there since Bobby's last night as mixologist there, back in 2011.

We chose the bar to eat, in the process meeting a visiting Chicagoan getting his southern chowhound on.

Despite it being a Monday night, Julep had a steady stream of people the whole time we were there, making for a lively vibe.

Friend chose a Louis Jadot Pouilly-Fuisse because he only likes white wine and doesn't care for new world varietals.

It was a lovely choice, medium bodied and elegant, and set the tone for the first course.

I began with a crabcake appetizer, not on the menu, but I figured if you can make a crabcake entree, making an appetizer couldn't be that hard, while my companion got the crispy fried oysters.

Both dishes showed a deftness with seafood that no doubt serves them well with visitors from places liked Chicago.

We shared a salad of local baby red romaine lettuce with Parmesan curls, grilled garlic butter croutons, white anchovy and a Creole-Cesar dressing.

Truth be told, the curls were flat, but the flavor was good.

Our conversation was all over the place because it had been so long since we'd been out together.

The service at Julep is always so professional, if a tad old school with only male servers, but we had to laugh when the hostess came behind the bar.

As she was refilling our water glasses, my friend spoke to her and when she didn't hear, she came back with, "HUH?"

It was the kind of loud, honking "huh?" that has grated on the nerves of parents, teachers and anyone who'd ever heard it come out of the mouth of a clueless youth.

So we'll say the staid atmosphere was tempered by the honking of the hostess.

My friend is a beef lover so the grilled dry-aged New York strip called to him and with good reason.

The perfectly cooked piece of meat (one of his complaints at the place that had been disappointing him so much lately) came with horseradish mashed potatoes, grilled rapini, ham hock demi glace and whole grain mustard butter.

He was so impressed that he couldn't wait to bring his long-suffering mate in for that steak.

I went with the cassoulet of Sausagecraft lamb sausage, duck confit, pork belly, white beans and vegetables with an herb bread crumb topping.

It arrived in a ceramic bowl holding enough heat to warm the room, so I had to be patient before going in.

But it was worth it for the succulent bits of lamb, duck and pig, although I thought the crumb layer a bit dry.

In my book, a good bread crumb topping has as much butter as bread, but not everyone feels that way.

Meanwhile, my friend was telling me that he and his main squeeze are trying to plan a vacation where neither of them checks messages for a week.

Wow, I remember when people planned vacations where their goal was just to relax and have a good time.

Clearly, we are now setting the bar much lower.

On the other hand, I was just happy to hear that the two workaholics were attempting to get away.

It was during our discussion of all the club-hopping we'd both done in Washington in our twenties that our server inquired about dessert.

Nothing on the menu grabbed me, but my companion insisted that we needed the Bananas Foster served tableside for two.

Amazed that I'd never had Bananas Foster, he told me it had been all the rage back in the '70s.

I was game, so next thing we knew, our server brought over his mobile kitchen and was sauteing bananas in butter and brown sugar, adding spiced rum and pouring the flaming mixture over pound cake and vanilla ice cream.

All I could think of was how key it would have been to keep all that flaming away from the polyester clothing of the '70s.

Or were there tragic Bananas Foster incidents back in the day?

And while my favorite desserts are always of the chocolate variety, the bananas Foster was a fine, sweet finish to our meal.

We stayed a while, sipping more wine and talking about recent parties and new restaurants before I deposited him back and went on with my night.

Making a bee-line to the Camel for an evening of new bands, I arrived as Sea of Storms was starting their set.

I knew nothing at all about the band beforehand, but I was stopped in my tracks when I saw them.

The lead singer/guitarist was Brandon Peck.

I bought one of Brandon's prints back in 2008 before I ever knew him. It's the largest piece I own and still hangs front and center in my living room.

A couple of years later, I met him when he bartended at Ipanema and then served at The Roosevelt.

I've had many conversations with Brandon, but I'd never seen him in his music guise.

I was riveted.

You think you know someone and all of a sudden, he's part of a post-punk/hardcore trio, spitting out lyrics three feet in front of my face and it's so awesome I can't move.

Thanks, Sea of Storms, for the welcome into the night's activities.

During the break, I found lots of people I knew and the general buzz was how excited everyone was that the Camel is hosting more free shows lately.

For some of us, it was two in a row after Sunday night's Scolaro show.

I think we can all agree that more free shows allow the attendees to spend more on the bands' merch as well as adult beverages.

Headlining tonight was Hens, the new project by Josh Hryciak (formerly of Mermaid Skeletons) and David Shultz (...and the Skyline).

With no idea what to expect from them, I was thrilled when the foursome came out with guitars blazing like Band of Horses.

Josh is a stellar songwriter and we were treated to song after song from a band playing out for the first time.

"This is an awesome turnout for a first show," Josh beamed.

"We 're lucky hens," David observed drolly.

But I'd already run into any number of friends who'd said they were there to see what Josh's new project was.

The fans of Mermaid Skeletons are legion in this town

But even better, the band was more than just Josh (I'm a big fan of David's, too) and with three people trading off lead vocals, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that others, like David, are doing songwriting, too.

Josh announced a couple of personal songs, including, "Like What I Love," a concept as necessary to me as it must have been to him to write the song.

Stylistically, the set varied with one song as smooth and mellow as an old R&B groove, while a particular favorite was keyboard-based with few vocals, an almost post-rock dreamscape, and others were full on guitar and drum rocking.

But apparently, that's just how Hens roll.

As my photographer friend observed later, "Dang that was a good show."

I'd go even further.

Dang, that was a good meal. Dang, that was two good bands I needed to hear.

And only TONIGHT...I say.

It's so easy to like what I love.

Celebrating a Survivor

I couldn't make it to the inauguration, but I could celebrate MLK Day.

The Maggie Walker historical site always does something to honor the day and today's program featured a documentary.

Being a documentary dork of the highest order, I made the short trek over to Leigh Street to claim a seat in the visitors' center.

Sydney Shavers was showing her recently-completed film, "Elvira's Eyes," about her great-great-great grandmother.

