Music for a Cause

It was my third benefit in as many days, but truly, I was the beneficiary.

Tonight's philanthropic endeavor was the Mingus Awareness Project at Balliceaux, which provides support for people with ALS, the disease that killed jazz composer Charles Mingus at an incredibly young 56.

Since it also claimed my Richmond grandmother, I feel strongly about donating to the cause.

On the bill tonight were the Jason Jenkins Quartet plus No BS Brass Band, so a full night of serious talent.

But unlike my last two nights of benefit music, tonight's was more of a jazz crowd and that's a horse of a different color.

At tonight's show, the man next to me pours his can of PBR into a glass to drink it.

A glass? I wanted to laugh out loud.

I run into a nerdy friend who has brought a book with him to the show (!) and leave our chat with a recommendation for a must-read biography ("Tonight at Noon: A Love Story").

Readers "R" us.

When two girls sit down in the booth where I'm sitting, one informs me it's her first time here since the place was Bogart's.

How is that possible, I ask her incredulously?

Drummer and organizer Brian Jones kicks things off by introducing the Jason Jenkins quartet featuring trumpet wunderkind Victor Haskins.

As the band starts swinging, people continue to arrive, no doubt surprised at the timely start of a jazz show.

Their set is short and tight and an attentive audience eats it up.

As No BS Brass band sets up, I look around the room, noticing that it's not entirely the usual No BS crowd.

Maybe it's the Mingus part that confused regular fans or maybe it's that it's a Sunday night show starting after 10:30, but let's just say it was a far more adult crowd than many I've seen at No BS shows over the past six years.

"This is our tribute to Mingus," announced trombonist Reggie Pace after putting on his white headband, which always indicates that he means business.

Their set began with a monologue via megaphone courtesy of Chris Bopst on the subject of god, Cuccinelli and vaginas as trombonist Bryan Hooten wailed away on Mingus' "Nostalgia in Times Square."

Not sure who was more in their element, Hooten blowing or Bopst ranting.

On "Jelly Roll," Reggie tore it up on tambourine, causing the guy near me to wonder, "How anyone can not move to this music is beyond me."

Looking around, I saw Brian Jones, who'll be playing tomorrow night for the second installment of the MAP, standing near the front, grooving in place and smiling widely.

No doubt that was in part due to Lance's drumming (with what sounded like the thickest of drumsticks) as he competed with all those horns to be heard.

Playing all the Mingus songs on No BS' album "Fight Song," Reggie made sure the crowd knew who had arranged and soloed on each one.

A little Marcus here, a little Taylor there, a bit of Bryan here...

It didn't matter which song they played - "Better Git Hit in Your Soul," "Goodbye Porkpie Hat," "Girl of My Dreams," the band took turns sharing the spotlight and wowing the rabid crowd.

There might not have been as much dancing as at a typical No BS show, but the energy of a roomful of Mingus/No BS fans is not to be taken lightly either.

As a friend and jazz-lover had told me earlier, "I'm not very good with money and I only had $5 in my pocket, but this is where I came to spend it tonight."

I could say the same...for the sake of my grandmother and the great Mingus.

Shannon's Steppin' Stone

The music just kept on coming.

Today's seven-hour musical extravaganza, WRIR and the Commonwealth of Notions present Volume 3 (part 3), was conveniently (for me) located at Gallery 5, meaning I could stroll over at 4.

I'd been instructed not to be a minute later by the show's first performer, Dave Watkins.

Unlike the park show where I'd recently seen him, tonight he had his full array of instruments, layering dulcitar, drums, keyboards and percussion to craft "songs."

With many new faces in the crowd, I just leaned back and watched their awed faces as they tried to wrap their mind around the textured sounds Dave was creating.

It was during his second song that the members of Dumb Waiter, an instrumental math rock/improvisational quartet (with sax!), joined Dave and that's when the epic factor went off the charts.

Seriously, these are musicians to watch and Dave complemented them magnificently.

The good news is I heard they've already scheduled an upcoming show together.

The only one I knew was Nathaniel, who used to be in Lobo Marino and who was in his element on drums here.

Speaking of, next, we all trooped upstairs for Lobo Marino, playing in the same room where they'd recorded their album a while back.

I'm proud to say that you can hear my laugh on that album.

Lobo Marino has been on tour a lot lately, so it was great to have Laney and Jameson back in RVA to play for long-time (and new) fans.

They did material from all their albums old and new, including inviting the audience to follow along with the hand gestures on "Animal Hands," the ecstatic "Celebrate," and the evocative "Stay with Me."

Calling up Nathaniel to join them onstage for the first time in over a year, Laney said they'd do the only song they sing in Spanish, one that they hadn't done in ages because it was "dependent on Nathaniel."

It's true; his trumpet and mandolin on that song make it even more beautiful and it was a real treat to hear it again after so long.

Back downstairs we went for Herro Sugar, a band whose singer wore their collective heart on his t-shirt, which said Wilco.

They began by sound-checking their mics, with each member stating that his mic should be the loudest because he was the most important member of the band.

I do like it when musicians have a sense of humor.

Their tightly written, indie pop songs were short blasts of energy and hooks and the crowd bopped right along with them.

Way, Shape or Form followed, sans one of their guitarists, who was away, but with a worthy replacement.

Their sound is more polished, with jazz and pop elements, demonstrating the range of the show's bands and yet the overlap of fans who enjoyed them just as much.

After their set, I bade my music buddy farewell for a bit, as I headed home to eat and get a little work done before returning.

When I got back, Warren Hixson was just starting and Friend and I picked up where we'd left off, with water in hand and attention to the band.

I'd seen them back in April, so it was no surprise that their catchy psychedelic surf rock was easy enough to enjoy from the first notes.

But I had to laugh when I overheard a guy say to a girl, "They're so new and different, I find them interesting."

Clearly his musical history knowledge was surface deep as the band's influences were all over the music, but I didn't correct him.

I did repeat his quote to some musicians who laughed at his naivete, but that's another story.

After their set, I mingled for a bit, only to have someone come up and exclaim, "You left and I couldn't find you! I was so upset I threw up!"

You have to love the high drama of friends after they've been drinking at a show since 4:00.

Even if they mean it.

Tonight's piece de resistance was Baby Help Me Forget's reunion show a year and a half after they'd played their last at the 2012 WRIR birthday party.

I wouldn't have missed their set for anything.

Personally, I think singer Jamie is the best showman in town, whether singing, dancing, gesturing or flinging his hair.

Until you've seen him bound onstage or leap off it, you can't imagine how he abuses his body in the service of rock and roll.

He leaped onstage in a jacket, vest and shirt and I knew right away that he'd be losing layers as the set progressed.

Unlike at past shows, sadly, we never got down to bare chest.

The band kicked into high-energy mode from the first song and the remaining crowd danced and cheered them along.

At one point, Jamie dedicate a song to the event's organizer, Shannon and it was a doozy.

"(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone" whipped the band and the audience into a '60s pop frenzy, with people doing everything from the pony to pogoing.

From there, you'd have thought they couldn't possibly take things any higher, but they did.

They sure did.

Jamie came down off the stage and placed what looked like a candle on the floor in front of the stage.

Returning to the stage, the band began another kick-ass song just as the "candle" showed itself to be fireworks of some kind, sending up a stream of colored sparks and plumes that lasted almost as long as the song.

Meanwhile, Jamie sang, ending up writhing on the floor, as is his long-standing tradition at shows.

It was the most epic ending to the show that could have been imagined, short of burning down Gallery 5.

And we wouldn't want that anyway.

Strolling home under a nearly-full moon, I had to think what a fantastic day in the neighborhood it is when I can support my local independent radio station by watching local talent strut their stuff all day and night.

Plus fireworks.

My only regret is making someone throw up for missing me.

Lemonade from Lemons

You know how difficult it is to update your website to reflect your correct hours of operation?

Apparently, if you're the Viceroy, pretty difficult.

Meaning that when a girlfriend and I showed up for lunch today, based on their web page saying they were open 10-2 a.m. Saturday-Sunday, a sign on the door clarified things.

Brunch begins in August.

Huh. Maybe that should be noted on the website, folks.

For the purposes of our lunch, we headed up Sheppard to the VMFA and Amuse, where they were not only open, but doing a brisk lunch business.

We joined a wine-drinking couple at the bar and considered our menu choices.

I saw no reason to resist a farm fresh BLT with a sunnyside -up egg and aioli and all it took was my decision to convince my girlfriend that she needed the same.

Tomatoes are too good right now to pass up any opportunity to eat them and it wouldn't be a proper lunch with this particular friend if we didn't have good fries.

Part breakfast, part lunch, the open-face sandwich on a slice of focaccia tasted incredibly fresh with its arugula and heirloom tomato, not to mention the yellowest of egg yolks oozing over it all.

I'm not ashamed to say we plowed through our plates without bothering with conversation, instead doing all of our catch-up during the hour and a half after our plates were licked clean.

The pleasure of pools this time of year, the inherent difference in people's paces, the pains of being dissed by friends, we covered it all.

And that's not even counting the requisite discussion of the opposite sex, both personal and professional.

When we finally left Amuse for the nearby photography gallery, I was greeted by the most satisfying surprise.

There, on the wall, was a plaque dedicated in memoriam to George Cruger.

George, a former boyfriend and long-time employee of the VMFA, had been the one responsible for the VMFA beginning their photography collection back in the '70s.

When he'd died last year, I'd suggested that the gallery be renamed in his honor, here.

I must not have been the only one to suggest such a thing because there on the wall was the acknowledgment I'd only hoped to see.

