Last night it was stars of the celestial kind watching the Perseid meteor shower out in the country.
Tonight it was a star of the culinary kind, celebrating what would have been Julia Child's 101st birthday.
Things were hopping when I arrived and slid into the only available bar stool at Secco, in between a poet I've heard read to my left and a large, tattooed man wearing a tooled leather wrist cuff to my right.
I like to think that Julia would have appreciated the diversity.
A special menu culled from Julia's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" seemed like the only way to go so I did.
Starting with a glass of Domaine de Noire Chinon and a bowl of chilled garlic soup, I felt appropriately provided for.
The soup delivered the best kind of garlic breath and was adorned with hard-boiled egg yolk and whites with a center of pickled garlic.
As a bonus, I got one perfect escargot in a pate a choux cup with parsley/garlic butter.
I wasn't getting kissed any time soon, so there was no such thing as too much garlic tonight.
The tattooed man and his date soon left and a new guest sat down one stool away from me.
Without missing a beat, my server greeted him and gestured to me. "This is Karen," he said, probably anticipating that we'd end up talking.
A transplant from New Orleans, this guy had recently moved from Chester to the Fan and was systematically trying to get to know his neighborhood.
He'd tried to get in the Daily but there had been no seats so he decided to try Secco.
I assured him he'd made a far better choice.
When he asked for a dessert recommendation, I didn't hesitate to steer him toward that luscious hazelnut gelato with cocoa nibs.
He thanked me later.
The two of us were soon joined by another single, this one a guy who just moved a mere two blocks away and was out walking his dog when he decided to stop for some wine.
Pooch was tied up out front while we chatted.
We got on the subject of walking and he told us he walked from Carytown to Rockett's Landing for brunch.
And back.
The Fan newcomer was aghast at the distance, but as a daily walker, I could see the appeal of an all-day walk with brunch and drinks sandwiched in between.
And, yes, I do realize that C-town guy and I are in the minority for thinking that.
My new friends wanted to know why I was out having dinner by myself, so I brought them up to speed on whose birthday it was.
I told them that I was a fan of Julia's not just for her passion for cooking, but because I thought she'd had one of the greatest relationships I'd ever read about.
I'd picked up her autobiography, "My Life in France," to learn more about her development as a cook and been blown away by the terribly romantic story of her relationship with her husband, Paul.
They were two people utterly devoted to each other.
A couple who were passionate about eating, drinking, conversing and traveling together.
"That's it!" said the Carytown dweller. "I just bought a new house with this beautiful kitchen so I'm going to look for a woman who can cook or at least teach me to cook! That's my new requirement for dating."
I wished him good luck in his endeavor, admitting that I'm partial to men who cook.
After two glasses of Nebbiolo Rose, he felt like he'd better get on with walking the dog and said goodnight.
Fan man lingered a while and we chatted about how I manage to live without a cell phone and how challenging it's been for him to live without TV the past two weeks.
In other words, we didn't have a lot in common except a shared appreciation for gelato.
When he left, I took the opportunity to finally eat my Julia Child-inspired dinner.
Hanger steak au poivre came with sauteed potatoes and watercress in a cognac sauce, the richness of the sauce a beautiful foil for the peppery crust of the meat.
As I sat there savoring each bite, suddenly the music stopped me mid-chew.
Of all the unlikely songs to come on, between the Shins and the XX, it was the Spinners' "I'll Be Around."
Much as I prefer new music, I found it absolutely charming.
Whenever you call me, I'll be there
Whenever you want me, I'll be there
Whenever you need me, I'll be there
I'll be around
It was such an unlikely-sounding song to hear that I asked the staff who'd put it on the Secco iPod.
Not a soul would admit to it.
Actually, it sounded like exactly the sort of romantic lyrics Paul would have sung to Julia.
Ghost selection, so to speak.
My meal finished with a miniature orange spongecake with white chocolate buttercream, one perfect bite to represent Julia's birthday cake.
Happy 101st, old girl. I only hope I do as well in love as you did.
Until then, I'll be around.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Pretty Fly for a Tongue-Eater
My evening in ten words or less: From pop-up to porn, with a fly finish.
It was tres amigos night for the girlfriends and me at Pasture because they were doing a Hispania Bakery pop-up for their Taco Tuesday spectacular.
As if that wasn't enough of an incentive, DJ Marty of Steady Sounds was providing the appropriate mood music.
The girls and I took a table by the wall for a good view of the room as two of us sipped Spanish rose and the third tried tonight's special drink, a mango/Thai chili margarita.
I'm no cocktail expert, but the subtly sweet start and slow-burn finish made for a nicely balanced sipper.
Because inquiring minds want to know, co-owner Michele stopped by to give us the backstory on the inspiration for tonight's fun.
Seems she'd fallen in love with the desserts Maria makes for Hispania, but found getting up early enough to make it to the farmer's market to get them too challenging.
I felt her pain.
There are many things I'd like to try at the farmer's market but there's not a snowball's chance in hell I'll be up early enough to do it.
Cleverly, Michele brought the desserts to her...and to us.
A funny story about her birthday gifts to two of the kitchen staff ended with the hysterical, "I'm not Paula Deen, I'm just inappropriate!"
I don't know if the sombrero the chef was wearing helped his cooking skills, but tonight's specials suited us just fine.
My favorite were the tongue and guacamole tacos, but I also enjoyed the shrimp tacos and the elotes al estilo Mexicano, a mayo-rubbed ear of corn, spiced and with cheese.
I love $3 food.
While the restaurant continued to get busier, we gave each other love life advice and talked about musicians we know.
It required more Rose and a Pulaski (whiskey and a pickleback) while we wished the din of the room wasn't drowning out Marty's smooth sounds.
As we discussed, there can be no possible relationships with men who don't share our passion for music.
But we also couldn't lose sight of the reason for the evening (dessert, hello?!), so two of us ordered cookie plates, which came with a glass of horchata.
It may have been my first horchata, but it was not my friend's.
Seems when she was in California on her honeymoon, she (and her cute husband) made it her mission to try as many horchatas as possible.
She deemed tonight's excellent and while I sipped some of it with my spicy chocolate diablo cookie (dark chocolate ganache, cinnamon, habanero) and cinnamon-dulce de leche cookie (sprinkled with sea salt), I found my second glass of Rose went almost as well.
I have to say, it sure was delightful getting to eat Hispania Bakery treats without having to get up at the butt crack of dawn.
Before we got ready to go, one friend insisted on knowing what I was doing next.
Since I didn't yet know for sure myself, I had to throw out some options.
As it turned out, I went for porn.
It wasn't much of a crowd for "Lovelace" at the Criterion, but then not everyone wants to see a film based on the biggest-grossing porn film of all time.
But "Deep Throat" came out in 1972, so I was curious to see how well depicted that era would be.
Judging by the age of the other seven attendees tonight, they might have been wondering the same.
They certainly did a good job with the music, using everything from "Got to Use My Imagination" to "Get Ready" to "Fooled Around and Fell in Love."
And the clothes - the bell bottoms, the cutoffs and Keds, the jumpsuits, even a flowered bathing cap - nailed the '70s look.
Two tickets at a NYC theater to see "Deep Throat" cost six bucks.
Remember $3 movie tickets? Yea, neither do I.
TVs were large wooden consoles and kitchen wallpaper was yellow, orange and avocado green daisies.
The story, needless to say, was tragic, as a young woman was used and abused by a smarmy man with awful facial hair who complimented her shamelessly to win her trust.
And then proceeded to make a buck on her oral sex skills.
What was amazing was how a week-long film shoot defined her for so long - right up until she escaped him and wrote a tell-all book sharing her side of the ordeal.
Foe which she had to take a lie-detector test to satisfy her publisher.
It occurred to me how difficult it might be for a generation of digital natives to fully comprehend how culturally significant it was for a XXX movie to be shown at mainstream movie theaters back in the '70s.
Or how a song like "Spirit in the Sky" could have ever made the Top Ten chart.
Guess you just have to use your imagination, kids.
I have to assume that's what my neighbor was doing when I got home from the movie.
Crossing the street to my house, he waved and called out, "I was telling my friend here, that's my next-door neighbor's car. She always gets out looking so fly...and you do."
Fly? What is this, 1972?
It was right about then I tripped on the curb. So not fly.
Did I mention he has bad facial hair?
It was tres amigos night for the girlfriends and me at Pasture because they were doing a Hispania Bakery pop-up for their Taco Tuesday spectacular.
As if that wasn't enough of an incentive, DJ Marty of Steady Sounds was providing the appropriate mood music.
The girls and I took a table by the wall for a good view of the room as two of us sipped Spanish rose and the third tried tonight's special drink, a mango/Thai chili margarita.
I'm no cocktail expert, but the subtly sweet start and slow-burn finish made for a nicely balanced sipper.
Because inquiring minds want to know, co-owner Michele stopped by to give us the backstory on the inspiration for tonight's fun.
Seems she'd fallen in love with the desserts Maria makes for Hispania, but found getting up early enough to make it to the farmer's market to get them too challenging.
I felt her pain.
There are many things I'd like to try at the farmer's market but there's not a snowball's chance in hell I'll be up early enough to do it.
Cleverly, Michele brought the desserts to her...and to us.
A funny story about her birthday gifts to two of the kitchen staff ended with the hysterical, "I'm not Paula Deen, I'm just inappropriate!"
I don't know if the sombrero the chef was wearing helped his cooking skills, but tonight's specials suited us just fine.
My favorite were the tongue and guacamole tacos, but I also enjoyed the shrimp tacos and the elotes al estilo Mexicano, a mayo-rubbed ear of corn, spiced and with cheese.
I love $3 food.
While the restaurant continued to get busier, we gave each other love life advice and talked about musicians we know.
It required more Rose and a Pulaski (whiskey and a pickleback) while we wished the din of the room wasn't drowning out Marty's smooth sounds.
As we discussed, there can be no possible relationships with men who don't share our passion for music.
But we also couldn't lose sight of the reason for the evening (dessert, hello?!), so two of us ordered cookie plates, which came with a glass of horchata.
It may have been my first horchata, but it was not my friend's.
Seems when she was in California on her honeymoon, she (and her cute husband) made it her mission to try as many horchatas as possible.
She deemed tonight's excellent and while I sipped some of it with my spicy chocolate diablo cookie (dark chocolate ganache, cinnamon, habanero) and cinnamon-dulce de leche cookie (sprinkled with sea salt), I found my second glass of Rose went almost as well.
I have to say, it sure was delightful getting to eat Hispania Bakery treats without having to get up at the butt crack of dawn.
Before we got ready to go, one friend insisted on knowing what I was doing next.
Since I didn't yet know for sure myself, I had to throw out some options.
As it turned out, I went for porn.
It wasn't much of a crowd for "Lovelace" at the Criterion, but then not everyone wants to see a film based on the biggest-grossing porn film of all time.
But "Deep Throat" came out in 1972, so I was curious to see how well depicted that era would be.
Judging by the age of the other seven attendees tonight, they might have been wondering the same.
They certainly did a good job with the music, using everything from "Got to Use My Imagination" to "Get Ready" to "Fooled Around and Fell in Love."
And the clothes - the bell bottoms, the cutoffs and Keds, the jumpsuits, even a flowered bathing cap - nailed the '70s look.
Two tickets at a NYC theater to see "Deep Throat" cost six bucks.
Remember $3 movie tickets? Yea, neither do I.
TVs were large wooden consoles and kitchen wallpaper was yellow, orange and avocado green daisies.
The story, needless to say, was tragic, as a young woman was used and abused by a smarmy man with awful facial hair who complimented her shamelessly to win her trust.
And then proceeded to make a buck on her oral sex skills.
What was amazing was how a week-long film shoot defined her for so long - right up until she escaped him and wrote a tell-all book sharing her side of the ordeal.
Foe which she had to take a lie-detector test to satisfy her publisher.
It occurred to me how difficult it might be for a generation of digital natives to fully comprehend how culturally significant it was for a XXX movie to be shown at mainstream movie theaters back in the '70s.
Or how a song like "Spirit in the Sky" could have ever made the Top Ten chart.
Guess you just have to use your imagination, kids.
I have to assume that's what my neighbor was doing when I got home from the movie.
Crossing the street to my house, he waved and called out, "I was telling my friend here, that's my next-door neighbor's car. She always gets out looking so fly...and you do."
Fly? What is this, 1972?
It was right about then I tripped on the curb. So not fly.
Did I mention he has bad facial hair?
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Postcards from the Edge
I took a walk on the warm side.
It wasn't that far - only to Balliceaux - and passing by Edo's, a handsome man in a gray suit (no tie), gave me a courtly head bow and smile as I passed.
Some gestures never go out of style.
At the bar at Balliceaux, I found mixologist Bobby K., who greeted me by telling me he'd heard about my escapade at Heritage.
Except I hadn't been to Heritage anytime recently.
As the rumor mill had it, a food writer was alone at the bar (which is why they'd suspected me), as were two very inebriated restaurateurs-to-be who proceeded to drunkenly tell her she knew nothing about food writing, a tactical error which apparently resulted in them being ejected.
I was happy to inform him that I was definitely not the food writer involved, despite my penchant for dining out alone.
Before leaving him to his puzzlement, I got a glass of discounted pinot grigio from Alto Adige (the wine list is being overhauled so it's out with the old and in with the new) and made my way to the back room for a special installment of Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story.
Tonight, GWAR member Dave Brockie was doing an evening called "To the Volga and Back," which turned out to be part history lesson and part twisted travelogue.
He began by talking about his parents who'd both joined the British armed services at fourteen (they both lied about their ages) to be part of WW II, factors he think influenced his lifelong fascination with war.
Virulently anti-war, this information was a prelude to his tale of visiting Stalingrad.
The trip began by flying to Amsterdam with a friend to pick up two Dutch buddies and do what people do in Holland.
Showing a colorful slide, Dave said, "Holland is known for its windmills and you can get drunk in this one. And we did."
Judging by the slides, they might have also made stops at a few Amsterdam "coffee shops," judging by the slide of apothecary jars of weed and hash.
Apparently it was great stuff, too, because he told of smoking and then trying to find his hotel room on a floor with only ten rooms.
"I could read numbers and I knew what room I was in, but I couldn't figure it out!" he said.
Special moments like that punctuated his talk, like when he left the stage, mic in hand, observing, "This cord is long enough that I can walk to the bar and get another beer."
It seemed he needed fortification for the next leg of his journey to Moscow.
"There are two types of women in Moscow," he explained, showing a slide of himself ogling two pretty girls. "Babushkas and hotties. If they're not scrubbing floors by 9 a.m., they're wearing high heels."
An oversimplification, perhaps, but we got the idea.
Since the guys naturally ate at a McDonald's, he was able to assure us, "I'm here to tell you that a quarter pounder with cheese in Russia tastes the same as a quarter pounder with cheese in America."
Now there's something to fight for.
The highlight of the guys' trip to Moscow seems to have been the tank museum and a big part of Dave's talk was devoted to slides and descriptions of what he called "death machines."
"We were like kids in a candy store," he grinned, but looking around at the male members of the audience, they looked just as enthralled.
I don't want to insult Dave, but as far as I could tell, one tank looks pretty much like another.
He did point out that German tanks were far more deign-oriented while Russian tanks were merely utilitarian hulks that eliminated everything in its path, but I just couldn't see it.
When we finally moved on from the wonders of tanks, it was to hear about the group's 29-hour train ride to Stalingrad (now Volgograd to be PC).
They were on a pilgrimage to see what was the largest free-standing sculpture in the world when it was built in 1967, "The Motherland Calls," a colossus of a figure of a woman, sword in hand, to commemorate the Battle of Stalingrad.
Actually, it was this battle that had been the reason they wanted to visit the city in the first place.
"It takes effort and time to get to see it," Dave explained, showing slide after slide of the slow journey up a hill and then 200 steps to the top, where his pictures showed men looking like gnats at the bottom of the statue.
And despite making it to the top, he admitted, "If I went looking for answers, I'm not sure I found them."
Their visit to Stalingrad coincided with the May 9th Victory Day holiday, marking the surrender of the Germans to the Soviet Union in WW II, so we saw slides of the celebration and pageantry of Victory Day.
Even so, he was no clearer on historical context than before he'd left.
"I still feel the same way about war as I did before I went. The only way to fight war is to battle against it. I utilize my rubber sword in GWAR to wage a love war," he said, sounding very peace, love and groovy.
He said he wanted to end by reading a war poem called "Wait for Me" to us.
"And no, that's not a trick ending," he grinned. "You're not about to be squirted with jizz."
Thank god and the motherland.
It was warm enough walking home on a hot, August night without that kind of stickiness all over me, too.
It wasn't that far - only to Balliceaux - and passing by Edo's, a handsome man in a gray suit (no tie), gave me a courtly head bow and smile as I passed.
Some gestures never go out of style.
At the bar at Balliceaux, I found mixologist Bobby K., who greeted me by telling me he'd heard about my escapade at Heritage.
Except I hadn't been to Heritage anytime recently.
As the rumor mill had it, a food writer was alone at the bar (which is why they'd suspected me), as were two very inebriated restaurateurs-to-be who proceeded to drunkenly tell her she knew nothing about food writing, a tactical error which apparently resulted in them being ejected.