The film traced the process of seeking information about Elvira Sophia Abernathy, a former slave who lived to be 106 years old.

Sydney had done her research, taking the few documents her family had and using them as the starting point for a road trip to North Carolina to see what she could uncover.

Plenty, it turned out.

Using census records, death certificates, newspaper articles, visits to graveyards and previously unknown relatives' houses, she pieced together an amazing story of Elvira.

Like the fact that she'd been sold for $900 ($21,000 in today's dollars) originally.

That she'd married a mulatto slave in 1864.

That unlike the other slaves on the plantation where she worked, she and her husband had remained after emancipation, eventually becoming sharecroppers.

That she'd had six children and worked as a seamstress.

That up until she turned 100, she was considered to have "retained a remarkable spryness."

A North Carolina newspaper article about her 106th birthday said, "The old darkie can walk without aid and thread a needle."

As part of her research, Sydney attended a family reunion in N.C., meeting relatives and interviewing them for the project.

Several spoke of Elvira's insistence on education, learning to read at a time when slaves weren't allowed to read and insisting on literacy for her children and grandchildren.

After sharing his memories, one older man praised Sydney, saying, "Somebody got to remember what went on in the past."

That message resonated even more poignantly when Sydney said afterwards that two of the older relatives shown in the film had died since she'd filmed them.

She stressed the importance of everyone capturing their family's oral history before it's too late. "Their stories would have been lost otherwise," she said.

It was wisdom out of the mouths of babes, because Sydney is only seventeen and still a high school student.

During the Q & A after the film, someone asked her, "What are your plans for the future? I'd like to vote for you someday."

The whole room applauded.

Wouldn't Dr. King have been proud to hear that remark directed at a young African-American woman on the day our African-American president takes the oath of office to begin his second term?

Even as a complete stranger, I felt pride sitting there, knowing Elvira had handed off the torch to Sydney and her generation.

As Sydney put it, her eyes would be smiling.

A Day with the Gentler Sex

Praise be for sunny January afternoons.

The kind that inspire a person to get in the car and drive to the norther neck to eat at Merroir.

Yea, I know Rappahannock is 3/4 of a mile from home, but it's not the same.

And getting there is a whole different thing, too.

Getting gas at the station just before the bridge in West Point (where a friend once did a sudden U-turn, announcing to the three surprised occupants of the car,"I can't drive over that bridge"), I saw  a sign on the fence.

Dangerous Tree Removal 
693-0998

Clearly this was an enterprise that doesn't mess around removing benign trees.

And don't we all feel safer knowing someone is on top of this risky task?

Crossing the bridge, it occurred to me what a shame it is that the picaresque billowing smoke coming out of factory smokestacks is a bad thing.

Seeing the six smokestacks all putting out cartoon-like puffs of white smoke against the white and gray buildings and bright blue sky was a study in shades of gray and blue, a lovely thing.

When my oyster-loving companion and I rolled up, we found the porch at Merroir draped in plastic and nearly every seat taken.

With back-up sweaters, we took a picnic table out back with a view of the bright blue river with its surface choppy in the afternoon breeze.

But it didn't last long; our server got as far as trying to set the wineglasses on the table when the wind demonstrated why drinking outside was not an option.

A sunny table on the porch provided a stellar view of the marina and a safe surface for the bottle of Thorny Rose and wineglasses.

We'd caught the end of the lunch rush, so the porch got progressively emptier as we ate and drank.

Given the stiff breeze, we started with the lamb and clam stew, a perennial favorite no matter the season.

Honestly, that tomato-based broth thick with bits of ground lamb is a thing of beauty and required extra bread for final sopping.

The eclectic music (The Fray to John Lennon) was much easier to hear inside, but sunglasses were still required.

In the spirit of a sunny afternoon and hopes for warmer days, we did the Wagyu beef and cheddar sliders with bacon jam, meaty little burgers that were going to a lot of tables near us.

About that time, it occurred to us that we'd be lying to ourselves if we didn't get some oysters, so a plate of them soon followed.

The briney liquid in the shells tasted a lot like I imagined the salty wind that had been whipping around the point outside did.

Say what you want about Rappahannock in the heart of Richmond, but it'll never beat the price or relaxed vibe of Merroir.

During a trip to the bathroom, I found my sex's room occupied, so I took advantage of the empty men's room next door.

Walking out afterwards, a short man in boots was lounging against the door frame.

Seeing me emerge, he raised an eyebrow over his mirrored sunglasses, but didn't say a word.

I quickly explained what had happened, hoping to mollify him.

"I'd've done the same," he drawled. "Have a nice afternoon, girl."

Girl?

He and his aging Madonna-lookalike girlfriend circa 1986 (right down to the scrunchy, sunglasses and boots) soon drove off in a little, red Corvette.

It was as satisfying a moment as seeing the dangerous tree sign.

A walk down to the dock is de rigueur after a lunch at Merroir, the better to admire the distinctive winter color palette of a January day on the northern neck.

But eventually, city slickers have to motor back to the city, so as to enjoy cultural activities, or they wither and die.

My chosen culture for the evening was the Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5.

What used to be a monthly event has become a much more occasional one as organizer Jameson has spent more time touring and traveling and less time teaching us neophytes about silent movie history.

Everything I know about silent movies I owe to Jameson and while it's not sizable (my fault, not his) it at least taught me how much I enjoy silent film.

But part of the magic of the SMR is that Jameson chooses a band he thinks will best complement the movie he's showing.

He's very, very good at this, which is really what makes the whole event so special, and tonight was no exception.

Sonic Nectar was hiding behind the movie screen, ready to improvise a score to "Hands: The Life and Love of the Gentler Sex," essentially an interpretive German film about romance using only hands

The hands met, flirted, grabbed and one even rescued the other's suicide attempt.

I thought the band's psychedelic instrumental rock was a fine match for the story of hands in love.

Usually at the SMR, there is one band and one movie, but tonight we got a double feature.

