I got hugged repeatedly in the middle of the Lee bridge this morning, thereby proving everyone is right.
And by everyone, I mean all those friends I go out with who are always telling me that no matter where I go, I inevitably run into someone I know.
Given today's cloudy skies, it was an ideal day for taking my daily walk across a bridge, something I've done before and enjoyed immensely.
There are always cars that wave and honk and I smile back, but one of today's honkers was particularly enthusiastic.
A few minutes later, the car pulls up just ahead of where I'm walking mid-bridge and out comes Lily, the puppeteer.
Now, I've known Lily for seven years or so, carried a sign and marched in the annual Halloween parade she organizes, eaten at the spaghetti dinner benefits she holds to raise funds for puppet-making, watched her referee female arm wrestling matches.
But I hadn't seen her since last winter.
She got out of the car and did a happy dance and I responded in kind in the middle of the bridge. Then the hugging began.
Anyone driving by probably thought we were crazy.
"I woke up thinking about you today so when I drove by and saw you, I knew it was a sign so I had to turn around and say hello," she gushed.
We spent 15 minutes catching up - Lovebomb, Bread and Puppet Theater, the upcoming parade - before resuming hugging. I walked away and she drove on.
I've run into people I know in some of the unlikeliest of places, but I'm going to say the middle of the bridge takes the cake.
At least until something even more random happens. And it probably will.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Trail of Breadcrumbs
Doing dinner progressively results in two things: multiple menus to choose from and a constantly changing array of characters talking to me.
At the first place and despite being nowhere near home, I met a guy who's about to open a business right here in Jackson Ward.
A big, gregarious fellow who'd just bought a cigar and was looking for someone to cut off the tip and light it for him, he explained his plans to open a "close contact martial arts" studio over top of a restaurant that will serve coffee, smoothies and pastries a few blocks from my house.
Eventually, he said, it'll also serve healthy Caribbean food because (I guess) nothing tops off close contact fighting like some jerk chicken.
And because I know so little about martial arts or fighting, I have to wonder: isn't all fighting close contact? You can't very well be across the room and expect to knock someone out, can you?
Clearly I know nothing about sports.
The second restaurant delivered a woman who seemed a bit glum because the transmission had died on her truck today.
"My boyfriend and I used to use it for a tree removal business, so I'm not too surprised," she admitted pragmatically.
When she really lit up was when she got to talking about her kids: one of her own, two step-children and two adopted.
The one she described as "the easy daughter," whatever that means, is getting married soon and she shared all sorts of details about planning that.
First, it was going to be at Maymont ($17,000) but that idea was dropped when her ex opted out of sharing wedding expenses.
Plan B was a cruise for 20 ($3,000) but that limited the guest list too much.
The final plan involved renting an 8-bedroom house oceanfront at Myrtle Beach, where they'll be married on the beach and hold the reception and the couple will stay on to honeymoon.
Apparently the house has two bars, one next to the pool, and she's already put in her bid for that to be her spot.
If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.
Only problem with that plan was the bother of getting the South Carolina paperwork done ahead of time so they decided to get married at the registrar's office here quietly and just pretend that the beach wedding is real.
I told her how my best friend from college had done a similar thing, getting married at the courthouse on the sly with just me and my boyfriend for witnesses and then letting her parents throw them a big, splashy wedding the following summer.
Everyone was happy and no on was the wiser.
And on that subject, the woman also proudly shared that she'd recently gotten divorced on the cheap, doing the paperwork herself so all she had to pay was the filing fee.
Now all her friends want her to write a book about how to do it to save them money. I guess they've never heard of the Internet.
I'm sure if her daughter's starter marriage doesn't work out, she'd help her with the divorce just as she's helping her with the wedding.
The third place yielded nothing more interesting than a bartender who insisted on chilling a wine glass (like they do with martini glasses, filling it with water and ice) before pouring in wine.
She explained that because she liked her glass really cold, she figures her customers do, too.
At the last place, I found a colorful guy I'd met at Amuse a few years back, a man who strongly resembled Colonel Sanders minus the bolo tie (bow tie instead).
He explained to me the importance of finding a man who was passionate, who had a big brain, a man who could appreciate my fine mind and quick wit.
I was told he also made a comment about my rear end when I left to go to the bathroom.
Seems like he should have told me to look for a man who appreciates that, too.
At the first place and despite being nowhere near home, I met a guy who's about to open a business right here in Jackson Ward.
A big, gregarious fellow who'd just bought a cigar and was looking for someone to cut off the tip and light it for him, he explained his plans to open a "close contact martial arts" studio over top of a restaurant that will serve coffee, smoothies and pastries a few blocks from my house.
Eventually, he said, it'll also serve healthy Caribbean food because (I guess) nothing tops off close contact fighting like some jerk chicken.
And because I know so little about martial arts or fighting, I have to wonder: isn't all fighting close contact? You can't very well be across the room and expect to knock someone out, can you?
Clearly I know nothing about sports.
The second restaurant delivered a woman who seemed a bit glum because the transmission had died on her truck today.
"My boyfriend and I used to use it for a tree removal business, so I'm not too surprised," she admitted pragmatically.
When she really lit up was when she got to talking about her kids: one of her own, two step-children and two adopted.
The one she described as "the easy daughter," whatever that means, is getting married soon and she shared all sorts of details about planning that.
First, it was going to be at Maymont ($17,000) but that idea was dropped when her ex opted out of sharing wedding expenses.
Plan B was a cruise for 20 ($3,000) but that limited the guest list too much.
The final plan involved renting an 8-bedroom house oceanfront at Myrtle Beach, where they'll be married on the beach and hold the reception and the couple will stay on to honeymoon.
Apparently the house has two bars, one next to the pool, and she's already put in her bid for that to be her spot.
If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.
Only problem with that plan was the bother of getting the South Carolina paperwork done ahead of time so they decided to get married at the registrar's office here quietly and just pretend that the beach wedding is real.
I told her how my best friend from college had done a similar thing, getting married at the courthouse on the sly with just me and my boyfriend for witnesses and then letting her parents throw them a big, splashy wedding the following summer.
Everyone was happy and no on was the wiser.
And on that subject, the woman also proudly shared that she'd recently gotten divorced on the cheap, doing the paperwork herself so all she had to pay was the filing fee.
Now all her friends want her to write a book about how to do it to save them money. I guess they've never heard of the Internet.
I'm sure if her daughter's starter marriage doesn't work out, she'd help her with the divorce just as she's helping her with the wedding.
The third place yielded nothing more interesting than a bartender who insisted on chilling a wine glass (like they do with martini glasses, filling it with water and ice) before pouring in wine.
She explained that because she liked her glass really cold, she figures her customers do, too.
At the last place, I found a colorful guy I'd met at Amuse a few years back, a man who strongly resembled Colonel Sanders minus the bolo tie (bow tie instead).
He explained to me the importance of finding a man who was passionate, who had a big brain, a man who could appreciate my fine mind and quick wit.
I was told he also made a comment about my rear end when I left to go to the bathroom.
Seems like he should have told me to look for a man who appreciates that, too.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Roger That
It's undoubtedly some kind of Murphy's law.
If I make plans to get away, even for 30 hours, life will start lobbing things at me.
Arriving at the Amtrack station yesterday, I hear my name being paged, never a good sign. It happened years ago as I walked into National Airport and I still recall the sense of dread.
Fortunately, it was nothing major and the Amtrack attendant who spoke to me got a kick out of hearing that I don't have a cell phone.
And by a kick, I mean he looked at me like I had two heads.
The train ride there and back was an excuse to get lost in Nigel Nicolson's "Portrait of a Marriage," the story of Bloomsbury Group member Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicolson, but mainly about the torrid affair she carried on with a woman during that marriage.
Juicy as it was, it didn't even begin to go into her later affair with writer Virginia Woolf.
Dinner was at Vin 909 in Easport, a bungalow turned wine cafe with a serious bent for local sourcing and the owner sitting at a bar stool overseeing the kitchen in full view.
Hanging on to summer with both hands, I enjoyed Bieler Pere et Fils Rose with a Maryland blue crab roll on brioche for two reasons really.
First, when in Rome and all (Maryland, crabs, hello?) and because under the menu entry was a notation, "If you don't know what something is, ask your server, not your Smartphone."
It's almost a philosophy, like stop and smell the roses or you only live once.
That was followed with Groundworks Farm chicken enchiladas with housemade mole sauce and Fontina on a local tortilla. It was a whole lot of local.
I don't know that the chocolate pot de creme could claim the same, although for all I know the fresh whipped cream came from a nearby cow.
Driving home from the train station, I saw a guy cross I-95 on foot, easily the stupidest thing I'd ever seen on that soul-sucking stretch of highway.
Once back in the Commonwealth, I needed to hit the ground running since e-mail informed me I had five new assignments come in since I'd left the day before.
My hired mouth took precedence, meaning I had eating to do.
Parking next to a late '60s red VW bug exactly like the one I learned to drive on (it had been my boyfriend Roger's and I learned to pop the clutch by coasting downhill to avoid the trauma of getting it into first gear), I soon found myself surrounded by eaters and drinkers.
I joined the latter group via the beautifully delicate Austrian Mittelbach Rose, not even listed on the menu yet, but a fine replacement for the Renegade Rose I know so well that was.
Talking to the couple on my right, I made an assumption about him liking corned beef and she turned to me and said, "I've known him 30 years and I had no idea he liked it."
Honey, all men like corned beef, at least in my experience.
On my right, I had a couple who claimed they were cheating on their spouses together.
Hers was out of town on business and his was "singing for Jesus" so they'd decided to wile away the time with some beverages and chatter.
When she asked the bartender for a bold red wine, an Italian blend was offered. "I don't do Italian reds, so I'm not going to like it," she said, taking a sip. "Oooh, this is wonderful. Now you're going to make me admit I do like Italian reds."
She insisted I take a sip to validate that it was a lovely blend of Merlot and Corvina (it was) and once my lipstick marks were on her glass we were fast friends.
And in the "isn't it a small world?" category, it turns out I had met someone they both knew and when I shared what this man had said to me the first time he met me, they both apologized for him.
"That's just the way he is!" they explained. "Don't pay him any attention next time."
Don't worry. I didn't last time.
I met a woman close to my age and with our young bartender, Chelsea, discussed how names go in and out of vogue and how neither of us had known a single Jordan or Jessica when we were in elementary school.
Likewise, no one names their babies Denise or Debbie anymore.
She was drinking an iridescent green cocktail called "Consensual Sex on the Beach" and tried to convince me to do the same, but I just couldn't go there.
At least in drink form.
I'd had consensual sex on the beach with Roger way back when and I'd learned one very important lesson: use a beach towel.
But that's a story for another day when I don't have all this work Murphy's Law delivered staring me in the face.
That sand gets everywhere.
If I make plans to get away, even for 30 hours, life will start lobbing things at me.
Arriving at the Amtrack station yesterday, I hear my name being paged, never a good sign. It happened years ago as I walked into National Airport and I still recall the sense of dread.
Fortunately, it was nothing major and the Amtrack attendant who spoke to me got a kick out of hearing that I don't have a cell phone.
And by a kick, I mean he looked at me like I had two heads.
The train ride there and back was an excuse to get lost in Nigel Nicolson's "Portrait of a Marriage," the story of Bloomsbury Group member Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicolson, but mainly about the torrid affair she carried on with a woman during that marriage.
Juicy as it was, it didn't even begin to go into her later affair with writer Virginia Woolf.
Dinner was at Vin 909 in Easport, a bungalow turned wine cafe with a serious bent for local sourcing and the owner sitting at a bar stool overseeing the kitchen in full view.
Hanging on to summer with both hands, I enjoyed Bieler Pere et Fils Rose with a Maryland blue crab roll on brioche for two reasons really.
First, when in Rome and all (Maryland, crabs, hello?) and because under the menu entry was a notation, "If you don't know what something is, ask your server, not your Smartphone."
It's almost a philosophy, like stop and smell the roses or you only live once.
That was followed with Groundworks Farm chicken enchiladas with housemade mole sauce and Fontina on a local tortilla. It was a whole lot of local.
I don't know that the chocolate pot de creme could claim the same, although for all I know the fresh whipped cream came from a nearby cow.
Driving home from the train station, I saw a guy cross I-95 on foot, easily the stupidest thing I'd ever seen on that soul-sucking stretch of highway.
Once back in the Commonwealth, I needed to hit the ground running since e-mail informed me I had five new assignments come in since I'd left the day before.
My hired mouth took precedence, meaning I had eating to do.
Parking next to a late '60s red VW bug exactly like the one I learned to drive on (it had been my boyfriend Roger's and I learned to pop the clutch by coasting downhill to avoid the trauma of getting it into first gear), I soon found myself surrounded by eaters and drinkers.
I joined the latter group via the beautifully delicate Austrian Mittelbach Rose, not even listed on the menu yet, but a fine replacement for the Renegade Rose I know so well that was.
Talking to the couple on my right, I made an assumption about him liking corned beef and she turned to me and said, "I've known him 30 years and I had no idea he liked it."
Honey, all men like corned beef, at least in my experience.
On my right, I had a couple who claimed they were cheating on their spouses together.
Hers was out of town on business and his was "singing for Jesus" so they'd decided to wile away the time with some beverages and chatter.
When she asked the bartender for a bold red wine, an Italian blend was offered. "I don't do Italian reds, so I'm not going to like it," she said, taking a sip. "Oooh, this is wonderful. Now you're going to make me admit I do like Italian reds."
She insisted I take a sip to validate that it was a lovely blend of Merlot and Corvina (it was) and once my lipstick marks were on her glass we were fast friends.
And in the "isn't it a small world?" category, it turns out I had met someone they both knew and when I shared what this man had said to me the first time he met me, they both apologized for him.
"That's just the way he is!" they explained. "Don't pay him any attention next time."
Don't worry. I didn't last time.
I met a woman close to my age and with our young bartender, Chelsea, discussed how names go in and out of vogue and how neither of us had known a single Jordan or Jessica when we were in elementary school.