I was happy to inform him that I was definitely not the food writer involved, despite my penchant for dining out alone.
Before leaving him to his puzzlement, I got a glass of discounted pinot grigio from Alto Adige (the wine list is being overhauled so it's out with the old and in with the new) and made my way to the back room for a special installment of Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story.
Tonight, GWAR member Dave Brockie was doing an evening called "To the Volga and Back," which turned out to be part history lesson and part twisted travelogue.
He began by talking about his parents who'd both joined the British armed services at fourteen (they both lied about their ages) to be part of WW II, factors he think influenced his lifelong fascination with war.
Virulently anti-war, this information was a prelude to his tale of visiting Stalingrad.
The trip began by flying to Amsterdam with a friend to pick up two Dutch buddies and do what people do in Holland.
Showing a colorful slide, Dave said, "Holland is known for its windmills and you can get drunk in this one. And we did."
Judging by the slides, they might have also made stops at a few Amsterdam "coffee shops," judging by the slide of apothecary jars of weed and hash.
Apparently it was great stuff, too, because he told of smoking and then trying to find his hotel room on a floor with only ten rooms.
"I could read numbers and I knew what room I was in, but I couldn't figure it out!" he said.
Special moments like that punctuated his talk, like when he left the stage, mic in hand, observing, "This cord is long enough that I can walk to the bar and get another beer."
It seemed he needed fortification for the next leg of his journey to Moscow.
"There are two types of women in Moscow," he explained, showing a slide of himself ogling two pretty girls. "Babushkas and hotties. If they're not scrubbing floors by 9 a.m., they're wearing high heels."
An oversimplification, perhaps, but we got the idea.
Since the guys naturally ate at a McDonald's, he was able to assure us, "I'm here to tell you that a quarter pounder with cheese in Russia tastes the same as a quarter pounder with cheese in America."
Now there's something to fight for.
The highlight of the guys' trip to Moscow seems to have been the tank museum and a big part of Dave's talk was devoted to slides and descriptions of what he called "death machines."
"We were like kids in a candy store," he grinned, but looking around at the male members of the audience, they looked just as enthralled.
I don't want to insult Dave, but as far as I could tell, one tank looks pretty much like another.
He did point out that German tanks were far more deign-oriented while Russian tanks were merely utilitarian hulks that eliminated everything in its path, but I just couldn't see it.
When we finally moved on from the wonders of tanks, it was to hear about the group's 29-hour train ride to Stalingrad (now Volgograd to be PC).
They were on a pilgrimage to see what was the largest free-standing sculpture in the world when it was built in 1967, "The Motherland Calls," a colossus of a figure of a woman, sword in hand, to commemorate the Battle of Stalingrad.
Actually, it was this battle that had been the reason they wanted to visit the city in the first place.
"It takes effort and time to get to see it," Dave explained, showing slide after slide of the slow journey up a hill and then 200 steps to the top, where his pictures showed men looking like gnats at the bottom of the statue.
And despite making it to the top, he admitted, "If I went looking for answers, I'm not sure I found them."
Their visit to Stalingrad coincided with the May 9th Victory Day holiday, marking the surrender of the Germans to the Soviet Union in WW II, so we saw slides of the celebration and pageantry of Victory Day.
Even so, he was no clearer on historical context than before he'd left.
"I still feel the same way about war as I did before I went. The only way to fight war is to battle against it. I utilize my rubber sword in GWAR to wage a love war," he said, sounding very peace, love and groovy.
He said he wanted to end by reading a war poem called "Wait for Me" to us.
"And no, that's not a trick ending," he grinned. "You're not about to be squirted with jizz."
Thank god and the motherland.
It was warm enough walking home on a hot, August night without that kind of stickiness all over me, too.
Monday, August 12, 2013
The Shock of the News
Outside. Waiting. Scared. Cold.
That's the sarcastic message my friend had just sent me when I looked out the window and saw him downstairs.
We had lunch plans and I was running a few minutes behind getting ready when I spotted him outside.
Dressing in record time, I came flying out my front door to his commentary about me "upstairs in my ivory tower," inaccessible to all.
So I had my doorbell disconnected. So I don't have a cell phone.
And my house is yellow, not ivory.
All he really had to do was call my name and I'd have heard him through the open window, but he claims he wasn't raised in the "holla."
We agreed on 821 for lunch, wanting to take advantage of the last little bit of non-student opportunity left.
Once at a table, Fleetwood Mac in the background, our server inquired if I wanted my usual nachos, starting to write the order before I even answered.
I did.
The shock came when she inquired if I wanted a half portion.
A what?
I've been ordering those black bean nachos exclusively at 821 for, oh, four or five years now, and never once has anyone offered me a half portion.
Color me surprised and more than a little thrilled.
Friend got his usual burger and we began the business of catching up on each other's lives.
It had been close to a year since we'd last met up and the original reason for our get-together was because he'd noticed we had a mutual friend on Facebook.
And not just any mutual friend, but the unlikeliest person he'd ever expected to see show up as one of my friends.
First off, he wanted that story.
After sharing how that unholy union had come about, he filled me in on his life.
The least I could do was the same and while I generally prefer to wait for people to inquire about my life rather than assuming they want to hear about my business, I've been chided for that quality.
So, my friend, here's what's been up with me.
Ah, the pleasures of dropping a long-time friend's jaw.
He was agog, so much so that when the check arrived, he scooped it up, insisting, "For that story, I'll buy you lunch!"
Since the lunch rush was winding down, we sat there chatting even once our food was gone, with him saying, "For this, I've got time."
Funny, I didn't hear a bit of sarcasm in that.
Inside. Talking. Shocked. WTF?
That's the sarcastic message my friend had just sent me when I looked out the window and saw him downstairs.
We had lunch plans and I was running a few minutes behind getting ready when I spotted him outside.
Dressing in record time, I came flying out my front door to his commentary about me "upstairs in my ivory tower," inaccessible to all.
So I had my doorbell disconnected. So I don't have a cell phone.
And my house is yellow, not ivory.
All he really had to do was call my name and I'd have heard him through the open window, but he claims he wasn't raised in the "holla."
We agreed on 821 for lunch, wanting to take advantage of the last little bit of non-student opportunity left.
Once at a table, Fleetwood Mac in the background, our server inquired if I wanted my usual nachos, starting to write the order before I even answered.
I did.
The shock came when she inquired if I wanted a half portion.
A what?
I've been ordering those black bean nachos exclusively at 821 for, oh, four or five years now, and never once has anyone offered me a half portion.
Color me surprised and more than a little thrilled.
Friend got his usual burger and we began the business of catching up on each other's lives.
It had been close to a year since we'd last met up and the original reason for our get-together was because he'd noticed we had a mutual friend on Facebook.
And not just any mutual friend, but the unlikeliest person he'd ever expected to see show up as one of my friends.
First off, he wanted that story.
After sharing how that unholy union had come about, he filled me in on his life.
The least I could do was the same and while I generally prefer to wait for people to inquire about my life rather than assuming they want to hear about my business, I've been chided for that quality.
So, my friend, here's what's been up with me.
Ah, the pleasures of dropping a long-time friend's jaw.
He was agog, so much so that when the check arrived, he scooped it up, insisting, "For that story, I'll buy you lunch!"
Since the lunch rush was winding down, we sat there chatting even once our food was gone, with him saying, "For this, I've got time."
Funny, I didn't hear a bit of sarcasm in that.
Inside. Talking. Shocked. WTF?
Jazz Hands and Birthday Pink
Sometimes you just have to cross people off your list.
So when I got offered tickets to the Richmond Jazz Fest at Maymont, I said yes so that I could cross two musicians off mine. I'd invited a friend to join me and since I was supplying the tickets, his job was to provide the picnic.
Given the changeable weather, we decided to cut our losses by arriving mid-day, hoping to miss at least some of the rain. We walked into Maymont about 3:45, just about the time the colorfully-clad Tiempo Libre took the stage.
It hadn't been that long since I'd seen them - March with the symphony- so I knew to expect high-energy Cuban music brought to us by classically trained musicians. I don't know how they did it, dancing and playing non-stop in the afternoon sun, but they even managed to make it look fun. Their set ended with a conga line and a long string of attendees snaking behind the lead singer, dancing in the grass.
During the break, we strolled over to the "bar" to get ID'd, buy tickets and finally (ta-da!) qualify to buy a bottle of wine. It wasn't an easy process, but sometimes you have to persevere for the cause.
Given the humidity, we opted for a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, taking it with us as we wandered through the craft area (lots of jewelry, something I don't wear) and the bistro area (lots of fried food with Mama Musu's and Croaker's Spot the only recognizable names) before returning to our chairs.
Not long after, Dr. John and the Nite Trippers took the stage, thereby satisfying one of my must-see needs. The good doctor wore a hat over his trademark be-ribboned ponytail and got right down to business.
Four or five years ago, a friend had advised me that the only place to see Dr. John was in New Orleans, but I figured it was best not to wait indefinitely for that opportunity.
The man is, after all, 72 years old.
That said, he sounded exactly like he did when he first sang "Right Place, Wrong Time" in 1973.
He proved it by singing it tonight and as a guy sitting nearby observed, "If you closed your eyes, it was just like hearing it in the '70s."
The crowd today would know about the '70s, since it appeared that most of them came of age then.
In fact, at one point my friend looked at me and said that we were at the young edge of the average age, no small feat.
I would say that hearing Dr. John's distinctive gravel of a voice was a most satisfying experience as he tore up the skull-adorned piano in the muggy afternoon sun.
We decided to use the next break to eat, enjoying fried chicken and coleslaw with our Riesling while a gentle rain began to fall. No problem; along with other necessaries, I'd made sure to bring a small umbrella, if only to keep the raindrops out of my wine glass.
My planning skills are among the best.
At this point, many people began packing up to go while just as many arrived to set up camp. Depending on your taste, the main event had either just happened or was just about to.
Next up was another 72-year old, this one, Chick Corea, another musician I had to see for posterity's sake. His group, the Vigil, looked to be less than half his age and my friend noted that they might as well have been his "class."
His master class, maybe.
The man who was once part of Miles Davis' band in the '60s walked out looking easily 20 years younger than he was and proceeded to show the youngsters how it's done. With an almost constant smile, he showed his mastery, never dominating the sound, but always clearly the one driving the bus.
It's exciting to see someone of his age still so obviously enjoying what he does.
When their set ended, we decided to pack it in, both of us having already seen Michael McDonald.
You know, the great jazz artist, Michael McDonald. Yea, right.
Our original intent had been to make it to somewhere less populated after the music to watch the Perseid meteor shower, but the lingering cloud cover made that impossible. Instead we finished the evening at the late evening birthday party of a friend, drinking Rose from Provence, listening to Madonna and watching a Queen concert on a big screen.
One guest wore white pants and shirt, his glowing cell phone in his pocket beaming its light from his thigh. Another told me how much he liked my writing, citing a specific article I'd written almost six months ago.
Did I mention there was a smoke machine to set the birthday mood?
Yah mo B there, wherever the most fun can be found.
I only hope that's still the case when I'm 72.
So when I got offered tickets to the Richmond Jazz Fest at Maymont, I said yes so that I could cross two musicians off mine. I'd invited a friend to join me and since I was supplying the tickets, his job was to provide the picnic.
Given the changeable weather, we decided to cut our losses by arriving mid-day, hoping to miss at least some of the rain. We walked into Maymont about 3:45, just about the time the colorfully-clad Tiempo Libre took the stage.
It hadn't been that long since I'd seen them - March with the symphony- so I knew to expect high-energy Cuban music brought to us by classically trained musicians. I don't know how they did it, dancing and playing non-stop in the afternoon sun, but they even managed to make it look fun. Their set ended with a conga line and a long string of attendees snaking behind the lead singer, dancing in the grass.
During the break, we strolled over to the "bar" to get ID'd, buy tickets and finally (ta-da!) qualify to buy a bottle of wine. It wasn't an easy process, but sometimes you have to persevere for the cause.
Given the humidity, we opted for a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, taking it with us as we wandered through the craft area (lots of jewelry, something I don't wear) and the bistro area (lots of fried food with Mama Musu's and Croaker's Spot the only recognizable names) before returning to our chairs.
Not long after, Dr. John and the Nite Trippers took the stage, thereby satisfying one of my must-see needs. The good doctor wore a hat over his trademark be-ribboned ponytail and got right down to business.
Four or five years ago, a friend had advised me that the only place to see Dr. John was in New Orleans, but I figured it was best not to wait indefinitely for that opportunity.
The man is, after all, 72 years old.
That said, he sounded exactly like he did when he first sang "Right Place, Wrong Time" in 1973.
He proved it by singing it tonight and as a guy sitting nearby observed, "If you closed your eyes, it was just like hearing it in the '70s."
The crowd today would know about the '70s, since it appeared that most of them came of age then.
In fact, at one point my friend looked at me and said that we were at the young edge of the average age, no small feat.
I would say that hearing Dr. John's distinctive gravel of a voice was a most satisfying experience as he tore up the skull-adorned piano in the muggy afternoon sun.
We decided to use the next break to eat, enjoying fried chicken and coleslaw with our Riesling while a gentle rain began to fall. No problem; along with other necessaries, I'd made sure to bring a small umbrella, if only to keep the raindrops out of my wine glass.
My planning skills are among the best.
At this point, many people began packing up to go while just as many arrived to set up camp. Depending on your taste, the main event had either just happened or was just about to.
Next up was another 72-year old, this one, Chick Corea, another musician I had to see for posterity's sake. His group, the Vigil, looked to be less than half his age and my friend noted that they might as well have been his "class."
His master class, maybe.
The man who was once part of Miles Davis' band in the '60s walked out looking easily 20 years younger than he was and proceeded to show the youngsters how it's done. With an almost constant smile, he showed his mastery, never dominating the sound, but always clearly the one driving the bus.
It's exciting to see someone of his age still so obviously enjoying what he does.
When their set ended, we decided to pack it in, both of us having already seen Michael McDonald.
You know, the great jazz artist, Michael McDonald. Yea, right.
Our original intent had been to make it to somewhere less populated after the music to watch the Perseid meteor shower, but the lingering cloud cover made that impossible. Instead we finished the evening at the late evening birthday party of a friend, drinking Rose from Provence, listening to Madonna and watching a Queen concert on a big screen.
One guest wore white pants and shirt, his glowing cell phone in his pocket beaming its light from his thigh. Another told me how much he liked my writing, citing a specific article I'd written almost six months ago.
Did I mention there was a smoke machine to set the birthday mood?
Yah mo B there, wherever the most fun can be found.
I only hope that's still the case when I'm 72.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Saturday, So What?
Sometimes all I want is a simple Saturday night.
No high culture, no trendy foodstuffs, no company required.
Chalk it up to yet another of my eccentricities, but I just don't see the last day of the week as the highlight.
So instead of trying to think of what fabulous things I might enjoy tonight, I considered how to have a low-key evening alone.
Step one: dinner at Garnett's.
After claiming a counter stool, I went to the window and rifled through the newspaper box, extracting all the New York Times arts sections.
Back at the counter, I ordered a grilled Gouda with tomato and bacon, the pig-sporting cousin of my favorite sandwich at Ipanema.
Sans company, I was able to read and eat without conversational responsibility.
I read a review of "Lovelace," since I'd just seen the preview at Bowtie two days ago.
I read a piece called "Marriage is Yard Work" about a San Diego couple who have spent four years turning the backyard of the house they rent into an outdoor room, building most of the furniture themselves.
And then a couple sat down at the counter, having just come from the Sound City festival down at Tredegar.
Okay, so I hadn't gone out for conversation, but when it drops in my lap, what's a poor girl to do?
So I inquired. They liked that it wasn't particularly crowded. They were there early enough that the beer-pouring staff didn't yet know to pour half-full cups, so they got two full beers before someone caught on.
They thought the James Badfellows used too many cuss words (her term) for 2:00 in the afternoon. They wondered if El Vez really had an accent. They enjoyed Leagues.
And they didn't stay for the Breeders.
I knew everything I needed to and I could continue with my reading.
After finishing my deliciously gooey sandwich, I returned the newspaper to the box, thanked my server and headed home.
Step two: Warren Hixson.
Keeping it simple, I then walked three blocks to Black Iris Gallery for music.
It's the space that used to be Sound of Music and although I'd been to shows when it was SoM, I'd never gone beyond the front room.
Tonight the girl who took my money told me to head to the back "because there's beer there," and while I don't drink beer, I was curious about the unknown parts.
It was nothing like what I expected.
The room with the bar had beautiful wood wainscoting all the way around and it made me think of those walls where you touch a hidden button and the wall opens and allows you into a secret passage.
A mounted deer head over the bar, which in some ways resembled a rec room set-up.
Tall, narrow staircases continued up a few flights and this is apparently where the recording studios were.
So now I knew.
People continued to arrive, get beer and mingle until finally it was decided that we'd reached critical mass and the show could begin.
Frequenters of music shows knowingly refer to this as "Richmond time."
Nelly Kate, one of the organizers, made the point that Richmond needs to start shows when they say they will or else it's not fair to punctual arrivees.