"Hands" ended up being merely the prelude for the main event, "Meshes of the Afternoon," an American avant-garde movie from 1943.

The film was a collaboration between Maya Deren and her husband Alexander Hammid and she starred in it.

While that may sound egotistical, the woman was an exotic beauty with a face you couldn't take your eyes off of, so watching her dream experiences that blended in with her real life was riveting.

Brilliantly, Jameson had chosen a woman to score this female-driven film in the form of Nelly Kate.

As many times as I've seen her perform (and not nearly enough in recent months), I love hearing her work magic with her voice, keyboard and a loop pedal.

Tonight, she used her voice to make all kinds of sounds and since we couldn't see her behind the screen, sometimes it was difficult to know whether she or her keys were responsible for what we were hearing.

Only afterwards did I hear from a photographer who'd been backstage that most of that had been created with her voice.

But having a woman's voice and words over a woman working her way through an interior life was nothing short of mesmerizing.

That was the great part. The less great part was that there won't be another SMR for months, probably not until April.

Leave 'em wanting, Jameson. Well done.

Because the SMR starts early and on time, it ends early, there was time to head to the Camel to see Scolaro, a band I had seen only once and that was a year and a half ago, here.

Not one to rush things, they were tonight doing their second live show.

I couldn't risk missing it since it might be mid-2014 before they bother to play out again.

I could tell as soon as I walked into the Camel that a lot of people must have tomorrow off because it was a fat crowd for a Sunday night.

There are two things you can count on at a Camel show: it won't start on time and all too often the sound is muddy.

Tonight we were two for two.

So much so that I changed locations, hoping for a better mix if I stood dead center in the room.

Sadly, no.

Scolaro, a sextet, has three vocalists and yet it placed a serious strain on my ear to hear the vocals in the mix, especially over the drums.

Not fair.

Josh, the leader and a long-time music buddy, began by saying, "I now it's silly to introduce ourselves 'cause I know most of you, but we're Scolaro."

I recognized several of the songs they played, including "Innervention," from some tracks Josh had sent me a while back.

They did a song so new it's still untitled, although they were referring to it as "Megan's song" because she sang it.

Although there was some question about Megan remembering all the words, we agreed as a group that it wouldn't matter since none of us had ever heard the song before.

It turned out to be one of my favorites tonight, with both women singing.

"Regift" shone brightest, sounding for all the world like well-produced, smooth R&B, a very good thing.

By the time they got to the end of their set, guitarist/vocalist Josh was obviously hot, wiping sweat from his face.

"Who'd like to hear another girl song?" he asked, steering the band toward his sister Megan singing again. "I would."

I would have too, although it would have been even better with the vocals higher in the mix.

But I'm not complaining because I was just happy to come back from the river and have so much fun stuff to do tonight.

I'd overheard a woman at Merroir today tell her friends that the great thing about visiting Richmond was that there was so much going on, that you could walk to bars, restaurants and music any night you go.

Isn't it the truth?

Everybody Dance Now

Luckily, you didn't have to be 100 years old to attend.

Tonight was the album release show for the Low Branches, that band that had been a duo when I first started paying attention to them two and a half years ago and has now grown to a quartet.

They grow up so fast, don't they?

It was a cold but fast walk three blocks to Gallery 5 to find all kinds of favorite people there: the stylish friend and her cute husband, the music buddy sans boyfriend, the scientist, the beekeeper, the musician and light show wizard.

All the fun kids.

Starting the show was Dogs on Main Street, also known as Mac, looking particularly dapper tonight in a shirt and vest.

I've seen Mac probably half a dozen times, but I continue to be impressed by how his craft has developed over time.

His interesting growl of a voice always commands the room and inevitably, when he pulls out his harmonica, someone near me notes, "I love harmonica."

Tonight it was two different female friends. I'd work that if I were you, Mac.

"This song is new. It's about me It's called "Sledgehammer," he announced with no further explanation.

The audience was surprisingly quiet for his set, no doubt caught up in his earnest songs.

Partway through he said, "I'm going to switch it up," and put down his acoustic guitar for his electric.

Favorite lyric: Love don't depend on the time of day.

Before his last song, "Reckoning," he said, "I want to thank Christina for asking me to play tonight. Annousheh is next and she's gonna be great. Much better than listening to me up here bleeding."

Mac's self-deprecation skills continue to develop right along with his music, a humorous bonus for his audiences.

During the break, the scientist came up to say hello and I immediately asked if he had chocolate (he usually does) in his pocket.

Instead he was carrying Gummis and proceeded to pull out a pocket knife to open the bag and willingly shared with the group.

All at once, a friend came trotting over, saying she was hungry and had seen the candy.

Another friend introduced me to his date, who surprised me by knowing who I was, having read my blog all last summer.

"I felt like I was in your life," said the lovely stranger.

Now there's a 21st century situation.

Next up was Annousheh and my love for her well-crafted pop songs is a matter of record.

It had barely been three weeks since I'd seen her play at Balliceaux, but the set list was rearranged for us groupies tonight and Depeche Mode was nowhere to be found.

That might have been just for the pretty people crowd.

A girlfriend and I had taken up spots right in front while another friend perched on the steps leading to the stage.

From the first notes on her keyboard, it felt like time to dance.

Friend and I proceeded to bop in place to the hook-heavy songs until the beekeeper came over to say she wanted to dance but her boyfriend didn't.

Isn't that always the way?

A glance around, though, proved that while there was some female swaying going on, most males were rooted in place like oak trees.

Given how dancey her new album "The Trouble I Find" is, it was tough to comprehend.

After the set, I asked a guy near me why more people hadn't danced.

"Everyone wanted to," he said seriously. "But you never know what people's reasons or reluctance are about."

Is there anything better than a Saturday night philosopher? I think not.

A friend came up during the break and joined our little group and before you know it, she was talking about her youth.

When she reminisced about smoking weed in her bedroom with her girlfriend and exhaling through a sock out the window, another friend about lost it.