Likewise, no one names their babies Denise or Debbie anymore.
She was drinking an iridescent green cocktail called "Consensual Sex on the Beach" and tried to convince me to do the same, but I just couldn't go there.
At least in drink form.
I'd had consensual sex on the beach with Roger way back when and I'd learned one very important lesson: use a beach towel.
But that's a story for another day when I don't have all this work Murphy's Law delivered staring me in the face.
That sand gets everywhere.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Coming Ashore
It may be time to bring out the hook.
I've been going to Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux for nearly four years now and I have heard some stories that have blown my mind.
There have been some duds, sure, but all and all, it's been fascinating to hear people unload snippets from their pasts.
But where storytellers once respected the warning bell, they frequently ignore it now. And when the final bell rings, meaning they are through, they continue to talk.
Some even needed a third bell and that still didn't shut them up.
As if all that rule-breaking wasn't enough to warrant the hook, tonight for the first time, a guy got up to tell a story, admitting it had nothing to do with tonight's theme.
Alright, kids, you've finally gone too far.
Tonight's theme was "the river" and the door proceeds were going to benefit the James River Association, the worthiest of causes and we heard some good tales in its honor.
Toting a paddle, David's was called "Buzzards Watching" and involved a canoe trip in which the canoe wound up wrapped around a rock, a problem only until they stood on it and popped it back into shape like a Tupperware bowl.
"Island Refuge" told Kyle's story of falling in love with the water, making it his life's work and then having an awful experience that scared him off it before his eventual return to it. He'd brought a broken paddle, part of the story.
Before introducing the next storyteller, co-host Colin quipped, "Apparently it's a prerequisite to bring your paddle tonight."
The most life-affirming story came from Mike with "The Romance of a Broken Compass," the saga of him and his wife taking a 30-year old canoe down the inter-coastal waterway over 81 days.
He said they did it because it was "absurd fun," despite her grandmother worrying that they'd have to poop in a Cool Whip container along the way.
Wanna hear the most romantic part? They talked non-stop the entire way.
For sheer emotion, Amanda's "Mushy Sand" took the heartfelt prize and was the same story she'd used for her personal essay when she applied to the University of Richmond.
P.S. - It got her a full scholarship.
It was about being at the river with her Mom, brother, his friend and his mother when she was in third grade and realizing that her mother was in love with the woman and the journey she took to work through that.
Daniel from southside got the most laughs with "Destiny Comes When She Pleases" about being at the 42nd Street island and seeing a woman straddling a log between two rocks, presumably to ride it down the river, something they apparently do on southside.
At least that's what he thought until her boyfriend started calling Destiny back. She finished grinding into the tree, convulsed and returned to her boyfriend.
"Let's all stay on the north side of the river," host Colin instructed.
The first day of Fall and a tubing trip as the sun set were the setting for Fieval's story, "Between the Nickel Bridge and Belle Isle," about her ex trying to shore her up as she got tired and scared on the river and why this was a really bad idea.
For the sheer visuals, Charles" "Inappropriate Raft Guide" story, which involved a 500-pound woman,her young son and a raft that flipped as they went over a break in the dam, took the cake.
When they surfaced, Charles saw the kid moving downstream in the raft and the guide straddling the woman, paddling her as if she were a raft.
If you saw that in a movie, you wouldn't believe it could happen.
During intermission, a friend asked if I was going to share a story and I responded with an adamant no.
"You wouldn't?" he asked incredulously. "But you tell stories all the time."
Like this, sure, out into the blogosphere, but certainly not in front of 110 people.
During the second half, names of eager storytellers were put in the hat and drawn for a chance to share their river tale.
A regular at almost every event with a story for any theme ("I almost didn't put my name in the hat because I feel like I'm an addict for this"), Wendy's involved the role of the river in childhood and contemplation.
Nurse Lilly was the first to invoke the Amazon River and her trips coordinating Patch Adams clown trips there, one of which involved a 70-year old woman who went swimming in the Amazon, got swept away and wound up with splinters in her legs when men dragged her into their canoe to save her.
"I'm really a great swimmer," the 70-year old insisted. "It was the current."
It's always something, isn't it?
The next story was called, "The First Time I Went to a Strip Club" and was being told by a Secretly Y'all virgin who claimed not to know that the stories after intermission had to follow the evening's theme.
His didn't and we had to listen to the saga of his stint with VCU's security detail and a planned trip to a strip club, which he didn't attend because he split his pants at the seam "wide enough to birth a baby."
You can imagine how awkward this segment of the evening was. And no hook in sight.
Fortunately, redemption came courtesy of Andrew, a recent addition to the James River Park System's staff who began by commenting on how much Richmond drinks when we're at the river
The park saw 600,000 visitors this season and the staff goes through and sorts recycling from every one of those trash and recycling cans, not a pleasant job.
"Don't bring glass," he said in his sternest voice. "Don't do that!"
He readily admitted his story ended up less what he intended to share and more of a public service announcement to be mindful about taking out whatever you bring to the river.
I thought the same thing when I was at Texas Beach yesterday and saw four glass Mickey beer bottles and a 40-ounce bottle sitting in the sand.
Some people were apparently raised by wolves.
The evening's storytelling closed with Chris, as perennial a storyteller as anyone, with the cautionary tale of an ex-friend he referred to as "Professor Gross" and "Mr. Know It All."
The ex tried to repay Chris' generosity in letting him stay over by making a meal out of seafood from the manager's special section of Community Pride ("the worst grocery store ever"). Because nothing says thanks like two-day old seafood.
By the story's end, the ex friend was serenely swimming away after leaving Chris and a friend trying to recover from an overturned canoe in the river.
He even told us the friend's real name so we could all avoid him, too.
So as usual, we heard some great stories, poignant and funny, cautionary and romantic.
We also heard the bell ring repeatedly on far too many of the storytellers. Time to start playing by the rules, guys.
Don't make me turn this car around.
I've been going to Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux for nearly four years now and I have heard some stories that have blown my mind.
There have been some duds, sure, but all and all, it's been fascinating to hear people unload snippets from their pasts.
But where storytellers once respected the warning bell, they frequently ignore it now. And when the final bell rings, meaning they are through, they continue to talk.
Some even needed a third bell and that still didn't shut them up.
As if all that rule-breaking wasn't enough to warrant the hook, tonight for the first time, a guy got up to tell a story, admitting it had nothing to do with tonight's theme.
Alright, kids, you've finally gone too far.
Tonight's theme was "the river" and the door proceeds were going to benefit the James River Association, the worthiest of causes and we heard some good tales in its honor.
Toting a paddle, David's was called "Buzzards Watching" and involved a canoe trip in which the canoe wound up wrapped around a rock, a problem only until they stood on it and popped it back into shape like a Tupperware bowl.
"Island Refuge" told Kyle's story of falling in love with the water, making it his life's work and then having an awful experience that scared him off it before his eventual return to it. He'd brought a broken paddle, part of the story.
Before introducing the next storyteller, co-host Colin quipped, "Apparently it's a prerequisite to bring your paddle tonight."
The most life-affirming story came from Mike with "The Romance of a Broken Compass," the saga of him and his wife taking a 30-year old canoe down the inter-coastal waterway over 81 days.
He said they did it because it was "absurd fun," despite her grandmother worrying that they'd have to poop in a Cool Whip container along the way.
Wanna hear the most romantic part? They talked non-stop the entire way.
For sheer emotion, Amanda's "Mushy Sand" took the heartfelt prize and was the same story she'd used for her personal essay when she applied to the University of Richmond.
P.S. - It got her a full scholarship.
It was about being at the river with her Mom, brother, his friend and his mother when she was in third grade and realizing that her mother was in love with the woman and the journey she took to work through that.
Daniel from southside got the most laughs with "Destiny Comes When She Pleases" about being at the 42nd Street island and seeing a woman straddling a log between two rocks, presumably to ride it down the river, something they apparently do on southside.
At least that's what he thought until her boyfriend started calling Destiny back. She finished grinding into the tree, convulsed and returned to her boyfriend.
"Let's all stay on the north side of the river," host Colin instructed.
The first day of Fall and a tubing trip as the sun set were the setting for Fieval's story, "Between the Nickel Bridge and Belle Isle," about her ex trying to shore her up as she got tired and scared on the river and why this was a really bad idea.
For the sheer visuals, Charles" "Inappropriate Raft Guide" story, which involved a 500-pound woman,her young son and a raft that flipped as they went over a break in the dam, took the cake.
When they surfaced, Charles saw the kid moving downstream in the raft and the guide straddling the woman, paddling her as if she were a raft.
If you saw that in a movie, you wouldn't believe it could happen.
During intermission, a friend asked if I was going to share a story and I responded with an adamant no.
"You wouldn't?" he asked incredulously. "But you tell stories all the time."
Like this, sure, out into the blogosphere, but certainly not in front of 110 people.
During the second half, names of eager storytellers were put in the hat and drawn for a chance to share their river tale.
A regular at almost every event with a story for any theme ("I almost didn't put my name in the hat because I feel like I'm an addict for this"), Wendy's involved the role of the river in childhood and contemplation.
Nurse Lilly was the first to invoke the Amazon River and her trips coordinating Patch Adams clown trips there, one of which involved a 70-year old woman who went swimming in the Amazon, got swept away and wound up with splinters in her legs when men dragged her into their canoe to save her.
"I'm really a great swimmer," the 70-year old insisted. "It was the current."
It's always something, isn't it?
The next story was called, "The First Time I Went to a Strip Club" and was being told by a Secretly Y'all virgin who claimed not to know that the stories after intermission had to follow the evening's theme.
His didn't and we had to listen to the saga of his stint with VCU's security detail and a planned trip to a strip club, which he didn't attend because he split his pants at the seam "wide enough to birth a baby."
You can imagine how awkward this segment of the evening was. And no hook in sight.
Fortunately, redemption came courtesy of Andrew, a recent addition to the James River Park System's staff who began by commenting on how much Richmond drinks when we're at the river
The park saw 600,000 visitors this season and the staff goes through and sorts recycling from every one of those trash and recycling cans, not a pleasant job.
"Don't bring glass," he said in his sternest voice. "Don't do that!"
He readily admitted his story ended up less what he intended to share and more of a public service announcement to be mindful about taking out whatever you bring to the river.
I thought the same thing when I was at Texas Beach yesterday and saw four glass Mickey beer bottles and a 40-ounce bottle sitting in the sand.
Some people were apparently raised by wolves.
The evening's storytelling closed with Chris, as perennial a storyteller as anyone, with the cautionary tale of an ex-friend he referred to as "Professor Gross" and "Mr. Know It All."
The ex tried to repay Chris' generosity in letting him stay over by making a meal out of seafood from the manager's special section of Community Pride ("the worst grocery store ever"). Because nothing says thanks like two-day old seafood.
By the story's end, the ex friend was serenely swimming away after leaving Chris and a friend trying to recover from an overturned canoe in the river.
He even told us the friend's real name so we could all avoid him, too.
So as usual, we heard some great stories, poignant and funny, cautionary and romantic.
We also heard the bell ring repeatedly on far too many of the storytellers. Time to start playing by the rules, guys.
Don't make me turn this car around.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Never Enough Sun and Sea
Fall is making its imminent arrival known and I'm not at all happy about it.
You see, I'm a summer person, never happier than when it's warm enough that I need a minimum of clothes. Unlike so many people I know, I'm not into scarves, layers and jackets.
So while parts of my walk this morning on the North Bank trail were delightfully sunny and warm, the shaded parts were feeling cooler than they have all summer.
When I got to Texas Beach to wade in, the river was not the bathwater temperature it's been for months now.
That leaves me hoping for many weeks of Indian summer but acknowledging that Fall is just around the corner. Sadly.
The only thing I like about the approaching season is that the cultural calendar is back in swing, meaning things such as UR's international film series, which kicked off tonight.
Before taking on an Italian film on a serious subject, though, I scooted over to Saison for fried chicken night, sliding into the one remaining bar stool between two guys watching football.
The one to the left was gracious, making sure I had enough room and welcoming me while the other was deep in his crossword puzzle.
When he asked if he could have a vodka and pineapple juice, the bartender paused noticeably and then said okay.
Both his friend and I noticed the pause, assuming that the bartender wanted him to consider the cocktail menu and perhaps order something more interesting.
His friend insisted he try something different, but the guy held fast even after tasting the other's drink ("too spicy!").
You have to respect a guy who knows what he wants.
Their half chicken arrived shortly before my quarter chicken did and it was as I was carving into my thigh that the vodka drinker said, "Look at you using a fork and knife."
Putting them down, I explained that I was only cutting into it to release some heat so I'd be able to eat it sooner with my fingers.
"Look, don't mess with her," his friend said cutting into his own. "She's been to fried chicken night here before and knows the deal."
I was pleased to see that tonight's sides were different: a cucumber and red onion marinated salad and cornbread, but not that sticky sweet variety that passes for cornbread so many places these days.
No, this was a much drier crumb and not nearly as sweet, much closer to my Richmond grandmother's classic cornbread.
You know how I do, smearing honey butter all over it, but Mr. Vodka couldn't get behind the honey butter. Too weird, he claimed, although he loved the cuke salad.
When I abruptly got up to leave for my movie, he turned to me smiling and said, "Thanks for our first dinner date."
Went pretty well for strangers, don't you think?
Then it was on to University of Richmond where I joined a decidedly mixed audience, half students and half middle-aged and up.
Tonight's offering was "Miele," which means honey and was the title character's nickname, interesting because her occupation was assisting people with suicide due to terminal illness.
The directorial debut of Valeria Golino, it was a beautifully shot, gorgeously lit character study highlighting the beauty of life and the importance of music.
What struck me was that the film didn't take a position on assisted suicide, just showed suffering people who had made the decision to check out, so Honey felt she was helping them with their request.
That is, until a man asks for her to provide the drugs to do it himself (a first since she always attends the ritual, providing the drug and often the music), which she reluctantly does.
Only afterwards does she learn that he has no terminal illness, he's just depressed and tired of life.