My friend Dave Watkins often makes the same point.
So they didn't start on time, but it wasn't all that long before Warren Hixson took the stage in the front room.
As they began to play, I heard an annoying sound behind me and turned to find someone's iPod plugged into a small speaker and still playing.
Unnecessary, I deemed, and pulled the plug as if I were in charge.
It's so easy to take control sometimes.
Every time I see these guys (and girl, since Nelly's in the band), I hear how their sound has evolved even further.
Take one part garage rock, add in some almost grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards and before you know it, it's a pastiche with no discernible genre beyond their own.
Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, they start sounding groovier, a tad psychedelic and I am sucked in again.
And it wasn't just me; everyone I could see was dancing in place or bopping along to the sonic delights.
During one extended jam, a girl near me broke free of the crowd, went to the back of the room and began doing the hippie dance, catching non-existent butterflies with her eyes closed.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Maybe she was just looking to steer clear of company.
Sometimes that's a perfect Saturday night.
No high culture, no trendy foodstuffs, no company required.
Chalk it up to yet another of my eccentricities, but I just don't see the last day of the week as the highlight.
So instead of trying to think of what fabulous things I might enjoy tonight, I considered how to have a low-key evening alone.
Step one: dinner at Garnett's.
After claiming a counter stool, I went to the window and rifled through the newspaper box, extracting all the New York Times arts sections.
Back at the counter, I ordered a grilled Gouda with tomato and bacon, the pig-sporting cousin of my favorite sandwich at Ipanema.
Sans company, I was able to read and eat without conversational responsibility.
I read a review of "Lovelace," since I'd just seen the preview at Bowtie two days ago.
I read a piece called "Marriage is Yard Work" about a San Diego couple who have spent four years turning the backyard of the house they rent into an outdoor room, building most of the furniture themselves.
And then a couple sat down at the counter, having just come from the Sound City festival down at Tredegar.
Okay, so I hadn't gone out for conversation, but when it drops in my lap, what's a poor girl to do?
So I inquired. They liked that it wasn't particularly crowded. They were there early enough that the beer-pouring staff didn't yet know to pour half-full cups, so they got two full beers before someone caught on.
They thought the James Badfellows used too many cuss words (her term) for 2:00 in the afternoon. They wondered if El Vez really had an accent. They enjoyed Leagues.
And they didn't stay for the Breeders.
I knew everything I needed to and I could continue with my reading.
After finishing my deliciously gooey sandwich, I returned the newspaper to the box, thanked my server and headed home.
Step two: Warren Hixson.
Keeping it simple, I then walked three blocks to Black Iris Gallery for music.
It's the space that used to be Sound of Music and although I'd been to shows when it was SoM, I'd never gone beyond the front room.
Tonight the girl who took my money told me to head to the back "because there's beer there," and while I don't drink beer, I was curious about the unknown parts.
It was nothing like what I expected.
The room with the bar had beautiful wood wainscoting all the way around and it made me think of those walls where you touch a hidden button and the wall opens and allows you into a secret passage.
A mounted deer head over the bar, which in some ways resembled a rec room set-up.
Tall, narrow staircases continued up a few flights and this is apparently where the recording studios were.
So now I knew.
People continued to arrive, get beer and mingle until finally it was decided that we'd reached critical mass and the show could begin.
Frequenters of music shows knowingly refer to this as "Richmond time."
Nelly Kate, one of the organizers, made the point that Richmond needs to start shows when they say they will or else it's not fair to punctual arrivees.
My friend Dave Watkins often makes the same point.
So they didn't start on time, but it wasn't all that long before Warren Hixson took the stage in the front room.
As they began to play, I heard an annoying sound behind me and turned to find someone's iPod plugged into a small speaker and still playing.
Unnecessary, I deemed, and pulled the plug as if I were in charge.
It's so easy to take control sometimes.
Every time I see these guys (and girl, since Nelly's in the band), I hear how their sound has evolved even further.
Take one part garage rock, add in some almost grunge-like guitar, killer keyboards and before you know it, it's a pastiche with no discernible genre beyond their own.
Every time I think they're veering too close to classic rock for my taste, they start sounding groovier, a tad psychedelic and I am sucked in again.
And it wasn't just me; everyone I could see was dancing in place or bopping along to the sonic delights.
During one extended jam, a girl near me broke free of the crowd, went to the back of the room and began doing the hippie dance, catching non-existent butterflies with her eyes closed.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Maybe she was just looking to steer clear of company.
Sometimes that's a perfect Saturday night.
Pride and Gluttony
Believe it or not, I'll be in the Smithsonian.
Of course, I didn't know that when the evening began.
Yes, I knew I was one of the lucky ticket-holders to see "Herb and Dorothy 50 x 50" at the VMFA.
I even knew that Dorothy Vogel, half of the legendary couple whose art collection has now been consigned to the National Gallery and a museum in every state, would be taking questions afterwards.
My excitement went with me to Bistro 27 beforehand to enjoy a glass of Mekan Molisse Rosso and a stellar bowl of watermelon gazpacho to make up for the Watermelon Festival I'm not going to Sunday.
A nearby bar sitter asked what my evening held and I shared that I was going to see a film about this amazing couple who'd collected art for decades and then donated it to the world.
""That sounds fabulous. I'm jealous," he admitted after he heard their back story.
You should be, friend.
Picking up the tickets I'd ordered weeks ago at the VMFA, I was surprised to hear that people had shown up tonight expecting to be able to still get tickets.
We settled into the fifth row.
There was never any doubt in my mind that Dorothy would get a standing ovation when she walked out and she did.
"The last time we packed the house like this was for the Elvis Presley exhibit," our host Trent said. "I think it's safe to say Dorothy Vogel is our new Elvis."
But she was way better than Elvis because he's dead.
Plus here we were getting to see the film about her and her late husband a full month before it goes to the Big Apple, making the VMFA even cooler than it already is.
The film picked up where the first documentary left off and I'd fallen in love with that one two years ago, here, unashamedly admitting I wanted a man just like Herb (devoted and art-loving).
No surprise that these unlikely Medicis, supporting artists and purchasing their work when no one else was, had had a hand in choosing some of the museums who were to receive their gift.
We saw artists like Chuck Close talking about the Vogels' collecting habit in their tiny one-bedroom apartment.
"The bed got higher with their accumulation of art," he said, remembering their overstuffed apartment.
Herb himself said, "Knowing the artists was as, if not more, important than the art itself," a testament to the long friendships that developed during the Vogels' collecting years.
Because Dorothy spent her career as a librarian, she had been meticulous about keeping files about their art collecting.
Saving postcards about gallery openings, newspaper articles about their collection, letters to and from artists, she'd amassed 42 boxes of paper related to their collection, all of it now stored at the archive of American art.
By the time this film was made, Herb was in a wheelchair and not terribly talkative, although when he did have something to say, it was always pithy and spot-on.
"What we did then is now art history," he observed in the understatement of the year.
Herb died last year and Dorothy is shown a month after his death, clearly still grieving, but beginning to organize the apartment and take down the art that will be distributed.
She makes it clear that her collecting days are over because, "That's something I did with Herbie."
During the Q & A, filmmaker Megumi Sasaki surprised a lot of people by saying that before the Vogel films, she had never made a film.
Nor did she know much about art.
You wouldn't know either from watching the film.
When Dorothy was asked about the VMFA's 50 works, she thrilled the audience by saying, "I'm very happy the collection came here. The installation upstairs looks great."
She was asked about her husband's fish tank ("I appreciated it, but I had nothing to do with it"), how she'd met him (at a camp reunion although he'd never gone to the camp) and asked if she missed the art.
"I don't feel like I gave it away," she said in her well-spoken and low-key humorous way. "It's still mine, it's just not in my apartment."
You had to love her spunk.
When asked if she and Herbie ever disagreed about buying a piece of art, she was quick to say, "We might have had a few disagreements about other things, but never about art."
Theirs was a match made in heaven.
We gave her another standing ovation when the talk ended and slowly began filing out, everyone chattering about their excitement at having heard Dorothy share her thoughts.
Then just when I thought it couldn't get any better, it did.
Walking out, the VMFA's director of communications saw me and held up a manila envelope labeled "Dorothy Vogel"
Telling me that my Style Weekly article on the Vogel exhibit was inside the package destined for Dorothy meant that my words are headed for the Smithsonian's archive of American art.
Sure, it'll just be another piece of paper in the 42 boxes, but it will also be my words on that paper in the Smithsonian's archives.
There was nothing to do but go celebrate my accomplishment.
I chose Secco for its recently-appointed chef (who'd been a personal favorite when he was the sous chef), Mike, and walked into a teeming throng of Friday night revelers.
Two barstools had just emptied and we appropriated them.
My celebratory libation was Aloque Rosato, a lovely rose of Tempranillo with the color of strawberry Kool-aid.
My friend went with a Nebbiolo rose, hers a pale salmon color.
To each, her own.
Our meal began with seared padron peppers with Manchego, brown butter and sherry vinegar, in my opinion, the perfect accompaniment to my Spanish wine.
Our handsome server put them down, saying, "They're Russian roulette peppers. Most are sweet but you might hit a spicy one."
I had seven or eight and never a one that wasn't satisfyingly sweet but my friend (who calls herself "a baby" about spicy things) got the one wild card hot padron.
Isn't that always the way?
On the other hand, as I told her, the decadent brown butter and Manchego more than made up for the heat, at least after a minute or so.
Next came the prettiest dish I've seen in a while, an heirloom tomato salad with (insert sound of moan) housemade mascarpone, radishes, capers and herbs.
I could write a sonnet to those 'maters- the stunning array of colors, the impossible juiciness and the incredible sweetness that only comes at this time of year- which almost, but not quite, but almost made the to-die-for mascarpone superfluous.
Almost.
Run, do not walk, to eat this salad.
Next came hanger steak. sliced against the grain and beautifully medium rare, with snap peas and ribbons of summer squash.
The fact is, meat like this is exactly why I will never be a vegetarian.
Langa la Tur, a cheese made with goat, sheep and cow's milk delivered a triple threat with every earthy, redolent bite.
"That's about the best meal I've had in a while," my friend said, looking as pleased about the eats as I felt about my article heading to the archives (and the eats).
With attitudes like those, there was nowhere to go but straight to hazelnut gelato with cocoa nibs.
Not one, but two scoops of mouth-coating indulgence had me rhapsodizing to my friend about the pleasures of ice cream in summer.
Not to mention my sentences in archives...no matter what the season.
Of course, I didn't know that when the evening began.
Yes, I knew I was one of the lucky ticket-holders to see "Herb and Dorothy 50 x 50" at the VMFA.
I even knew that Dorothy Vogel, half of the legendary couple whose art collection has now been consigned to the National Gallery and a museum in every state, would be taking questions afterwards.
My excitement went with me to Bistro 27 beforehand to enjoy a glass of Mekan Molisse Rosso and a stellar bowl of watermelon gazpacho to make up for the Watermelon Festival I'm not going to Sunday.
A nearby bar sitter asked what my evening held and I shared that I was going to see a film about this amazing couple who'd collected art for decades and then donated it to the world.
""That sounds fabulous. I'm jealous," he admitted after he heard their back story.
You should be, friend.
Picking up the tickets I'd ordered weeks ago at the VMFA, I was surprised to hear that people had shown up tonight expecting to be able to still get tickets.
We settled into the fifth row.
There was never any doubt in my mind that Dorothy would get a standing ovation when she walked out and she did.
"The last time we packed the house like this was for the Elvis Presley exhibit," our host Trent said. "I think it's safe to say Dorothy Vogel is our new Elvis."
But she was way better than Elvis because he's dead.
Plus here we were getting to see the film about her and her late husband a full month before it goes to the Big Apple, making the VMFA even cooler than it already is.
The film picked up where the first documentary left off and I'd fallen in love with that one two years ago, here, unashamedly admitting I wanted a man just like Herb (devoted and art-loving).
No surprise that these unlikely Medicis, supporting artists and purchasing their work when no one else was, had had a hand in choosing some of the museums who were to receive their gift.
We saw artists like Chuck Close talking about the Vogels' collecting habit in their tiny one-bedroom apartment.
"The bed got higher with their accumulation of art," he said, remembering their overstuffed apartment.
Herb himself said, "Knowing the artists was as, if not more, important than the art itself," a testament to the long friendships that developed during the Vogels' collecting years.
Because Dorothy spent her career as a librarian, she had been meticulous about keeping files about their art collecting.
Saving postcards about gallery openings, newspaper articles about their collection, letters to and from artists, she'd amassed 42 boxes of paper related to their collection, all of it now stored at the archive of American art.
By the time this film was made, Herb was in a wheelchair and not terribly talkative, although when he did have something to say, it was always pithy and spot-on.
"What we did then is now art history," he observed in the understatement of the year.
Herb died last year and Dorothy is shown a month after his death, clearly still grieving, but beginning to organize the apartment and take down the art that will be distributed.
She makes it clear that her collecting days are over because, "That's something I did with Herbie."
During the Q & A, filmmaker Megumi Sasaki surprised a lot of people by saying that before the Vogel films, she had never made a film.
Nor did she know much about art.
You wouldn't know either from watching the film.
When Dorothy was asked about the VMFA's 50 works, she thrilled the audience by saying, "I'm very happy the collection came here. The installation upstairs looks great."
She was asked about her husband's fish tank ("I appreciated it, but I had nothing to do with it"), how she'd met him (at a camp reunion although he'd never gone to the camp) and asked if she missed the art.
"I don't feel like I gave it away," she said in her well-spoken and low-key humorous way. "It's still mine, it's just not in my apartment."
You had to love her spunk.
When asked if she and Herbie ever disagreed about buying a piece of art, she was quick to say, "We might have had a few disagreements about other things, but never about art."
Theirs was a match made in heaven.
We gave her another standing ovation when the talk ended and slowly began filing out, everyone chattering about their excitement at having heard Dorothy share her thoughts.
Then just when I thought it couldn't get any better, it did.
Walking out, the VMFA's director of communications saw me and held up a manila envelope labeled "Dorothy Vogel"
Telling me that my Style Weekly article on the Vogel exhibit was inside the package destined for Dorothy meant that my words are headed for the Smithsonian's archive of American art.
Sure, it'll just be another piece of paper in the 42 boxes, but it will also be my words on that paper in the Smithsonian's archives.
There was nothing to do but go celebrate my accomplishment.
I chose Secco for its recently-appointed chef (who'd been a personal favorite when he was the sous chef), Mike, and walked into a teeming throng of Friday night revelers.
Two barstools had just emptied and we appropriated them.
My celebratory libation was Aloque Rosato, a lovely rose of Tempranillo with the color of strawberry Kool-aid.
My friend went with a Nebbiolo rose, hers a pale salmon color.
To each, her own.
Our meal began with seared padron peppers with Manchego, brown butter and sherry vinegar, in my opinion, the perfect accompaniment to my Spanish wine.
Our handsome server put them down, saying, "They're Russian roulette peppers. Most are sweet but you might hit a spicy one."
I had seven or eight and never a one that wasn't satisfyingly sweet but my friend (who calls herself "a baby" about spicy things) got the one wild card hot padron.
Isn't that always the way?
On the other hand, as I told her, the decadent brown butter and Manchego more than made up for the heat, at least after a minute or so.
Next came the prettiest dish I've seen in a while, an heirloom tomato salad with (insert sound of moan) housemade mascarpone, radishes, capers and herbs.
I could write a sonnet to those 'maters- the stunning array of colors, the impossible juiciness and the incredible sweetness that only comes at this time of year- which almost, but not quite, but almost made the to-die-for mascarpone superfluous.
Almost.
Run, do not walk, to eat this salad.
Next came hanger steak. sliced against the grain and beautifully medium rare, with snap peas and ribbons of summer squash.
The fact is, meat like this is exactly why I will never be a vegetarian.
Langa la Tur, a cheese made with goat, sheep and cow's milk delivered a triple threat with every earthy, redolent bite.
"That's about the best meal I've had in a while," my friend said, looking as pleased about the eats as I felt about my article heading to the archives (and the eats).
With attitudes like those, there was nowhere to go but straight to hazelnut gelato with cocoa nibs.
Not one, but two scoops of mouth-coating indulgence had me rhapsodizing to my friend about the pleasures of ice cream in summer.
Not to mention my sentences in archives...no matter what the season.
Friday, August 9, 2013
August and Everything After
It was one of those evenings when I had to pay the piper.
Since I'd gone to see a documentary this afternoon, that meant that instead of happy hour, I was busy working.
I hate when that happens.
It's bad anytime, but especially during the summer when all I want is to be out having a good time.
So I plowed through my work so I could get to something more pleasurable.
And with nothing on my calendar tonight, that meant I was free to find a friendly spot to linger, eating and drinking.
Hello, Amour.
I strolled in to French gypsy music, past tables of happy-looking diners and took up residence at the end of the bar.
There was one guy at the other end of the bar already eating and drinking.
While he had an array of glasses in front of him, I zeroed in on the Le Petit Rouviere Rose, dry and tasting like berries.
I adore this time of year when my Rose choices are as plentiful as Hanover tomatoes and watermelons.