Thanks, VMFA, for doing right by George.

A wonderful lunch in the light-filled Amuse with a really good friend was just icing on the cake.

Possessing All Women, All Music

Lesson 1: Editors don't know everything.

On my way into the VMFA with Prudence, I spotted my editor and had the pleasure of introducing him to the Boulevard entrance of the museum.

My work informing the world about my favorite museum door is never done.

He must have been grateful because he suggested we join him and two friends for happy hour.

Watching people do yoga in the sculpture garden while we sipped chilled wine inside made for a most enjoyable prelude to the evening.

Lesson 2: Artists make good romantics.

Prudence and I followed our impromptu happy hour with a screening of the 1936 film, "Rembrandt."

Successful painter loses beloved wife and alienates patrons before falling for maid he can't marry and finishing out life living in obscurity with her until she dies.

Introducing the film, curator Mitchell Merling showed his romantically artistic side when observing, "Not that people were really laughing at "The Nightwatch" like in the movie, but it kind of made my heart break when I saw that scene."

A linguist might have had a problem with everyone in Holland having clipped, English accents, but we overlooked that for the sake of a good story about a man who loved women.

And of a sudden he knew that when one woman gives herself to you, you possess all women. Women of every age and race and kind, and more than that, And of a sudden he knew that when one woman gives herself to you, you possess all women. Women of every age and race and kind, and more than that, the moon, the stars, all miracles and legends are yours.

Do they still make men like that anymore?

Lesson 3: All gnocchi is not created equal.

Prudence and I had a post-film tryst at Bistro 27 where I tried a new dish, the gnocchi with mushroom ragout, to accompany my Vinho Verde.

And while most gnocchi I've had has been potato, this was semolina and Ricotta cheese and shaped into little cakes rather than dumplings.

It so impressed a nearby barsitter that she leaned in, inquiring what it was and remarking on its delicious aroma.

Don't I know it, honey.

Properly sated, I deposited Prudence to her doorstep and headed out into the night for music alone.

Lesson 4: Sometimes taking a break is the best thing you can do.

As part of Shannon Cleary's four-day extravaganza, "WRIR and the Commonwealth of Notions presents Volume Three," tonight's installment was at Balliceaux.

Best of all, the hook was that it featured the first show by the Diamond Center in a year.

The band that got outsiders paying attention to Richmond's music scene were back after a baby hiatus.

Expecting it to be mobbed, I arrived early and found loads of friends.

The scooter queen welcomed me with open arms and her beloved graciously bought me a Cazadores.

The historian looking fetching in a maxi-dress with a maraca in her purse.

Of course Shannon, the ringmaster, looking very happy,

And so many musicians- the ones whose hair had noticeably grown (or been shaved off) since I last saw them, the one I'd seen just the other night, the one who loves to dance, the one doing the new al fresco music series I'm so enjoying - that the local music scene would have been devastated if Balliceaux had spontaneously combusted.

But it didn't, it just provided the expectant and celebratory atmosphere for The Diamond Center to knock our socks off.

Bassist Will was back with the band adding an essential element that had been missing for far more than a year and they had a third guitarist, a guy I see at shows frequently, for the first time.

He, in fact, walked up to me before their set to say hello, noting, "I thought sure I'd see you at S'Matter last night."

And he would have had I not had a prior commitment, for which he excused me when he heard the reason.

The band sounded full-on psychedelic good, running through new songs and old stalwarts that had people dancing, swaying and head-bopping.

From where I stood, there was no indication that they'd missed a beat after twelve months of not playing out.

But then, they always were damn good.

And, let's face it, sometimes stepping back makes stepping back in all the more pleasurable.

To paraphrase the Dutchman, when everything's that good, it's like the moon, the stars, all miracles and legends are yours.

Skirmish of Wits

Lest it look like I took a night off, I offer an abbreviated version of a stellar night.

Joining the happy hour crowd at the Magpie, it was all about tuna crudo and rabbit liver mousse with a refreshing Villa Wolf Pinot Gris to wash down the offerings from land and sea.

Seeking a movie that required higher than a third grade intellect among a selection of action/adventure/comedy summer blockbusters delivered us to the Criterion for "Much Ado About Nothing."

Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

Honestly, I could see well-executed Shakespeare every week of my life. Especially in an air-conditioned theater.

I can see why theaters used to advertise their "frigid air" along with the latest western and newsreel.

Post-Ado, we stopped at Avenue 805 for wine and a trip in the way back machine.

During a recent replacement of the restaurant's booths, the owner had come across an old menu from 1999.

That would be back when you could get a glass of wine for $3.50.

Or half what a well-priced glass is now. Whoa.

Remembering that I was making way more money in 1999 than I do now, a $3.50 glass of wine sounds mighty appealing now.

Our last stop was on the Robinson Street corridor at Michael's Pies and Pints where a decent-sized crowd was celebrating the transition from Thursday to Friday.

Fortified by couplets and plenty of wine over the course of the evening, I tried a slice of their "Napoleon" pizza (as their FB page boasts), if for no other reason than that they clearly know nothing about Neapolitan pizza.

And despite having had plenty of notable pizza in Naples last fall, for a post-midnight pepperoni and onion slice of pie in Richmond, it was perfectly okay.

Tepid praise, indeed, but considering how outstanding the rest of the evening had been, it didn't need to be any more than that.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy if I could say how much.

Two L'heures Happy

Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves. ~ Albert Einstein

Before Einstein, there was Henry Box Brown.

Meaning that my evening began at the Anderson Gallery happy hour for Jefferey Ruggles' talk on Henry Box Brown, the man who mailed himself to Philly to escape life as a slave.

I arrived and found a seat on the bench with a good view of the screen and close access to the cheese and cookies, as a nearby attendee pointed out.

Soon, I was joined by a WRIR DJ who, like me, was eager to glean some new information about an escaped slave with a plan.

As we awaited the start of the talk, we discussed Floyd Avenue and Cambridge, MA, and their very different worthiness as bike routes.

As a former thirteen-year resident of Floyd Avenue, I felt his pain about present-day Floyd.

Ruggles was funny, losing sight of his slide show as he shared endless details about Brown's journey from boxed cargo to globe-trotting entertainer, sharing his panoramics about life in Africa and as a slave with audiences all over the world.

Our speaker had even acquired original drawings of "A Nubian Slave,"  an illustrated and devastating series about the journey of an African destined for the New World.

At one point in the slide presentation, we saw a slide of Boston, the Charles River and Cambridge on the other side, necessitating me observing, "Speaking of..."

"Yea, I know, right?" the DJ agreed, referencing our earlier conversation.

The lecture was fascinating for its story of Brown's life, his struggle and his success at creating a life in Canada after abolitionists found fault with how he squandered his new-found freedom.

Wine, women, gambling and song.

Like it was their job to judge.

Friend and I bolted once the lecture ended, both with plans that would not wait.

Mine involved Amour Wine Bistro's l'heure heureuse, a happy hour involving four small plates for $12.

Who wouldn't be happy with such a deal?

They were the ones who had posted the Einstein quote and, frankly, anyone sharing that sentiment was speaking to me directly.

Moments after I sat down, I ordered a flight of roses and soon a man joined me at the bar, ogling my array of pink wines.

"That looks good!" he said, clearly coveting my roses.

What's not to love about Pere Cabouche 2012, Chateau de Valcombe 2012, L'Opale de la Presqu'ile de Saint Tropez 2011 and Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011?

Inquiring of the owner if any of my roses were not sweet (duh), he was assured that sweet was not an issue here.

He promptly ordered the exact same flight.

Oohing and ahhing over the array of roses, he told me that he'd been out shopping for his 32nd anniversary tomorrow.

The VMFA had yielded the jewelry for his wife's gift and Mongrel (natch) had supplied the card.

Just as he'd finished there, wifey had called and asked him to pick up dog food.

A side trip to PetCo. had delivered the dog chow, leaving him hot and sweaty (there is a heat wave going on, after all) and craving a glass of wine.

Sadly, he'd come in looking for a glass of Pinot Grigio.

It was only once he spied my four pink glasses that he'd succumbed to something far better.

As if I hadn't inspired enough envy, I proceeded to rub salt in the wounds by taking advantage of Amour's happy hour deal of four small plates for $12.

In short order, I devoured smoked trout "sushi" (English cucumber and smoked trout in orange-poached carrot roll with wasabi-soy-shitake reduction and candied ginger), marinated scallops with aioli and the freshest of melon and red onion salsas, summer gazpacho of English cukes and chilled watermelon gazpacho with a pickled veggie salsa and, finally, crispy prosciutto (baked prosciutto cups with tomato basil soubise, shaved Parmesan and the reddest of grilled tomato).

My pre-anniversary-celebrating friend was pea-green with envy.

Why not? In a city where all of a sudden every restaurant in town is doing early-evening specials, these four dishes were superb examples of big flavors and small prices.

Translation: score.

But he was also marveling at the array of stellar roses we were both drinking and eventually wised up, purchasing a bottle of the Bandol Mas de la Rouviere 2011, flattering me by saying he never would have a) tasted it, much less, b) bought a bottle if he hadn't seen me enjoying it.

I love being the reason people experience (and buy) wine.

Besides, I bet his wife will have a better anniversary because of that bottle, so my work here was done.

To his credit, he has a successful 32-year relationship under his belt, a fact he said causes amazement among his friends.

Once he left, I enjoyed  dessert, a trio of ice creams - lime, white peach and cocoa- with the ideal accompaniment, Muscadet de Beaume de Venise Domaine Saint Dominique.