The rest of the film follows their relationship as she tries to talk him out of it and he holds fast to his plans.
Spotting the stud in her tongue he asks about it and she explains it has Aztec roots but he's unimpressed.
"Contemporary idiocy knows no limits," he observes. Amen to that.
When he finally comes to visit her at her tiny and spare oceanfront house, he comments, "Too much sun, too much sea, too much wind," summarily dismissing her choice of habitation.
Oh, and P.S., there's no such thing, in my humble opinion.
Not one but two older couples got up and walked out after seeing the second assisted suicide, not at all a violent thing to watch but most definitely a sad one to see the reaction of the loved one who remains.
Their loss. They missed a visually stunning film, honest to its core, with the kind of complex characters superbly acted rarely seen in American films. A film that never came to Richmond.
My summer days are waning and Fall is beginning to seem like an inevitability but at least the culture quotient is seeing an uptick.
And no matter the season, there's always the beauty of life and the importance of music..honey.
You see, I'm a summer person, never happier than when it's warm enough that I need a minimum of clothes. Unlike so many people I know, I'm not into scarves, layers and jackets.
So while parts of my walk this morning on the North Bank trail were delightfully sunny and warm, the shaded parts were feeling cooler than they have all summer.
When I got to Texas Beach to wade in, the river was not the bathwater temperature it's been for months now.
That leaves me hoping for many weeks of Indian summer but acknowledging that Fall is just around the corner. Sadly.
The only thing I like about the approaching season is that the cultural calendar is back in swing, meaning things such as UR's international film series, which kicked off tonight.
Before taking on an Italian film on a serious subject, though, I scooted over to Saison for fried chicken night, sliding into the one remaining bar stool between two guys watching football.
The one to the left was gracious, making sure I had enough room and welcoming me while the other was deep in his crossword puzzle.
When he asked if he could have a vodka and pineapple juice, the bartender paused noticeably and then said okay.
Both his friend and I noticed the pause, assuming that the bartender wanted him to consider the cocktail menu and perhaps order something more interesting.
His friend insisted he try something different, but the guy held fast even after tasting the other's drink ("too spicy!").
You have to respect a guy who knows what he wants.
Their half chicken arrived shortly before my quarter chicken did and it was as I was carving into my thigh that the vodka drinker said, "Look at you using a fork and knife."
Putting them down, I explained that I was only cutting into it to release some heat so I'd be able to eat it sooner with my fingers.
"Look, don't mess with her," his friend said cutting into his own. "She's been to fried chicken night here before and knows the deal."
I was pleased to see that tonight's sides were different: a cucumber and red onion marinated salad and cornbread, but not that sticky sweet variety that passes for cornbread so many places these days.
No, this was a much drier crumb and not nearly as sweet, much closer to my Richmond grandmother's classic cornbread.
You know how I do, smearing honey butter all over it, but Mr. Vodka couldn't get behind the honey butter. Too weird, he claimed, although he loved the cuke salad.
When I abruptly got up to leave for my movie, he turned to me smiling and said, "Thanks for our first dinner date."
Went pretty well for strangers, don't you think?
Then it was on to University of Richmond where I joined a decidedly mixed audience, half students and half middle-aged and up.
Tonight's offering was "Miele," which means honey and was the title character's nickname, interesting because her occupation was assisting people with suicide due to terminal illness.
The directorial debut of Valeria Golino, it was a beautifully shot, gorgeously lit character study highlighting the beauty of life and the importance of music.
What struck me was that the film didn't take a position on assisted suicide, just showed suffering people who had made the decision to check out, so Honey felt she was helping them with their request.
That is, until a man asks for her to provide the drugs to do it himself (a first since she always attends the ritual, providing the drug and often the music), which she reluctantly does.
Only afterwards does she learn that he has no terminal illness, he's just depressed and tired of life.
The rest of the film follows their relationship as she tries to talk him out of it and he holds fast to his plans.
Spotting the stud in her tongue he asks about it and she explains it has Aztec roots but he's unimpressed.
"Contemporary idiocy knows no limits," he observes. Amen to that.
When he finally comes to visit her at her tiny and spare oceanfront house, he comments, "Too much sun, too much sea, too much wind," summarily dismissing her choice of habitation.
Oh, and P.S., there's no such thing, in my humble opinion.
Not one but two older couples got up and walked out after seeing the second assisted suicide, not at all a violent thing to watch but most definitely a sad one to see the reaction of the loved one who remains.
Their loss. They missed a visually stunning film, honest to its core, with the kind of complex characters superbly acted rarely seen in American films. A film that never came to Richmond.
My summer days are waning and Fall is beginning to seem like an inevitability but at least the culture quotient is seeing an uptick.
And no matter the season, there's always the beauty of life and the importance of music..honey.
Lessons in Time
I spent the afternoon with a Civil War legacy and a young buck.
A nerdy friend had reminded me that this was the weekend that so many historical attractions were open free of charge, a fact I promptly forgot until mid-afternoon.
Luckily, two of the destinations I wanted to visit were within spitting distance.
Arriving at the White House of the Confederacy, I lucked into a house tour starting momentarily with a guide who couldn't have been more perfect or appropriate.
The great-grandson of Confederate second lieutenant Moncure, he spoke with a southern accent so thick the crowd of two dozen or so had to strain to understand the words.
"War" came out as "woh-a," for instance.
But he was a font of information as he led us room to room through the house occupied by Jefferson Davis and his family during the war, making sure we understood the difference between the gentlemen's parlor (whiskey, smoking, political talk) and the withdrawing room (music, cultured talk).
Leading us through the grand dining room, he said it was wife Varina's favorite room with its 14' ceilings.
Scratched on the mirror over the fireplace, some young belle had used her diamond ring to scratch "John is my boy" into the surface.
The library, he said, was referred to by the family as the "snuggery" for its small size and warmth.
Perhaps most interestingly, our guide made it clear that the history books had left out a lot of pertinent information about Mr. Davis.
About what a fine Secretary of War he was under President Franklin Pierce, how he was assigned to take Black Hawk to prison, the success he had as a colonel during the Mexican-American War.
I'm not sure he convinced anyone, but he tried his best. He was inordinately proud of both Davis and the house and wanted to share his beliefs.
From there I went down the street to the Valentine for a tour of the Wickham House and this time I had a 15-minute wait.
The woman suggested I pass time at the Valentine studio, instructing me to, "Go under the flowering arch and through the breezeway."
How could there not be something wonderful at the end of that path?
Despite having been in the Valentine garden and eating at Sally Bell's there, I'd never been in the studio, a treasure trove of sculptor Edward Valentine's works.
It reminded me very much of a sculpture studio I'd seen in Italy except for all the familiar faces of Confederates.
Since I had such a short time to check it out, I resolved to go back for lunch at Sally Bell's and a longer visit with the studio.
Our tour guide for the Wickham House appeared to be about a third the age of the last one and with no discernible accent.
I'd last been in the 1812 Wickham House back in the late '80s or early '90s and they were in the process of restoring the house, so seeing so much of the restoration was pretty satisfying for me.
It was obvious that Wickham, a mere lawyer of modest means, had forged quite an economic alliance by marrying a woman who came from a family with big bucks.
Let's just say the Wickhams had a walk-in closet with a window in it.
Forget that houses back then usually had no closets, this one was as big as my kitchen (admittedly small) and had a view.
Naturally, we weren't allowed on the magnificent elliptical stairway (had to use the servants' staircase, narrow and steep), but we did see the impressive Gilbert Sullivan portrait of wife Elizabeth, the poor woman who bore him 17 children.
Even non-art geeks know artist Gilbert Sullivan; he's the one who painted the iconic portrait of George Washington so for him to have painted Elizabeth speaks to her family connections.
1%, that's all I'm saying.
Coming from a house circa the 1860s to a house from 1812 meant that even a modern day visitor was struck by the differences. No gas chandeliers in the Wickham house.
And the similarities.
Rich and powerful people have never lived like you and me.
For crying out loud, they used diamonds to leave postbellum graffiti.
Fiddle-dee-dee, indeed.
A nerdy friend had reminded me that this was the weekend that so many historical attractions were open free of charge, a fact I promptly forgot until mid-afternoon.
Luckily, two of the destinations I wanted to visit were within spitting distance.
Arriving at the White House of the Confederacy, I lucked into a house tour starting momentarily with a guide who couldn't have been more perfect or appropriate.
The great-grandson of Confederate second lieutenant Moncure, he spoke with a southern accent so thick the crowd of two dozen or so had to strain to understand the words.
"War" came out as "woh-a," for instance.
But he was a font of information as he led us room to room through the house occupied by Jefferson Davis and his family during the war, making sure we understood the difference between the gentlemen's parlor (whiskey, smoking, political talk) and the withdrawing room (music, cultured talk).
Leading us through the grand dining room, he said it was wife Varina's favorite room with its 14' ceilings.
Scratched on the mirror over the fireplace, some young belle had used her diamond ring to scratch "John is my boy" into the surface.
The library, he said, was referred to by the family as the "snuggery" for its small size and warmth.
Perhaps most interestingly, our guide made it clear that the history books had left out a lot of pertinent information about Mr. Davis.
About what a fine Secretary of War he was under President Franklin Pierce, how he was assigned to take Black Hawk to prison, the success he had as a colonel during the Mexican-American War.
I'm not sure he convinced anyone, but he tried his best. He was inordinately proud of both Davis and the house and wanted to share his beliefs.
From there I went down the street to the Valentine for a tour of the Wickham House and this time I had a 15-minute wait.
The woman suggested I pass time at the Valentine studio, instructing me to, "Go under the flowering arch and through the breezeway."
How could there not be something wonderful at the end of that path?
Despite having been in the Valentine garden and eating at Sally Bell's there, I'd never been in the studio, a treasure trove of sculptor Edward Valentine's works.
It reminded me very much of a sculpture studio I'd seen in Italy except for all the familiar faces of Confederates.
Since I had such a short time to check it out, I resolved to go back for lunch at Sally Bell's and a longer visit with the studio.
Our tour guide for the Wickham House appeared to be about a third the age of the last one and with no discernible accent.
I'd last been in the 1812 Wickham House back in the late '80s or early '90s and they were in the process of restoring the house, so seeing so much of the restoration was pretty satisfying for me.
It was obvious that Wickham, a mere lawyer of modest means, had forged quite an economic alliance by marrying a woman who came from a family with big bucks.
Let's just say the Wickhams had a walk-in closet with a window in it.
Forget that houses back then usually had no closets, this one was as big as my kitchen (admittedly small) and had a view.
Naturally, we weren't allowed on the magnificent elliptical stairway (had to use the servants' staircase, narrow and steep), but we did see the impressive Gilbert Sullivan portrait of wife Elizabeth, the poor woman who bore him 17 children.
Even non-art geeks know artist Gilbert Sullivan; he's the one who painted the iconic portrait of George Washington so for him to have painted Elizabeth speaks to her family connections.
1%, that's all I'm saying.
Coming from a house circa the 1860s to a house from 1812 meant that even a modern day visitor was struck by the differences. No gas chandeliers in the Wickham house.
And the similarities.
Rich and powerful people have never lived like you and me.
For crying out loud, they used diamonds to leave postbellum graffiti.
Fiddle-dee-dee, indeed.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Better Than Your Dreams
It was an absolutely lovely date with myself, full of new this and new that, and right in the neighborhood, too.
With the humidity hovering at 80% but no chance of rain in the forecast, I dolled up and strolled over to the latest reason to eat four blocks from home: Graffiato.
Aware that it had just opened Wednesday, I knew enough to arrive early, sailing to the bar past disappointed people being told that the soonest a table would be available would be 10:00.
That said, any of those people could have followed my lead and sat at the bar (or even one of the rapidly filling up communal tables) rather than putting on a sad face and leaving.
Renovation on the former Popkin's space was well executed if you ignore the two screens over the bar (I can't, especially with sports on) and I easily found a seat next to a couple from Bon Air tucking into the Shire pizza with gusto.
In no time at all, we were chatting about their enthusiasm for the upcoming Southbound restaurant coming to their neck of the woods and how they hope to move into the city so they, too, can walk places.
My first choice, "Love Drunk" Rose (tag line: "When reality is better than your dreams") from Oregon had not yet arrived I was told, so I went classic with a Provence Rose, Domaine Jacourette, a pale pink delight.
The place was humming and the staff seemed enormous, black-shirted employees everywhere I looked, and within minutes, another couple took the seats to my left.
They were from the edge of the Museum District and proclaimed themselves foodies who ate out all the time, although they had to be shown where the purse hooks under the bar were.
Not a judgement, just an observation.
I took my time ordering my first course, watching one of the many bartenders make an array of complicated drinks right in front of me.
When I settled on smoked burrata with heirloom grape tomatoes, corn and arugula pesto over Billy bread, it was delivered to me by a very young looking food runner who said it was one of his two favorite dishes on the menu.
The museum couple looked over drooling, asking what I'd ordered. Turns out they'd never heard of burrata.
They were enjoying the broccolini with red pepper relish, walnuts and feta, a savory dish I'd already had at the D.C. Graffiato's last year.
A favorite local chef was having dinner at the pizza bar in the back with his family and came over to say hello and compare what we were eating.
Bon Air couple said goodnight after a discussion of Europe and empty nests and were replaced with a another couple, this one curious about the play I was going to see tonight.
Seems she'd designed an ad for Richmond Triangle Players' playbill and wanted to know if I'd seen it (not yet).
I was having no shortage of conversational partners tonight, even if everyone else was in Saturday night date mode.
From there, I ordered the Amish chicken thighs with sauteed escarole and pepperoni sauce, tasty enough although I prefer my thighs with bones.
As I was chatting to my right, couple to my left prepared to leave, tapping me on the shoulder to say goodnight and thank me for the conversation.
They'd barely left when a woman approached, asking to order a drink over me while she waited for her date to arrive.
"He's my boyfriend, but I'm 41, so it feels funny to call him that," she said, explaining that he'd been delayed.
I ask you, is man friend any better?