August, in other words.
By this point, I was hungry so before I crossed over into hangry territory, I started ordering.
Deviled taters brought herb-roasted baby red potatoes filled with deviled egg salad and drizzled with lemon truffle honey, a sweet touch to complement the savory base.
Crispy baked prosciutto cups with shaved Parmesan and tomato/basil soubise sat on tiny slices of fresh tomato, each a perfectly flavorful bite.
Giving in to temptation, I couldn't resist having the watermelon gazpacho I'd loved last time I'd had it.
My fellow bar sitter was having it for the first time and moaning in delight at the delicacy of flavor, the hint of sweetness and the accompanying pickled yellow pepper.
"This is too good to be on a bar menu!" he insisted before I pointed out that as bar sitters, we, of all people, should appreciate an elevation of bar food.
"This is almost worthy of a Michelin star!" he protested.
Shut up and eat, I suggested. Be glad there's bar food this good available.
Last up I had the house-smoked pork belly with creamed cannellini beans, a barbecue-inspired gastrique and candied bacon.
The south had finally risen in Amour.
It was time for some more wine and this time I went with La Bastide Saint Dominique Grenache, which the owner recommended as an easy-drinking, fruity, summer red.
Given the month, the time of night and the kind of day, all three of those descriptors suited me.
A man I recognized came in; we'd met at Belmont Food Shop a while back and he not only remembered me, but my occupation.
He claimed his memory was due to a pretty face, but I'd heard that line before.
A lawyer, he was working on a brief that was due by 8 a.m. tomorrow, but he affably joined our conversation, drinking coffee while we forged ahead with our wine.
I can feel for an early-morning wake-up call, but I cannot drink caffeine in solidarity.
Eventually the conversation moved on to the restaurants of Rockett's Landing and Casa del Barco's extensive tequila list.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover another tequila devotee at the bar and he told me of his attempts to find what are considered the ten best tequilas in the U.S., only to be thwarted by the Virginia ABC.
Now there's a surprise.
Favorite line of the night: "If you don't share wine, you're just an alcoholic."
Oh, there was sharing.
And with the piper paid, a lovely evening surely worthy of a Michelin star.
Since I'd gone to see a documentary this afternoon, that meant that instead of happy hour, I was busy working.
I hate when that happens.
It's bad anytime, but especially during the summer when all I want is to be out having a good time.
So I plowed through my work so I could get to something more pleasurable.
And with nothing on my calendar tonight, that meant I was free to find a friendly spot to linger, eating and drinking.
Hello, Amour.
I strolled in to French gypsy music, past tables of happy-looking diners and took up residence at the end of the bar.
There was one guy at the other end of the bar already eating and drinking.
While he had an array of glasses in front of him, I zeroed in on the Le Petit Rouviere Rose, dry and tasting like berries.
I adore this time of year when my Rose choices are as plentiful as Hanover tomatoes and watermelons.
August, in other words.
By this point, I was hungry so before I crossed over into hangry territory, I started ordering.
Deviled taters brought herb-roasted baby red potatoes filled with deviled egg salad and drizzled with lemon truffle honey, a sweet touch to complement the savory base.
Crispy baked prosciutto cups with shaved Parmesan and tomato/basil soubise sat on tiny slices of fresh tomato, each a perfectly flavorful bite.
Giving in to temptation, I couldn't resist having the watermelon gazpacho I'd loved last time I'd had it.
My fellow bar sitter was having it for the first time and moaning in delight at the delicacy of flavor, the hint of sweetness and the accompanying pickled yellow pepper.
"This is too good to be on a bar menu!" he insisted before I pointed out that as bar sitters, we, of all people, should appreciate an elevation of bar food.
"This is almost worthy of a Michelin star!" he protested.
Shut up and eat, I suggested. Be glad there's bar food this good available.
Last up I had the house-smoked pork belly with creamed cannellini beans, a barbecue-inspired gastrique and candied bacon.
The south had finally risen in Amour.
It was time for some more wine and this time I went with La Bastide Saint Dominique Grenache, which the owner recommended as an easy-drinking, fruity, summer red.
Given the month, the time of night and the kind of day, all three of those descriptors suited me.
A man I recognized came in; we'd met at Belmont Food Shop a while back and he not only remembered me, but my occupation.
He claimed his memory was due to a pretty face, but I'd heard that line before.
A lawyer, he was working on a brief that was due by 8 a.m. tomorrow, but he affably joined our conversation, drinking coffee while we forged ahead with our wine.
I can feel for an early-morning wake-up call, but I cannot drink caffeine in solidarity.
Eventually the conversation moved on to the restaurants of Rockett's Landing and Casa del Barco's extensive tequila list.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover another tequila devotee at the bar and he told me of his attempts to find what are considered the ten best tequilas in the U.S., only to be thwarted by the Virginia ABC.
Now there's a surprise.
Favorite line of the night: "If you don't share wine, you're just an alcoholic."
Oh, there was sharing.
And with the piper paid, a lovely evening surely worthy of a Michelin star.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
#1 Record
Different friends, different interests.
So when I saw I had one chance to see "Nothing Can Hurt Me" about the seminal '70s band Big Star, I knew who to call.
"Oh, yes! That sounds awesome!" she responded.
I know I must have other friends who like Big Star, but none immediately come to mind.
Or at least none who are free for a matinee, which was the last screening of the film here.
For this documentary dork, the thrill is what I can learn and there was plenty to learn here.
And admire. Big Star was made up of four good-looking guys very easy on the eyes, even decked out in such '70s attire.
And the snapshots of the era!
I was blown away to hear that there had been a National Association of Rock Writers convention held in Memphis, purportedly to discuss unionizing the business.
Only in the '70s.
As one rock journalist recalled, "That was kind of like trying to herd cats."
But what did happen was Big Star played for that room full of music writers and they went so crazy, the unthinkable happened.
"They got a roomful of rock writers dancing!" one who was there exclaimed.
It's hard to imagine such a thing, but it points to the power of Big Star's distinct and compelling sound especially in the context of the time.
A lot of the film centered around Ardent Studios in Memphis, first its storefront location and then the bigger, state-of-the-art facility where so much magic happened.
And if the band's name sounds grandiose and affected to unfamiliar ears, they should know that it was chosen because they'd recorded a bunch of music and still had no name.
Fortunately, there was a Big Star supermarket nearby and that was enough of an inspiration.
And speaking of Memphis businesses, it was the local TGI Friday's (the first franchised location after the original in NYC) where the band would hang out to drink and drug once liquor by the drink became available.
Naturally, they ended up in the studio afterwards because that was their passion.
And they had the keys to it.
I loved seeing an ad for a Big Star show, saying, "Upstairs at Max's Kansas City- Big Star- Also appearing, the Butts Band- and introducing Ed Begley, Jr."
I'd like to think that that made Ed a lifelong fan of the band.
As musicians and producers talk about Big Star, it's clear that it was only the most unfortunate of chances that allowed a band as talented as they were to slip past the notice of the general public.
While all of the band members except the drummer Jody Stephens are dead now, the filmmaker had plenty of audio of interviews from over the years to give critical context to the stages of a band career that lasted from 1971-2011.
And then there was the joy of listening to Big Star music for two hours.
Has young man music ever sounded as innocent and starry-eyed as "Thirteen"? As touching as "My Life is Right? As sweetly simple as "Kangaroo"?
My friend was happy to hear "You Get What You Deserve" because it was her favorite.
If only that sentiment had applied to Big Star.
So when I saw I had one chance to see "Nothing Can Hurt Me" about the seminal '70s band Big Star, I knew who to call.
"Oh, yes! That sounds awesome!" she responded.
I know I must have other friends who like Big Star, but none immediately come to mind.
Or at least none who are free for a matinee, which was the last screening of the film here.
For this documentary dork, the thrill is what I can learn and there was plenty to learn here.
And admire. Big Star was made up of four good-looking guys very easy on the eyes, even decked out in such '70s attire.
And the snapshots of the era!
I was blown away to hear that there had been a National Association of Rock Writers convention held in Memphis, purportedly to discuss unionizing the business.
Only in the '70s.
As one rock journalist recalled, "That was kind of like trying to herd cats."
But what did happen was Big Star played for that room full of music writers and they went so crazy, the unthinkable happened.
"They got a roomful of rock writers dancing!" one who was there exclaimed.
It's hard to imagine such a thing, but it points to the power of Big Star's distinct and compelling sound especially in the context of the time.
A lot of the film centered around Ardent Studios in Memphis, first its storefront location and then the bigger, state-of-the-art facility where so much magic happened.
And if the band's name sounds grandiose and affected to unfamiliar ears, they should know that it was chosen because they'd recorded a bunch of music and still had no name.
Fortunately, there was a Big Star supermarket nearby and that was enough of an inspiration.
And speaking of Memphis businesses, it was the local TGI Friday's (the first franchised location after the original in NYC) where the band would hang out to drink and drug once liquor by the drink became available.
Naturally, they ended up in the studio afterwards because that was their passion.
And they had the keys to it.
I loved seeing an ad for a Big Star show, saying, "Upstairs at Max's Kansas City- Big Star- Also appearing, the Butts Band- and introducing Ed Begley, Jr."
I'd like to think that that made Ed a lifelong fan of the band.
As musicians and producers talk about Big Star, it's clear that it was only the most unfortunate of chances that allowed a band as talented as they were to slip past the notice of the general public.
While all of the band members except the drummer Jody Stephens are dead now, the filmmaker had plenty of audio of interviews from over the years to give critical context to the stages of a band career that lasted from 1971-2011.
And then there was the joy of listening to Big Star music for two hours.
Has young man music ever sounded as innocent and starry-eyed as "Thirteen"? As touching as "My Life is Right? As sweetly simple as "Kangaroo"?
My friend was happy to hear "You Get What You Deserve" because it was her favorite.
If only that sentiment had applied to Big Star.
Love is a Grand and a Beautiful Thing
So there goes the title of my autobiography.
"Still Mad About the Boys" had been appropriated by Billy Christopher Maupin for an evening of cabaret.
The fun was to be at Richmond Triangle Players, so I invited my favorite theater-lover to join me.
Knowing that songs, stories and a bar were in our future, we stopped at Lunch for a nosh first.
Within fifteen minutes, the restaurant was full of people I recognized from going to the theater.
A one-block proximity is hard to resist.
Inquiring of our soon-to-be harried server what Rose they had, she checked and responded, "The Seeker," a Rose Prudence and I had discovered on the Rose crawl two weeks ago.
"The Seeker?" we gasped in unison. Yes, please.
Dinner was a shared bowl of brown sugar bacon chili and corn griddle cakes with pulled pork and cole slaw.
I don't know that I've ever eaten lightly at Lunch, but then that's the pleasure of it.
Leaving the Cure blaring and the other theater-goers finishing up, we headed over to Richmond Triangle Players.
There we found a room full of actors, directors, dancers and a few people like us, mere theater-goers with no actual talent beyond fandom.
Our seats were separated by a table, just the place for a bottle of Sciarpa Pinot Grigio.
We saw a guy in the shiniest of jackets and asked if we could touch him (he said yes), only to find it was a brushed fabric, almost velvet-like, but shiny silver with thin black stripes.
He even took it off for us, looking for a fabric tag (there was none) and sharing the story of how he'd arrived in Rome but his baggage hadn't, so he'd headed down the Spanish Steps and found a shop open.
There he'd bought this beautiful Versace blazer ("Back when Versace was alive," he clarified, so pre-1997) which we were now stroking.
Ah, the pleasures of a theater crowd.
The reason for the evening, Billy Christopher, I'd seen act, direct and sing at the Ghost Light afterparty.
Tonight he walked onstage in a black shirt, jeans and barefoot and proceeded to sing a well-chosen program interspersed with the moving story of his coming out and love life.
It was nothing short of extraordinary.
"It's just you and us," he said gesturing at his two musicians. "For the next hour and a half. I think I just peed in my pants."
That was the beginning of the self-deprecating humor that pervaded the evening.
He said he'd last done a solo cabaret in 2008. "I've become much more terrified as a performer since then," he admitted before breaking into song.
After introducing his pianist Joshua and his guitarist Tristan, he spoke about his upbringing and college years in his hometown of Campbellsville, Kentucky.
It is apparently a school where homosexual acts were punishable by expulsion when he went there and are now punishable by mere suspension. A hard place for a gay kid to go to school, in other words.
Luckily there was a mall an hour away and on his first visit to Hot Topic, he locked eyes with a blue-eyed boy who became his first boyfriend. The rest was personal history, as we heard tonight.
He spoke about his farmer father, a simple man very different than himself, and one he clearly adores, saying, "Dad is possibly the boy I'm most mad about."
BC did a beautiful version "I'm Beginning to See the Light" before talking about his "forever fiancee" Jackie Jones and how their relationship had developed.
His best tribute to her was singing her standard audition song, an hysterical one about Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle's seafaring, salty dog of a husband.
Getting everyone going with "Bring On the Men" from "Jekyll and Hyde," he couldn't resist playing the ham, running his hands through Tristan's thick hair or stroking Joshua's back as he sang.
So let's bring on the men
And let the fun begin
Another touch of sin
Why wait another minute?
There was nowhere to go from there but to intermission.
Starting the second act, he put on the sandals of a woman in the front row (marveling that they fit) and sang "Mad About the Boy."
That was followed by a monologue that began with, "I really hate camping."
I feel your pain, BC.
This was an introduction to a story about camping with a former boyfriend in Crabtree Falls, where he was promised a hike, a waterfall and an air mattress.
After explaining how the air mattress deflated and he ended up on vinyl over twigs (his worst fear), he sang the perfect song, "Good Thing He Can't Read My Mind," a feeling anyone in a relationship has probably experienced.
The song about suffering along to the opera ("I don't understand a word, even when it's in English"), skiing ("There's no exhilaration, I'm only feeling terrified") and sushi ("I'm poking with a chopstick at a living, breathing fish stick") was laugh-out-loud funny and we did.
From those hi-jinks, he moved on to telling us about the only man he'd ever called "partner" and how once they acknowledged their feelings, "I never slept in my bed again."
As we all have learned, even the best relationships sometimes end, but his acceptance and memory of the relationship was touching, to say the least.
"That was perfect and I'll never have that again and that's okay," he said and sang "Once Upon a Time."
Just as we were all ready to cry, he lifted us back up again, saying, "Every act has a great medley. I made that up because we have a medley."
And not just any medley, but a reconstruction of a reconstruction of a medley from his first solo cabaret.
Even better, it was a Richard Rodgers medley.
By this time, I thought I was going to explode out of my seat, except the woman next to me was even more crazed than I was about it, whistling and yelling.
BC kicked off with "Wonderful Guy" from "South Pacific," went on to "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" from "Pal Joey," and then did "I Wish I Were in Love Again" and "My Funny Valentine," both from "Babes in Arms."
The crowd was hooting and hollering with delight at his renditions.
"Tonight's been about love for me," he said to wind up the show. "I challenge you each to love someone or everyone. Why not?"
His last song was "The Rose," achingly sung and the perfect finale to an evening of soul-baring and classic song-singing.
To take it over the top, certain appointed people in the audience rose one by one and joined him, singing harmony or background and giving the rest of us chills.
One guy even lit his lighter in tribute.
After a standing ovation for both him, Joshua and Tristan, who had added immeasurably to every song, BC bounded back to inquire if we wanted an encore.
Why, yes, we did as a matter of fact.
Could there be a better way to end a cabaret than with a song from "Cabaret"?
"Maybe This Time," with its hopeful and poignant lyrics sung with every ounce of his heart and soul brought the house down.
Maybe this time I'll be lucky
Maybe this time, he'll stay
Maybe this time for the first time
Love won't hurry away
There's nothing like hearing someone sing it like they mean it.
I do hope Billy Christopher is lucky.
I know very single one of us in the audience felt that way by the time he finished with us.
"Still Mad About the Boys" had been appropriated by Billy Christopher Maupin for an evening of cabaret.
The fun was to be at Richmond Triangle Players, so I invited my favorite theater-lover to join me.
Knowing that songs, stories and a bar were in our future, we stopped at Lunch for a nosh first.
Within fifteen minutes, the restaurant was full of people I recognized from going to the theater.
A one-block proximity is hard to resist.
Inquiring of our soon-to-be harried server what Rose they had, she checked and responded, "The Seeker," a Rose Prudence and I had discovered on the Rose crawl two weeks ago.
"The Seeker?" we gasped in unison. Yes, please.
Dinner was a shared bowl of brown sugar bacon chili and corn griddle cakes with pulled pork and cole slaw.
I don't know that I've ever eaten lightly at Lunch, but then that's the pleasure of it.
Leaving the Cure blaring and the other theater-goers finishing up, we headed over to Richmond Triangle Players.
There we found a room full of actors, directors, dancers and a few people like us, mere theater-goers with no actual talent beyond fandom.
Our seats were separated by a table, just the place for a bottle of Sciarpa Pinot Grigio.
We saw a guy in the shiniest of jackets and asked if we could touch him (he said yes), only to find it was a brushed fabric, almost velvet-like, but shiny silver with thin black stripes.