"I don't know what we thought the sock would do," she said, laughing just as hard.

Memories light the corners of our minds.

It seemed to me that the crowd was even bigger by the time the Low Branches started their set.

Tonight was their first time playing as a foursome with the addition of Blasco on drums, so a fuller sound was inevitable.

Singer Christina, looking lovely with a rose in her hair, began by saying the unlikeliest of things," I know we don't exactly seem like a dance band, but you can dance if you want. I love to dance!"

I'm here to say that nobody danced, but then the achingly beautiful songs don't really have a dance beat, if you know what I'm saying.

"Our new album is called "100 Years Old" and it's dedicated to my parents," she said, then realized how that sounded. "But they're not 100 years old. Ooh, I'm glad they're not here."

The band sounded terrific with Josh on electric bass, Matt's full attention on guitar and Blasco filling things out on drums.

In fact, there were several songs which he took to a whole new level with his drumming.

At one point, feedback became an issue and Christina stopped singing so Josh could check the amp, meanwhile telling us, "Our bass player Josh is our technician," causing Josh's girlfriend to yell, "Woo!" from the middle of the floor.

In a perfect world, technicians would get as much audience love as musicians.

Their last song was a show-stopper, not because it was their last, but because the song was so incredible that the room felt like it stood still.

Favorite lyric: You can't stop a storm, can you?

Afterwards, everyone around joined me in raving about how strong/breathtaking/catchy the last song had been.

"I feel like that was like '70s A.M. gold," the photographer gushed.

Well put, my friend. Just don't ask me to exhale through a sock.

Chicken and Biscuit Piazza

Amazing what a finger or five can do.

Witness Michael Graves, the architect, designer and subject of the new exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture.

"From Towers to Teakettles: Michael Graves Architecture and Design" opened Thursday and somehow in the hubbub of the snow, I forgot all about it.

Snow gone, it seemed like a perfect way to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon.

I was familiar enough with Graves to have one of his whistling bird teakettles from Target, albeit a secondhand version I got at Diversity with the bird missing.

But I honestly had no idea of the sheer breadth of the man's work since the sixties.

So in addition to seeing his mega-resort projects in Singapore, there was also a collection of some of his stunning chairs (the lounger being my favorite, with the Milan chair a close second for its sheer beauty) and images of everything from a coffee and tea piazza (coffee pot, sugar and creamer on a tray) to jewelry to lighting fixtures.

Clearly the man's vision extends to practically everything.

I was impressed to read that he was an advocate of drawing by hand, something I have heard is becoming a lost art in the architecture world.

The show referred to his partnering with Target in 1998 as "the democratization of the design movement," surely a boon to all us little people who could never have hoped to own such beautifully designed objects otherwise.

Looking at the panels featuring some of his building designs, his predilection for color was obvious, whether in Washington, D.C., Louisville, Kentucky or Singapore.

Walking into the main gallery provided an unexpected moment of beauty and warmth as the late afternoon sun shone through the leaded windows, warming my legs and necessitating sunglasses indoors.

There I learned he also painted murals and did artwork to accompany his architecture and design work.

Was there nothing this guy couldn't do?

Well, let's see, he designed the scaffolding for the Washington Monument's restoration back in 2000, coming up with a unique blue semi-transparent fabric that mirrored the shape of the iconic monument.

Pure genius. And as many times as I'd seen the monument when that scaffolding had been up, I'd had no idea that Graves had designed it.

And in a classic example of fate shaping destiny, when Graves was partially paralyzed from an infection, he turned his genius to designing patient rooms and furniture in health care facilities.

Let's just say I left with a new-found appreciation for the genius of my teakettle.

Admiring genius works up an appetite, though, so I headed the car across the river for some finger-licking.

I have a complicated relationship with Dixie Chicken.

The first time I tried to go, they were closed due to illness.

The second time I went, I got my fried chicken, but it was seriously overcooked and the skin was dark brown and brittle, not at all what I'd been hoping for from all the online accolades.

The third time I tried, they were suddenly closed on Mondays, although the Facebook page I'd checked before leaving said otherwise.

No telling what today would hold.

Score. They were open, I had a companion so we could try multiple things and life was good.

Wagner was playing dramatically on the little boom box in the window on entering and it smelled of long-cooked collards.

Unfortunately, they were out of the pork belly sandwich I wanted to try, but a barbecue sandwich was substituted, sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, slaw and collards acquired.

The only thing left was to sign the phone screen with my fingertip to pay for the meal and we were off.

It was a most 21st century way to obtain decidedly old-school food.

Given the hot food and the sunny day, a stop at Forest Hill Park seemed like a no-brainer.

I had to admit that despite two decades in Richmond, I'd never been to this park until today.

There were families on the tennis courts, families on the playground and dog walkers all around, so we found a picnic table away from the fray.

From the second I opened my styrofoam box, I knew that this chicken wasn't going to disappoint again.

No siree, this was golden brown and moist-looking, still steaming from the fryer.

The batter had a decidedly peppery bent and I only reluctantly shared a few bites with the barbecue eater who was offered me a bite of the meaty pig sandwich.

Sides were challenging only because we had no utensils, but a trip to the car resulted in a spoon and the cole slaw remained as tasty as I recalled from the first time, with the mashed potatoes and collards executed in typical southern style.

As someone who grew up in a household with a southern grandmother who made from-scratch biscuits at least twice a week, I am too spoiled to find anyone else's biscuits as good as hers, but only because I like her style better than others.

Dixie's biscuits were definitely good, although I'd always prefer a biscuit I have to butter to one that seems a little buttery to start.

Just for the record, I inhaled the biscuit. Sorry, Grandma.

I'd say Dixie Chicken and I have resolved our differences.

Buy Less, See More, Eat Anything

All I'm shooting for is to be a better person. That's all.

But I'm a lousy consumer, I've got no faith and I say yes to blood.

So, yea, it was just another Friday night.

First up was the opening of Brian Ulrich's shows, "Copia" and "Closeout" at the mobbed Anderson Gallery.