He soon arrived, having dropped off his 15-year old daughter at a party at a hotel (such parties didn't exist when I was 15), saying he needed a drink after all the rigmarole of getting her off to the event.
A DC Mule seemed to do the trick.
Like the other couples I'd talked to, they were impressed that it was a mere four block walk for me to Graffiato, so I asked about their home bases.
He lived on Porter Street in Manchester and she lived in the West End, but refused to call it that, stating for the record that she lived on Three Chopt ("That's the West End," he insisted).
We got to talking about how they met and she said friends had introduced them, they'd had one date but she'd realized she wasn't yet ready to date.
Eighteen months later, he asked again and they've been an item ever since.
He tried to convince me he was a bad boy, but she denied it, saying he was the nicest guy in the world.
"You have a motorcycle and race cars, but you are definitely not a bad boy," she told him with finality.
"Couldn't you at least pretend I am for my ego's sake?" he asked. They were pretty cute, but were soon called to their table and I lost them (although they asked me to come join them if I had time).
Which was fine because I had just under 15 minutes until I had to leave and my salted caramel gelato had arrived to cap off my meal.
Hopeful people were still arriving as I took my leave, secure in the knowledge that I now have one more solid choice in the 'hood for sipping and supping.
Across the street at the November Theater, people were arriving for 5th Wall Theater's production of "H2O" in the little TheaterGym space.
I chatted with one of the ticket guys, a transplanted New Yorker who'd arrived in 1995 and, like me when I got here in 1986, had a long period of adjustment to being in the south.
"I was in sales," he explained in his obvious New York accent, "and no one wanted to buy from me because I came across as not from here. Then I found out if you went to Ukrops, if they saw you there, that meant you were okay."
The Ukrops test so to speak.
Inside, my seat was primo, last row but with no chairs in front of it for a straight shot view to the stage to see what this new theater company born out of the ashes of the old Firehouse Theater could show me.
Before the play had begun, I'd heard someone say that it had no intermission and it didn't take long to see why.
The intense two-person drama focused on a self-important, successful Hollywood actor and an uptight religious fanatic who aspires to make it as an actress and it never let up.
The question was, who needed whom?
Beginning with a thwarted suicide attempt and moving through a vanity production of "Hamlet," the story was riveting because of the strength and talent of the actors, Landon Nagel and Liz Earnest, alternately tearing at each other and falling for each other.
Add in a top-notch script and some magnificently inspired direction and you get the kind of theater that first bowls you over and then gives you plenty to chew on as you leave the theater.
This was some powerful theater executed superbly.
When the play ended, the audience sat stunned, not even clapping until the lights came back up and the actors took their bows.
As for that question of who needs whom, Richmond needs 5th Wall Theater.
This from a woman who dates herself on a Saturday night and enjoys every moment of it.
With the humidity hovering at 80% but no chance of rain in the forecast, I dolled up and strolled over to the latest reason to eat four blocks from home: Graffiato.
Aware that it had just opened Wednesday, I knew enough to arrive early, sailing to the bar past disappointed people being told that the soonest a table would be available would be 10:00.
That said, any of those people could have followed my lead and sat at the bar (or even one of the rapidly filling up communal tables) rather than putting on a sad face and leaving.
Renovation on the former Popkin's space was well executed if you ignore the two screens over the bar (I can't, especially with sports on) and I easily found a seat next to a couple from Bon Air tucking into the Shire pizza with gusto.
In no time at all, we were chatting about their enthusiasm for the upcoming Southbound restaurant coming to their neck of the woods and how they hope to move into the city so they, too, can walk places.
My first choice, "Love Drunk" Rose (tag line: "When reality is better than your dreams") from Oregon had not yet arrived I was told, so I went classic with a Provence Rose, Domaine Jacourette, a pale pink delight.
The place was humming and the staff seemed enormous, black-shirted employees everywhere I looked, and within minutes, another couple took the seats to my left.
They were from the edge of the Museum District and proclaimed themselves foodies who ate out all the time, although they had to be shown where the purse hooks under the bar were.
Not a judgement, just an observation.
I took my time ordering my first course, watching one of the many bartenders make an array of complicated drinks right in front of me.
When I settled on smoked burrata with heirloom grape tomatoes, corn and arugula pesto over Billy bread, it was delivered to me by a very young looking food runner who said it was one of his two favorite dishes on the menu.
The museum couple looked over drooling, asking what I'd ordered. Turns out they'd never heard of burrata.
They were enjoying the broccolini with red pepper relish, walnuts and feta, a savory dish I'd already had at the D.C. Graffiato's last year.
A favorite local chef was having dinner at the pizza bar in the back with his family and came over to say hello and compare what we were eating.
Bon Air couple said goodnight after a discussion of Europe and empty nests and were replaced with a another couple, this one curious about the play I was going to see tonight.
Seems she'd designed an ad for Richmond Triangle Players' playbill and wanted to know if I'd seen it (not yet).
I was having no shortage of conversational partners tonight, even if everyone else was in Saturday night date mode.
From there, I ordered the Amish chicken thighs with sauteed escarole and pepperoni sauce, tasty enough although I prefer my thighs with bones.
As I was chatting to my right, couple to my left prepared to leave, tapping me on the shoulder to say goodnight and thank me for the conversation.
They'd barely left when a woman approached, asking to order a drink over me while she waited for her date to arrive.
"He's my boyfriend, but I'm 41, so it feels funny to call him that," she said, explaining that he'd been delayed.
I ask you, is man friend any better?
He soon arrived, having dropped off his 15-year old daughter at a party at a hotel (such parties didn't exist when I was 15), saying he needed a drink after all the rigmarole of getting her off to the event.
A DC Mule seemed to do the trick.
Like the other couples I'd talked to, they were impressed that it was a mere four block walk for me to Graffiato, so I asked about their home bases.
He lived on Porter Street in Manchester and she lived in the West End, but refused to call it that, stating for the record that she lived on Three Chopt ("That's the West End," he insisted).
We got to talking about how they met and she said friends had introduced them, they'd had one date but she'd realized she wasn't yet ready to date.
Eighteen months later, he asked again and they've been an item ever since.
He tried to convince me he was a bad boy, but she denied it, saying he was the nicest guy in the world.
"You have a motorcycle and race cars, but you are definitely not a bad boy," she told him with finality.
"Couldn't you at least pretend I am for my ego's sake?" he asked. They were pretty cute, but were soon called to their table and I lost them (although they asked me to come join them if I had time).
Which was fine because I had just under 15 minutes until I had to leave and my salted caramel gelato had arrived to cap off my meal.
Hopeful people were still arriving as I took my leave, secure in the knowledge that I now have one more solid choice in the 'hood for sipping and supping.
Across the street at the November Theater, people were arriving for 5th Wall Theater's production of "H2O" in the little TheaterGym space.
I chatted with one of the ticket guys, a transplanted New Yorker who'd arrived in 1995 and, like me when I got here in 1986, had a long period of adjustment to being in the south.
"I was in sales," he explained in his obvious New York accent, "and no one wanted to buy from me because I came across as not from here. Then I found out if you went to Ukrops, if they saw you there, that meant you were okay."
The Ukrops test so to speak.
Inside, my seat was primo, last row but with no chairs in front of it for a straight shot view to the stage to see what this new theater company born out of the ashes of the old Firehouse Theater could show me.
Before the play had begun, I'd heard someone say that it had no intermission and it didn't take long to see why.
The intense two-person drama focused on a self-important, successful Hollywood actor and an uptight religious fanatic who aspires to make it as an actress and it never let up.
The question was, who needed whom?
Beginning with a thwarted suicide attempt and moving through a vanity production of "Hamlet," the story was riveting because of the strength and talent of the actors, Landon Nagel and Liz Earnest, alternately tearing at each other and falling for each other.
Add in a top-notch script and some magnificently inspired direction and you get the kind of theater that first bowls you over and then gives you plenty to chew on as you leave the theater.
This was some powerful theater executed superbly.
When the play ended, the audience sat stunned, not even clapping until the lights came back up and the actors took their bows.
As for that question of who needs whom, Richmond needs 5th Wall Theater.
This from a woman who dates herself on a Saturday night and enjoys every moment of it.
Groupie #2
When a man stays up 'till 3 a.m. preparing, I want to see what he comes up with.
Park ranger and photo historian extraordinaire Mike Gorman had allowed research for his talk today to take over his life - his words- as he gathered together "Images of the Final Campaign, Richmond 1864."
I was definitely in the minority at the historic Henrico Theater, where a sea of males was only occasionally punctuated by a female face, almost all of them except me with a male companion.
His theme was "condition of repose," a quaint phrase to reflect how much times was spent between battles and that's most of what photographers of the era were able to capture.
Which is not to say necessarily restful scenes (a hanging was particularly gruesome) but frequently staged scenes to represent war to the masses (see: propaganda).
Explaining that renowned Civil War-era photographer Matthew Brady was nearly blind at the time, a fact that prevented him taking pictures, he said it did not stop him from being in the pictures.
We played a version of "Where's Waldo?" and he showed a half dozen photos with Brady posing, often front and center, in the midst of camps and battlefields.
And because he's Mike Gorman, photo nerd, he showed Civil War "movies" where he combined two or three pictures to simulate motion.
"Okay, folks, if that doesn't do it for you, thanks for coming," he wisecracked.
Humor abounded, as it always does at his talks and tours, and every time he got off on a geeky tangent or explanation, he'd say, "Here I go, I'm putting on a my propeller beanie!" and explain in detail.
His piece de resistance was an October 1864 photograph of colored Confederate troops and once he blew it up, you could see the figures of Union soldiers on earthworks in the background.
"This is the only shot of Union and Confederate troops together. It's the most impressive photograph of the Civil War," he said and the audience sat stunned and silent.
"That's the proper reaction!" he boomed, clearly satisfied at our amazement.
Another shot the Library of Congress had mis-labeled as Petersburg turned out to be, through his studied investigation, actually of our own Fort Harrison.
They don't make geeks like Mike every day, that's all I'm going to say.
I do my best to attend his talks and tours because you never know what this guy digs up at 2 a.m. sitting in his underwear in front of the computer while eating popcorn and drinking a beer.
No doubt with his propeller beanie on.
Park ranger and photo historian extraordinaire Mike Gorman had allowed research for his talk today to take over his life - his words- as he gathered together "Images of the Final Campaign, Richmond 1864."
I was definitely in the minority at the historic Henrico Theater, where a sea of males was only occasionally punctuated by a female face, almost all of them except me with a male companion.
His theme was "condition of repose," a quaint phrase to reflect how much times was spent between battles and that's most of what photographers of the era were able to capture.
Which is not to say necessarily restful scenes (a hanging was particularly gruesome) but frequently staged scenes to represent war to the masses (see: propaganda).
Explaining that renowned Civil War-era photographer Matthew Brady was nearly blind at the time, a fact that prevented him taking pictures, he said it did not stop him from being in the pictures.
We played a version of "Where's Waldo?" and he showed a half dozen photos with Brady posing, often front and center, in the midst of camps and battlefields.
And because he's Mike Gorman, photo nerd, he showed Civil War "movies" where he combined two or three pictures to simulate motion.
"Okay, folks, if that doesn't do it for you, thanks for coming," he wisecracked.
Humor abounded, as it always does at his talks and tours, and every time he got off on a geeky tangent or explanation, he'd say, "Here I go, I'm putting on a my propeller beanie!" and explain in detail.
His piece de resistance was an October 1864 photograph of colored Confederate troops and once he blew it up, you could see the figures of Union soldiers on earthworks in the background.
"This is the only shot of Union and Confederate troops together. It's the most impressive photograph of the Civil War," he said and the audience sat stunned and silent.
"That's the proper reaction!" he boomed, clearly satisfied at our amazement.
Another shot the Library of Congress had mis-labeled as Petersburg turned out to be, through his studied investigation, actually of our own Fort Harrison.
They don't make geeks like Mike every day, that's all I'm going to say.
I do my best to attend his talks and tours because you never know what this guy digs up at 2 a.m. sitting in his underwear in front of the computer while eating popcorn and drinking a beer.
No doubt with his propeller beanie on.
Lunch is for Later
The thing about brunch is, some people just want breakfast.
When we'd made these plans, I thought it was for lunch. Turns out my companions had other ideas so we detoured to Perly's instead.
No one was surprised at how busy it was, but it didn't take too long to get seated at a booth and out of the way of the bustling servers.
It was my first look at the morning menu - dubbed "Sunrise" - which offered all kinds of temptations (but no pig products) and after some discussion, we placed our order with our smiling server.
Time to socialize.
The artist in the group shared pictures of some of his latest endeavors, everything from his handmade groovy guitar strap to a recent painting and textile wall hanging incorporating beads and figures.
Meanwhile, the False Cape expedition survivor (humongous horse flies, horrific heat and flying tents) told us about her upcoming trip next week to Yosemite, Tahoe and Sacramento.
The best I could do was talk about the stellar band I'd seen last night at Balliceaux.
We had plenty of time to chat because our food took a while to arrive, understandably given the jam-packed restaurant and the fact that they've barely been open two weeks.
When our server arrived, she had only two plates in hand and put them down in front of my companions; at that moment there was a loud crash from the back.
"Gee, I hope that wasn't yours," she said to me with a slight grimace and grin.
Fortunately, it wasn't and soon we were all tucking in to our breakfasts as a light rain fell outside.
Chocolate babka French toast with banana cream anglaise and blueberries was decadent without being too chocolaty (given that it was the first meal of the day) and got even better with the addition of the salt component in the form of strips of turkey bacon.
Two of us did the build your own breakfast, enjoying kishka - beef sausage with oatmeal- for the first time and debating what makes better toast, seeded rye or challah.
My vote is for the former, slathered with butter and strawberry jam delivered in a ramekin.
People kept arriving as we ate and they ran the gamut, some of them no doubt long-time Perly's regulars from its last incarnation and plenty of others looking more like they'd arrived via the Black Sheep connection since the chef is the same one who launched that brunch mecca.