Two words: perfect pairing.

I may be allergic to stone fruit, but I will never pass up white peach anything and the creamy mouth-feel of this peach ice cream was swoon-worthy.

Let my tongue swell and my mouth itch, for it is well worth the reaction.

The cocoa delivered raptures and I heard that there are people driving from D.C. to enjoy that cocoa bliss.

No surprise there.

While savoring dessert, I heard of the owner's impending trip to Paris and Provence, two destinations I have yet to experience and yet two places I long to know.

Even better, he's meeting a mutual friend there, a man who will ensure that they visit the best dance clubs and experience all that both cities have to offer.

A perfect travel companion, in other words.

By the time I finished the last of my flight, the final dinner guests were leaving and I knew it was time for me to clear out, too.

Driving home alone,  I wasn't threatening anyone's driving with my kissing, but I was awfully satisfied with the direction my happy hours had taken.

Tomorrow's goal: preventing a man from driving safely.

I can dream, can't I?

Hitting My Stride

Contrary to what I was warned, it was not a #deathsentence.

As thunder and lightening got more intense in Jackson Ward, I debated going to Scuffletown Park for music.

On the one hand, one who lives mere blocks from the park messaged me, "It's thunderin' in these parts" and predicted certain death if I went to an outside show.

On the other hand, the park had to be cooler than my apartment, so the risk of sudden death seemed worth it.

#risktaker.

When I got there, plenty of people were already spread out on blankets, but I joined the bench-sitters with a clear shot of tonight's artist, the talented Josh Small.

After a few minutes, he inquired of organizer Patrick if it was time to begin.

"Not yet, wait three more minutes," Patrick said, adhering to the Scuffletown series rules he no doubt made up.

"Man, you're strict. Okay, I'll just vamp 'til then," Josh said, nonplussed, promising to dazzle us with an array of cover songs original material and sad songs.

A Tuesday night audience really couldn't hope for any more.

He started with the Liza Kate-like sad song, "Knife in My Belly," as the thunder rumbled and the lightening flashed.

Then he called up harmonica player Andrew Ali to sit on the grass beside his bench for the Rodney Crowell gem, "Bluebird Wine," a song Josh got so involved playing that he rolled back on the bench, his feet up in the air as he played.

And it's all right now
I've just hit my stride
Right off the bat
I'm drunk on bluebird wine

Don't I wish.

For "Moses," Josh invited Andrew to leave the grass and join him on the bench ("We're like Bert and Ernie") and they outdid each other stomping feet and playing.

Eventually, the thunder got more distant as Josh showed us his take on being a soul singer, told a story about cell phones in 2003 and how Swahili was different than Disney ("Hakuna Matata") and continued to sing his heart out as dusk descended.

Meanwhile, I'd been joined on the bench by a friend and musician and we marveled at how once the thunder and lightening moved on, a delightful breeze had arrived with a drop in temperature, almost as if it had rained.

About to cover a Maxwell song, Josh praised the original for its horn solo, but said to watch out for the fake ending (we did) before doing a song he wrote for his Dad ("Singalong"), a talented musician in his own right whom I'd seen play with Josh a few years back.

After "Comedown," Josh closed his sunset performance with, as he put it, "A song by a band called Little Feat. It's called "Trouble" and I wish I'd had the wisdom to write it."

Fact is, that's a 40-year old song, which I suppose is why he had to explain Little Feat to the crowd.

By then, it was almost dark and host Patrick reminded us to keep the gate closed as we left so we wouldn't provide an escape route for Scuffletown's resident turtle.

Like a turtle can make a quick getaway, someone cracked.

But we took note because no one wants to piss off the pocket park's neighbors and lose our slice of sunset summer heaven.

Because we all know that if the gate were left open, it would almost certainly be a #deathsentence for the tortoise and who wants that on their conscience?

Far better to spend Tuesday night under thundering skies drunk on bluebird wine.

Monday, Monday, Can't Trust That Day

We could call this chapter "Tales of a Misspent Monday" and leave it at that.

In my defense, I worked way more of the weekend than usual and from the moment I got up until early afternoon today.

So when my lunch date e-mailed me sounding desperate ("Come now...! FAST!"), what could I do but change into a lunch dress and go fetch him?

Fast!

So we set out for Arcadia, found it closed and settled on M Bistro, a place I hadn't been in a couple of years.

We arrived toward the end of lunch, but the cool, masculine-looking interior and eager-beaver young server welcomed us in.

If I could have, I would have carded him.

Our first choice for wine was a 2011 Louis Jadot Macon Villages chardonnay, but they were out of it and our tender server suggested that the Kendall Jackson Vintners' Reserve chardonnay was "just the same."

Well, except that both friend and I knew that the French wine is unoaked while the Californian definitely finishes with oak.

We got it anyway. It's just afternoon wine.

Last time I'd been in, I'd been quite happy with my lobster roll, so I ordered it again (despite the change to it being billed as lobster and crab salad on a "rustic roll," whatever that might be) while Friend tried a crabacake over tomato salad.

What arrived looked nothing like the lobster roll of M's early days...or anything seen in New England.

The roll was round and dusted with flour and the filling was mostly crab with only incidental pieces of lobster claw meat.

Harrumph.

Pushing the flour-dusted roll aside, I begrudgingly ate the crab/lobster salad while my friend noted, "You don't like it, do you?"

It just wasn't anything like a true New England lobster roll anymore.

On the plus side, Friend said his crabcake salad was excellent and he plowed through it while telling me about his recent vacation in Philly.

Now, I've only been in Philly four times in the past eight years, so I'm no expert, but I do know I've enjoyed eating, walking and seeing all the art when I have been there, so I was eager to hear his stories.

$24 drinks, nine hour stints in the art museum, and 100 miles of walking told me everything I needed to know about their sojourn.

All he wanted in return was an update on my personal life (while giving running commentary, natch) so I obliged.

Needless to say, we ended up being the last lunch customers of the day, although Friend did take the time to teach the newbie server how to properly open a bottle of wine.

Somebody's got to teach the youth of today tomorrow's wine-pourers.

While debating the finer points of my life, we got a slice of lemon/coconut pie with strawberry coulis to help pass the time.

Now here's where the afternoon took a turn for the indulgent.

Coming back into town from Rockett's Landing, Friend suggested a stop at the Jefferson for an afternoon cap(?).

If there isn't such a thing, we were open to creating it.

We landed at TJ's, which was empty of any human life except a server, and here we finally got glasses of the un-oaked Macon Villages we'd been denied earlier.

In my never-ending quest to derail the best intentions of my friends, I suggested getting the Chesapeake dip (ham, crab, artichoke hearts in a creamy Gouda dip), knowing  my companion doesn't eat pork.

He waved off my concerns, assuring me if he can't see the ham, he's fine with it.

Now there's a man with religious convictions.

Promptly at 4, our server informed us that TJ's was closing, necessitating a trip upstairs to Lemaire if we wanted to continue our conversation.

We did.

I wanted to hear about his business plans, he wanted to hear about my gallivanting, so we climbed the grand staircase to finish our talking.

Midway through our conversation and his Cosmo (some of us were opting out by that point), his boss called and I took the phone to provide the alibi for why he'd been "detained."

I didn't even try to make up a story, opting instead for the bald-faced truth.

And while I don't know that I convinced the boss of the worthiness of our afternoon's endeavor, he at least accepted that Friend had needed some away time.

Sometimes you just gotta stand up to the big guy.

After dropping him off, I came home to find that no one desperately needed me and none of my hoped-for responses had arrived, so I was free and clear to continue my debauched Monday.

After a respite to gather my forces, I headed up the big hill to the Roosevelt to take advantage of their new Monday hours.

I'd heard they'd been slammed last Monday, but by the late hour I arrived, things were positively civilized.

I sat down next to two guys at the bar who were gracious enough to welcome me into the fold.

When the bartender brought my water, I requested a straw and he returned with one, the kind that bends to make straw-sipping so much more ergonomic.

"Wow, bendy straws and Cheerwine, that's the Roosevelt for you," one of the guys drolly observed with a smile.

I feel like that's a left-handed compliment of the highest order since there are many ways I could summarize the Roosevelt, but none so charmingly succinct.

I started with the oyster, corn and bacon stew, a gut-filling bowl of the richest stew full of sweet corn, salty bacon and buttery oysters.

Given the afternoon I'd had, it was clear my Richmond grandmother had been right with her predictions and I was going straight to hell in a hand basket.

Honestly, it's probably the first time in my life I ate an entire bowl of oyster stew by myself.

Just to ensure that my arteries close up entirely tonight, I followed that with one of tonight's specials, pulled pork under cole slaw and over house baked beans.

It was like a picnic on a plate but a picnic for two and I was, alas, just one.

As I worked my pig down, I overheard the guys next to me and gleaned that they were about to open a new business.

Never shy about my eavesdropping, I listened as they talked with a couple who'd joined them about the "wild, wild west days of Oregon Hill" and living in Jackson Ward back when fathers who were cops told their daughters not to.

That was before I moved here seven years ago, not that my father (who was not a cop) didn't approve of me moving to the neighborhood where his father worked his entire life (the Richmond Dairy, three blocks away).

Eventually, I insinuated myself into their conversation with the couple and soon learned that congratulations were in order.

After three and a half years of plugging away in Church Hill, the two guys are opening a brewery in Scott's Addition and they'd gotten the approval today.

That was something to celebrate and we toasted their success with my Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris and whatever beer they were drinking (not their own).

Now that's a couple of guys who are going places.