He even took it off for us, looking for a fabric tag (there was none) and sharing the story of how he'd arrived in Rome but his baggage hadn't, so he'd headed down the Spanish Steps and found a shop open.
There he'd bought this beautiful Versace blazer ("Back when Versace was alive," he clarified, so pre-1997) which we were now stroking.
Ah, the pleasures of a theater crowd.
The reason for the evening, Billy Christopher, I'd seen act, direct and sing at the Ghost Light afterparty.
Tonight he walked onstage in a black shirt, jeans and barefoot and proceeded to sing a well-chosen program interspersed with the moving story of his coming out and love life.
It was nothing short of extraordinary.
"It's just you and us," he said gesturing at his two musicians. "For the next hour and a half. I think I just peed in my pants."
That was the beginning of the self-deprecating humor that pervaded the evening.
He said he'd last done a solo cabaret in 2008. "I've become much more terrified as a performer since then," he admitted before breaking into song.
After introducing his pianist Joshua and his guitarist Tristan, he spoke about his upbringing and college years in his hometown of Campbellsville, Kentucky.
It is apparently a school where homosexual acts were punishable by expulsion when he went there and are now punishable by mere suspension. A hard place for a gay kid to go to school, in other words.
Luckily there was a mall an hour away and on his first visit to Hot Topic, he locked eyes with a blue-eyed boy who became his first boyfriend. The rest was personal history, as we heard tonight.
He spoke about his farmer father, a simple man very different than himself, and one he clearly adores, saying, "Dad is possibly the boy I'm most mad about."
BC did a beautiful version "I'm Beginning to See the Light" before talking about his "forever fiancee" Jackie Jones and how their relationship had developed.
His best tribute to her was singing her standard audition song, an hysterical one about Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle's seafaring, salty dog of a husband.
Getting everyone going with "Bring On the Men" from "Jekyll and Hyde," he couldn't resist playing the ham, running his hands through Tristan's thick hair or stroking Joshua's back as he sang.
So let's bring on the men
And let the fun begin
Another touch of sin
Why wait another minute?
There was nowhere to go from there but to intermission.
Starting the second act, he put on the sandals of a woman in the front row (marveling that they fit) and sang "Mad About the Boy."
That was followed by a monologue that began with, "I really hate camping."
I feel your pain, BC.
This was an introduction to a story about camping with a former boyfriend in Crabtree Falls, where he was promised a hike, a waterfall and an air mattress.
After explaining how the air mattress deflated and he ended up on vinyl over twigs (his worst fear), he sang the perfect song, "Good Thing He Can't Read My Mind," a feeling anyone in a relationship has probably experienced.
The song about suffering along to the opera ("I don't understand a word, even when it's in English"), skiing ("There's no exhilaration, I'm only feeling terrified") and sushi ("I'm poking with a chopstick at a living, breathing fish stick") was laugh-out-loud funny and we did.
From those hi-jinks, he moved on to telling us about the only man he'd ever called "partner" and how once they acknowledged their feelings, "I never slept in my bed again."
As we all have learned, even the best relationships sometimes end, but his acceptance and memory of the relationship was touching, to say the least.
"That was perfect and I'll never have that again and that's okay," he said and sang "Once Upon a Time."
Just as we were all ready to cry, he lifted us back up again, saying, "Every act has a great medley. I made that up because we have a medley."
And not just any medley, but a reconstruction of a reconstruction of a medley from his first solo cabaret.
Even better, it was a Richard Rodgers medley.
By this time, I thought I was going to explode out of my seat, except the woman next to me was even more crazed than I was about it, whistling and yelling.
BC kicked off with "Wonderful Guy" from "South Pacific," went on to "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" from "Pal Joey," and then did "I Wish I Were in Love Again" and "My Funny Valentine," both from "Babes in Arms."
The crowd was hooting and hollering with delight at his renditions.
"Tonight's been about love for me," he said to wind up the show. "I challenge you each to love someone or everyone. Why not?"
His last song was "The Rose," achingly sung and the perfect finale to an evening of soul-baring and classic song-singing.
To take it over the top, certain appointed people in the audience rose one by one and joined him, singing harmony or background and giving the rest of us chills.
One guy even lit his lighter in tribute.
After a standing ovation for both him, Joshua and Tristan, who had added immeasurably to every song, BC bounded back to inquire if we wanted an encore.
Why, yes, we did as a matter of fact.
Could there be a better way to end a cabaret than with a song from "Cabaret"?
"Maybe This Time," with its hopeful and poignant lyrics sung with every ounce of his heart and soul brought the house down.
Maybe this time I'll be lucky
Maybe this time, he'll stay
Maybe this time for the first time
Love won't hurry away
There's nothing like hearing someone sing it like they mean it.
I do hope Billy Christopher is lucky.
I know very single one of us in the audience felt that way by the time he finished with us.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Please Be Kind, Rewind
It's all in your perspective.
My Mom used to say that no one missed the good old days who actually lived through them.
Not so for lovers of VHS, as shown in the documentary "Adjust Your Tracking: The Untold Story of the VHS Collector" at the Movie Loft tonight. Mad props to the guy collecting the admission at the door because he was stuffing it in a VHS tape box.
Now that's allegiance to a theme.
I loved the space - two rows of mismatched couches- and promptly sat on one only to be told I was sitting on someone's seat. Oops.
Moving to the front row where the couch wore a soft, pale green blanket, I was allowed to stay and was soon joined by a filmmaker I know. Like me, he's of an age to remember the full history of VHS and not just being taken to the video store as a kid.
Also like me, he's a music fanatic, so before the film, he told me about his recent trip to Maryland to see New Order. I wasn't surprised to hear that all ages were represented at the show but I was very surprised to hear that their encore was all Joy Division, with Ian Curtis' face projected behind them.
And, speaking of the '70s...
Filmmakers Dan Kinem and Levi Peretic humorously warned us that we'd soon be seeing a parade of middle-aged men with bad personal hygiene and a passion for VHS.
Guys who say things like, "VHS, it's my manhood." Guys who give interviews from a colorful ball pit or, more often, from their room-sized collection of VHS tapes.
I was one of the people who remembered that 1983 was the golden age of VHS without hearing it in the film. Actually, in 1983, I was dating a guy who ran a video store. True story.
And they were making a killing.
The collectors talked about how Blockbuster killed the Mom and Pop video stores (like the one my boyfriend worked for) and about the joys of the pops and crackles of VHS tapes. All of them got worked up on the subject of VHS box cover art and how often it belied its contents.
Still, most of them agreed that a great cover was enough reason to rent or buy a tape.
Unbelievably, one guy took his VHS collection and set up a mock video store in his basement, complete with 1990 computer (pre-mouse) and original video store counter (he had to cut it in half to get it down the basement steps).
That's VHS love.
Turns out the holy grail for VHS geeks is the 1978 movie "Tales from the Quadead Zone," impossibly hard to find. One guy happened on a copy, bought it for two bucks and sold it on e-Bay for $660. Both guys were interviewed about it on camera and both were thrilled with what they'd gotten.
"That was the game changer," one said perfectly seriously. As in, that's when it became clear that there was an army of VHS collectors out there, most eager to accumulate as many tapes as they could.
And these guys already had 3900, 4500 or more tapes.
I found it hysterical how one guy said he loved to watch more than one movie at a time, stopping the tape and inserting another before going back to just where he'd left off with the first. We all know that's not something you can do with a DVD.
But you also can't toss DVDs around because they're not the indestructible monsters that VHS tapes are. And who knew that movies are again being made in the VHS format?
It's a good thing I go out so I can learn this kind of stuff.
By the time the documentary ended, my memories of the pleasures of VHS tapes had been brought back into sharper focus. The filmmakers are to be congratulated because the documentary had done its job well, sucking me back into the good, old days.
The rewinding, the tracking adjustments, the trips to the video store and enjoyment from wandering aisle after aisle to choose the perfect obscure film to complete my afternoon or evening.
Way better than the memories of the video store boyfriend.
Naturally, afterwards there was a sale in the back of the loft of, what else, VHS tapes. As it happens, I already have every Perry Mason episode ever filmed on VHS and since I have no VCR (or TV), I didn't really feel the need to add to my collection.
Which I suppose means I'd make a lousy VHS collector.
That and my personal hygiene is really pretty good.
My Mom used to say that no one missed the good old days who actually lived through them.
Not so for lovers of VHS, as shown in the documentary "Adjust Your Tracking: The Untold Story of the VHS Collector" at the Movie Loft tonight. Mad props to the guy collecting the admission at the door because he was stuffing it in a VHS tape box.
Now that's allegiance to a theme.
I loved the space - two rows of mismatched couches- and promptly sat on one only to be told I was sitting on someone's seat. Oops.
Moving to the front row where the couch wore a soft, pale green blanket, I was allowed to stay and was soon joined by a filmmaker I know. Like me, he's of an age to remember the full history of VHS and not just being taken to the video store as a kid.
Also like me, he's a music fanatic, so before the film, he told me about his recent trip to Maryland to see New Order. I wasn't surprised to hear that all ages were represented at the show but I was very surprised to hear that their encore was all Joy Division, with Ian Curtis' face projected behind them.
And, speaking of the '70s...
Filmmakers Dan Kinem and Levi Peretic humorously warned us that we'd soon be seeing a parade of middle-aged men with bad personal hygiene and a passion for VHS.
Guys who say things like, "VHS, it's my manhood." Guys who give interviews from a colorful ball pit or, more often, from their room-sized collection of VHS tapes.
I was one of the people who remembered that 1983 was the golden age of VHS without hearing it in the film. Actually, in 1983, I was dating a guy who ran a video store. True story.
And they were making a killing.
The collectors talked about how Blockbuster killed the Mom and Pop video stores (like the one my boyfriend worked for) and about the joys of the pops and crackles of VHS tapes. All of them got worked up on the subject of VHS box cover art and how often it belied its contents.
Still, most of them agreed that a great cover was enough reason to rent or buy a tape.
Unbelievably, one guy took his VHS collection and set up a mock video store in his basement, complete with 1990 computer (pre-mouse) and original video store counter (he had to cut it in half to get it down the basement steps).
That's VHS love.
Turns out the holy grail for VHS geeks is the 1978 movie "Tales from the Quadead Zone," impossibly hard to find. One guy happened on a copy, bought it for two bucks and sold it on e-Bay for $660. Both guys were interviewed about it on camera and both were thrilled with what they'd gotten.
"That was the game changer," one said perfectly seriously. As in, that's when it became clear that there was an army of VHS collectors out there, most eager to accumulate as many tapes as they could.
And these guys already had 3900, 4500 or more tapes.
I found it hysterical how one guy said he loved to watch more than one movie at a time, stopping the tape and inserting another before going back to just where he'd left off with the first. We all know that's not something you can do with a DVD.
But you also can't toss DVDs around because they're not the indestructible monsters that VHS tapes are. And who knew that movies are again being made in the VHS format?
It's a good thing I go out so I can learn this kind of stuff.
By the time the documentary ended, my memories of the pleasures of VHS tapes had been brought back into sharper focus. The filmmakers are to be congratulated because the documentary had done its job well, sucking me back into the good, old days.
The rewinding, the tracking adjustments, the trips to the video store and enjoyment from wandering aisle after aisle to choose the perfect obscure film to complete my afternoon or evening.
Way better than the memories of the video store boyfriend.
Naturally, afterwards there was a sale in the back of the loft of, what else, VHS tapes. As it happens, I already have every Perry Mason episode ever filmed on VHS and since I have no VCR (or TV), I didn't really feel the need to add to my collection.
Which I suppose means I'd make a lousy VHS collector.
That and my personal hygiene is really pretty good.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Worldly Early Birds
Birthdays were never meant to be confined to a day.
So nearly a week after Moire's actual natal anniversary, we met up to celebrate girlfriend-style.
I suggested The Roosevelt, checking to inquire if it was too far for her.
"Pshaw," she scoffed. "I am worldly!"
Since she's barely a month back from Paris, I thought Kir Royales seemed appropriate, celebratory and continental, combining Virginia Fizz with French Cassis in a lemon-rubbed flute for a beautiful pink toast to my long-time friend.
The kind of close friend who will turn to me mid-admission, like she did tonight, and say, "Let me ask you something no one else will."
And I will answer her honestly.
I was happy to hear that my recommendation of Aziza's for her birthday dinner had panned out magnificently.
Whenever we start one of our debriefing happy hours, she always insists I give her my highlights first before she'll allow me to inquire about her goings-on.
After giving her the abridged version, I got her to give me her best.
There was the one about the fish trapped in her koi pond and the hilarious tale of its rescue which nearly involved her face-planting in the pond.
Then there were the glasses she enthusiastically ordered (her husband was dubious and not a little mocking of her order, but she kept her eyes on the prize), seduced by their colorful bottoms and more than a little enticed by the fact that the glasses carried her name.
Except that they really didn't (just cheesy marketing) and the colored bottoms washed off the first time she put them in the dishwasher.
Disappointed and disgusted with the now-gray glasses, she was forced to admit to her husband that she didn't even like the glasses.
You have to understand, this is a woman so innately funny that she's part of a VCU comedy night next month.
At one point, she looked at her now-empty glass, glanced at my half-full one and demanded to know, "How did that happen? Get on that!"
Don't you just know I did as I was told?
And like me, she's an enthusiastic eater, so we soon turned to the "Early bird gets this..." menu and ordered three of the four dishes.
Butter bean hummus on grilled flatbread with thinly-sliced radishes and cukes was divine, the epitome of summer with all its fresh veggie tastes.
I do love me some butterbeans.
Fried green tomatoes came piled high with shrimp salad, showcasing two more warm-weather favorites, with the added bonus of a crispy-fried crust.
Calabash oysters (the birthday girl loves her fried oysters) sat on remoulade with slaw atop them for our birthday dinner closer.
By then the guy sitting next to Moire had joined in our conversation ("You two sound like you're having fun"), recognizing me from when we met at Dutch & Co.'s bar a few months back.
Small, smaller, smallest, this town is.
He was talking about the benefits of taking your employees out to lunch (he likes to take them to Bistro Bobette) to increase workplace production.
Happily-fed workers are devoted workers, he said.
We got in a great discussion with him about print versus online, a subject near and dear to his IT business heart, although we were on opposing sides of the issue.
When I inquired what he was doing after dinner, he said he'd be practicing his banjo.
Explaining that a banjo is tuned to G major, or as he humorously put it, "God's chord," we heard about how much better his banjo-playing has gotten lately.
He said he's determined to become more than proficient and you have to admire someone willing to leave a bar and two fine conversationalists for the sake of practicing.
But then, some people just know when it's time to get on that.
So nearly a week after Moire's actual natal anniversary, we met up to celebrate girlfriend-style.
I suggested The Roosevelt, checking to inquire if it was too far for her.
"Pshaw," she scoffed. "I am worldly!"
Since she's barely a month back from Paris, I thought Kir Royales seemed appropriate, celebratory and continental, combining Virginia Fizz with French Cassis in a lemon-rubbed flute for a beautiful pink toast to my long-time friend.
The kind of close friend who will turn to me mid-admission, like she did tonight, and say, "Let me ask you something no one else will."
And I will answer her honestly.
I was happy to hear that my recommendation of Aziza's for her birthday dinner had panned out magnificently.
Whenever we start one of our debriefing happy hours, she always insists I give her my highlights first before she'll allow me to inquire about her goings-on.
After giving her the abridged version, I got her to give me her best.
There was the one about the fish trapped in her koi pond and the hilarious tale of its rescue which nearly involved her face-planting in the pond.
Then there were the glasses she enthusiastically ordered (her husband was dubious and not a little mocking of her order, but she kept her eyes on the prize), seduced by their colorful bottoms and more than a little enticed by the fact that the glasses carried her name.
Except that they really didn't (just cheesy marketing) and the colored bottoms washed off the first time she put them in the dishwasher.
Disappointed and disgusted with the now-gray glasses, she was forced to admit to her husband that she didn't even like the glasses.
You have to understand, this is a woman so innately funny that she's part of a VCU comedy night next month.
At one point, she looked at her now-empty glass, glanced at my half-full one and demanded to know, "How did that happen? Get on that!"
Don't you just know I did as I was told?
And like me, she's an enthusiastic eater, so we soon turned to the "Early bird gets this..." menu and ordered three of the four dishes.
Butter bean hummus on grilled flatbread with thinly-sliced radishes and cukes was divine, the epitome of summer with all its fresh veggie tastes.
I do love me some butterbeans.
Fried green tomatoes came piled high with shrimp salad, showcasing two more warm-weather favorites, with the added bonus of a crispy-fried crust.
Calabash oysters (the birthday girl loves her fried oysters) sat on remoulade with slaw atop them for our birthday dinner closer.
By then the guy sitting next to Moire had joined in our conversation ("You two sound like you're having fun"), recognizing me from when we met at Dutch & Co.'s bar a few months back.
Small, smaller, smallest, this town is.
He was talking about the benefits of taking your employees out to lunch (he likes to take them to Bistro Bobette) to increase workplace production.
Happily-fed workers are devoted workers, he said.
We got in a great discussion with him about print versus online, a subject near and dear to his IT business heart, although we were on opposing sides of the issue.