Boldly ordering a cross between dessert and a drink, the artist got the shickered egg cream (delivered in a miniature glass milk bottle), a compelling combination of bourbon, cream, cream de cacao, Fex's U-Bet chocolate syrup and almond orgeat seltzer fizz.
Because sometimes when you want breakfast, you also want a bit of a buzz.
I think that's why they call it brunch.
When we'd made these plans, I thought it was for lunch. Turns out my companions had other ideas so we detoured to Perly's instead.
No one was surprised at how busy it was, but it didn't take too long to get seated at a booth and out of the way of the bustling servers.
It was my first look at the morning menu - dubbed "Sunrise" - which offered all kinds of temptations (but no pig products) and after some discussion, we placed our order with our smiling server.
Time to socialize.
The artist in the group shared pictures of some of his latest endeavors, everything from his handmade groovy guitar strap to a recent painting and textile wall hanging incorporating beads and figures.
Meanwhile, the False Cape expedition survivor (humongous horse flies, horrific heat and flying tents) told us about her upcoming trip next week to Yosemite, Tahoe and Sacramento.
The best I could do was talk about the stellar band I'd seen last night at Balliceaux.
We had plenty of time to chat because our food took a while to arrive, understandably given the jam-packed restaurant and the fact that they've barely been open two weeks.
When our server arrived, she had only two plates in hand and put them down in front of my companions; at that moment there was a loud crash from the back.
"Gee, I hope that wasn't yours," she said to me with a slight grimace and grin.
Fortunately, it wasn't and soon we were all tucking in to our breakfasts as a light rain fell outside.
Chocolate babka French toast with banana cream anglaise and blueberries was decadent without being too chocolaty (given that it was the first meal of the day) and got even better with the addition of the salt component in the form of strips of turkey bacon.
Two of us did the build your own breakfast, enjoying kishka - beef sausage with oatmeal- for the first time and debating what makes better toast, seeded rye or challah.
My vote is for the former, slathered with butter and strawberry jam delivered in a ramekin.
People kept arriving as we ate and they ran the gamut, some of them no doubt long-time Perly's regulars from its last incarnation and plenty of others looking more like they'd arrived via the Black Sheep connection since the chef is the same one who launched that brunch mecca.
Boldly ordering a cross between dessert and a drink, the artist got the shickered egg cream (delivered in a miniature glass milk bottle), a compelling combination of bourbon, cream, cream de cacao, Fex's U-Bet chocolate syrup and almond orgeat seltzer fizz.
Because sometimes when you want breakfast, you also want a bit of a buzz.
I think that's why they call it brunch.
All Over the Map
It was a well-traveled evening.
Going to the Westhampton to see Woody Allen's latest, "Magic in the Moonlight," got me fabulous views of the south of France: azure blue seas, rose bowers so colorful you could almost smell them and winding tree-lined roadways circa 1928.
From the film's opening strains of Cole Porter's "You Do Something to Me," it announced itself as a Woody Allen movie.
Naturally, the language was delightful ("That young milksop who's smitten with her") and the life lessons spot on ("It's not where you go, it's who you travel with").
The story of a jaded and celebrated magician who sets out to debunk a dewy, so-called psychic was not Allen's best work but I'm not going to complain about looking at Colin Firth for two hours, even if he did play a grumpy, unromantic pragmatist who sees no need to pause and enjoy the pleasures of life.
Well, at least until he meets a sunny optimist with a great smile.
It was the age-old argument of fact versus fantasy, science versus magic and whether it's wise to take some things on faith.
Could it be possible some people are more cosmically in tune and can "see" things most of us can't?
All I know is that I was at a gathering back in the '90s and a psychic was present and when she stopped to talk to me, she took a ring from my hand, closed her eyes and told me things she couldn't possibly have known because no one else in the room knew them.
I'm talking things about a death very close to me and about a particular person who had meant a lot to me and she spouted off both.
So while Colin Firth's character didn't believe some people have a spiritual capability, I do.
Walking out of the theater, I found the sidewalk crawling with pods of young families with kids waiting for the dubious pleasures of eating at The Continental.
Stepping over the smallest ones sprawled on the sidewalk, I escaped back to my world to take my hired mouth out to eat, filling my belly (and taking mental notes) to fortify myself for the rest of the evening's activities.
Reynolds Gallery had two openings tonight: a solo show by Isabel Bigelow and a group show, "Taking Off: Hot, New Painters," of up and coming artists from New York and Chicago.
Moments after walking in, an artist I'd interviewed last year approached me to say hello, followed by a history and art buff I inevitably see at cultural happenings.
The kind of person who's trying to choose between going to an air show or a historical re-enactment. A nerd like me, in other words.
The perception of art openings as dull, dry affairs is a myth; they're highly social evenings fueled by wine and conversation.
But also art.
Bigelow's paintings were gorgeous images of nature in isolation, say a branch or a slice of river, rendered in a limited number of colors.
What the hot, new crew painters had in common was that they were all reworking abstraction in their own ways.
If I had pockets deep enough, I'd have shelled out for Nicole Mauser's "Untitled," a gorgeous piece of color abstraction. But alas, my pockets are so shallow they're almost concave, so I left with just memories of the big cities and the art they spawn.
It was time for music.
Sure, I'd been at Balliceaux just last night but that was for rock and tonight they were presenting world music from eastern Europe with a dash of folk and jazz fronted by Zeb Bangash, a Pakistani singer, and Michael Winograd, a virtuoso clarinet player.
Who stays home on a Friday night and misses that?
Waiting for the doors to open, one of the bartenders walked by raising an eyebrow at me. "Two nights in a row, Karen?"
Shortly after, a saxophonist friend appeared, smiling and saying, "I thought I'd see you here."
I gave him major points for being there since he has to be on the road to Charlottesville at the crack of dawn tomorrow to play from 9 in the morning until noon.
Because the band didn't start until after 11, we had plenty of time to chat about our dedication to endurance training (his running, my walking), the perks of the freelance lifestyle (he teaches music lessons) and the unique charms of what he called "suburban dive bars" such as Sharky's (been there, done that) and Daddio's.
When Sandaraa finally took the stage, we were looking at a singer, violinist and bassist (all female), guitarist, accordionist, drummer and clarinetist, making for a sonic pallet able to bridge rock, Balkan, Afghani, Klezmer and NYC, where the group is now based.
The music soon had two couples at one of the booths dancing tavern-style in the booth, hands clasped with each other and over their heads.
That was just the beginning and before long one couple, then two, then three took to the dance floor to move to the decidedly eastern- sounding music.
If some of their dance moves looked a lot like Deadhead dancers, well, so be it.
Each song seemed to bridge multiple genres, always with Zeb's exotic-sounding voice pulling it all together, and often taking off on accordion and clarinet tangents.
The crowd wasn't large (no doubt the $10 price tag kept all the pretty people out, actually a good thing since they usually gab through shows), but it was quality, with everyone obviously there for the music, too often a rarity.
I started in the back of the room but eventually moved up front to better see the band, putting myself squarely in dancing territory.
Might be the first time I ever moved to a Pakistani singer.
Of course I'd be here.
Going to the Westhampton to see Woody Allen's latest, "Magic in the Moonlight," got me fabulous views of the south of France: azure blue seas, rose bowers so colorful you could almost smell them and winding tree-lined roadways circa 1928.
From the film's opening strains of Cole Porter's "You Do Something to Me," it announced itself as a Woody Allen movie.
Naturally, the language was delightful ("That young milksop who's smitten with her") and the life lessons spot on ("It's not where you go, it's who you travel with").
The story of a jaded and celebrated magician who sets out to debunk a dewy, so-called psychic was not Allen's best work but I'm not going to complain about looking at Colin Firth for two hours, even if he did play a grumpy, unromantic pragmatist who sees no need to pause and enjoy the pleasures of life.
Well, at least until he meets a sunny optimist with a great smile.
It was the age-old argument of fact versus fantasy, science versus magic and whether it's wise to take some things on faith.
Could it be possible some people are more cosmically in tune and can "see" things most of us can't?
All I know is that I was at a gathering back in the '90s and a psychic was present and when she stopped to talk to me, she took a ring from my hand, closed her eyes and told me things she couldn't possibly have known because no one else in the room knew them.
I'm talking things about a death very close to me and about a particular person who had meant a lot to me and she spouted off both.
So while Colin Firth's character didn't believe some people have a spiritual capability, I do.
Walking out of the theater, I found the sidewalk crawling with pods of young families with kids waiting for the dubious pleasures of eating at The Continental.
Stepping over the smallest ones sprawled on the sidewalk, I escaped back to my world to take my hired mouth out to eat, filling my belly (and taking mental notes) to fortify myself for the rest of the evening's activities.
Reynolds Gallery had two openings tonight: a solo show by Isabel Bigelow and a group show, "Taking Off: Hot, New Painters," of up and coming artists from New York and Chicago.
Moments after walking in, an artist I'd interviewed last year approached me to say hello, followed by a history and art buff I inevitably see at cultural happenings.
The kind of person who's trying to choose between going to an air show or a historical re-enactment. A nerd like me, in other words.
The perception of art openings as dull, dry affairs is a myth; they're highly social evenings fueled by wine and conversation.
But also art.
Bigelow's paintings were gorgeous images of nature in isolation, say a branch or a slice of river, rendered in a limited number of colors.
What the hot, new crew painters had in common was that they were all reworking abstraction in their own ways.
If I had pockets deep enough, I'd have shelled out for Nicole Mauser's "Untitled," a gorgeous piece of color abstraction. But alas, my pockets are so shallow they're almost concave, so I left with just memories of the big cities and the art they spawn.
It was time for music.
Sure, I'd been at Balliceaux just last night but that was for rock and tonight they were presenting world music from eastern Europe with a dash of folk and jazz fronted by Zeb Bangash, a Pakistani singer, and Michael Winograd, a virtuoso clarinet player.
Who stays home on a Friday night and misses that?
Waiting for the doors to open, one of the bartenders walked by raising an eyebrow at me. "Two nights in a row, Karen?"
Shortly after, a saxophonist friend appeared, smiling and saying, "I thought I'd see you here."
I gave him major points for being there since he has to be on the road to Charlottesville at the crack of dawn tomorrow to play from 9 in the morning until noon.
Because the band didn't start until after 11, we had plenty of time to chat about our dedication to endurance training (his running, my walking), the perks of the freelance lifestyle (he teaches music lessons) and the unique charms of what he called "suburban dive bars" such as Sharky's (been there, done that) and Daddio's.
When Sandaraa finally took the stage, we were looking at a singer, violinist and bassist (all female), guitarist, accordionist, drummer and clarinetist, making for a sonic pallet able to bridge rock, Balkan, Afghani, Klezmer and NYC, where the group is now based.
The music soon had two couples at one of the booths dancing tavern-style in the booth, hands clasped with each other and over their heads.
That was just the beginning and before long one couple, then two, then three took to the dance floor to move to the decidedly eastern- sounding music.
If some of their dance moves looked a lot like Deadhead dancers, well, so be it.
Each song seemed to bridge multiple genres, always with Zeb's exotic-sounding voice pulling it all together, and often taking off on accordion and clarinet tangents.
The crowd wasn't large (no doubt the $10 price tag kept all the pretty people out, actually a good thing since they usually gab through shows), but it was quality, with everyone obviously there for the music, too often a rarity.
I started in the back of the room but eventually moved up front to better see the band, putting myself squarely in dancing territory.
Might be the first time I ever moved to a Pakistani singer.
Of course I'd be here.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Peculiar Sorts and Lutzes
Mind first, booty second.
Tonight was the first in Henley Street/Richmond Shakespeare's new historical play reading series dedicated to works descended from Shakespeare's use of language.
Hardly surprisingly, I had a ticket to join a favorite couple for it.
They found me in the second row with enough time to tell me about their trip this weekend to Newport and their recent entry into the world of cooking before the lights went down.
"Omnium Gatherum," a 2003 play (and one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Prize) about a group of New Yorkers at a dinner party was fascinating, thought-provoking, groan-inducing and topical.
I drink to make other people interesting.
Although the dinner conversation between the seven - and eventually eight - guests ("a collection of peculiar sorts") centered around September 11th and its aftereffects, there wasn't a topic covered that wasn't still relevant today, sadly, eleven years later.
Lively and contentious debate is the heart of every good dinner party.
In addition to all kinds of political discourse, the hostess described in minute detail every dish she was serving her guests, no doubt an early nod to the burgeoning foodie movement.
When a guest asks for ranch dressing for the salad, the hostess, recoils in horror. "Ranch??"
Although it was just a reading, the cast was outstanding, featuring actors I recognized - the always excellent Dean Knight (this time with a British accent) and the Artsie-nominated Katrinah Carol Lewis who sang an off-key version of "The Greatest Love" despite her having a fabulous voice- and some I didn't.
I've never been a fan of frisee. Too wild on the plate.
As was the prevailing sentiment at the time, it was mentioned that "print is dead" (fortunately, still not entirely true) and the New York Times was skewered as "a paper of record or a pacifier of bourgeoisie."
No dinner party is any good unless someone is drinking too fast.
So many "isms" were represented - feminism, capitalism, consumerism, terrorism, heroism - and all were discussed and debated to varying degrees of success.
We're evolving but the power system isn't.
Serious as some of the subject matter was, the play also had many laughs, never more so than when the hostess attempts to smooth things over with a change in topic.
A guest acknowledges it by calling it "a veritable triple lutz of a conversational leap," the line I nominate as indicative of the quality of language in the play.
Afterwards, there was a talkback with a three-person panel, a class from UR and all the attendees resulting in a lot of commentary about the pre-and post-9/11 world.
My friends and I had to laugh when one of the UR freshmen mentioned his grasp of the old world order because he'd been alive when the terrorist attacks occurred.
Of course, he'd been in kindergarten, but he wanted to be counted among those who "knew" the world before the attacks. I don't think so, youngster.
The talkback went on longer than planned because so many people had thoughts to share, questions to ask and points to make about the play.