No doubt they spend their afternoons more gainfully occupied than some of us.

Bravo, gents. To each his own.

La Fete Nationale

I was an utter failure at celebrating Bastille Day.

It wasn't for lack of desire to mark the occasion, only that I had too much else on my plate.

Man, I hate when that happens.

The day began with a high-wire act; walking down Broad Street on my daily constitutional, I spotted a worker walking the length of the jib of the tower crane that's sitting over on Grace Street for the new dorm construction.

I watched for three or four minutes, certain I was about to see a man plunge to his death and then walked away so I wouldn't be the only witness.

My next stop was Sugar Shack Donuts, where a sign on the door stopped me cold.

Sugar Shack is currently closed on Sundays.

I bet they are after that write-up in "Style" last week.

If things were mobbed before, I can only imagine how that piece fed the fire.

As a neighbor of Sugar Shack's, I'd far prefer to see them close on a weekday and be open on Sundays for the 'hood.

Or at least for all those people who were streaming out of Moore Street Baptist Church a block away this morning.

And me.

After lunch with a friend at an undisclosed but overly-filling location, I spent the afternoon working, not my first choice for Sunday afternoon occupations.

If only I didn't like food and shelter...

Late in the day, I took a mental break to water the window boxes in my living room and unexpectedly spotted my lunch friend below, in front of my house.

He'd come to dig up the black-eyed Susans in the back yard, which I'd offered him earlier.

Only now I needed a dinner companion (approaching deadline, you know) and there he was.

How convenient.

I cajoled him into putting his shovel and garden gloves down and accompanying me for another overly-filling meal.

The funniest part was, he told me that after our abundant lunch, he'd gone home and promptly fallen asleep.

Now here I was dragging him along for another food coma-inducing meal.

On the plus side, we overheard a spontaneous, soulful singalong, the likes of which we're not likely to hear again, even as we clogged our arteries.

By the time we returned, it was dusk and I dutifully followed him to the backyard to provide moral support while he dug up my flowers for his front yard.

After being bitten by bugs, but with Susans firmly potted, we decided to go for a walk in hopes of aiding digestion.

It turned out to be the nicest part of the day.

Strolling Jackson Ward, we walked alleys and side streets as lacy, white clouds streaked across the sky just under the rising moon.

Friend, who is a photographer, was taken by the beauty of the evening light, which lent a rich (almost European-looking) burnish to brick walls and house fronts.

Even I had to admit that it was my beloved J-Ward at its loveliest.

As we strolled along Abner Clay Park, he stopped to take pictures of the crescent moon with streaks of pink clouds around it.

It didn't have quite the cachet of fireworks and a glass of French bubbly, but c'est la vie.

Next year I intend to celebrate more fittingly.

I may not have a drop of French blood in me, but I do hate to miss the pleasures of a perfectly good holiday.

Just a Shot Away

It's turning into a girlpower weekend.

After reveling in the wit and wisdom of Dorothy Parker last night, tonight was about an immensely talented but under-appreciated group of women: back-up singers.

"20 Feet from Stardom" was enough to pull a girlfriend and I down Grove Avenue to the Westhampton for a pop culture history lesson documentary-style.

I was the popcorn, she was the M & Ms and together, we were the ideal Saturday night date, no small feat in a theater full of actual couples.

The film brilliantly began with Lou Reed's "Take a Walk on the Wild Side" for the lyric, "And the colored girls sing do, do, do..." as a way of segueing from the olden days when back-up singers were all white.

The problem, it seems, with having whitey sing back-up, is that they follow the sheet music note for note.

Not so the black girls who came along in the 60s; they were testifying gospel-style, singing what they felt and not what they read.

They'd all come up singing in church, of course.

Darlene Love, looking pretty damn amazing for being 70, was the main focus of the film as we learned how her voice sold millions of records for other groups while she got no money and no credit.

It was unbelievable how many songs she'd sung back-up on - "The Monster Mash," "The Shoop Shoop Song (It's in His Kiss)" and even Frank Sinatra's "That's Life."

We learned that the melding of church-trained voices in secular music was like catnip to the British bands of the 60s, who quickly added black back-up singers to Brit rock.

And, unlike American producers like the megalomaniac Phil Spector, the Brits cut the singers loose and let them sing however they wanted to.

Stevie Wonder, Sting, and Bruce Springsteen all talk candidly about the immeasurable contribution these women made to the songs of the day.

As they pointed out, in many cases, the listener found him/herself singing along to the backing lyrics, not the lead.

Because, you know, the back-up singers get to sing the hooks and we all love the hooks.

What I loved was the vintage performance footage we got to see, like Sting in the studio with his singers doing "Hounds of Winter," with him looking stunned by their vocals.

A couple of the clips absolutely gave me chills, like watching Merry Clayton and Mick Jagger listen to Merry's vocals on "Gimme Shelter" and reminiscing about the 2 a.m. recording session with her singing in her PJs.

The sheer power of that, "It's just a shot away" line is positively mind-blowing.

Then there was the footage of a 28-year old David Bowie doing "Young Americans" live with his back-up singers, including a 24-year old Luther Vandross.

Be still my heart. Soul with a capital "S".

Halfway through the film, it became clear that as fascinating as I was finding the film, not everyone was.

From a few rows behind came the very loud sounds of someone snoring and before long everyone was craning their neck to see who'd gone to sleep while all this music was playing.

Fortunately, an usher was summoned to stop the buzz saw from disturbing the rest of us music lovers.

Merry Clayton talked about singing back-up on Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama," but only after her husband, a wiser man at 19 years her senior, insisted she'd be glad she did when she got older.

She did sing it, but in a way that showed them she was making the statement.

There was some great footage of Tom Jones (in bell bottoms) singing onstage with back-up singers, including Darlene Love.

And don't get me started on the drop dead footage of Ike and Tina Turner, with Tina and her Ikettes dancing and singing so sizzling hard that it was tough to imagine how they could do all that and breathe, too.

One of the most interesting observations came from a long-time music producer who remembered when he first started seeing a budget for tuning on recording sessions.

As he points out, the only reason for that is because getting current singers to sing in tune now is too lengthy and too costly.

Funny, back in the days of the women featured in this film, they all made it clear how effortless and joyful it was to sing...and in tune.

All hail that kind of serious, old-school girl power.

Filming a Life

It's a good friend who e-mails me post-vacation, asking if I miss the beach.

I admit I do, so he suggests lunch today as a distraction from the pile of work I have been immersed in since my return.

When he picks me up in his new car, Jack Johnson blaring, I choose 821 Cafe because I know it'll remind me of all the things I love about Richmond, even as I continue to miss the beach.

Walking in, a favorite server spots me, seats us almost immediately and grins, saying, "I guess I already know what you want."

Not much of a challenge there.

Foto Boy and I sit on the same side of a table, leaving the other side for new arrivals.

It's not long before a young couple take us up on our invitation to join.

She's got a seagull on her shirt and one tattooed on her shoulder; he tells us he's a server at a chain near Short Pump.

"They've only got 90 restaurants, so they haven't sold out completely," he claims, but when I challenge him on this, he concedes that, yea, they have.

Foto Boy and I order (what else?) a plate of black bean nachos and look around.

We spot our favorite activist in uncharacteristic flip-flops, having brunch nearby.

A familiar beer rep comes in, looking only slightly hungover.

The server (and new Mom) who brings our nachos is also a friend and greets us both warmly.

As we plow through the plate of nachos, Foto Boy wonders why he can never make nachos this good at home.

Dunno, but why bother when 821 is so close?

I regale him with a story about a recent episode where a woman told me how seductive I looked, expressed worry that when I sit down people could see my underwear and even told me I was beautiful.

"She was hitting on you!" he says laughing, almost choking on a tortilla chip.

We chat up the couple at our table, who have presumed that we are a couple.

FB clarifies that we never got that far, having skipped ahead to friendship and I explain that this gives me the right to razz him about his date choices.

"And I give her a hard time because men are always hitting on her," he tells these strangers. "And lately, even women!"

Without missing a beat, the Short Pump server leans in and eyes me, saying suavely, "Have I told you how beautiful you look today?"

Now I'm the one laughing out loud at his quick repartee.

As we leave 821 and round the corner, we run smack-dab into a small group filming a scene.

It's July, so I realize instantly what weekend it must be, but ask anyway.

Gotta be 48-hour film fest.

They grin, acknowledging as much, and we suggest they move their backpacks from against FB's car before we drive away.

Before we can even start the car, they're back to filming and I'm thinking how much I love this town, the people and all the interesting stuff that's always going on here.

Talking about gardening on the way home, he asks if I have any flowers I want to share and once at my house, I lead him to a plot of black-eyed Susans and offer them all up to him.

He's tickled at the prospect of so many new flowers for his yard, straight from mine.

Friend to friend flowers, so to speak.

What was I missing again?

Luckily, I'll make it back to the beach before the summer's over, but for right now, my lunch has reminded me that I'm fine until I do.

Fresh Hell of the Best Kind

Turns out Dorothy Parker and I have a lot in common.

Like drinking and talking.

Which I began my evening by doing at my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, to pre-game before the theater.

Between my week at the beach and Chef Carlos' trip to Brazil, it had been ages since I'd seen him.

We corrected that with some face time tonight, early enough in the evening that the place had not yet filled up.

Vinho Verde in hand, I listened as he told me his concept for a TV show that involved a chef, a front-of-the-house manager and a writer sharing their opinions as they visited every gay bar in the country.

Now there's a career path I could get behind.

As long as I was there, it seemed silly to resist a new small plate of braised calamari over white beans.