(sniff) Wasn't it just a few weeks ago when we were all reveling in unlimited parking and the absence of students when, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they're back and looking earnest and trying to understand photographs from the mid-20th century?

The show was a fascinating look at our culture of consumerism, from surreptitious photos taken in big box stores to posed thrift stores shots to vintage photographs of people during the Great Prosperity.

While the photographs taken since 9/11 had an uneasy familiarity, not to mention over-saturated colors, the pre-1970 black and white photos had a dense sense of texture and tone that gave them a rich look no longer attainable with a digital camera.

And while the show raises all sorts of questions about how we buy and why, I can rest assured that my infrequent trips to the thrift store have little in common with the desire to own more of the latest and greatest.

From the VCU campus, it was but a short trip to exchange the artsy student crowd for the rabid theater crowd for the Acts of Faith Festival preview.

Walking into the November Theater, a concession stand host called out that the orchestra seating was full, so to head upstairs to the balcony.

Once comfortably ensconced in the front row of said balcony, a look down confirmed that there were still plenty of available seats downstairs.

The couple who sat down next to me mentioned the same thing.

Then he said, "I'm not sure I've been here since I saw John McCutcheon here 25 years ago."

Well, my dear sir, then you aren't getting out enough.

The Reverend Alex Evans began the evening by welcoming us to the 9th year of the Acts of Faith Festival and then doing a roll call of all the church groups represented tonight.

Each one clapped and hooted to show their presence, but since he didn't call out a category for "heathen," i had no opportunity to clap or hoot.

Let's not leave out the faithless, Reverend.

We have lack of faith and surely that's part of the festival, too.

From there, we were off and running with a preview of the 18 plays that will comprise the festival.

Some had casts to do a scene (Henley Street's "Faith Healer"), some had films or stills because the show was already in production tonight (Virginia Rep's Children Theater's "Magic Flute) and some had key people talking about the play-to-come concerning bright young things (Noel Coward's "Hay Fever").

A couple had full musical numbers (Hanover Tavern and "Breast in Show"), one taught us an Arabic greeting (For Our Children Productions), and one began with the reliably amusing Evan Nasteff dressed circa 1984 as an announcer (Cadence's "Sons of the Prophet").

Not surprisingly, the announcement and arrival of Carol Piersol (formerly of the beleaguered Firehouse Theater Company) got a standing ovation from the theater-savvy in the room.

The little company that could (TheaterLab) did a rousing scene from "Riding the Bull," with two Ghostlight Afterparty regulars, Deejay Gray and Maggie Boop.

Richmond Shakespeare performed an act of faith when they had an actor do a monologue from "The Tempest" when rehearsals don't even start until next week.

It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Friends of Dogwood Dell are now doing a winter season and the talented Todd Schall-Vass was part of the cast for "ECCE."

Richmond Triangle Players had one of the best lines ("The 1970s have a great deal to answer for") and the always-hilarious Chris Hester as a manchild in porcupine-land.

All in all, it was a satisfying look at the plays that will provide the community talkbacks about all kinds of issues of faith for the next couple of months.

As someone pointed out, national theater performance groups are looking at our model of how the faith and theater communities can work together annually to engage the community in meaningful conversation about important issues.

So, yea, we're pretty cool. Even the heathen part of the audience, I might add.

But here's the dilemma.

Say we've evolved to where Richmond has a vibrant scene, where on any given Friday night, a person can go to a compelling art opening followed by a theater preview and when she walks out at 10:15, she's yet to have dinner.

Where in this happening city can a person go have something more than bar food, something as interesting as the art and theater she's seen tonight?

This person decided on Belmont Food Shop, knowing that they have a late night cook's menu that offers no choices and impressive offerings.

I slid in next to a couple discussing music with a musician next to them and was immediately at home.

The  wine list yielded up Negroamaro Corte Salice Salentino Riserva, which the barkeep promised would deliver "black and bitter," as fitting a match for whatever was going to come out on the cook's plate as I could hope for.

Meanwhile, the pleasantly chatty couple ("You look familiar," she said, leaning in. "Are you a singer?" Ha! It is to laugh) next to me were sharing desserts and ordering after-dinner drinks and coffee.

The bartender made up a drink to accompany her French silk pie and after one taste of the amaretto/elderflower/bubbly concoction, she noted, "Well, that'll make me a better person."

What more could a person ask of a drink?

My cook's plate arrived and it was magnificent: chicken leg confit with frisee, radishes with butter, sliced lamb heart with pickled okra and pickled onion and blood sausage cake with a fried quail egg atop it. Oh, yes, and wedges of bread.

There may be people who would turn up their nose at this array of offbeat and offal, but I was thrilled and dove in like I hadn't eaten since afternoon (I hadn't).

I think it's brilliant for Belmont to offer a safe menu for evening dining and to pull out the interesting stuff for late night adventurous types.

Hell, I don't even care what's on the plate because the kitchen is so adept at deciding what to offer.

My bar companions asked me where I liked to go for music, acting like they'd hit the jackpot when I began over-sharing my favorite haunts and why.

More black and bitter followed to accompany a chocolate truffle and some candied orange peel, the latest sweet offerings from a kitchen that always seems to be trying something new.

Sitting there finishing my Italian wine, listening to music from the '20s, with the bartender singing along to "Ain't Misbehaving," the server and I got in a discussion of the pleasures of green Chartreuse.

I told her of an impossibly hot, humid summer night on nearby Floyd Avenue with a a handful of overheated friends and a bottle of Chartreuse that was still memorable fifteen years later.

"Wow, yea, I'll have to try that," she said, clearly intrigued by my story of misbehaving, no ain't about it.

It should make her a better person. Or, at the very least, a heathen.

Thundering Colossus

Slog through a little Richmond snow and ye shall be rewarded.

The show at Gallery 5 was only three blocks away, so it wasn't much of a trek anyway.