My friends and I stood outside on the sidewalk for fifteen minutes discussing it ourselves, unable to stop our discourse on all the intriguing points raised.
My mind had been thoroughly goosed.
Then it was on to Balliceaux where I ran into a favorite trumpet player loitering outside Kuba, Kuba as I walked from my car.
Squeezing through the crowd around the front door, I headed to the back for a double bill where garage rock band Cherry Pits was hitting it hard when I walked in.
The Americana songbird spotted me at once ("We need to plan our date!"), the DJ was showing off her pretty toenail polish and the guitarist/foodie questioned my whereabouts ("Where were you this weekend at Fall Line Fest?") only to learn we had just barely missed each other Saturday at two different venues.
When I asked how proto-punk band Death had been, he shook his head and uttered what may the epitaph of the evening.
"You can't re-inflate a souffle," he explained glumly but with a masterful metaphor.
Cherry Pits' thrash-filled set ended with the best possible song: "My Baby's a Bitch," which had the crowd in a frenzy by the end.
While Hot Dolphin set up, I chatted with a friend about when the Valentine will re-open (late October if the contractors keep showing up), why a 40-year old should get carded at the door and why dresses beat pants every time.
Then it was time for main event, a show I was overdue for, not having seen the local rockers since last summer.
The band - drummer, guitarist and bassist - set up on the stage but front woman Lindsey - adorably dressed in a polka dot shirt with peplum, black mini and silver head band - had her mic stand on the floor so she'd have plenty of room to move.
"Thanks to Balliceaux for hosting a rock show!" she said to get things started on a Thursday night.
When I'd first seen Hot Dolphin, I'd been amazed at how she never stopped dancing. Ever.
She still hasn't and that's a very good thing because it ensures that the crowd understands that this is music to shake your tail feathers to.
Like sheep to the slaughter, she totally owns the crowd and they follow along l thrilled to have her leading them.
To give you an idea, her sound check was a scream, then she entreated us to come closer (the better to stick the mic in fans' faces to sing along) and surround her.
A photographer friend planted himself in the front row, the better to capture the energy happening a few feet from his lens.
Simply put, girls want to be her and men want to have her. Everyone was into her and the energetic music.
When she snarled, "Put your hands together," you'd better believe people did.
Each song was a three-minute sensory assault and not since Stevie Nicks has there been such a whirling dervish of a singer dancing, twirling and playing tambourine to a rapt audience.
After their last song, she understandably had quite the sheen and took a swig of her beer, announcing, "We're done! We're Hot Dolphin. We have t-shirts and that's it."
I'd gotten plenty of dancing of my own in, a fitting finish to an evening that had begun with my body still and my mind fully engaged.
Walking down Lombardy to my car after the show, two girls behind me chattered away about what they'd just seen.
"I wish I could be as sexy as her," one said enviously. "If I could wear my hair like that, I so would," said the other.
I considered turning around and telling them that that wasn't the point, that it was the energy, passion and obvious enjoyment she brought to the music that was worth emulating.
A quick glimpse back and I knew there was no point.
They looked like they'd probably been in kindergarten on 9/11. A triple lutz of a conversational leap would fly right over their heads.
New world order.
Tonight was the first in Henley Street/Richmond Shakespeare's new historical play reading series dedicated to works descended from Shakespeare's use of language.
Hardly surprisingly, I had a ticket to join a favorite couple for it.
They found me in the second row with enough time to tell me about their trip this weekend to Newport and their recent entry into the world of cooking before the lights went down.
"Omnium Gatherum," a 2003 play (and one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Prize) about a group of New Yorkers at a dinner party was fascinating, thought-provoking, groan-inducing and topical.
I drink to make other people interesting.
Although the dinner conversation between the seven - and eventually eight - guests ("a collection of peculiar sorts") centered around September 11th and its aftereffects, there wasn't a topic covered that wasn't still relevant today, sadly, eleven years later.
Lively and contentious debate is the heart of every good dinner party.
In addition to all kinds of political discourse, the hostess described in minute detail every dish she was serving her guests, no doubt an early nod to the burgeoning foodie movement.
When a guest asks for ranch dressing for the salad, the hostess, recoils in horror. "Ranch??"
Although it was just a reading, the cast was outstanding, featuring actors I recognized - the always excellent Dean Knight (this time with a British accent) and the Artsie-nominated Katrinah Carol Lewis who sang an off-key version of "The Greatest Love" despite her having a fabulous voice- and some I didn't.
I've never been a fan of frisee. Too wild on the plate.
As was the prevailing sentiment at the time, it was mentioned that "print is dead" (fortunately, still not entirely true) and the New York Times was skewered as "a paper of record or a pacifier of bourgeoisie."
No dinner party is any good unless someone is drinking too fast.
So many "isms" were represented - feminism, capitalism, consumerism, terrorism, heroism - and all were discussed and debated to varying degrees of success.
We're evolving but the power system isn't.
Serious as some of the subject matter was, the play also had many laughs, never more so than when the hostess attempts to smooth things over with a change in topic.
A guest acknowledges it by calling it "a veritable triple lutz of a conversational leap," the line I nominate as indicative of the quality of language in the play.
Afterwards, there was a talkback with a three-person panel, a class from UR and all the attendees resulting in a lot of commentary about the pre-and post-9/11 world.
My friends and I had to laugh when one of the UR freshmen mentioned his grasp of the old world order because he'd been alive when the terrorist attacks occurred.
Of course, he'd been in kindergarten, but he wanted to be counted among those who "knew" the world before the attacks. I don't think so, youngster.
The talkback went on longer than planned because so many people had thoughts to share, questions to ask and points to make about the play.
My friends and I stood outside on the sidewalk for fifteen minutes discussing it ourselves, unable to stop our discourse on all the intriguing points raised.
My mind had been thoroughly goosed.
Then it was on to Balliceaux where I ran into a favorite trumpet player loitering outside Kuba, Kuba as I walked from my car.
Squeezing through the crowd around the front door, I headed to the back for a double bill where garage rock band Cherry Pits was hitting it hard when I walked in.
The Americana songbird spotted me at once ("We need to plan our date!"), the DJ was showing off her pretty toenail polish and the guitarist/foodie questioned my whereabouts ("Where were you this weekend at Fall Line Fest?") only to learn we had just barely missed each other Saturday at two different venues.
When I asked how proto-punk band Death had been, he shook his head and uttered what may the epitaph of the evening.
"You can't re-inflate a souffle," he explained glumly but with a masterful metaphor.
Cherry Pits' thrash-filled set ended with the best possible song: "My Baby's a Bitch," which had the crowd in a frenzy by the end.
While Hot Dolphin set up, I chatted with a friend about when the Valentine will re-open (late October if the contractors keep showing up), why a 40-year old should get carded at the door and why dresses beat pants every time.
Then it was time for main event, a show I was overdue for, not having seen the local rockers since last summer.
The band - drummer, guitarist and bassist - set up on the stage but front woman Lindsey - adorably dressed in a polka dot shirt with peplum, black mini and silver head band - had her mic stand on the floor so she'd have plenty of room to move.
"Thanks to Balliceaux for hosting a rock show!" she said to get things started on a Thursday night.
When I'd first seen Hot Dolphin, I'd been amazed at how she never stopped dancing. Ever.
She still hasn't and that's a very good thing because it ensures that the crowd understands that this is music to shake your tail feathers to.
Like sheep to the slaughter, she totally owns the crowd and they follow along l thrilled to have her leading them.
To give you an idea, her sound check was a scream, then she entreated us to come closer (the better to stick the mic in fans' faces to sing along) and surround her.
A photographer friend planted himself in the front row, the better to capture the energy happening a few feet from his lens.
Simply put, girls want to be her and men want to have her. Everyone was into her and the energetic music.
When she snarled, "Put your hands together," you'd better believe people did.
Each song was a three-minute sensory assault and not since Stevie Nicks has there been such a whirling dervish of a singer dancing, twirling and playing tambourine to a rapt audience.
After their last song, she understandably had quite the sheen and took a swig of her beer, announcing, "We're done! We're Hot Dolphin. We have t-shirts and that's it."
I'd gotten plenty of dancing of my own in, a fitting finish to an evening that had begun with my body still and my mind fully engaged.
Walking down Lombardy to my car after the show, two girls behind me chattered away about what they'd just seen.
"I wish I could be as sexy as her," one said enviously. "If I could wear my hair like that, I so would," said the other.
I considered turning around and telling them that that wasn't the point, that it was the energy, passion and obvious enjoyment she brought to the music that was worth emulating.
A quick glimpse back and I knew there was no point.
They looked like they'd probably been in kindergarten on 9/11. A triple lutz of a conversational leap would fly right over their heads.
New world order.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Take Me Home
I promise, after today, I'm going to nail my feet to the floor and stay home.
But how could I pass up a quickie trip up 95 to my hometown?
Couldn't.
First, there was barbecue and a wine tasting featuring such delights as champagne (yes, made in Champagne) made from Spanish Tempranillo grapes, a suave Spanish wine rep from Miami who came across like Jeff Goldblum, plus meeting a third generation Spanish winemaker named Amelia.
Talking to another wine rep, I learned he had lived in Jackson Ward back in the '90s, "Back when you had to run to your car when you left your house." He asked if I remembered Bird in Hand (danced there many nights) and if Bamboo was still there.
Like cockroaches, Bamboo will outlast us all.
Then it was on to our nation's capital for a trip to the Corcoran, significant because at the end of the month, they close their doors to restructure as part of the National Gallery of Art.
In the meantime, admission is free and since it had been at least seven years since I'd been there, I wanted to see their collection before it gets redistributed or parts put in storage.
There was only enough time for a few galleries, so first was modern and contemporary - Cy Twombley, Ellsworth Kelly, Warhol - and then photography.
Besides classic photographers such as Ansel Adams, Walker Evans and Dorthea Lange, I saw a Linda Connor, an artist I'd very much enjoyed interviewing when she had a show at Candela Gallery last Fall.
You see art differently when you've met the artist.
Then it was downstairs to see "An Intimate View: European Art from the Collections," a dazzling array of paintings by Pissaro, Renoir, Gainsborough, Turner, even a Rembrandt nonchalantly hanging over a fireplace mantel.
My guess is every one of them will end up in the National Gallery, for better or for worse.
But the piece that I absolutely fell in love with today was Corot's "Le Repos," a reclining nude in a sylvan setting, so unlike anything I'd ever seen of Corot's before.
What a wonderful thing it must be to be painted and immortalized for generations to admire.
Promptly at 5:00, guards let it be known that visitors were unwelcome and I left the old Corcoran for the final time. Sigh.
But being up close with beauty continued at Dumbarton Oaks, a 53-acre property in Georgetown with elaborate gardens such as mere mortals could only dream of.
Flower gardens (cleome, dahlias, phlox), a cutting garden, a vegetable garden, herb garden, a low pool with a site-specific art and sound installation in it, a rose garden (heirloom varieties and I stopped to smell as many as I could) and an inviting swimming pool.
If I'd had my bathing suit with me, I'd have gone in the pool just so I could say I had.
Garden room after garden room were connected by wooden and stone steps as we made our way around the property, something truly spectacular around every turn.
It helped knowing someone who worked there so that we could enjoy wine at a handmade table near the pool and watch a hawk soar above us (at least until dusk when the bats arrived) and talk about everything and nothing on a beautiful evening.
I was asked how it was I'd lived in Washington all those years and never been to Dumbarton Oaks and I was ashamed to admit I had no answer for that.
Here's hoping I get another chance to go.
For dinner, I chose Roofers Union in Adams Morgan, eschewing the downstairs bar with a guitarist singing and the enormous second floor dining room for the rooftop deck and a table facing the rising yellow moon.
For a short person like me, it was just possible to see it over the railing by pushing myself up in my chair and craning.
With a view of other rooftop decks, Madame Organ's Blues Bar lording over the bustling street below and assorted aircraft, it was an ideal place fora voyeur an observer.
Wine was pink - Chateau de Montfaucon "Les Gardettes" Rose - and our server was a perky Britney.
About the time grilled asparagus with Romesco arrived, so did the clouds that proceeded to obscure that gorgeous almost-Supermoon, but we held out hope that they'd move through quickly.
For dinner, I chose veal heart sausage with slaw in a pretzel roll, an obscenely rich and huge offering from the "stuffed" section of the menu (as opposed to stacked, skewered, simple or smoked) and which I'm proud to say I finished most of.
May my arteries rest in peace.
By the time I ordered a sundae with pretzel brittle, chocolate and malt, the clouds were giving us intermittent glimpses of the now bright white moon, finally high enough in the sky that I didn't need to raise up to see it.
A lovely breeze, a tease of a moon and a day that had included art, gardens and stellar company.
I'd have been a fool to pass that up...not that my Mama raised a fool.
But how could I pass up a quickie trip up 95 to my hometown?
Couldn't.
First, there was barbecue and a wine tasting featuring such delights as champagne (yes, made in Champagne) made from Spanish Tempranillo grapes, a suave Spanish wine rep from Miami who came across like Jeff Goldblum, plus meeting a third generation Spanish winemaker named Amelia.
Talking to another wine rep, I learned he had lived in Jackson Ward back in the '90s, "Back when you had to run to your car when you left your house." He asked if I remembered Bird in Hand (danced there many nights) and if Bamboo was still there.
Like cockroaches, Bamboo will outlast us all.
Then it was on to our nation's capital for a trip to the Corcoran, significant because at the end of the month, they close their doors to restructure as part of the National Gallery of Art.
In the meantime, admission is free and since it had been at least seven years since I'd been there, I wanted to see their collection before it gets redistributed or parts put in storage.
There was only enough time for a few galleries, so first was modern and contemporary - Cy Twombley, Ellsworth Kelly, Warhol - and then photography.
Besides classic photographers such as Ansel Adams, Walker Evans and Dorthea Lange, I saw a Linda Connor, an artist I'd very much enjoyed interviewing when she had a show at Candela Gallery last Fall.
You see art differently when you've met the artist.