The garlic and clam juice-infused beans under the shallot-braised calamari with micro-greens was a flavorful way to kick off my night.

I met some nearby bar-sitters, foodies from Hanover County, and we talked about the local eating scene while they experienced 27 for the first time.

It's always a pleasure to watch as newcomers get sucked into the 27 web, first by Carlos' charm and then by the exceptional food.

Let's just say that I expect that I'll see those two again at my neighborhood bar.

My next stop was at Prudence's house to pick her up for an enlightening evening at the VMFA.

"The Portable Dorothy Parker," a one-act, one-actress play with Broadway actress Margot Avery, drew a sell-out crowd (mostly women or men with women).

Three be the things I shall never attain
Ency, content and sufficient champagne

Most of the performance was laugh-out-loud funny, but for some of us, none more so than her observations about the writing life.

When I was younger, I was already gainfully unemployed.
I called it freelancing.

Amen, sister.

The set was simple - a wing chair with a telephone table, a table for a bar (frequently used) and a desk covered in books and manuscript pages.

But I shall stay the way I am
Because I do not give a damn

Avery used them to advantage, frequently making drinks before collapsing back in her desk chair to answer questions from the unseen assistant.

As Dorothy, she talked a lot about the members of the Algonquin round table and what a boys' club it had been.

All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends.

It was an audience of Parker fans, quick to laugh at every bon mot, and, like me and Prudence, familiar with many of them.

And while Dorothy drank throughout, her smoking habit was conspicuously absent.

I couldn't decide if this was a nod to the VMFA crowd or a politically correct concession.

Either way, bad call.

The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue

Through observations about love, men and life, I consistently found myself laughing most at her comments about the writing life.

The two most beautiful words in the English language are "check enclosed."

God knows that's true.

Once the play ended, we didn't go far, ending up at Deco for a bottle and a bite.

The little restaurant was just about full when we arrived and our server, sweet and eager, told us she'd just turned 21.

Her extreme youth meant that she couldn't tell us anything about the 2011 Cantina del Taburno Falanghina we were considering, but the owner breezed by, assuring us that if we didn't like it, he'd happily drink it instead.

Pshaw.

Crisp, intense and with a long finish, we needed no help from the boss man to polish off the bottle without him.

We made a meal of the Sicilian street food menu, with arancini con carne stuffed with Mozzarella, falling-off-the-bones pork ribs in marinara, and meatballs with currants and pine nuts, a dish I get every time I go.

"All meat?" Prudence asked, raising an eyebrow, as if that were a problem.

As I told her, after an evening of sparkling wit, I'm happy to make do with meat.

Because, as Dorothy, Prudence and I agree, there can never be sufficient champagne.

We make up for that with meat, bone-sucking and long discussions of love, men and life.

The cure for boredom is curiosity
There is no cure for curiosity

Nor would I want there to be.

Sans Pink and White Checks

I got an unexpected invitation to take a road trip to Colonial Beach.

Not to get too sentimental, but my very first road trip in life was to Colonial Beach when I was two weeks old.

I've got the pictures to prove it - my impossibly young-looking (and proud) parents in bathing suits holding me, naked except for a pink and white checked diaper.

Since then, I've returned several times, always for my annual sister trip with four or five of my sisters (depending on who was unhappy with whom), so I knew it was a pleasant enough drive up 301.

So when I got asked today, I thought, hell yea why not?

I'd interviewed the curator I needed to, I figured I'd be back in time for my meet-up with friends, and the lure of a quick road trip was irresistible.

We made a stop at a farm to admire young chickens, a spoiled horse looking for treats and the most magnificent hedge I'd ever seen.

It resembled a scrunched-up caterpillar with a wild, woolly head of hair.

From there it was on to downtown Colonial Beach, a place where off-track betting ships sit out in the river, the better to serve the gaming needs of the golfcart-riding locals.

But our destination was the highly-recommended Lighthouse, an unlikely name for a Thai/French restaurant.

And by Thai/French, I don't mean a pastiche of the two, but a menu that is half Thai and half French.

And that's besides the extensive chalkboard menu of specials you have to read on your way in.

But I read it, knowing full-well I wouldn't remember it all, before being seated at a window-side table in the dining room, where we had a great view of the outdoor deck (with one couple on it) and the marina.

It took us all of a minute to notify our waiter we wanted to sit outside.

Perched at a red table and chairs, we inquired of the deck's only other inhabitants if bugs were a problem.

They insisted that an occasional raindrop was as unpleasant as it got.

Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted the weather to be any different than what it was - cloudy, warm and smelling like the river.

After ordering splits of bubbles, my companion informed me that the rockfish on the special board had his name on it.

I felt the need to recheck the board, since I couldn't recall if anything had my name on it, so I walked back inside.

To my disappointment, the softshell crab already had an "86" next to it, so I turned to our server who was hovering near me and asked what his favorite was.

"The scallops with bacon are my favroite," he quickly replied. "Those two ladies just had them, too. Ask them."

You know, I think I will interrupt a stranger's meal.

The two had nothing but praise for the scallops, but one warned me that there was lots of bacon, so I should be prepared for that.

Honey, I was born prepared for bacon.

The other told me that she'd had the scallop dish here last night, too.

Two nights in a row? Now there was an irrefutable recommendation.

Outside, we sipped our bubbles admiring the nearby osprey nest, the school of jumping minnows and the boathouse with a steeple just across the water.

Bad jokes about the lord's boats ensued.

Our salads arrived with the reddest tomatoes I've had this year and an array of lettuces, a fine start.

When our entrees came, they definitely qualified as tall food with a stack of grilled vegetables next to our fruits de mer.

My scallops were large and beautifully seared and, yes, there was an abundance of bacon to complement them, so the ladies were right on.

I can't speak to my companion's rockfish but it disappeared completely, always a good sign.

Over two more splits, we watched boat masts bobble in the wake of passing vessels and discussed art collecting, Walmart versus Washington, DC and mutual friends.

Walking back through the dining room to leave, the two women summoned me over for a report.

Not one to mince words, I assured them that their praise of the scallops had not been unwarranted and asked if they were locals.

I was surprised and delighted to hear that they were sisters, in from out of town for some shared time together.

In other words, a sister trip. Perfect.

Riding back down 301 enjoying conversation with my companion as dusk descended, bats swooping overhead, I thought how easy and comfortable the trip to Colonial Beach had been.

It's almost like I've been doing it my whole life.

Oh, wait, I have.

I'll Have the Lobster and the Bacon

Come on in, honey, and get some of this A/C. I see you finally found a parking space!

It's so nice when a guard oversees your arrival.

I was headed to the Virginia Historical Society's banner lecture, "The Jefferson Hotel: The History of a Richmond Landmark" by Paul Herbert.

"It's packed back there!" my new best friend warned me as I headed down to the talk.

Sure enough, the room was already near capacity, with an audience that looked to have a median age of about 70.

No problem. I never mind being on the young side of the demographic.

The VHS blurb had said that Herbert had "loved the Jefferson since his first visit there more than 20 years ago" and I would have guessed that most of this crowd's memories went back two or three times that far.

Hell, my first visit was 21 years ago (for a local radio station's dance night) and I'm not even a local.

Clearly Herbert didn't know that 20 years is nothing in this town.

He'd brought over 50 slides relating to the Jefferson Hotel and proceeded to tell us all kinds of arcane information, a lot of which got the crowd smiling and nodding in agreement.

Starting with how Lewis Ginter, the man who'd originally built the hotel, had made his third fortune in tobacco by selling pre-rolled cigarettes that came with trading cards, he told us about what a model hotel it was when it opened in 1895.

The roof garden shows were a big hit, but only for a while because the Jefferson charged 50 cents while the other venues in town only charged a quarter.

When he got on the subject of the Jefferson being known for the alligators in its Palm Court, the blue hair next to me stated to no one in particular, "I've seen the alligators."

Apparently a common method to herd the baby alligators was sticking the bristle end of a broom in their mouth and dragging them back to the pond.

And despite certain northern newspaper assumptions, the hotel had not been named after Jefferson Davis. Duh.

Herbert mentioned the big-names visitors, essentially "everyone famous who came to the east coast between 1900 and 1960," people like Winston Churchill and John D. Rockefeller (both named "honorary Virginians"), Charles Lindbergh and Elvis (who mortified the Jefferson's manager by eating bacon with his fingers).

I was surprised to learn that the Jefferson had so many full-time residents (80 when it closed in 1980 and as many as 100 before then), including Horace Ganz, its most famous.

Of course, back in those days, the manager and his family lived on site, too.

We heard how the opening of the nearby Hotel John Marshall at the beginning of the Great Depression hurt the Jefferson as people fled further downtown to the fancy new kid on the block.

Prices told the most unbelievable story, with rooms $1.50 in 1895 (with another $1 for a bathroom), a full dinner for $2.50 in 1930, a lobster dinner for $8.50 in 1970 and $7.50 for Mother's Day dinner in 1975.

And, yes, Billy Joel was a 25% owner of the Jefferson for a while, even showing up behind the piano on his occasional visits to town to sing and play.

Sure, that would have been an unexpected treat, but personally, I'd rather sit with Elvis and eat bacon with my fingers.

Historical anecdote aside, is there another way to eat bacon?

Here Comes the Rain Again

I do so enjoy the rain.

If all of Richmond was on vacation last week, they're all out eating this week.

The evidence: on a rainy night that should have kept diners in, a friend and I walked into the Savory Grain about 8:15 and found the only seats available were two at the bar.