Once there, admission paid and Guggenheim Cabernet Sauvignon acquired (Me: What do you have for wine? Barkeep Pete: This red is all we got. Me: I'll take it), it was hurry up and wait time.

Despite a FB message insisting that the show would start precisely at 8:00, it didn't.

After a while, Pete spilled the beans: the bands had been given the option of playing tonight or rescheduling for tomorrow night.

They mulled it over while I sipped wine and watched snow falling, making Jackson Ward even more beautiful than usual.

Finally, a decision was made. They'd refund our money, play short sets tonight, and return tomorrow for the real show.

Wolf//Goat came shambling out first, a sextet of viola (!), keyboard/violin, guitar, tambourine, banjo and drums with four in knit caps and two hatless.

A statement on lifestyle or weather, we'll never know.

Announcing first, "We'll be having this same show here tomorrow night, same time, same intoxication,"' they set off into ramshackle freak folk territory for the thirty-some people in the room.

Surprisingly, given the weather, one of those people in the room had on a tank top (with black leather gloves) and another had on cutoff shorts with boots.

Not judging, just observing.

Before long, a group of guys in the front row had put their arms on each other's shoulders and were doing a modified kicking chorus line, perhaps the better to show their appreciation for the band's sound.

And judging by the reaction of some in the crowd, I'm guessing many people were hearing their first band with viola and banjo tonight.

I was reminded of the Devil Makes Three show last week where so many in the room clearly were having their first moment with punk folk and being overcome with something completely new.

After their short set, the lead singer said, "Thanks to everyone who walked or ran here in the snow. We love you."

Aww, shucks.

During the beak I returned to the bar for more vino while a guy next to me got beer.

Taking a sip, he grimaced, turned to me and said, "I forgot how bad Genesee is."

But it's cheap, right? "Yea, cheap," he said with disgust,, clinking his can with my plastic cup.

It always take Zac Hryciak and the Junglebeat forever to set up and tonight was no exception.

The subject had come up during Wolf//Goat' set that the poster for tonight's show had a snowman on it and perhaps that was what had brought the bad weather.

Zac immediately copped to being the snowman's perpetrator.

The Junglebeat's first song had all kinds of reverb on it, making it very un-Juinglebeat like, but that was corrected immediately afterwards.

Mid-song, keyboardist/violinist Jessica said, "Zac didn't tell you this song is about Mia Kunis," to which Zac quipped, "It's about my masculinity."

At the end of the song, Zac inquired of a friend in the audience how it sounded. "Confused or scared?"

Now there's a game we could play all night.

Before playing "Colossus," Zac tuned, acknowledging, "I don't have any jokes."

Luckily the tiny tambourinist from Wolf//Goat did and came back onstage to share a pig/duck joke beautifully.

Jessica asked if we wanted to hear a Christmas song since it was snowing and the sentimental crowd voted yes.

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" benefited from a typical punched up drum beat that made it a memorable moment as snow continued to fall outside the thick, velvet curtains of Gallery 5.

Inexplicably, the same guys who'd been moved to dance and kick during Wolf//Goat took up their line even more drunkenly during Junglebeat's set, obliviously knocking into tables and other attendees with huge grins on their faces.

Clearly they were feeling it.

Junglebeat finished and the crowd headed out into the night where the snow was still falling, now made even more epic because of the rolling thunder behind it.

Or maybe that's just my twisted idea of yet another of tonight's rewards.

5th Floor, Going Up

It was Martha Jefferson Randolph redux.

But when the Virginia Historical Society posted on FB today, "Do you need something to do on this cold and rainy day?" it occurred to me that I did need something to do.

So for the second time, I went to hear Cynthia Kierner talk about her book, "Martha Jefferson Randolph: Daughter of Monticello."

Unlike that lecture last June at the Library of Virginia, here, this one began with VHS president Paul Leavingood reminiscing about how long the Banner lectures have been going on.

"Some of you may remember going to these talks back when they were on the fifth floor of Thalhimer's. We've come a long way, baby."

A lecture and a lingerie shopping trip, now that's an afternoon from a different era.

Kierner began by apologizing for the lack of visuals.

"I don't want you to think I'm a Luddite and can't do a Power Point presentation, but we're having some technical difficulties, so there won't be any pictures. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, so my talk may run a little long because I'll have to say those thousand words. But I talk fast."

So she began going through the story of yet another wildly dysfunctional 18th century Virginia family, the kind where strong women shore up weak men and the history books ignore her.

Or they did until women started writing them.

She mentioned how Thomas Jefferson had worried that his daughters would marry blockheads and that while Martha's husband, Thomas Mann Randolph, wasn't a blockhead, he was a poor businessman.

Since I'd heard the basics before, I took note of her picture-less observations, things like, "In a cookbook glossary for her daughters, she defined grits as coming from wheat. Even I know that's wrong and I'm from New Jersey."

When she spoke of Martha's husband, she said, "I have to describe this portrait to you because I paid a lot of money to the Virginia Historical Society to use it in my book. But it's for a good cause."

Her point in describing the portrait was that the artist was unskilled at drawing hands so while Randolph's hands look deformed, it's the artist's fault and not pictorial reality.

The lecture ended, as did the last one, with her talking about the truism that "well-behaved women seldom make history," which may or may not apply to Martha, depending on how you want to argue that point.

After a quick trip to the grocery store (for sauerkraut) where sure enough, the shelves were cleared of all milk except skim (latecomers will no doubt have to settle) in anticipation of snow, I came home to find a message from a friend requesting my company for lunch.

I chose the new sandwich place near VCU, Boo's Brown Bag, because I'd heard they were cooking their own meats.

Nothing like turkey or roast beef someone else has taken the time to cook for me.

The place was bright and open with a half dozen tables for eating in, a big picture window for watching the street theater of the lower Fan and a reappearing Quickness rider picking up to-go orders for delivery.

My friend had saved a table with a view and I scoped out the menu.

I'd arrived late enough that they had sold out of turkey, so instead I chose the yellow fin tuna sandwich because I never pass up tuna salad made with fish from the water rather than a grocery shelf.