When I inquired what he was doing after dinner, he said he'd be practicing his banjo.
Explaining that a banjo is tuned to G major, or as he humorously put it, "God's chord," we heard about how much better his banjo-playing has gotten lately.
He said he's determined to become more than proficient and you have to admire someone willing to leave a bar and two fine conversationalists for the sake of practicing.
But then, some people just know when it's time to get on that.
No Risk Roulette
Nothing like a neighborhood restaurant for lunch with a friend.
Walking into Comfort, he summed it up for both of us with, "It's been ages since I've been here, but nothing changes here."
That's why it's so comforting, my dear.
He knew he wanted a burger and I knew I wanted a salad, but it was the wine list that charmed me.
"Feeling adventurous? Play wine roulette! Get something random!"
I love a bossy menu.
Who could resist a wine list with such verve and humor?
Not me, that's for sure.
The list read like a set of trade-offs, bracketed by helpful information.
If you like XYZ, described as this and that, then try ABC.
So, if you like chardonnay (rich, white), try this Marsanne/Viognier blend.
If you like Sauvignon Blanc (citrusy, thirst-quenching), try Muscat.
For me, that meant trying the Grange Phillips "Gipsy," a fruity and smooth syrah rose ideally suited to a summer day lunch with a friend.
Shoot, as if I wouldn't have chosen a Rose anyway.
Of course, with my friend, he likes a chardonnay so he ordered a chardonnay.
No wine roulette for him.
Over discussion of hotels (The Rittenhouse versus the Jefferson), "Othello" at Agecroft ("I didn't even fall asleep," he bragged about how much he'd enjoyed the production) and how challenging his job gets, I ate through a chef salad piled high with roasted turkey and country ham.
Other tables filled up around us in the sunny dining room as we wiled away a couple of hours sipping wine, sharing a chocolate mousse and dishing about some Richmond types we despise.
Oh, the pleasures of an unexpected Monday lunch with a friend.
Comforting and close to home.
Oh, right, this is Richmond roulette. No bullets, just easy.
Walking into Comfort, he summed it up for both of us with, "It's been ages since I've been here, but nothing changes here."
That's why it's so comforting, my dear.
He knew he wanted a burger and I knew I wanted a salad, but it was the wine list that charmed me.
"Feeling adventurous? Play wine roulette! Get something random!"
I love a bossy menu.
Who could resist a wine list with such verve and humor?
Not me, that's for sure.
The list read like a set of trade-offs, bracketed by helpful information.
If you like XYZ, described as this and that, then try ABC.
So, if you like chardonnay (rich, white), try this Marsanne/Viognier blend.
If you like Sauvignon Blanc (citrusy, thirst-quenching), try Muscat.
For me, that meant trying the Grange Phillips "Gipsy," a fruity and smooth syrah rose ideally suited to a summer day lunch with a friend.
Shoot, as if I wouldn't have chosen a Rose anyway.
Of course, with my friend, he likes a chardonnay so he ordered a chardonnay.
No wine roulette for him.
Over discussion of hotels (The Rittenhouse versus the Jefferson), "Othello" at Agecroft ("I didn't even fall asleep," he bragged about how much he'd enjoyed the production) and how challenging his job gets, I ate through a chef salad piled high with roasted turkey and country ham.
Other tables filled up around us in the sunny dining room as we wiled away a couple of hours sipping wine, sharing a chocolate mousse and dishing about some Richmond types we despise.
Oh, the pleasures of an unexpected Monday lunch with a friend.
Comforting and close to home.
Oh, right, this is Richmond roulette. No bullets, just easy.
What Dogs Promise
It was an all day affair, given the perfect weather and company.
Take a drive out 250 and stop where we want to.
There was Keswick Vineyards under an umbrella on an impossibly beautiful afternoon.
After tasting through eight wines and discussing our pourer's beagles, Molly and Tuck, we settled in for glasses of the 2012 Viognier, acidic with great length on the palate and layers of pear and apricot.
Dogs were everywhere at the winery, including a sad-faced hound from the Fluvanna SPCA, to whom I gave much love and hopes for a loving family.
I had to laugh at the woman telling her dog, "Remember what you promised!"
To be honest, he didn't look like he'd promised anything.
There was the Barbecue Exchange for brisket, pulled pork, hushpuppies and fries, where I met the man in charge of the 'cue, Van.
"You like tofu?" he asked after our discussion of his pig and cow. Do I look like I like tofu?
His meat was enjoyed at a table on the porch of the Exchange Hotel.
It wasn't my first time at the Exchange, although last time was inside to meet the resident ghost and today was solely for shade during lunch.
Yes, the same hotel where women used to sell fried chicken to the soldiers on the trains passing through Gordonsville.
And, yes, a train passed by and, no, I had no fried chicken to sell.
At Barboursville Vineyard, it was an oversized orange beach towel under a shady tree for a bottle of Vermentino Reserve 2012, dry and with a nice minerality.
Around us, people boringly discussed politics, a couple looked at their phones rather than each other and children rolled down the hill, one landing against my wine glass, which fortunately, I was holding tight.
The endless parade of new arrivals provided more than enough fodder for conversation as we sipped.
Really, platform shoes for winery hopping?
There was a stroll on the downtown mall to decide on a dinner location with Petit Pois the winner because they had outdoor tables and moules.
Add to the mussels a bottle of Virginia Fizz, a plate of fromage and tartare de boeuf, and you've got a recipe for several hours' pleasure.
Dogs slept while tables filled up and we marveled at the briskness of a Sunday night's business on the mall.
Couldn't help hoping that Richmond restaurants were just as busy tonight.
I ran into the delightful musician Guion of the Nettles, on his turf for a change, and heard about his recent adventures with outdoor pizza.
Then there was a stroll through a nearby neighborhood, admiring elaborate porches, hidden gardens and running into a familiar face from Richmond, out walking his dog.
Twelve hours and some mighty fine conversation later, I'd start all over and do it again.
Ready when my ride is.
Take a drive out 250 and stop where we want to.
There was Keswick Vineyards under an umbrella on an impossibly beautiful afternoon.
After tasting through eight wines and discussing our pourer's beagles, Molly and Tuck, we settled in for glasses of the 2012 Viognier, acidic with great length on the palate and layers of pear and apricot.
Dogs were everywhere at the winery, including a sad-faced hound from the Fluvanna SPCA, to whom I gave much love and hopes for a loving family.
I had to laugh at the woman telling her dog, "Remember what you promised!"
To be honest, he didn't look like he'd promised anything.
There was the Barbecue Exchange for brisket, pulled pork, hushpuppies and fries, where I met the man in charge of the 'cue, Van.
"You like tofu?" he asked after our discussion of his pig and cow. Do I look like I like tofu?
His meat was enjoyed at a table on the porch of the Exchange Hotel.
It wasn't my first time at the Exchange, although last time was inside to meet the resident ghost and today was solely for shade during lunch.
Yes, the same hotel where women used to sell fried chicken to the soldiers on the trains passing through Gordonsville.
And, yes, a train passed by and, no, I had no fried chicken to sell.
At Barboursville Vineyard, it was an oversized orange beach towel under a shady tree for a bottle of Vermentino Reserve 2012, dry and with a nice minerality.
Around us, people boringly discussed politics, a couple looked at their phones rather than each other and children rolled down the hill, one landing against my wine glass, which fortunately, I was holding tight.
The endless parade of new arrivals provided more than enough fodder for conversation as we sipped.
Really, platform shoes for winery hopping?
There was a stroll on the downtown mall to decide on a dinner location with Petit Pois the winner because they had outdoor tables and moules.
Add to the mussels a bottle of Virginia Fizz, a plate of fromage and tartare de boeuf, and you've got a recipe for several hours' pleasure.
Dogs slept while tables filled up and we marveled at the briskness of a Sunday night's business on the mall.
Couldn't help hoping that Richmond restaurants were just as busy tonight.
I ran into the delightful musician Guion of the Nettles, on his turf for a change, and heard about his recent adventures with outdoor pizza.
Then there was a stroll through a nearby neighborhood, admiring elaborate porches, hidden gardens and running into a familiar face from Richmond, out walking his dog.
Twelve hours and some mighty fine conversation later, I'd start all over and do it again.
Ready when my ride is.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Underground and Under Newspapers
A moonflower delayed my Saturday night.
I was getting dressed to go to a reading when I glanced out my bedroom window and, much to my surprise, saw my first moonflower of the summer beginning to open on my back porch.
If that doesn't sound impressive, then you've never seen a moonflower open.
It's the only flower I know of that opens so quickly you can watch it happen...in about 90 seconds.
My Mom still tells the story of showing my college boyfriend, Curt, a moonflower vine and watching his jaw drop as flower after flower opened in front of his eyes.
He was flabbergasted, never having heard of flowers that open so quickly.
Every year I grow moonflowers, as much for the novelty of flowers that open at dusk or later as for their entertainment value.
They can be fickle (who among us can't?), but their large, white, deep-throated flowers are stunning twining around a railing or up a trellis.
So when I saw that bud start shaking, I knew that Prudence would have to wait.
As it was, we arrived at Chop Suey in plenty of time for the reading since the event began with an extended mingling period.
I do so love a good reading preceded by time to socialize with a girlfriend while perusing the stacks at Chop Suey.
Dale Brumfield was talking about his new book, "Richmond's Independent Press: A History of the Underground Zine Scene."
And doing so in a most dapper manner wearing a white linen blazer.
He began by stating the obvious, that RVA's alternative papers were born out of disdain for and as a reaction to the dreaded Richmond Times Dispatch and News Leader.
Some things never change.
Those two mainstream papers were not telling the story of the new counterculture movement, demonstrating a clear disdain for the younger generation.
Not a smart choice at a time when youth was on the ascendancy.
But it was when Dale got down to cold, hard facts, that it became clear how key RVA had been in the overall underground press scene.
With a 1960 start, we had the second longest counterculture scene in the U.S., second only to NYC.
And get this, we had the first female editor in a counterculture publication in 1969.
And here I'd thought Richmond women still wearing white gloves in 1969.
Throttle magazine was especially noteworthy.
Among un-financed, free independent papers, they had the fastest circulation growth (from 3,000 to 20,000 copies per month).
I know publishers that would have killed for that kind of growth.
They also won the longevity prize for un-financed, free independent papers, clocking in at eighteen years.
As someone who spent many years working for free, independent papers, I can appreciate how impressive that is.
Dale spoke a bit about Richmond's unique handbill history before bringing readers up to read from his book.
He made it clear that the last thing he wanted to do was read his own words out loud.
Abby read a section about The Sunflower and Tabitha read one about Throttle.
Then Dale called up a man who needed no introduction, giving him none, to read about the Richmond Mercury.
Harry Kollatz, everyone's favorite man-about-town, came up contorting himself and purportedly reading a book called The Best Sex Ever.
The trouble with Harry is he always knows how to get a laugh (including his own).
First he had us rehearse our part (bow chicka wow wow, chicka wow wow) and then went on to read about when critic Frank Rich reviewed an adult movie at the Lee Adult Theater on Grace Street.
Yes, that Frank Rich who went on to become theater critic of the New York Times and, yes, that theater where men self-pleasured under newspapers in their lap during movies designed for that.
At various parts in the story, we were given the signal to sing our part and did so fairly poorly, I'm afraid.
The end of Harry's reading involved a Mercury interview about VCU girls.
"VCU girls have a reputation," said a University of Richmond student. "They'll do anything."
Anything? Or does that just mean UR girls were boring?
Before you let that judge your opinion of the Mercury, though, know that four of the five founders of the alternative went on to win Pulitzer prizes.
Wow, you think you know your city and then, boom, it surprises you again.
Sort of like a moonflower opening.
I was getting dressed to go to a reading when I glanced out my bedroom window and, much to my surprise, saw my first moonflower of the summer beginning to open on my back porch.
If that doesn't sound impressive, then you've never seen a moonflower open.
It's the only flower I know of that opens so quickly you can watch it happen...in about 90 seconds.
My Mom still tells the story of showing my college boyfriend, Curt, a moonflower vine and watching his jaw drop as flower after flower opened in front of his eyes.
He was flabbergasted, never having heard of flowers that open so quickly.
Every year I grow moonflowers, as much for the novelty of flowers that open at dusk or later as for their entertainment value.
They can be fickle (who among us can't?), but their large, white, deep-throated flowers are stunning twining around a railing or up a trellis.
So when I saw that bud start shaking, I knew that Prudence would have to wait.
As it was, we arrived at Chop Suey in plenty of time for the reading since the event began with an extended mingling period.
I do so love a good reading preceded by time to socialize with a girlfriend while perusing the stacks at Chop Suey.
Dale Brumfield was talking about his new book, "Richmond's Independent Press: A History of the Underground Zine Scene."
And doing so in a most dapper manner wearing a white linen blazer.
He began by stating the obvious, that RVA's alternative papers were born out of disdain for and as a reaction to the dreaded Richmond Times Dispatch and News Leader.
Some things never change.
Those two mainstream papers were not telling the story of the new counterculture movement, demonstrating a clear disdain for the younger generation.
Not a smart choice at a time when youth was on the ascendancy.
But it was when Dale got down to cold, hard facts, that it became clear how key RVA had been in the overall underground press scene.
With a 1960 start, we had the second longest counterculture scene in the U.S., second only to NYC.
And get this, we had the first female editor in a counterculture publication in 1969.
And here I'd thought Richmond women still wearing white gloves in 1969.
Throttle magazine was especially noteworthy.
Among un-financed, free independent papers, they had the fastest circulation growth (from 3,000 to 20,000 copies per month).
I know publishers that would have killed for that kind of growth.
They also won the longevity prize for un-financed, free independent papers, clocking in at eighteen years.
As someone who spent many years working for free, independent papers, I can appreciate how impressive that is.
Dale spoke a bit about Richmond's unique handbill history before bringing readers up to read from his book.
He made it clear that the last thing he wanted to do was read his own words out loud.
Abby read a section about The Sunflower and Tabitha read one about Throttle.
Then Dale called up a man who needed no introduction, giving him none, to read about the Richmond Mercury.
Harry Kollatz, everyone's favorite man-about-town, came up contorting himself and purportedly reading a book called The Best Sex Ever.
The trouble with Harry is he always knows how to get a laugh (including his own).
First he had us rehearse our part (bow chicka wow wow, chicka wow wow) and then went on to read about when critic Frank Rich reviewed an adult movie at the Lee Adult Theater on Grace Street.
Yes, that Frank Rich who went on to become theater critic of the New York Times and, yes, that theater where men self-pleasured under newspapers in their lap during movies designed for that.
At various parts in the story, we were given the signal to sing our part and did so fairly poorly, I'm afraid.
The end of Harry's reading involved a Mercury interview about VCU girls.
"VCU girls have a reputation," said a University of Richmond student. "They'll do anything."
Anything? Or does that just mean UR girls were boring?
Before you let that judge your opinion of the Mercury, though, know that four of the five founders of the alternative went on to win Pulitzer prizes.
Wow, you think you know your city and then, boom, it surprises you again.
Sort of like a moonflower opening.
Bonjour, Riviera
Here I'm trying to get my French Riviera on and I run smack dab into fan appreciation day.
Drat the luck.
Walking to Movieland for the 11:00 screening of Otto Preminger's 1958 film, "Bonjour Tristesse," I was caught up in a sea of football fans.
"You must be a Redskins cheerleader," one jerseyed guy illogically said to me, "your walk is so nice."
No, sir, if you want to see a former Redskinette, go down to the governor's mansion.
Passing a guy wearing a "D. Green 28" jersey, I told him it was nice to see a Darrell Green fan amongst a sea of RGIII fanatics.
"Will you marry me?" he joked, clearly thrilled to get the acknowledgement.
Nope, sure won't.
Crossing the street against the tide, a Capital policeman inquired of me, "Leaving already?"
Explaining that I'd checked out camp on a weekday, he nodded. "Smart! We're expecting 25,000 people today and we've already got 7,000."
Good god, it was 10:40.
I marched past the Redskins marching band blasting out music for those 7,000 and kept right on going.
Once inside the theater, I was the lone attendee.
After a while, I was joined by an older couple and he took a moment to rant about the city's poor preparation for today.
"They took away parking, there's only fifteen bathrooms and I just have to wonder how Mayor Jones is getting away with this!"
I don't know, sir, I just want to see a Technicolor version of a story about a father and daughter with no moral compass.
So while I didn't like the characters, I did like two of the credits in the film: paintings by Kumi Sugai and wardrobe by Givenchy.
You don't often see paintings get their own credit and what a treat to look at Givenchy fashions circa 1958.
Leave it to Otto Preminger.
David Niven was the rakish father and Jean Seberg the spoiled daughter not willing to give up her libertine and lush way of life with her father when he considers marriage to her dead mother's best friend.
It was a movie with a profound devotion to recreational drinking, always in cool places like subterranean boites and supper clubs where everyone danced divinely.
If only I still had those options for my evenings out.
The film began in black and white and flashed back to the summer before in color and the scenes of a summer on the Riviera were breathtaking - the bluest water, dappled sunshine as they lounged on the patio, a villa with sea views from every room.