If not for the rain, I've no doubt the patio would have been full, too.

Looking around to marvel at another weekday full house (like last night), I noticed name tags on a bunch of people.

It would have made it so easy to go up and talk to strangers, but I refrained.

Turns out they were doing a farm to table five-course dinner tonight and the place was bustling with the sound of lively conversations and servers everywhere.

Ordering a glass of lemony Villa San Martino pinot grigio, I couldn't help but notice a bling-covered blond and her much older date at mid-bar.

I know I'm in the minority by eschewing jewelry altogether, but does anyone really need to wear two rings the size of eggs?

It had been a couple of months since I'd been in, so I was pleased to see some new items on the menu.

Although we weren't eligible for the meal featuring local produce from Farm Table, I decided to go with a salad of baby romaine with cherry tomatoes, bacon, anchovies and lemon-thyme blue cheese dressing, hoping the greens and tomatoes were part of the Farm Table haul.

They certainly tasted fresh enough to be.

My companion went with a behemoth of a crabcake sandwich, a work in progress, we were told, being judged by the Baltimore-raised husband of the owner.

I think we can all agree that only a Marylander is qualified to determine a crabcake's worthiness.

Of course, I say that as someone who was raised in Maryland.

Gradually the name tag people, looking happily sated, began to leave and things settled down to the point where music was audible and it was easier to eavesdrop.

Suddenly a friend appeared and I got to hear about her plans to take off with her boyfriend and dog and work on organic farms indefinitely.

While I admire her sense of adventure, I think I'll happily stay right here in the city, thank you very much.

But even a city girl likes to enjoy a rainy night, and with peach ice cream already crossed off the chalkboard dessert menu, we had no further reason to stay.

Debating between Chimborazo and Byrd Park, we ended up at Fountain Lake where a surprising number of cars were already parked.

We put a blanket on a wet bench, the better to enjoy the wide-open sky view of the lightening show going on, but the reflection of the fountain and street lights on the lake was almost as compelling, if man-made.

The best effects came when the sky lit up and cast enormous, eerie silver reflections on the rippling water.

And while you'd think we were the oddballs for being outside what with lightening and occasional raindrops falling, there was a steady stream of people walking by, also oblivious to or even downright happy about the weather.

I know the duck that suddenly paddled by seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

Still missing the beach, but reminding myself how much there is to like about being home again.

A rainy night will do it every time.

We'll Always Have Scuffletown

Some people have Paris, some have cicadas.

A friend had recently returned from gay Paree and I was just back from the beach so we necessarily scheduled a debriefing session.

I'd given up on Heritage months ago when they stopped their happy hour, but decided to give them another shot once I heard rumors they'd come to their senses.

When I arrived, there were three men at the bar and that was it.

I recognized one of the bartenders from Balliceaux and she confirmed that yes, Virginia, there is again a happy hour.

The happy hour wine choices were limited to one red and one white, both from California, so not my first choices, but one makes do.

With dated but enjoyable indie music playing - Arcade Fire, Interpol - Friend and I scanned the new bar snacks menu so we could order and move on to more important things like dishing about our trips.

Thanks to the miracle of technology, I could see all her photographs and marvel at the things she'd experienced.

"Winged Victory of Samothrace" at the Louvre. Notre Dame's windows. The Eiffel Tower with towering gray clouds behind it. Her, on a boat and looking very elegant, mouth open in song. And food of the most magnificent kind.

It was hard not to feel envious about the wonders she'd seen. And tasted.

Luckily, our snacks arrived and distracted us for a bit.

A summer veg plate featured feta and roasted garlic dip with radishes, celery, carrots and cukes, pretty but a tad meager in size.

White anchovy pizza layered housemade pita with romesco sauce, Pecorino and arugula, but the ingredients felt too disjointed and never really came together as a whole.

The best of the bunch was beef summer sausage with beer mustard, pickle and toast, a classic combination of flavors that satisfied on every level.

We'd been so busy blathering about our trips and eating that all at once we looked up and every seat in the house was taken.

Granted, after last week's mass restaurant closings it was hardly surprising that people were starved for a restaurant experience, but a full house by 7 on a Tuesday night in July was a good reminder that they didn't really need our business.

We moved on from France to relationship epiphanies, a topic that kept us busy for some time.

When we finally parted ways, my globe-trotting friend asked me where I was headed next.

Home, I told her, since I hadn't yet decided my plans for the evening.

That changed the moment I walked in the house and found a message from my favorite dulcitar player.

Playing a secret show tonight in Scuffletown park. I'll start a bit after 8 and end around 9. Come out if you can!

Can I!

I was in Scuffletown park within minutes, joining others already lazing on blankets on the grass.

Since I'd not had the sense to bring a blanket, I sat down on a bench and was immediately joined by a favorite historian who'd walked over.

She wasn't the only familiar face; there was the scientist, the metal lover/gardener, the dance party enthusiast, the banjo player.

Meanwhile a neighbor, an older guy with a small, white dog, continued to water the potted plants throughout the park as things got set up for the music.

Organizer Patrick greeted everyone, saying, "Welcome. This is a word-of-mouth event that happens every Tuesday night around this time. Tell all your friends about it, but not on the Internet."

He introduced Dave Watkins, tonight's performer, and Dave explained that he'd be playing right through sunset and until it got dark or his battery gave out, whichever came first.

Beginning to layer the sounds of his dulcitar, his music mingled with the buzzing of the cicadas in the trees and the band practice going on in a nearby garage.

It was hard to imagine there was anywhere more pleasant to be at that moment than in this little pocket park hearing live music.

As if on cue, I looked over and saw the scientist pull something from his pocket and knew what it was before I even saw it.

He is the most reliable source of chocolate at an event that I have ever met.

Fortunately, he saw me watching, grinned and began to amble over, bringing me several squares of high quality dark chocolate.

Dave played on, strumming, tapping and blowing into the dulcitar to elicit every possible sound.

The old guy and the dog were soon sucked in, taking a seat on a concrete bench and becoming part of the audience just outside the gate.

Fireflies began appearing as the sky darkened and Dave, lit from behind by a nearby street light, treated the small crowd to his beautifully textured songs, creating as he went.

Pausing for a moment, he thanked Patrick for asking him to play. "It's not too hot. Plus that band is killing it over there!"

By the last couple of songs, the sky was a deep, velvet blue, the bugs had ceased their racket and the band had stopped rehearsing.

It was just Dave, the dulcitar and a grassy enclosure full of people raptly listening to music on a summer evening.

You have to love it when people tell you secrets.

Don't Question Yourself?

Who hasn't had a close call?

I might have had a few, but I sure as hell wasn't getting up on a stage and telling a crowded roomful of strangers about them.

Nope, I was perfectly happy in a second-row seat with a friend at my side for Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, the bi-monthly event that allows me to eavesdrop on the lives of people I don't know.

Tonight's storytellers apparently had loads of friends and it was soon standing room only when the show belatedly began.

Pre-intermission, the stories have all been vetted for their IQ (interesting quotient) and theme-appropriateness, while post-intermission, any Tom, Dick or Harry can put their name in the hat for a chance to share their close call, this month's topic.

A girl with the somewhat unfortunate nickname of Sharky began with her tale, "Puff the Metal Dragon," one that included her Italian father's dreams of her becoming an opera star and ended with her father and Peter of Peter, Paul and Mary scraping her off a sidewalk in Manhattan after she passed out.

As one who fainted as recently as February, I can assure you it takes two people to lift someone who's gone down.

"Almost Firing" from Emily was a saga of working for a crotchety 85-year old and an unfortunate date with her 29-year old coke-sniffing nephew.

The old lady's ignorant assumptions about the Interwebs were hilarious.

Brook's "Cruise Ship" was both hysterical and horrifying; after missing the ferry back to the ship after an excursion to a topless beach, Brook's Dad proved his superior parenting skills by being able to toss his infant up through a porthole on the ship as they tried to catch up with their boat.

That's "Dad of the Year" material right there.

Between listening to the parade of storytellers, I glanced up through the skylights in Balliceaux's ceiling to admire the pale blue sky I could see through it.

Almost 9:00 at night and still plenty of light outside. You gotta love it.

Jimmy called his story "We Didn't Start the Fire but We Did Smash the TV" and it was about how his high school posse wasted many a night tracking down discarded idiot boxes that they then smashed with baseball bats.

Looking around the room during his memory, I saw most of the guys in the room smiling in appreciation at the thought of guys with bats bashing TVs.

As my friend and I agreed, it's difficult to imagine a gang of girls even conceiving of this plan, much less in delighting in it vicariously.

Circus animals run amok pervaded Jeff's "The Elephants are Coming!" about trying to impress the cool girl from high school and instead being knocked into by a camel, only to end up facing a charging zebra.

No high school crush is worth that kind of terror, if you ask me.

Richard's story was called "7-11" but he got a big laugh right off the bat by admitting, "Despite my supple skin and youthful demeanor, I'm actually 46."

Despite his advanced age, he had impressive comedic timing and tossed off one-liners effortlessly.

"I don't know if some of you know this, but back before Richmond had bike lanes and food trucks, it was actually the murder capital of the country."

Ah, yes, memories...

His story of being drunk at 19 and attempting to pass out daffodils to strangers in the Harrison and Grace 7-11 parking lot resulted in a punch in the face, a stab in the heart and a life lesson.

As long as we learned something, the blood was worth it, right Richard?

Spencer closed out the first half of the evening with his story about "Al," a bi-polar anti-hero who self-medicated using only the pharmaceutical manual and a half-retired doctor who had no problem calling in prescriptions from the golf course.