In fact, for years I patronized Christie's in Carytown solely for their albacore not-from-a-can tuna sandwich.

I liked that Boo's sandwiches come with chips and one of nine sides, things like beer-battered fries, coconut black beans and baked cinnamon apples.

But hearing that the veggie of the day was sauteed green beans, I chose them.

My sandwich showed up with a thick layer of fresh-tasting tuna on thick Weiman's wheat bread toasted and the green beans were outstanding, not overcooked and seasoned nicely.

Friend raved about his grilled chicken and roasted tomato salad with cranberries, walnuts and shredded Parmesan with a housemade roasted tomato vinaigrette.

I was happy to see that Boo's had not ignored the sweet-dependent among us, offering an array of locally made goodies, including stuff from WPA Bakery in Church Hill and Sweet Temptations by Teresa.

The pound cake with lemon frosting was dense with a rich, buttery frosting I could have eaten by the spoonful.

While eating, I watched the parade of soggy humanity go by, amazed, given the driving rain, to see a guy go by with no hood, no hat, no umbrella, and understandably miserable looking.

But even soaking wet, he had his ear buds in.

My guess is that's just the kind of blockhead TJ was worried about Martha falling for.

Maybe we haven't come as far as we thought, baby.

Rip and Read

When you need bodice-ripping, you gotta turn to a girlfriend.

Fact is, I originally had a happy hour date with a favorite girlfriend but illness took her down for the count mid-day (subject line: one word - flu) so I adjusted accordingly.

I'd been wanting to indulge my inner history geek, not to mention my inner romantic, by seeing "A Royal Affair" at the Criterion, so I invited a healthy girlfriend to join me.

"What a perfect night for historical drama," she responded. That's my girl.

Wanting wine first, she suggested Lunch a mere ten minutes before she expected me to meet her there, but I am nothing if not efficient about getting out of the house.

It was early, so Lunch was slow with one couple also going to the movies at another table and a solo diner next to the new electric fireplace.

And may I just say what a welcome addition that little flame box was on a cold, damp night.

We kept it simple with Malbec, deciding to share the Summit Avenue crabcake appetizer while my Brussels sprouts-obsessed friend insisted on a side of them.

The kitchen, not being busy, even plated them separately, making for a baby crabcake over a bacon and corn griddle cake with a mound of bacon-infused sprouts next to it on each of our plates.

It was a nice touch.

Just as we were wondering what movie the other couple was going to see, we overheard the server ask them and heard "Les Mis."

A discussion of actors trying to sing resulted with one of the guys observing, "Russell Crowe shouldn't have to do anything more than stand there and look good."

So maybe their movie motives were as hormone-based as ours.

I won't lie, part of the appeal of a Danish historical costume drama based on fact was the, well, affair between the queen and the king's physician/best friend/adviser.

As it turned out, we were two of four occupants of the theater, and all had XX chromosomes.

I had to assume that men just aren't into Danish history.

I don't know why not, given the fascinating story of a mentally ill king who marries an English bride he's never met and proceeds to bring a doctor to court who espouses the new thinking of the Enlightenment, much to the chagrin of the noble-led royal council.

So, yes, there was this great story and this passionate affair that took a while to get going (all the better to savor it when it did) while the lovers discussed books and philosophy.

But also the movie's cinematography was exquisite, with countless scenes resembling art created by a Dutch master.

Scene after scene evoked a painting, from a schooner at the waterside with the distinctive dusky Dutch sky surrounding it to a royal procession through a snow-covered forest to the Vermeer-looking light that came through every castle window.

It was an art history geek's wet dream and I should know.

And while the film was full of beautiful shots of period details like copper and stone bathtubs and rooms lit solely by candlepower, as a female, I've got no use for a time where every sex act meant the risk of pregnancy.

That said, I've got plenty of time for watching best foreign film nominees in the comfort of a reclining stadium seat barely two miles from home.

When the film ended, partially sadly of course (deportings, beheadings, children ripped from a mother's bosom) because it's based on real life, and partially hopefully because the events spurred a revolution in Denmark that took it from the Dark Ages to one of Europe's most progressive, the woman behind us stood up and addressed us.

"Wasn't that wonderful?" she asked enthusiastically.

My girlfriend and I stood there talking to her for a while about the movie, only to learn that her TV had broken a while back and she'd started reading again.

But not "that modern fiction," she clarified, but the classics.

"I'm reading "A Farewell to Arms" right now," she gushed. "And it's got love scenes but he doesn't really describe the specifics, but the language is so beautiful."

She mentioned how glad she was not to have a TV now since it had gotten her back into reading and out to movies.

My friend recommended "A Movable Feat" next, saying Papa's description of eating raw oysters had had her salivating and she doesn't even care for raw oysters.

As we walked out, we were talking about the pleasures of life without television like we were old friends.

And, really, we were just three women looking for sex and romance on another rainy night in River City.

With our metaphorical bodices now satisfyingly ripped wide open.

Enter Rap and Doughnut Holes

So I'm just another archivist out on on a rainy night.

I'm getting tired of hearing/reading all the complaints about the wet weather (you don't hear the Seattleites whining, do you?) so I picked my dinner partner based on his sunny attitude.

"Hey, everyone, don't hate me, but I am loving this rain," he wrote earlier today and I immediately e-mailed him asking if he was free for dinner.

I, too, was loving this weather and I wanted to be with someone who felt the same.

His only stipulation for eating out was frugality, making City Dogs a shoe-in.

Tuesdays Richmond dogs (mustard, chili, onions) are only a buck and what could be cheaper than that?

So we met at the Fan location where every seat except four bar stools were taken.

Apparently cheap dogs and rain (oh, and $4 PBR tall boys) are a marriage made in heaven in this town.

We coordinated on our sides, me ordering onion rings and him cole slaw, him telling our server he was looking for a healthy side.

"Yea, we don't really do healthy here," he grinned.