It was hard to empathize with any of the characters; even the goody two-shoes Deborah Kerr was difficult to feel for, at least until she drove her car off a scenic cliff.
With its hints of incest and the father's non-stop womanizing, I'm willing to bet it went over far better with the French critics than the American ones, at least when it came out.
All I know is that it was a far more pleasurable place to be than on a field with 24,999 other people.
Even if it ultimately was a sadly tragic film, with lines like, "I am as suspicious of summer as I am of you."
What a waste.
Put me on the Riviera for a summer and I'll trust whatever comes along. Try me.
Drat the luck.
Walking to Movieland for the 11:00 screening of Otto Preminger's 1958 film, "Bonjour Tristesse," I was caught up in a sea of football fans.
"You must be a Redskins cheerleader," one jerseyed guy illogically said to me, "your walk is so nice."
No, sir, if you want to see a former Redskinette, go down to the governor's mansion.
Passing a guy wearing a "D. Green 28" jersey, I told him it was nice to see a Darrell Green fan amongst a sea of RGIII fanatics.
"Will you marry me?" he joked, clearly thrilled to get the acknowledgement.
Nope, sure won't.
Crossing the street against the tide, a Capital policeman inquired of me, "Leaving already?"
Explaining that I'd checked out camp on a weekday, he nodded. "Smart! We're expecting 25,000 people today and we've already got 7,000."
Good god, it was 10:40.
I marched past the Redskins marching band blasting out music for those 7,000 and kept right on going.
Once inside the theater, I was the lone attendee.
After a while, I was joined by an older couple and he took a moment to rant about the city's poor preparation for today.
"They took away parking, there's only fifteen bathrooms and I just have to wonder how Mayor Jones is getting away with this!"
I don't know, sir, I just want to see a Technicolor version of a story about a father and daughter with no moral compass.
So while I didn't like the characters, I did like two of the credits in the film: paintings by Kumi Sugai and wardrobe by Givenchy.
You don't often see paintings get their own credit and what a treat to look at Givenchy fashions circa 1958.
Leave it to Otto Preminger.
David Niven was the rakish father and Jean Seberg the spoiled daughter not willing to give up her libertine and lush way of life with her father when he considers marriage to her dead mother's best friend.
It was a movie with a profound devotion to recreational drinking, always in cool places like subterranean boites and supper clubs where everyone danced divinely.
If only I still had those options for my evenings out.
The film began in black and white and flashed back to the summer before in color and the scenes of a summer on the Riviera were breathtaking - the bluest water, dappled sunshine as they lounged on the patio, a villa with sea views from every room.
It was hard to empathize with any of the characters; even the goody two-shoes Deborah Kerr was difficult to feel for, at least until she drove her car off a scenic cliff.
With its hints of incest and the father's non-stop womanizing, I'm willing to bet it went over far better with the French critics than the American ones, at least when it came out.
All I know is that it was a far more pleasurable place to be than on a field with 24,999 other people.
Even if it ultimately was a sadly tragic film, with lines like, "I am as suspicious of summer as I am of you."
What a waste.
Put me on the Riviera for a summer and I'll trust whatever comes along. Try me.
Hi, Life!
Cold fried chicken, that was it.
There was only one way to make this evening more perfect than it already was and that was coming home to the last of the fried chicken from my Tuesday night escapade.
Man, I love my life.
This stellar night began in Jackson Ward at the finally-renovated condo of one of my favorite music-loving couples.
They'd been dislocated last August when fire broke out on top of the Emrick Flats and now they were finally back in the neighborhood after nearly a year in the hinterlands.
The occasion was their traditional pre-First Friday soiree with the added bonus of letting their friends see their restored home.
Being the guest who lives closest, I was that annoying guest who showed up two minutes after the appointed party hour.
It was great for me because I got their undivided attention and a chance to hear about all the new acquisitions, several of which they had designed or made themselves.
Plus they have some fabulous local and regional art.
Gradually other guests arrived - a charming former Latin teacher, several artists, a photographer- and the party swung into action as if on cue.
There was even an official christening with a wine glass inadvertently knocked on to the concrete floor (the building was a Chevrolet dealer before being condos), making for a most festive moment.
I enjoyed mingling right up to the latest possible moment before leaving to go to a show.
The Love Language was playing at Strange Matter and I have been obsessed with their new album, "Ruby Red," for weeks now.
I'd seen them three years ago in Charlottesville, but it was this new body of work I couldn't wait to hear live.
Arriving at S'Matter, I found the doorman reading Greek history.
Put the book down, I directed him and, surprisingly, he did.
Honestly, I was terribly impressed he was reading a book rather than staring at his phone and told him so.
"Yea, but if I'd been on my phone, you'd have told me to put that down, too," he guessed.
Correct.
After more banter, he informed me that the bands were delayed in I-95 traffic.
Disappointed that I'd left the party early needlessly, I made the most of it by detouring to Ipanema for a glass.
The patio was hopping, but it was relatively sedate inside so I ordered a glass of crisp and effervescent Santola Vinho Verde.
One of the servers spotted me and asked about my tiki bar experience the other night, sharing that the evening had been sheer madness for the staff.
I felt their pain, but had to rave about the Singapore Sling I'd had.
Wine break over, I returned to S'Matter just as the bands arrived and began setting up.
My favorite smart lady who loves music was there, so I had a comrade in arms to share two really good bands with.
She introduced me to Autumn, a member of The Love Language, who went off to change from her "van clothes" to her "show clothes," joking that they were remarkably similar.
First up was Eternal Summers who have morphed from a duo to a three-piece since I last saw them, giving them a much fuller sound.
Maybe I'm partial to female-fronted bands, but singer/guitarist Nicole is also a master shredder, making it tough to take your eyes off of her.
They were incredibly tight and maybe it was the delayed start, but they wasted no time with small talk, tearing through their well-crafted set like they were on a mission.
After a pit stop and some girlfriend chatter about the pleasures of a good Coke, upcoming brunch plans and her adorable ensemble, we moved to the front for The Love Language.
I'd been wishing and hoping they'd start with new material and because it was my lucky night, they did.
The energetic "Kids" was followed by the one song I had to hear (or leave disappointed), "Hi Life."
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
After satisfying my greatest need, they moved on to the longing of "For Izzy" and the epic soundscape of "Golden Age."
Sigh. I was the one swooning down in front.
Singer/bandleader Stuart said that tonight's show was the second to last night of the tour so the band was well-rehearsed, if focused on making up for lost time after their delay in starting.
"Okay, there's a dance party starting after this, so we have a time limit. We're going to string together a tight little set of songs here," he said.
The man (and his four accompanying musicians, including the adorable Autumn on keyboards) could sing me the phone book and given his voice and his passionate delivery, I'd happily listen.
They didn't have time to leave the stage to be called back for an encore, but I think it was pretty clear we wanted one and they delivered pronto.
My cute friend turned and said, "Here come the hits!"
"Calm Down," the opener on "Ruby Red" was followed by a Strokes cover and finally "Lalita" off their first record.
Bingo.
Now there's a show that will be ringing in my head for weeks to come.
And aren't I lucky for it?
Show over, I had my own time limit since I was meeting a friend at the floodwall for a movie.
Premiering tonight was "An Affair with the James," a film made over 52 weeks by a local woman to show off RVA's greatest natural resource.
I arrived just in time to find the hosts of the party I'd been to earlier setting up in the front row and soon found my friend who joined us there.
You know, just four people in beach chairs sitting on the grass in front of the floodwall.
Filmmaker Ellie was inspired by going to the Banff Mountain Film Fest, which is devoted to films about exotic locations.
After attending for several years, she decided to document the most exotic place she could think of - the James River.
She talked about how, sure, Nevada is exotic but they don't have what we have.
NYC is exciting, but they can't go jump off a rope swing downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
Going down to the river once a week, she used her iPhone to shoot footage of all kinds of river activity.
Guys catching catfish. Wetland paddling. First-time kayackers.
The Folk Fest at night, a train whistling by.
Ralph White's retirement.
The river at flood stage- 12 feet above and 14 feet above normal. Terrifying.
And yet, there were people out on the river even then.
The heron rookery. Kids rock-hopping with delight.
A stand-up paddle-boarding training class...with one guy doing headstands on his board.
The batteau festival, with shots of the girlfriend sitting next to me who's been part of the Lady Slipper batteau team for years.
The Christmas parade of lights, with all the boats lit up, an event I attended last year.
It was stunning and stirring to see the myriad ways the James can be enjoyed through the eyes of so many people, both locals and visitors.
We didn't get very far into the film before it occurred to me how glad I was that I was seeing this film during the summer.
Except for the extremists (the guy paddling when it was 31 degrees and showing off his frozen shorts), almost every scene made me eager to be at the river.
Fortunately, it hadn't been very long since I'd been there, either.
Just this past Tuesday, I'd spent several very pleasurable hours sitting on some rocks on Belle Isle, sipping Vinho Verde and watching dogs frolicing, kids swimming and the sun setting.
And when we'd left the river behind, it was to go make fried chicken under the stars.
Tonight, finishing that chicken and thinking about tonight's lively party, killer show and evocative film, I felt sure I'd hit the jackpot.
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
I think I will.
There was only one way to make this evening more perfect than it already was and that was coming home to the last of the fried chicken from my Tuesday night escapade.
Man, I love my life.
This stellar night began in Jackson Ward at the finally-renovated condo of one of my favorite music-loving couples.
They'd been dislocated last August when fire broke out on top of the Emrick Flats and now they were finally back in the neighborhood after nearly a year in the hinterlands.
The occasion was their traditional pre-First Friday soiree with the added bonus of letting their friends see their restored home.
Being the guest who lives closest, I was that annoying guest who showed up two minutes after the appointed party hour.
It was great for me because I got their undivided attention and a chance to hear about all the new acquisitions, several of which they had designed or made themselves.
Plus they have some fabulous local and regional art.
Gradually other guests arrived - a charming former Latin teacher, several artists, a photographer- and the party swung into action as if on cue.
There was even an official christening with a wine glass inadvertently knocked on to the concrete floor (the building was a Chevrolet dealer before being condos), making for a most festive moment.
I enjoyed mingling right up to the latest possible moment before leaving to go to a show.
The Love Language was playing at Strange Matter and I have been obsessed with their new album, "Ruby Red," for weeks now.
I'd seen them three years ago in Charlottesville, but it was this new body of work I couldn't wait to hear live.
Arriving at S'Matter, I found the doorman reading Greek history.
Put the book down, I directed him and, surprisingly, he did.
Honestly, I was terribly impressed he was reading a book rather than staring at his phone and told him so.
"Yea, but if I'd been on my phone, you'd have told me to put that down, too," he guessed.
Correct.
After more banter, he informed me that the bands were delayed in I-95 traffic.
Disappointed that I'd left the party early needlessly, I made the most of it by detouring to Ipanema for a glass.
The patio was hopping, but it was relatively sedate inside so I ordered a glass of crisp and effervescent Santola Vinho Verde.
One of the servers spotted me and asked about my tiki bar experience the other night, sharing that the evening had been sheer madness for the staff.
I felt their pain, but had to rave about the Singapore Sling I'd had.
Wine break over, I returned to S'Matter just as the bands arrived and began setting up.
My favorite smart lady who loves music was there, so I had a comrade in arms to share two really good bands with.
She introduced me to Autumn, a member of The Love Language, who went off to change from her "van clothes" to her "show clothes," joking that they were remarkably similar.
First up was Eternal Summers who have morphed from a duo to a three-piece since I last saw them, giving them a much fuller sound.
Maybe I'm partial to female-fronted bands, but singer/guitarist Nicole is also a master shredder, making it tough to take your eyes off of her.
They were incredibly tight and maybe it was the delayed start, but they wasted no time with small talk, tearing through their well-crafted set like they were on a mission.
After a pit stop and some girlfriend chatter about the pleasures of a good Coke, upcoming brunch plans and her adorable ensemble, we moved to the front for The Love Language.
I'd been wishing and hoping they'd start with new material and because it was my lucky night, they did.
The energetic "Kids" was followed by the one song I had to hear (or leave disappointed), "Hi Life."
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
After satisfying my greatest need, they moved on to the longing of "For Izzy" and the epic soundscape of "Golden Age."
Sigh. I was the one swooning down in front.
Singer/bandleader Stuart said that tonight's show was the second to last night of the tour so the band was well-rehearsed, if focused on making up for lost time after their delay in starting.
"Okay, there's a dance party starting after this, so we have a time limit. We're going to string together a tight little set of songs here," he said.
The man (and his four accompanying musicians, including the adorable Autumn on keyboards) could sing me the phone book and given his voice and his passionate delivery, I'd happily listen.
They didn't have time to leave the stage to be called back for an encore, but I think it was pretty clear we wanted one and they delivered pronto.
My cute friend turned and said, "Here come the hits!"
"Calm Down," the opener on "Ruby Red" was followed by a Strokes cover and finally "Lalita" off their first record.
Bingo.
Now there's a show that will be ringing in my head for weeks to come.
And aren't I lucky for it?
Show over, I had my own time limit since I was meeting a friend at the floodwall for a movie.
Premiering tonight was "An Affair with the James," a film made over 52 weeks by a local woman to show off RVA's greatest natural resource.
I arrived just in time to find the hosts of the party I'd been to earlier setting up in the front row and soon found my friend who joined us there.
You know, just four people in beach chairs sitting on the grass in front of the floodwall.
Filmmaker Ellie was inspired by going to the Banff Mountain Film Fest, which is devoted to films about exotic locations.
After attending for several years, she decided to document the most exotic place she could think of - the James River.
She talked about how, sure, Nevada is exotic but they don't have what we have.
NYC is exciting, but they can't go jump off a rope swing downtown on a Tuesday afternoon.
Going down to the river once a week, she used her iPhone to shoot footage of all kinds of river activity.
Guys catching catfish. Wetland paddling. First-time kayackers.
The Folk Fest at night, a train whistling by.
Ralph White's retirement.
The river at flood stage- 12 feet above and 14 feet above normal. Terrifying.
And yet, there were people out on the river even then.
The heron rookery. Kids rock-hopping with delight.
A stand-up paddle-boarding training class...with one guy doing headstands on his board.
The batteau festival, with shots of the girlfriend sitting next to me who's been part of the Lady Slipper batteau team for years.
The Christmas parade of lights, with all the boats lit up, an event I attended last year.
It was stunning and stirring to see the myriad ways the James can be enjoyed through the eyes of so many people, both locals and visitors.
We didn't get very far into the film before it occurred to me how glad I was that I was seeing this film during the summer.
Except for the extremists (the guy paddling when it was 31 degrees and showing off his frozen shorts), almost every scene made me eager to be at the river.
Fortunately, it hadn't been very long since I'd been there, either.
Just this past Tuesday, I'd spent several very pleasurable hours sitting on some rocks on Belle Isle, sipping Vinho Verde and watching dogs frolicing, kids swimming and the sun setting.
And when we'd left the river behind, it was to go make fried chicken under the stars.
Tonight, finishing that chicken and thinking about tonight's lively party, killer show and evocative film, I felt sure I'd hit the jackpot.
If you're happy why don't you stay right where you are?
I think I will.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Pigskin Proud
I did it for the family legacy.
Last night a friend had called, saying he was going to Redskin training camp around 9:30 and suggesting I join him.
Not willing to commit to that ungodly hour, I said I'd call him once up.
Up at 9:50 and fed by 10:20, I called, only to hear him say, "I'm at training camp. Can't talk."
Click.
So technically, I was off the hook.
But then there was that pesky family history.
Despite having five sisters, I was raised in a Redskins-loving family.
So much so that we got season tickets in 1962, back when no one cared about the team.
Want proof?
Our tickets are on the 50-yard line behind the Redskins' bench, ten rows back.
With that kind of a view, even non-sportsy types like me could enjoy the spectacle.
So over the years, I watched more than my share of Redskins games with family, boyfriends and significant others, through the Allen and Gibbs years and a few years beyond.
It's probably been fifteen or so years since I was willing to devote a Sunday afternoon or Monday night to football, but my father ensured that, like all his daughters, I was well-grounded in the rules and strategy of the game.
You'd be surprised how that used to impress guys on a date.
Well, that and the possibility that they'd be invited to a game in our seats.
All of this is prelude to saying that, despite my friend's brusque response, I decided to extend my walk (which already encompasses part of Leigh Street) to training camp today.
As a guy in a jersey with a Redskins' bag in hand passed me, I asked if it was worth it.
"Go on!" he said with a smile, gesturing west.
So I did.
Holy rabid football fans, Batman!
I was a tad overwhelmed atthe stench the number of sweaty bodies in polyester jerseys the sheer number of people roasting in the sun, either watching the field or shopping at one of the many kiosks.
I walked the length of the field, taking in the fans in chairs on the hill, dodging the puddles from yesterday's deluge in the gravel walk and wondering why any parents think it's a good idea to bring small children to something bound to bore them and make them cranky.
Frankly, the whole thing reminded me of the State Fair without the rides.
But I am nothing if not my father's daughter, so I found a place along the sidelines and watched the players scrimmage under a sunny blue sky.