During intermission, an older couple strolled in, the kind (like a train wreck) that you can't not look at.

She had a blond crew cut (with black roots), a white tank top, black bra, black leather shorts and platform shoes on.

He looked like what Elvis what would look like today if he hadn't died on the toilet.

Jet-black hair, muttonchops, white jumpsuit and studded belt, but with everything drooping after almost 80 years of hip-swiveling.

He got in the bathroom line behind me and eventually asked me when the band was starting.

Turns out they'd come for the RVA Big Band, not to be the intermission entertainment, so I assured him they'd be on in half an hour.

I talked to a musician during intermission and she put voice to something I had noted during the first half.

It's that generation-specific habit so many people have of raising their voices at the end of a statement.

So I decided to hike up a mountain?

WTF?

Where's your conviction, man? Where's your statement of fact, woman?

Why is it okay to make every fact sound like you're not sure you know what you're talking about?

Anyway, I was just glad that someone besides me had noticed what an unfortunate and pervasive verbal tic this is.

During the break, those brave souls (no doubt aided by an hour and a half of drinking) who had a close call to share were invited to put their name in the hat for a chance to be chosen to take the mic.

First called was Ashby for his "My Second Circumcision" story but, alas, he was not in the room.

The crowd clamored to find him because the pretext was too enticing to let go.

We moved on to Joe's "Never Been Born" in the interim, hearing of how his Commonwealth's Attorney father had sat up all night waiting for a criminal named Percy to hunt him down.

Obviously, Percy had not succeeded (he was literally across the street at his girlfriend's house, no doubt taking care of that business before the other) or Joe would not have been standing in front of us tonight.

Ashby had finished feeding his nicotine habit by then and proceeded to go way over the 5-7 minute time limit to tell the painful tale of riding a bike with his brother and almost falling off, a circumstance that may or may not have sheared off his twig berries.

Eventually, he was jumping out of moving cars or throwing up in them, but that's a story for another day.

Liz closed things out with "Taxi Style," a story that would have struck fear into the heart of any parent in the room.

Traveling Europe alone with a backpack, Liz had little success finding a cab or bus once in Croatia to take her to her hostel.

She ends up settling for the offer by an non-English speaker in a company car, only to be terrified as the car is driven way out of town, past all signs of civilization.

Steeling herself to jump out of the car (a recurring them tonight, but then again, if jumping out of a moving vehicle isn't a close call, what is?), she told herself, "Okay, one, two, three, go or they're going to kill me or do other things I want no part of."

This is the part where parents would cringe, I think.

Luckily, they were up to nothing bad and eventually deposited her at her far-flung hostel, located in a remote forest where she arrived relieved and desperately needing wine.

But then, what close call doesn't need a good stiff one by its end?

That's only a metaphor if you want to see it that way.

As always, I delighted in hearing everyone's stories of life gone down a crooked path.

We've all been there.

Exit Waves, Enter Music

I miss the sound of the ocean, but at least there was music.

After endless post-vacation chores (laundry and bills and plants, oh, my!), I took my first indoor shower in a week (missing the sky overhead as I wash already) to remove the last layer of sunscreen, sweat and sand from my person.

After wearing a bathing suit all day, every day for a week, I settled on the loosest dress I could find and made my way to Live at Ipanema.

I realized I'd been out of the loop when I heard live music as I approached Ips.

Since it was barely 9:45 and the music doesn't usually start until 10:30ish, I sensed I'd missed the memo about an early start time.

The crowd was already out the door.

Squeezing in behind the violinist who organizes Classical Incarnations, all I could see where the backs of people taller than me.

I heard a few songs by Night Idea, part math rock sounding, part progressive jazz sounding and then an announcement.

"Because we're recording this tonight and there was a glitch, the band is going to do the first and second song over again."

How very convenient for those of us late to the party as well as those who needed a smoke break.

After they repeated and absent the smokers, I made my way into the room to find friends.

After a week out of town, it was good to see the cute photographer, the filmmaker (tired of editing after an all-day session), a couple of musicians from a favorite band, the newly-appointed digital content director (I'm sure my reference sealed that deal), my favorite thrifter/cultural observer out late on a school night and the talented woman who taught me to drink (and brought me a documentary to watch).

It was a fine homecoming.

While the room had been mobbed during Night Idea, it was slightly less so for Floodwall, although they clearly had some rabid fans of their own.

Present for both sets was a woman with a large, pleather purse, clearly under the influence of god-knows-what but surely more than just alcohol, but eager to sing along to the band and sway uncontrollably as people nearby alternately looked aghast or giggled in amusement.

Floodwall had an interesting sound, although as one girlfriend noted, "I'd like them better if I were hearing them someplace besides around this crowd."

It was true; many of the people in attendance may have been friends or fans of the band, but that didn't stop them from bro-hugging, talking and flipping hair throughout their set.

Another friend complained that "the music doesn't go anywhere," but changed his tune late in their set when an urgent, more post-rock soundscape accompanied the interesting and emotive vocals.

The night's biggest laugh came courtesy of the bartender who, after the first few notes of a song, leaned in and said, "I thought they were going to do an Offspring cover and that would have been amazing."

When their effects-laden set ended, a friend looked at me and said, "Welcome to 1991. Now that was some shoegaze. I need to make a video for these guys."

Have at it, man. Hopefully you won't have to explain what shoegaze is to them.

I lived through it the first time, so I certainly know, despite having been carded at the door on the way in.

Damn, I guess hearing the ocean non-stop for a week works wonders on the complexion.

And the attitude.

Crossing State Lines

Beach log wrap-up.

Water temperature: gradually warmed up to 67 by the last day, but the much cooler-than-usual temps made for far less time in the ocean (sadly) other than walking along the edge every day.

Books read: "Over Here, Over There: The Andrews Sisters and the U.S.O" and "Remembered Laughter: The Life of Noel Coward."

Best random song heard: "Dare County Blues" sung by a local singer on the rooftop deck of the Rundown Cafe during sunset.

It was a fine Fourth, meaning hot dogs for lunch and the absolute best cheeseburgers for dinner, both meals savored on the screened-in porch while watching the endless parade of red, white and blue stars and striped bathing suits on everyone from babies to geezers.

The only saving grace? No patriotic Speedos seen.

We watched the fireworks from beach chairs facing the ocean, sipping celebratory Pommery champagne and twisting our heads back and forth like at a tennis match to catch the neighbors on either side setting off blasts, as well as the displays in Southern Shores and at the Avalon Pier.

The evening finished with neighbors releasing mini hot air balloons (wish lanterns, according to the in-the-know one in the group) and watching them drift on the ocean breezes until they were as small as a star.

It was a gloriously clear night for stargazing until the last of the faraway explosion sounds finally died away.

Friday we set off to have an adventure, ending up at the Bodie Island lighthouse where, to our amazement, they were selling tickets to walk up the 219 steps for the first time in 140 years.

When the park ranger told me that, I grabbed her arm in excitement, since we'd come looking for nothing more than a walk and some history.

Since the next few tours were already sold out, we bought tickets for the 2:50 tour and set off to Wanchese for lunch, ending up at the Fisherman's Wharf.

My first trip to the bathroom there resulted in my meeting a local and we discussed the difficulty of doing anything with hair at the beach (her recommendation: cut it off and give up) and the second trip yielded a familiar face.

Walking out of the stall I intended to walk into was a Richmond musician and teacher and I don't know which of us was more surprised to see the other.

"Karen, I see you everywhere, but never across state lines!" she laughed.

Back at our waterfront table, the owner's wife informed us that the kitchen was "a man down" and to expect delays, mollifying us with hushpuppies.

Nothing says relax like fried carbs.

With a non-stop view of trawlers and pleasure boats coming and going, we were in no hurry and eventually inquired of our server what libations were available.

"Oh, we don't have alcohol on this side of the island!" she exclaimed, all big blue eyes and gorgeous white teeth.

We tried to guess whether it was the preference of the Wanchesians (where a local church's sign proclaimed "Wanchese is Jesus") or if Manteo just sold enough booze to make up for the entire island.

In any case, the fried and steamed shrimp were tasty and plentiful and anyone can drink iced tea for one beach day lunch.

Back at the lighthouse, we endured a painful 10-minute lecture on escaping rip tides from the park ranger, despite the fact the chance of a rip current in the lighthouse seemed extremely remote.

There were nine or ten kids in our group of 22 and since all were wearing some form of flip-flops, our guide warned them to walk slowly and carefully so they wouldn't lose a flop down the spiral staircase.

Naturally, we didn't even make it to the second landing before one of the boys lost a flip-flop.

The mortification on his mother's face was classic.

Leaning over the railing through the grated steps, he leaned down and yelled, "I love you, Mom! I love you, Dad!"

It might have helped if he hadn't lost another one two flights up.

Ignoring the kids and the two women with height issues, we powered on, eager to reach the top and fresh air, since none of the windows inside the lighthouse were open.

I bet those windows were allowed to be open 140 years ago, is all I'm saying.

Up top, we had stellar views of a nearby (and private) duck hunting lodge, a public fishing pier and the long wooden walk that crossed the snake sanctuary I had no intention of going anywhere near.

Instead, we walked over to the little fishing pier afterwards, meeting fisherman headed back to their trucks with lines and buckets and a few still fishing away in the late afternoon sun.

I stuck my feet in the sound, finding it as warm as, well, piss, before waving adieu to the last of the fishermen and heading back up the coast.

It had been a fine afternoon's adventure, with me especially tickled after a lifetime of summers on the Outer Banks, to have finally been allowed to climb that lighthouse.