Nor was that why we were there.

In fact, we both loaded our chili-laden dogs with slaw and then shared the rings.

I even ordered a chocolate milk shake, ensuring, as my Richmond grandmother would have said, that I was headed to hell in a hand basket.

The thing is, they bring you the silver milkshake blending cup with the extra in it along with your shake so even when you finish, you still have all that extra shake to replenish your empty glass.

Grandma was right.

We split up after that, he to a meeting and me to the Listening Room for music.

Tonight's show was curated by WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary, who had asked some of his favorite musicians to play acoustic.

It was also the first Listening Room without Jonathan Vassar and his lovely wife, Antonia, because their stork visit is imminent.

Their absence made for all kinds of adaptation; Rob's hand-stamping skills were suspect and Chris forgot to notify Dixie Donuts, so we missed out on everyone's favorite treats, making do with doughnut holes from god knows where.

But we soldiered on.

I greeted organizer and emcee Chris, who introduced me to the bartender, saying, "Karen has been to more of the Listening Rooms than I have."

It was high praise, but then I have been to 35 of the 37 and one of the ones I missed was because I was in another country.

Okay, so I'm bragging.

My usual Listening Room pals were notably absent but fortunately, my favorite seat was free and I made eyes at a standing friend and the seat next to me until he got the hint and came over.

Introducing Ben Shepherd, Shannon observed, "It's safe to say that the characters in Ben's songs are troubled," and went on to list what ails them.

I've heard Ben many times and admire his insightful and literate lyrics and beautiful voice but for a lot of people, it was their first time experiencing him.

He's a long, tall drink of water clad in an army jacket and old brown lace-up boots that caused the scientist sitting next to me to nudge me and say, "Cool boots."

Ben dedicated a poignant song to anyone who'd ever lost a friend to dope, did a sweet song called "Silver Dog" and cracked wise.

"Shannon described about half the songs I'm going to play, but that's okay. I wouldn't have done it, but it's okay."

Ben took a swig from his PBR between every song, a slight variation on one of my favorite Sprout shows where he took a long pull on a bottle of red wine between songs.

Favorite lyric:
I can't fathom or really understand
The world that existed before I was born

After the break, Shannon brought up two of his favorites, Matt Seymour (from Pedals on Our Pirate Ships) and Harris Mendell (of Sundials) to trade songs for us.

It was especially interesting hearing these two play acoustic, not their usual format.

And they were as funny as a comedy duo, with Harris waving his arms over his head as Matt sang and Matt playing and picking silently, doing the exact same thing Matt was playing but without sound.

Shannon had asked them to do a few of his personal favorites, so Matt did "Peter Pan Syndrome," with the terrific lyric, "Will you be my Wendy? Will you be my Tinkerbell? Don't be silly, you can be my Tiger Lily still."

Harris sang a song, "Completely Broken," about coming down Harrison and turning east on Clay into oncoming car headlights.

"It's a song about letting something bad happen to you," he explained about an area mere blocks from my house.

One song Matt began singing in more typical Pedals on Our Pirate Ships fashion (loud and brash) before saying, "Sorry, guys," and taking it down to singer/songwriter mode.

He even inserted a guitar solo ("This is the funky part") and finished by turning to Harris and boasting, "Beat that!"

Harris rose to the challenge with a song about going to community college and an Archers of Loaf cover that Matt lip-synced to.

"This is the first time I ever heard Ben Shepherd," Harris said. "He's really good."

And that's the best part of a show like tonight's. I'm sure a lot of people heard musicians they'd never heard or never would have heard otherwise.

And, let's face it, this town could use some some cross-pollination when it comes to various music scenes.

Can't we all just listen to each other?

While the crowd had been thinner than usual to start the evening, the satisfying  part was that people continued to arrive so there was still a good crowd when Shannon got up to introduce Isaac Ramsey.

"First I want to thank some of the people off the top of my head who take the time to archive some of the music shows that happen here, like tonight," and went on to mention assorted groups (The Listening Room, RVA Magazine) and bloggers, like yours truly.

It was a very generous thing to do and a reminder that if someone doesn't record all these show memories, eventually they'll be lost.

But enough patting myself on the back.

Isaac began by saying, "I don't know how I'm going to follow the comedy of Matt and Harris," no small feat.

But I laughed immediately when he introduced his rap, "85 Bears," saying, "It's not necessarily about the team. It's about winning...and white flight."

I'd seen Issac before, both rapping as Swordplay and as part of the band Double Rainbow and his songwriting and rhyming skills are exceptional.

Isaac was undoubtedly the Listening Room's first rapper, albeit a very melodic one with a fine voice who played guitar (as well as percussion on his guitar).

He dedicated "Song for the Dead," with the tantalizing lyric, "Existence is a human assumption,"to "Anyone who lost someone last year."

Then he snuck in new material.

"This is a Double Rainbow song so new we haven't played it out yet," Isaac said by way of introduction. "So if you see Jamie, don't tell him."

If I saw Jamie, not that I know Jamie, I would tell him what a great song it was.

Isaac said, "This song is called "Mr. Rosenberg" and I'm pretty sure the story behind it is better than the song."

He proceeded to tell the story, which was disturbing and true, but the song was a worthy counterpoint, no matter what he said.

At first he called "Lay Down" another song about death, but changed that and called it a song about life.

Then he got up as if to leave, instead going backstage for another guitar.

"I did something I never do," he explained. "I brought two guitars so I wouldn't have to tune in front of you. I did that partly for me, but mostly for you. Okay, I have to tune a little."

He needn't have worried about not being funny with lines like that.

But it was his last comment that best summed up the evening.

"Based on how awesome this night was, I think I probably don't come to the Listening Room enough.

But then, who does, other than little miss 35 of 37?

Given tonight's genre-bending show, I bet a lot more people will be more assiduous about putting it in their calendar.

After all, why fathom or try to understand a world that existed before the Listening Room?

Like the Dixie Donuts that usually accompany the music, it's there every month for the taking.