Then it was downstairs to see "An Intimate View: European Art from the Collections," a dazzling array of paintings by Pissaro, Renoir, Gainsborough, Turner, even a Rembrandt nonchalantly hanging over a fireplace mantel.
My guess is every one of them will end up in the National Gallery, for better or for worse.
But the piece that I absolutely fell in love with today was Corot's "Le Repos," a reclining nude in a sylvan setting, so unlike anything I'd ever seen of Corot's before.
What a wonderful thing it must be to be painted and immortalized for generations to admire.
Promptly at 5:00, guards let it be known that visitors were unwelcome and I left the old Corcoran for the final time. Sigh.
But being up close with beauty continued at Dumbarton Oaks, a 53-acre property in Georgetown with elaborate gardens such as mere mortals could only dream of.
Flower gardens (cleome, dahlias, phlox), a cutting garden, a vegetable garden, herb garden, a low pool with a site-specific art and sound installation in it, a rose garden (heirloom varieties and I stopped to smell as many as I could) and an inviting swimming pool.
If I'd had my bathing suit with me, I'd have gone in the pool just so I could say I had.
Garden room after garden room were connected by wooden and stone steps as we made our way around the property, something truly spectacular around every turn.
It helped knowing someone who worked there so that we could enjoy wine at a handmade table near the pool and watch a hawk soar above us (at least until dusk when the bats arrived) and talk about everything and nothing on a beautiful evening.
I was asked how it was I'd lived in Washington all those years and never been to Dumbarton Oaks and I was ashamed to admit I had no answer for that.
Here's hoping I get another chance to go.
For dinner, I chose Roofers Union in Adams Morgan, eschewing the downstairs bar with a guitarist singing and the enormous second floor dining room for the rooftop deck and a table facing the rising yellow moon.
For a short person like me, it was just possible to see it over the railing by pushing myself up in my chair and craning.
With a view of other rooftop decks, Madame Organ's Blues Bar lording over the bustling street below and assorted aircraft, it was an ideal place for
Wine was pink - Chateau de Montfaucon "Les Gardettes" Rose - and our server was a perky Britney.
About the time grilled asparagus with Romesco arrived, so did the clouds that proceeded to obscure that gorgeous almost-Supermoon, but we held out hope that they'd move through quickly.
For dinner, I chose veal heart sausage with slaw in a pretzel roll, an obscenely rich and huge offering from the "stuffed" section of the menu (as opposed to stacked, skewered, simple or smoked) and which I'm proud to say I finished most of.
May my arteries rest in peace.
By the time I ordered a sundae with pretzel brittle, chocolate and malt, the clouds were giving us intermittent glimpses of the now bright white moon, finally high enough in the sky that I didn't need to raise up to see it.
A lovely breeze, a tease of a moon and a day that had included art, gardens and stellar company.
I'd have been a fool to pass that up...not that my Mama raised a fool.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Spice of Life
With memories of all the delectable food I've been eating the past few days, I went out for food porn.
Movieland was showing "The Hundred Foot Journey" and a friend had recommended it with the caveat that it was wise to suspend disbelief before watching it.
Isn't that usually the way with a Lasse Hallstrom movie?
Besides, I wasn't seeking out a challenging film, just gorgeous scenery (the south of France), terrific acting (Dame Helen Mirren and Indian actor Om Puri whose sparring is a highlight of the movie) and lingering shots of food preparation that made my buttered popcorn seem woefully inadequate.
There were only six of us in the theater, just enough to hear other people laugh and groan when something happened, a vital part of theater-going.
The story of an Indian family (and the talented son who cooks) who flees their home and restaurant due to political unrest and lands in France to try the restaurant business there was drawn from what was apparently a best-selling book in 2010 by the same name.
Okay, I'll admit I'd never heard of the book.
Because it was set in France, the movie wisely met the one requirement of all French films: a female character who only wore dresses and rode a bike.
As one who has worn dresses and biked plenty of times, I'm not judging, just observing.
The family's restaurant, hilariously named Maison Mumbai, is across the street from a classic French restaurant that has one Michelin star and the film featured trips to a colorful market, bucolic scenes of the young Indian chef fishing in a stream and lots of fireworks on Bastille Day.
Make no mistake, there was also racial prejudice, senseless violence and dirty tricks, so it wasn't all soft focus la-la land stuff.
Best of all, there were two romances, the young (attractive and earnest Indian chef and bike-riding French sous chef) and old (uptight French widow and garrulous Indian widower) to remind us that food and love go hand in hand.
"Fine cuisine is not an old, tired marriage but a passionate affair," Madame Mallory tells her staff.
Amen to that in life and on the table.
After our young, handsome hero wins a second star for Madame and is wooed away to Paris to an innovative restaurant where smoke and molecular gastronomy dominate, he decides to come back to southern France where his family and the lovely sous chef welcome him back with open arms.
Because, we are told, food is memories.
Should those memories ever fail me, I've got years of posts to remind me of all the passionate affairs I've eaten.
Movieland was showing "The Hundred Foot Journey" and a friend had recommended it with the caveat that it was wise to suspend disbelief before watching it.
Isn't that usually the way with a Lasse Hallstrom movie?
Besides, I wasn't seeking out a challenging film, just gorgeous scenery (the south of France), terrific acting (Dame Helen Mirren and Indian actor Om Puri whose sparring is a highlight of the movie) and lingering shots of food preparation that made my buttered popcorn seem woefully inadequate.
There were only six of us in the theater, just enough to hear other people laugh and groan when something happened, a vital part of theater-going.
The story of an Indian family (and the talented son who cooks) who flees their home and restaurant due to political unrest and lands in France to try the restaurant business there was drawn from what was apparently a best-selling book in 2010 by the same name.
Okay, I'll admit I'd never heard of the book.
Because it was set in France, the movie wisely met the one requirement of all French films: a female character who only wore dresses and rode a bike.
As one who has worn dresses and biked plenty of times, I'm not judging, just observing.
The family's restaurant, hilariously named Maison Mumbai, is across the street from a classic French restaurant that has one Michelin star and the film featured trips to a colorful market, bucolic scenes of the young Indian chef fishing in a stream and lots of fireworks on Bastille Day.
Make no mistake, there was also racial prejudice, senseless violence and dirty tricks, so it wasn't all soft focus la-la land stuff.
Best of all, there were two romances, the young (attractive and earnest Indian chef and bike-riding French sous chef) and old (uptight French widow and garrulous Indian widower) to remind us that food and love go hand in hand.
"Fine cuisine is not an old, tired marriage but a passionate affair," Madame Mallory tells her staff.
Amen to that in life and on the table.
After our young, handsome hero wins a second star for Madame and is wooed away to Paris to an innovative restaurant where smoke and molecular gastronomy dominate, he decides to come back to southern France where his family and the lovely sous chef welcome him back with open arms.
Because, we are told, food is memories.
Should those memories ever fail me, I've got years of posts to remind me of all the passionate affairs I've eaten.
From Tammy to Tennessee
Rain, rain, go away.
Waking up to torrents of rain changed everything. All of our plans to explore the great outdoors of the eastern shore vanished when we had to wade through ankle-high puddles just to get to breakfast.
One thing I wasn't letting go of was a trip to Tammy and Johnny's for lunch.
A guy from the Virginia Department of Tourism had heard me talking about my plans to visit Chatham vineyards and insisted that Tammy and Johnny's had the best fried chicken on the eastern shore.
Whether he was right or not, I had to know for myself.
Driving rain accompanied us as we headed north, taking diverting jaunts to every small town along the way, and the DJ on the radio warning us," Don't be that guy who drives through a puddle of standing water."
Oh, and PS, flood warning in effect.
Fortunately, the sign for Tammy and Johnny's was enormous and we didn't have to drive through any standing water to get there.
Everyone looked at us like we were from another planet, but I got what I wanted: three pieces of chicken, cole slaw and mustardy potato salad.
The chicken suited me fine with a crust that wasn't too greasy or too crispy and we polished it off, wiped our fingers and headed to lunch just as a line of locals began forming.
Our pourer at Chatham yesterday had not just made recommendations of maritime forests, but also of restaurants, so we were in search of the Island House and Marina in Wachapreague, apparently the closest we were going to get to the Atlantic given all the barrier islands.
Pulling up, my first impression was of how it reminded me of the Fisherman's Wharf restaurant in Wanchese, N.C., weathered and surrounded by boats.
Our server was charming, home-schooled and now with an associate's degree and no real idea what he wanted to do with his life.
In the meantime, he did an exemplary job of waiting on us, bringing even brinier oysters than we'd had the day before.
Pretty soon we were going to be licking the ocean floor to get saltier.
When he got busy with other tables, I went ahead and poured us more of the Chatham Chardonnay we were drinking to help him out.
"But I wanted to give you the full experience!" he lamented hilariously. Consider it done with your humor.
After a salad of spinach, quinoa, craisins and walnuts, I kept it local with ice cream from Chincoteague's Island Creamery, listed as one of the 30 places to eat in Virginia before you die.
Flavor? Marsh Mud, of course, a decadent double chocolate ice cream that had been touted as tasting like chilled brownie batter and named after the boggy area surrounding us.
After our two-stop lunch, we had a decision to make. Should we stay or should we go?
The downpour was going to severely limit what we could do anywhere, so what would be consolation for that?
Aha, the brilliant one suggested, why not go to Virginia Beach and at least have a night sleeping to the sound of the ocean?
Never, and I do mean never, will I turn down an opportunity to be lulled to sleep to that most soothing of sounds, even with winds that had flags standing rigid from the gusts sweeping off the ocean.
We found an old school, two-story beach motel - The Sea Shell - tucked between two high rises (which only added to the wind tunnel effect), the kind of place that only takes cash, has no ice machine and has orange plastic ashtrays in every room.
The front desk was staffed by a woman who'd just moved here in July after a lifetime in Tennessee and had the accent to prove it.
Shortly after we settled in, I saw her out on the deck overlooking the boardwalk, phone in hand, trying to record the majesty of the surf rolling in.
Crazy, isn't it? I asked her from the relative safety of our room's doorway, where I had to hold on to the door jamb to keep from being buffeted by the winds.
"It's beautiful!" she yelled. "My girlfriends in Tennessee won't believe this!"
Much as I wanted to leave the door open, it was impossible, so I settled for the two windows and sat on the bed to enjoy the sights and sounds of some serious weather.
Whitecaps formed out as far as I could see and wind whistled between buildings and around corners.
Now this was what we'd come for: weather as entertainment.
After the requisite beach nap that oceanfront living requires, we headed out to Eat, an American Bistro, also located on Atlantic Avenue right on the beach and another of the 30 places to eat in Virginia before demise.
The door was locked when we arrived, a safety measure because the wind kept blowing it open, the hostess said.
With seats at the darkened bar, I turned to the woman next to me, only to find that she was a Richmonder who lives on Floyd Avenue (my home for 13 years) in the Fan.
Small world, isn't it?
The bar was intimate, the bartender gregarious, and the crowd lively with two TV screens, one set to the Food Channel and the other to Monday Night Football (which I didn't care about but one of us did).
All bottles of wine under $100 were half off, all but necessitating that we order a bottle of sparkling Brut Rose to accompany oysters rock (the dish that puts the rock in Rockefeller, or so the menu claims), a gooey delight of oysters, spinach, heritage bacon, Asiago, Hollandaise, smoked paprika and fennel pollen in the half shell.
When we ordered Ye Old School wedge, our server said that they were out of the avocado (a case had come in but they'd been rotten) the dish called for, so we accepted extra heritage bacon in lieu of missing avocado and everybody was happy.
The meatballs stuffed with fresh Mozzarella arrived in a pool of tomato ragout with a Parmesan crisp, meaning we were three for three at Eat.
Even the music suited me just fine, ranging from Chaka Khan to the XX, or roughly, my listening history, and while the guys around me cared about the sports on the TV, I had pink bubbles and appealing music, so what game?
Besides, I'd now crossed two more places off the list of pre-death eats.
But because this was a day of substituting indoor fun for the great outdoors, we eventually left Eat for the Raven, a pub that's been a fixture on Atlantic Avenue since 1968.
You know the kind of place - a small front area for non-smokers, a long bar and booths for smokers, a ceiling so low I could touch it from my bar stool.
But they had 1800, the game was on and Marshall Crenshaw was belting out "Whenever You're On My Mind," so while the wind howled outside and the parking lot had been a mine field of puddles, all was good inside the Raven.
And for the one who cared about such things, his team won the game.
Of course, the highlight for me was back at the Sea Shell, where we had front row seat to the churning ocean and ceaseless winds, even if there was no hope of seeing the full moon tonight.
Not that it really mattered.
Sleeping to the sound of the surf, awakening to an absence of wind and a morning walk along the beach (ocean water so warm I waded in up to my skort...and then some when a wave caught me by surprise) were the best possible finish to our eastern shore adventure.
Safe to say I had the full experience.
Waking up to torrents of rain changed everything. All of our plans to explore the great outdoors of the eastern shore vanished when we had to wade through ankle-high puddles just to get to breakfast.
One thing I wasn't letting go of was a trip to Tammy and Johnny's for lunch.
A guy from the Virginia Department of Tourism had heard me talking about my plans to visit Chatham vineyards and insisted that Tammy and Johnny's had the best fried chicken on the eastern shore.
Whether he was right or not, I had to know for myself.
Driving rain accompanied us as we headed north, taking diverting jaunts to every small town along the way, and the DJ on the radio warning us," Don't be that guy who drives through a puddle of standing water."
Oh, and PS, flood warning in effect.
Fortunately, the sign for Tammy and Johnny's was enormous and we didn't have to drive through any standing water to get there.
Everyone looked at us like we were from another planet, but I got what I wanted: three pieces of chicken, cole slaw and mustardy potato salad.
The chicken suited me fine with a crust that wasn't too greasy or too crispy and we polished it off, wiped our fingers and headed to lunch just as a line of locals began forming.
Our pourer at Chatham yesterday had not just made recommendations of maritime forests, but also of restaurants, so we were in search of the Island House and Marina in Wachapreague, apparently the closest we were going to get to the Atlantic given all the barrier islands.