On one morning walk, we saw two excited little girls running down the beach with "Event Viewing" signs, piquing our curiosity about what the event might be.

Get this: It was the "Curtis Family body surfing championships," according to the sign.

There was even a white board with brackets of Curtises who'd qualified to scrape up their bellies in the ocean in pursuit of whatever bragging rights the championship might bring them.

Makes an ordinary beach group feel kind of lame just having happy hours and trying to beat each other at drunken Scrabble, doesn't it?

When we set out to have breakfast at the Nags Head pier, we weren't expecting a competition of our own, but that's exactly what we got.

After a 45-minute wait, we finally were seated in the back room (the one overlooking the ocean), but when our server, a familiar face due to her long-time service there, came to take our order, a clamor arose from the next table.

The eight-top of leathery. older people already on their second and third rounds of bloody Marys, began banging implements and shouting at out server that they'd been seated first.

Excusing herself and knowing we'd understand ("She can spot us for industry types," one in our group observed), she moved over a few feet and began taking their order.

Without missing a beat, once she'd taken theirs, she returned to us and sweetly asked what we wanted, hissing under her breath, "I'm not putting their order in until I take yours."

Well, I guess she'd made her point.

The politics of service aside, I was just happy to have a big plate of hotcakes and bacon in front of me.

One of us noted that his corned beef hash was straight out of a can, but, let's face it, no one goes to the pier for high-quality food.

The coffee drinker raved about how delightfully awful the Maxwell House coffee was, especially after extensive doctoring.

It's cheap, it's fast and it's a uniquely beach-y experience and that's the most you should expect from it.

After a perfect beach day of reading, napping and watching the parade of scantily-clad humanity, we had a dinner summit.

Last year, a local I'd met at Ocean Boulevard had told me that High Cotton had the best 'cue on the beach.

Locals are supposed to know these things.

Going on nothing but that (and the fact that it was a quarter mile walk away), we headed up the beach for some brisket and a rack of ribs.

Passing by the Rundown Cafe, we heard the dulcet tones of Hannah Buckley upstairs on the deck, which was enough of an enticement to lure us back once bones were sucked clean back on the porch.

It had been a couple of years since I'd been to Rundown, so I was pleasantly surprised that they'd enlarged their "tsunami deck" to now include a "hula deck," notable for its long, wooden banquette and colorful cushions.

We found a spot in front of one of the surfboard-topped tables and sat there listening to Hannah cover everything from Radiohead to Fiona Apple with a healthy smattering of original material in between.

In fact, at one point, she began a lovely original song about meeting a guy, singing sweetly of their compatibility and her affection for him and then, boom, he did her wrong.

My fellow vacationer looked at me and observed, "Never saw that coming."

Nope, sitting on a breezy deck with the sun sliding low in the western sky and a glass of wine in hand, who would have?

When Hannah finished, there was a rush of eager admirers (all male, of course), stuffing her tip jar and vying for her attention.

We exited stage right and head south looking for further entertainment.

"Let's find some place where we can make fun of people," someone said.

At Barefoor Bernie's, the sign promised live music Tue/Sat and there was a bridal shower group sitting out front in impossibly high heels (perfect for beach walking), looking bored and high maintenance at the same time.

Here was some fun we could sink our teeth into.

We killed some time waiting for the music to begin with bubbles and guacamole before a slacker-looking, 40-ish guy strolled out with his drink and a guitar.

From the first warbly notes, it was obvious this was not someone who should be singing in public.

Even better, his choice of cover songs was as trite as we could have hoped for, given our purpose.

John Mellencamp. Rolling Stones' "Beast of Burden" with an off-key chorus of "gitchy-gitchy" that had our table in stitches. A surprisingly well-chosen but poorly executed "Cry Love."

And this was after he'd knocked his guitar neck into the low-hanging ceiling fan.

We had to laugh or, like everyone else in the room, we'd have had to leave.

Okay, we did after his first set.

Some people shouldn't quit their day jobs, if you know what I mean.

At least the last night of vacation had plenty of laughs.

On the drive home today, we stopped at Adams' Country Store for country ham sandwiches on white bread (the only option being mayo or mustard) and glass-bottled sodas.

Yes, sir, two Orange Crushes and an RC Cola, please.

While we stood there admiring the hog jowls, the whole hams and the dandoodles (assorted pig parts stuffed into a casing and looking like, um, guy parts), a man came in for his own sandwiches and struck up a conversation with me.

Inquiring where I was headed, he warned me of the endless backup on 95, a fact he knew because he drives up and down the east coast delivering fluids.

No problem, I assured him, since no part of my beach trip involves the soul-sucking 95.

"Maybe I should just give you my cartons to take to Richmond," he laughed,  but the other driver in our caravan informed him we had no extra room.

"It's just a couple of boxes of blood," he explained as if that would make a difference, smiling to show he had two teeth missing.

Thanks, no, I said, taking my Saran-wrapped sandwich and RC out to the stone table under the shade tree for lunch.

The country ham virgin in the group took one bite and said, "Wow, this is salty!"

Two more bites and that tune changed. "I love this ham!"

Who wouldn't with a sweet old-school soda to wash it down?

It's like a week at the beach when the ocean is colder than you'd hoped for.

You start out thinking you're not going to like it and next thing you know, you're having the best beach week imaginable.

Must have been that imaginary wish lantern I sent off.

Ghost Clouds

Beach log, day three

Water temperature low sixties
Current book: Manic Pop Thrill by Rachel Felder
Best random song heard: The Posies' "Dream All Day"

Ghosts of the past: On my walk this morning, I passed a woman who could have been my Washington grandmother's doppelganger. Half an hour later walking back, I saw a guy who could have passed for a former boyfriend, George. Coincidence?

Doing it local style: Went to old school favorite John's for lunch (with a nod to GB), waiting at a shady picnic table for 20 minutes for flounder sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes (the best kind of sweet and salty lunch) which we then took back to the house and enjoyed on the back porch overlooking the ocean.

Science lesson: The wind, which managed to come from multiple directions all afternoon, challenging the beach umbrellas, and the cloud variety: cirrus, cumulus, stratus and nimbus, all in the sky at one time. While we'd been at John's, 3 miles away, it had sprinkled on us. Driving home from John's, parts of the road were all but flooded with rain. Back at the cottage, bone dry. Microclimates abound this year.

Cruising Manteo: Taking advantage of a lovely late afternoon, we drove over to Roanoke Island, first to stroll and then to take a sunset cruise on a schooner. Waling down Queen Elizabeth Street, a familiar figure approaches, squealing, "Karennnnn!" It's the lovely Matt, host of the Ghost Light Afterparty and currently playing Sir Andrew Agucheek in "Twelfth Night." We marvel at the randomness of seeing each other as he and his group seek booze on land while mine set out for theirs at sea (okay, sound).

Onward and upward: Bidding him so long, we peruse an open air craft mart where one of us buys leather sandals hand made and even hand tanned in Haiti. On the way to board the Downeast Rover, I note a sign saying that the Acoustaholics are playing at 8 at Poor Richard's. Alas, we will be out on the high seas then.

Bird's eye view: Our little group takes seats on the bow of the schooner while the other ten passengers take bench seats in the middle. From our perch, we can see hang gliders diving off the dunes, enormous bird nests atop channel markers (and filled with gaping mouthed young). a half rainbow piercing a cloud and dolphins frolicking just in front of us.

Ahoy, mate: We chat up the first mate who, it turns out, grew up in Goochland, went to Steward School and used to live in the Fan. It is the smallest of worlds on the Outer Banks.

And the loveliest of sunsets from the water.

Driving home, one of us asks, "What day is it?"

Does it matter?

And I Feel Fine

Beach log, day two

Water temperature: low sixties (up from positively frigid yesterday)
Current book: "Between Parentheses" by Roberto Bolano
Best random song: acoustic version of REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It"

Yesterday was travel day, arrival day and the official start of the annual beach vacation.

Color me happy.

Coolish, with a leaden sky and the traditional stop at the Weeping Radish Brewery for their stellar, fat hotdogs with grilled onions for a late lunch made for an especially pleasant trip down.

Afterwards, I cruised past the Gale Force Guns & Ammo Shop. where vacationers can pick up any last minute firearm needs before hitting the banks.

I was expecting changes on the beach after the big storm last fall that decimated Kitty Hawk and, sure enough, there were.

My beloved outside shower moved from beach level to porch level and tons of sand has clearly been brought in although the entire beach is definitely much lower than it used to be.

Otherwise, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Thankfully.

Nineteen years coming to the same house and the greatest pleasure is in how little things change.

Today began with an early morning pelting rain, which necessitated me closing the window over my bed, but not, perish the thought, getting up for another two hours.

Breakfast included Weeping Radish's superb bacon. followed by a long walk on the beach under roiling clouds.

Dolphins put in an appearance just before a late lunch, cavorting right in front of the house.

It was also the first "inane technology" moment as the woman on the gazebo next door proceeded to call someone on her phone and shriek about the dolphins rather than just enjoying the moment.

Don't get me started.

When a light rain forced us off the beach late in the day, we took shelter on the screened porch, drinking tequila and playing Scrabble until the sweet tea lover among us beat the pants off of us.

Damn Southerners.

After multiple attempts, we finally tuned in my favorite cheesy, local radio station, the one who plays the exact same songs every year with the addition of a very few new offerings.

I couldn't stand it year round, but for vacation, it's another welcome reminder that some things never change.

And, just maybe, they have the potential to get even better.