I appreciated the fact that they continuously moved their practice up and downfield to afford the fans on either side a good view at some point.
Now, that's playing fair.
But what really matters is that I went and I watched practice.
Dad is going to be so pleased to hear that.
Last night a friend had called, saying he was going to Redskin training camp around 9:30 and suggesting I join him.
Not willing to commit to that ungodly hour, I said I'd call him once up.
Up at 9:50 and fed by 10:20, I called, only to hear him say, "I'm at training camp. Can't talk."
Click.
So technically, I was off the hook.
But then there was that pesky family history.
Despite having five sisters, I was raised in a Redskins-loving family.
So much so that we got season tickets in 1962, back when no one cared about the team.
Want proof?
Our tickets are on the 50-yard line behind the Redskins' bench, ten rows back.
With that kind of a view, even non-sportsy types like me could enjoy the spectacle.
So over the years, I watched more than my share of Redskins games with family, boyfriends and significant others, through the Allen and Gibbs years and a few years beyond.
It's probably been fifteen or so years since I was willing to devote a Sunday afternoon or Monday night to football, but my father ensured that, like all his daughters, I was well-grounded in the rules and strategy of the game.
You'd be surprised how that used to impress guys on a date.
Well, that and the possibility that they'd be invited to a game in our seats.
All of this is prelude to saying that, despite my friend's brusque response, I decided to extend my walk (which already encompasses part of Leigh Street) to training camp today.
As a guy in a jersey with a Redskins' bag in hand passed me, I asked if it was worth it.
"Go on!" he said with a smile, gesturing west.
So I did.
Holy rabid football fans, Batman!
I was a tad overwhelmed at
I walked the length of the field, taking in the fans in chairs on the hill, dodging the puddles from yesterday's deluge in the gravel walk and wondering why any parents think it's a good idea to bring small children to something bound to bore them and make them cranky.
Frankly, the whole thing reminded me of the State Fair without the rides.
I appreciated the fact that they continuously moved their practice up and downfield to afford the fans on either side a good view at some point.
Now, that's playing fair.
But what really matters is that I went and I watched practice.
Dad is going to be so pleased to hear that.
Over the Rainbow
Sometimes size does matter.
Like when you're talking about collecting art.
New Yorkers Herb and Dorothy Vogel collected 4700 pieces of art, meaning their art collection's size exceeds mine by about 4670.
Their collection was so large they could give fifty pieces to museums in all fifty states and tonight I went to see the fifty Virginia got.
"The Dorothy and Herbert Vogel Collection: Fifty Works for Fifty States" went on view last weekend and I was eager to see what had landed at the VMFA.
A lot of amazing art, that's what.
Hands down, my favorite was Charles Clough's "Ramus Major" from 1983, a work that suggested the past.
Like a band of twenty-somethings whose music reflects the influences of every band that came before them, this enamel on rag paper piece was an exquisite regurgitation of the past.
The complementary shades of blues and oranges, the sense of movement, the curving figures, were both fresh and familiar at the same time.
For me, it was the most swoon-worthy piece.
But if the VMFA wanted me to take something smaller off their hands, I'd be happy to hang Edda Renouf's 1993 "Dawn-17 (water)" in my apartment, if only to use its undulating lines on sea blue-green to lose myself in.
While strolling the gallery, I ran into a friend doing the same and her first question was if I'd seen the Goya prints (I had) and if I'd gone to the tiki bar (I had) and maybe a little quick commentary about a certain woman-about-town we both despise (shared disdain, always a pleasure).
Because she works at the museum, she'd been fortunate enough to meet artist Martin Johnson, who had two works in the Vogel show.
Some girls have all the luck.
Before long, she looked at me suddenly and said, "I thought you'd be at Ghostprint," which was exactly where I was headed next.
It was opening night at Ghostprint Gallery for Negativland's "Our Favorite Things," a show of considerable breadth of paintings and collages by the collective headed up by Mark Hosler.
As a founding member of Negativland, Mark was also performing tonight, so no wonder my friend presumed I'd be there.
The show was a retrospective of work chronicling the collaborative work of this group since the '80s.
"Untitled Tape Collage (Twenty Years of Negativland)" was a mixed media piece that you could look at for hours on end and still continue to see new things in it.
Bits and pieces of two decades intermingled on the vertical piece.
Some of the collages were paper and others were more like combines, using found objects, frames and whatever else the artists wanted.
Books, Jewelry. Car parts.
"Steak on a Whim" contained a row of plastic "steaks" with googly eyes, which visitors were encouraged to push, making them squeak.
It's a treat to be told by the gallerist,"Touch the art. The artist wants you to."
There was nothing subtle about "Madonna and Child"with its plastic fried eggs and loads of baby bottle nipples.
"Strange Lives of One Man" contained a framed picture of a couple with the glass broken, causing a man I'd met at a previous opening to observe to me, "I have a picture just like that of my Mom and Dad."
His, however, was at home in a box he said and not consigned to a better life in the service of art.
I met the artist, Mark, and, besides being handsome, was charmed by his pleasure in re-purposing objects for art.
"By Truck" had a blue ribbon hanging on it saying "1st Prize Madison County Fair" and he admitted that the ribbon was not originally part of the piece.
Rather, he'd actually submitted it to the fair, won the ribbon and added it to the work, "because it needed some color."
Even better, the $6 check he'd won for first prize was now taped to the back of the frame.
As far as I could see, that was recycling in the name of artistic evolution. Brilliant.
But Negativland also makes collages of music, radio and live performances and soon the lights were dimmed and Mark took over the controls on a large table (for what man wants a small table?) in the corner.
It was audio collage time.
Turning knobs and orchestrating sound, he proceeded to entertain the rapt crowd with samples, sound bites and enough unexpected sounds that one friend stepped outside to listen through the door after she jumped through her skin at a sudden boom.
It was interesting watching the audience; several times Mark almost locked into a groove and people began bobbing their heads, only to be knocked out of their trance state when the music took a surprising left turn.
I have to say, it was very cool listening to this guy work his audio magic while surrounded by all these collages of cultural artifacts.
When he finished, it was time to eat.
But why only eat when you can also admire two men with large instruments?
Because if you're going to play a classical instrument, you may as well play the big one.
Balliceaux was hosting "I Love Your Big Bassoon," an evening of, get this, bassoon music and bassoon trivia.
I mean, how great is that?
True, I would be useless on a bassoon trivia team, but I sensed that the entertainment value would be high.
Plus there would be bassoon music? Count me in.
I was pleased to see that Balliceaux had jumped on the small plate wagon, offering a half dozen or so $5 and $6 plates to encourage eating with their world-famous drink menu.
In short order, I chose grilled smoked Surry sausage with stewed tomatoes and local collards in a cornmeal crepe.
The rustic combo of local ingredients was a solid winner.
Deep-fried stuck pork belly skewer came with a beautiful ginger peach chutney that benefited the belly which had almost no fat.
Give me some fat with my pork belly, people, or it may as well be pork tenderloin.
Endive with a salsa of pearl couscous, beluga lentils, heirloom tomatoes and olives leaned too heavily on the olives, in my opinion, overwhelming the other ingredients to the point of oblivion.
That said, the texture was lovely, the lentils perfectly cooked.
The show began with Martin (or was it Tom?) telling us that by the end of the evening, he hoped we'd agree what a soulful instrument the bassoon was.
There were small white boards on some of the tables and four teams were quickly formed to compete on bassoon trivia.
Alternating trivia questions with performances, the evening marched along most enjoyably.
We were shown a demonstration of the parts of the bassoon (who knew there were so many?), so it was also educational.
Tom (or was it Martin?) did a piece he described as "a finger twister and a tongue twister."
I guess you need fast both if you have a big instrument.
The first question asked was what was the other kind of bassoon besides the German bassoon?
French. Duh.
The two-person team next to me got it right.
There was a piece of music described as ,"Latin music, like Latin women, is very free and unrestricted," which led to the next question about the Spanish word for Latin men thinking they were all that.
Answer: Machismo. My seatmate team scored again.
There was an hysterical and obscure question about a 1983 film called "Never Cry Wolf" which had to do with a guy going to the tundra to live with wolves.
Naturally, he takes his bassoon.
Question: What part of the bassoon did he use to fight off wolves?
With this arcane question came a demonstration by Martin (or was it Tom?), with him taking each part and using it in a beating or thrusting motion to help us figure out the best attack method by part.
And the answer was...Boot joint!
Of course.
One thing I did learn about bassoon playing tonight: I liked the duets better than the solos because the beauty of the two playing different parts was pure ear candy.
A sax-playing friend came back and joined me at the table, leading to a discussion of how kids choose what instrument they want to play.
He'd wanted the violin and his rock and rolling Dad had already put up with a child screeching on the violin and promptly steered him to the sax.
Obviously there are kids who demand the bassoon; Tom (or was it Martin) recalled teenage years getting his angst out by playing bassoon.
Friend told me that bassoons were extremely expensive, even showing me on his phone some used ones for sale for $7500.
And a hand-made one for $34,000!
What parent buys his kid that kind of pricey instrument anyway?
One question was not a question but a challenge.
The bassoon harness that distributes the weight of the instrument across the back and shoulders so the neck doesn't take all the brunt needed a more clever name.
Each team tried but only one succeeded with the very clever (and quick) suggestion of Brasoon.
After a question about the father of western music (Bach) and another right answer, I turned to the woman next to me to compliment her knowledge base.
"I play bassoon," she admitted.
Ringer.
But, wait, here was my source.
How much did your bassoon cost, I asked a perfect stranger.
"$8,000," she said. "And that's on the low end."
Now I see.
It's not just size of the instrument that matters, it's size of the wallet, too.
I refuse to believe either.
Like when you're talking about collecting art.
New Yorkers Herb and Dorothy Vogel collected 4700 pieces of art, meaning their art collection's size exceeds mine by about 4670.
Their collection was so large they could give fifty pieces to museums in all fifty states and tonight I went to see the fifty Virginia got.
"The Dorothy and Herbert Vogel Collection: Fifty Works for Fifty States" went on view last weekend and I was eager to see what had landed at the VMFA.
A lot of amazing art, that's what.
Hands down, my favorite was Charles Clough's "Ramus Major" from 1983, a work that suggested the past.
Like a band of twenty-somethings whose music reflects the influences of every band that came before them, this enamel on rag paper piece was an exquisite regurgitation of the past.
The complementary shades of blues and oranges, the sense of movement, the curving figures, were both fresh and familiar at the same time.
For me, it was the most swoon-worthy piece.
But if the VMFA wanted me to take something smaller off their hands, I'd be happy to hang Edda Renouf's 1993 "Dawn-17 (water)" in my apartment, if only to use its undulating lines on sea blue-green to lose myself in.
While strolling the gallery, I ran into a friend doing the same and her first question was if I'd seen the Goya prints (I had) and if I'd gone to the tiki bar (I had) and maybe a little quick commentary about a certain woman-about-town we both despise (shared disdain, always a pleasure).
Because she works at the museum, she'd been fortunate enough to meet artist Martin Johnson, who had two works in the Vogel show.
Some girls have all the luck.
Before long, she looked at me suddenly and said, "I thought you'd be at Ghostprint," which was exactly where I was headed next.
It was opening night at Ghostprint Gallery for Negativland's "Our Favorite Things," a show of considerable breadth of paintings and collages by the collective headed up by Mark Hosler.
As a founding member of Negativland, Mark was also performing tonight, so no wonder my friend presumed I'd be there.
The show was a retrospective of work chronicling the collaborative work of this group since the '80s.
"Untitled Tape Collage (Twenty Years of Negativland)" was a mixed media piece that you could look at for hours on end and still continue to see new things in it.
Bits and pieces of two decades intermingled on the vertical piece.
Some of the collages were paper and others were more like combines, using found objects, frames and whatever else the artists wanted.
Books, Jewelry. Car parts.
"Steak on a Whim" contained a row of plastic "steaks" with googly eyes, which visitors were encouraged to push, making them squeak.
It's a treat to be told by the gallerist,"Touch the art. The artist wants you to."
There was nothing subtle about "Madonna and Child"with its plastic fried eggs and loads of baby bottle nipples.
"Strange Lives of One Man" contained a framed picture of a couple with the glass broken, causing a man I'd met at a previous opening to observe to me, "I have a picture just like that of my Mom and Dad."
His, however, was at home in a box he said and not consigned to a better life in the service of art.
I met the artist, Mark, and, besides being handsome, was charmed by his pleasure in re-purposing objects for art.
"By Truck" had a blue ribbon hanging on it saying "1st Prize Madison County Fair" and he admitted that the ribbon was not originally part of the piece.
Rather, he'd actually submitted it to the fair, won the ribbon and added it to the work, "because it needed some color."
Even better, the $6 check he'd won for first prize was now taped to the back of the frame.
As far as I could see, that was recycling in the name of artistic evolution. Brilliant.
But Negativland also makes collages of music, radio and live performances and soon the lights were dimmed and Mark took over the controls on a large table (for what man wants a small table?) in the corner.
It was audio collage time.
Turning knobs and orchestrating sound, he proceeded to entertain the rapt crowd with samples, sound bites and enough unexpected sounds that one friend stepped outside to listen through the door after she jumped through her skin at a sudden boom.
It was interesting watching the audience; several times Mark almost locked into a groove and people began bobbing their heads, only to be knocked out of their trance state when the music took a surprising left turn.
I have to say, it was very cool listening to this guy work his audio magic while surrounded by all these collages of cultural artifacts.
When he finished, it was time to eat.
But why only eat when you can also admire two men with large instruments?
Because if you're going to play a classical instrument, you may as well play the big one.
Balliceaux was hosting "I Love Your Big Bassoon," an evening of, get this, bassoon music and bassoon trivia.
I mean, how great is that?
True, I would be useless on a bassoon trivia team, but I sensed that the entertainment value would be high.
Plus there would be bassoon music? Count me in.
I was pleased to see that Balliceaux had jumped on the small plate wagon, offering a half dozen or so $5 and $6 plates to encourage eating with their world-famous drink menu.
In short order, I chose grilled smoked Surry sausage with stewed tomatoes and local collards in a cornmeal crepe.
The rustic combo of local ingredients was a solid winner.
Deep-fried stuck pork belly skewer came with a beautiful ginger peach chutney that benefited the belly which had almost no fat.
Give me some fat with my pork belly, people, or it may as well be pork tenderloin.
Endive with a salsa of pearl couscous, beluga lentils, heirloom tomatoes and olives leaned too heavily on the olives, in my opinion, overwhelming the other ingredients to the point of oblivion.
That said, the texture was lovely, the lentils perfectly cooked.
The show began with Martin (or was it Tom?) telling us that by the end of the evening, he hoped we'd agree what a soulful instrument the bassoon was.
There were small white boards on some of the tables and four teams were quickly formed to compete on bassoon trivia.
Alternating trivia questions with performances, the evening marched along most enjoyably.
We were shown a demonstration of the parts of the bassoon (who knew there were so many?), so it was also educational.
Tom (or was it Martin?) did a piece he described as "a finger twister and a tongue twister."
I guess you need fast both if you have a big instrument.
The first question asked was what was the other kind of bassoon besides the German bassoon?
French. Duh.
The two-person team next to me got it right.
There was a piece of music described as ,"Latin music, like Latin women, is very free and unrestricted," which led to the next question about the Spanish word for Latin men thinking they were all that.
Answer: Machismo. My seatmate team scored again.
There was an hysterical and obscure question about a 1983 film called "Never Cry Wolf" which had to do with a guy going to the tundra to live with wolves.
Naturally, he takes his bassoon.
Question: What part of the bassoon did he use to fight off wolves?
With this arcane question came a demonstration by Martin (or was it Tom?), with him taking each part and using it in a beating or thrusting motion to help us figure out the best attack method by part.
And the answer was...Boot joint!
Of course.
One thing I did learn about bassoon playing tonight: I liked the duets better than the solos because the beauty of the two playing different parts was pure ear candy.
A sax-playing friend came back and joined me at the table, leading to a discussion of how kids choose what instrument they want to play.
He'd wanted the violin and his rock and rolling Dad had already put up with a child screeching on the violin and promptly steered him to the sax.
Obviously there are kids who demand the bassoon; Tom (or was it Martin) recalled teenage years getting his angst out by playing bassoon.
Friend told me that bassoons were extremely expensive, even showing me on his phone some used ones for sale for $7500.
And a hand-made one for $34,000!
What parent buys his kid that kind of pricey instrument anyway?
One question was not a question but a challenge.
The bassoon harness that distributes the weight of the instrument across the back and shoulders so the neck doesn't take all the brunt needed a more clever name.
Each team tried but only one succeeded with the very clever (and quick) suggestion of Brasoon.
After a question about the father of western music (Bach) and another right answer, I turned to the woman next to me to compliment her knowledge base.
"I play bassoon," she admitted.
Ringer.
But, wait, here was my source.
How much did your bassoon cost, I asked a perfect stranger.
"$8,000," she said. "And that's on the low end."
Now I see.
It's not just size of the instrument that matters, it's size of the wallet, too.
I refuse to believe either.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Welcome to Trader T's Tiki Bar
If you let too much time go in between visits with a friend, life happens.
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
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