Pulling up, my first impression was of how it reminded me of the Fisherman's Wharf restaurant in Wanchese, N.C., weathered and surrounded by boats.
Our server was charming, home-schooled and now with an associate's degree and no real idea what he wanted to do with his life.
In the meantime, he did an exemplary job of waiting on us, bringing even brinier oysters than we'd had the day before.
Pretty soon we were going to be licking the ocean floor to get saltier.
When he got busy with other tables, I went ahead and poured us more of the Chatham Chardonnay we were drinking to help him out.
"But I wanted to give you the full experience!" he lamented hilariously. Consider it done with your humor.
After a salad of spinach, quinoa, craisins and walnuts, I kept it local with ice cream from Chincoteague's Island Creamery, listed as one of the 30 places to eat in Virginia before you die.
Flavor? Marsh Mud, of course, a decadent double chocolate ice cream that had been touted as tasting like chilled brownie batter and named after the boggy area surrounding us.
After our two-stop lunch, we had a decision to make. Should we stay or should we go?
The downpour was going to severely limit what we could do anywhere, so what would be consolation for that?
Aha, the brilliant one suggested, why not go to Virginia Beach and at least have a night sleeping to the sound of the ocean?
Never, and I do mean never, will I turn down an opportunity to be lulled to sleep to that most soothing of sounds, even with winds that had flags standing rigid from the gusts sweeping off the ocean.
We found an old school, two-story beach motel - The Sea Shell - tucked between two high rises (which only added to the wind tunnel effect), the kind of place that only takes cash, has no ice machine and has orange plastic ashtrays in every room.
The front desk was staffed by a woman who'd just moved here in July after a lifetime in Tennessee and had the accent to prove it.
Shortly after we settled in, I saw her out on the deck overlooking the boardwalk, phone in hand, trying to record the majesty of the surf rolling in.
Crazy, isn't it? I asked her from the relative safety of our room's doorway, where I had to hold on to the door jamb to keep from being buffeted by the winds.
"It's beautiful!" she yelled. "My girlfriends in Tennessee won't believe this!"
Much as I wanted to leave the door open, it was impossible, so I settled for the two windows and sat on the bed to enjoy the sights and sounds of some serious weather.
Whitecaps formed out as far as I could see and wind whistled between buildings and around corners.
Now this was what we'd come for: weather as entertainment.
After the requisite beach nap that oceanfront living requires, we headed out to Eat, an American Bistro, also located on Atlantic Avenue right on the beach and another of the 30 places to eat in Virginia before demise.
The door was locked when we arrived, a safety measure because the wind kept blowing it open, the hostess said.
With seats at the darkened bar, I turned to the woman next to me, only to find that she was a Richmonder who lives on Floyd Avenue (my home for 13 years) in the Fan.
Small world, isn't it?
The bar was intimate, the bartender gregarious, and the crowd lively with two TV screens, one set to the Food Channel and the other to Monday Night Football (which I didn't care about but one of us did).
All bottles of wine under $100 were half off, all but necessitating that we order a bottle of sparkling Brut Rose to accompany oysters rock (the dish that puts the rock in Rockefeller, or so the menu claims), a gooey delight of oysters, spinach, heritage bacon, Asiago, Hollandaise, smoked paprika and fennel pollen in the half shell.
When we ordered Ye Old School wedge, our server said that they were out of the avocado (a case had come in but they'd been rotten) the dish called for, so we accepted extra heritage bacon in lieu of missing avocado and everybody was happy.
The meatballs stuffed with fresh Mozzarella arrived in a pool of tomato ragout with a Parmesan crisp, meaning we were three for three at Eat.
Even the music suited me just fine, ranging from Chaka Khan to the XX, or roughly, my listening history, and while the guys around me cared about the sports on the TV, I had pink bubbles and appealing music, so what game?
Besides, I'd now crossed two more places off the list of pre-death eats.
But because this was a day of substituting indoor fun for the great outdoors, we eventually left Eat for the Raven, a pub that's been a fixture on Atlantic Avenue since 1968.
You know the kind of place - a small front area for non-smokers, a long bar and booths for smokers, a ceiling so low I could touch it from my bar stool.
But they had 1800, the game was on and Marshall Crenshaw was belting out "Whenever You're On My Mind," so while the wind howled outside and the parking lot had been a mine field of puddles, all was good inside the Raven.
And for the one who cared about such things, his team won the game.
Of course, the highlight for me was back at the Sea Shell, where we had front row seat to the churning ocean and ceaseless winds, even if there was no hope of seeing the full moon tonight.
Not that it really mattered.
Sleeping to the sound of the surf, awakening to an absence of wind and a morning walk along the beach (ocean water so warm I waded in up to my skort...and then some when a wave caught me by surprise) were the best possible finish to our eastern shore adventure.
Safe to say I had the full experience.
Always for Love, Idiot
It had been a while.
The last time I can recall going to Virginia's eastern shore, it was en route to Rehobeth beach from the Outer Banks.
This time, the eastern shore was the destination.
After a stop at a scenic overlook just after the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, we found our way to Aqua, a waterside restaurant in Cape Charles, a quaint, little resort town that was part cute-sified and part worn-looking beach houses, the kind I like.
Aqua, however, was in the tony area where pastel-colored McMansions had views of marshes and bay and so did we from the restaurant's deck, where massive clouds promised rain in our future.
Kicking off the getaway with Graham Beck Brut Rose (causing our server to smile broadly and plead, "Can you guys just stay here all afternoon?"), seaside oysters, mussels Provencale, fish tacos and a crabcake sandwich, we took our time over the mid-day meal while others on the deck came and went.
Eventually, we did, too, but only after a New Jersey-looking guy unexpectedly squeezed my arm.
Just down the road, we landed at Chatham Vineyards, the reason I'd wanted to go to the eastern shore in the first place.
Having had their steel-fermented Chardonnay with oysters recently at the governor's mansion in Richmond and enjoyed it very much, I now wanted to taste through their entire list.
On the way, we passed a self-serve pumpkin stand, an indicator of the expectations of civility in these parts.
We were greeted by an affable woman, our pourer, the aged winery dog, a puffy, little purse dog type and soon joined by a couple from Mechanicsville, who, like us, were out and about looking for some afternoon wine.
They'd had Chatham's Cabernet Franc at a local restaurant the night before and been so impressed they wanted to taste more.
The tasting room was so chilly I had to return to the car for a wrap, which didn't seem to bother the vintner's kids who were busy bouncing a ball off the back wall while their parents worked on this year's Chardonnay harvest.
Our pourer provided local tidbits such as that a meteor had slammed into the southern tip of the eastern shore 35 million years ago, displacing the soil and fragmenting the shells and minerals, which is where the Chardonnay is grown and accounts for its mineral qualities and how well it pairs with oysters.
The oak-aged Chardonnay was rounder and creamier and the Rose a tad sweet to my taste. We moved on to the reds - Merlot, Cab Franc and Cab Sauvignon- before finishing with their late harvest dessert wine made with Merlot.
When our pourer asked if we wanted any wine, I said something about it being obvious what I liked and she laughed and said to my companion, "Then make it so."
With some of the unoaked Chardonnay in hand, we retired to the garden, putting our feet up on the fire pit walls and taking in the view of the fields and an old house with buzzards perched on the roof under the roiling crowds.
Interestingly enough, the soundtrack was twofold: an air cannon and a recorded loop of bird screeches to scare off predators, both intermittent and unexpected.
Before we left, we chatted with our pourer who, like me, had lived in Washington back when it was a simpler and less pressured place to live.
Talking about the ultra-focused types who make up the majority now, she cracked me up when she said, "I just want to tell them, just stop and smell the Smithsonian!"
I couldn't have put it better or more humorously myself.
Closer to where we were, she pulled out the Virginia winery map and began making suggestions for places to see and eat.
We wasted no time making our way to Savage Neck Dunes Natural Preserve, a maritime forest that took us through the woods on a sandy, pine needle-strewn path and deposited us at the bay.
Without pausing at all, I hiked up my dress and waded out where I found a sandbar that allowed me to keep going while only getting my legs wet.
There were a few people walking the sandy beach, but I stuck to the warm-as-bathwater bay to make my way along the coastline, eventually losing the bottom six inches of my dress to the waves.
What's a wet dress when you unexpectedly have a chance to take a dip?
Driving back toward Cape Charles, we couldn't resist a stop at Yuck-Yuck and Joe's, a roadside restaurant with a jukebox playing the likes of the Steve Miller Band, Stevie Nicks and the Eagles and plenty of locals there on a late Sunday afternoon.
That said, none of them were playing pool at the tables, but maybe that's not a Sunday thing around here.
What passes for eastern shore surf and turf at Yuck-Yuck's is two pounds of wings and shrimp, tempting except we already had plans to eat at the Shanty.
After changing into a dry dress at the Sunset Beach Inn, which looked to have been built in the '60s, round with a space needle thing coming out of the top straight out of "The Jetsons," we fumbled our way to The Shanty on the waterfront.
Between the hour and the weather, it was already dark by then, but hard to miss the Spanish galleon sitting next to the restaurant.
The Mechanicsville couple had told us about the galleon, here from Barcelona and staffed with volunteers, which they'd spotted the night before while at The Shanty, saying that the replica of a 16th century merchant vessel was doing a tour of the east coat and only here till Monday.
When the hostess asked for our seating preference, we chose the deck with a direct view of the magnificent El Galeon Andalusia and within earshot of the singer doing covers nearby.
Beginning with guacamole labeled "authentic" (as opposed to inauthentic guac?), we kept to our eastern shore theme with baskets of fried seafood and frites.
Before long, I spotted a guy sitting on the deck of the galleon in the dark, hoisting a beer bottle to the singer every time he finished a song.
Much as I enjoy live music, I had to shake my head when he began doing Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place," my favorite Talking Heads song, but this was a jaded millennial's rewrite of the lyrics.
So instead of the romantic "Never for money, always for love," he chose to sing, "Never for love, always for money," a depressing change to the song.
Good luck in life and love with that kind of sour attitude, son.
Dinner over, we strolled down the dock to get a closer look at the galleon, striking for its long and elaborate beak and many massive masts.
If it wasn't raining tomorrow, I definitely wanted to come back to go aboard and tour it.
We finished out a fine day by walking out on the Cape Charles fishing pier where, despite the late hour, there were still fishermen out there casting their lines in the dark.
Hope never sleeps, I guess.
After stopping to smell the bay all day, I couldn't think of anything I wanted more.
The last time I can recall going to Virginia's eastern shore, it was en route to Rehobeth beach from the Outer Banks.
This time, the eastern shore was the destination.
After a stop at a scenic overlook just after the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, we found our way to Aqua, a waterside restaurant in Cape Charles, a quaint, little resort town that was part cute-sified and part worn-looking beach houses, the kind I like.
Aqua, however, was in the tony area where pastel-colored McMansions had views of marshes and bay and so did we from the restaurant's deck, where massive clouds promised rain in our future.
Kicking off the getaway with Graham Beck Brut Rose (causing our server to smile broadly and plead, "Can you guys just stay here all afternoon?"), seaside oysters, mussels Provencale, fish tacos and a crabcake sandwich, we took our time over the mid-day meal while others on the deck came and went.
Eventually, we did, too, but only after a New Jersey-looking guy unexpectedly squeezed my arm.
Just down the road, we landed at Chatham Vineyards, the reason I'd wanted to go to the eastern shore in the first place.
Having had their steel-fermented Chardonnay with oysters recently at the governor's mansion in Richmond and enjoyed it very much, I now wanted to taste through their entire list.
On the way, we passed a self-serve pumpkin stand, an indicator of the expectations of civility in these parts.
We were greeted by an affable woman, our pourer, the aged winery dog, a puffy, little purse dog type and soon joined by a couple from Mechanicsville, who, like us, were out and about looking for some afternoon wine.
They'd had Chatham's Cabernet Franc at a local restaurant the night before and been so impressed they wanted to taste more.
The tasting room was so chilly I had to return to the car for a wrap, which didn't seem to bother the vintner's kids who were busy bouncing a ball off the back wall while their parents worked on this year's Chardonnay harvest.
Our pourer provided local tidbits such as that a meteor had slammed into the southern tip of the eastern shore 35 million years ago, displacing the soil and fragmenting the shells and minerals, which is where the Chardonnay is grown and accounts for its mineral qualities and how well it pairs with oysters.
The oak-aged Chardonnay was rounder and creamier and the Rose a tad sweet to my taste. We moved on to the reds - Merlot, Cab Franc and Cab Sauvignon- before finishing with their late harvest dessert wine made with Merlot.
When our pourer asked if we wanted any wine, I said something about it being obvious what I liked and she laughed and said to my companion, "Then make it so."
With some of the unoaked Chardonnay in hand, we retired to the garden, putting our feet up on the fire pit walls and taking in the view of the fields and an old house with buzzards perched on the roof under the roiling crowds.
Interestingly enough, the soundtrack was twofold: an air cannon and a recorded loop of bird screeches to scare off predators, both intermittent and unexpected.
Before we left, we chatted with our pourer who, like me, had lived in Washington back when it was a simpler and less pressured place to live.
Talking about the ultra-focused types who make up the majority now, she cracked me up when she said, "I just want to tell them, just stop and smell the Smithsonian!"
I couldn't have put it better or more humorously myself.
Closer to where we were, she pulled out the Virginia winery map and began making suggestions for places to see and eat.
We wasted no time making our way to Savage Neck Dunes Natural Preserve, a maritime forest that took us through the woods on a sandy, pine needle-strewn path and deposited us at the bay.
Without pausing at all, I hiked up my dress and waded out where I found a sandbar that allowed me to keep going while only getting my legs wet.
There were a few people walking the sandy beach, but I stuck to the warm-as-bathwater bay to make my way along the coastline, eventually losing the bottom six inches of my dress to the waves.
What's a wet dress when you unexpectedly have a chance to take a dip?
Driving back toward Cape Charles, we couldn't resist a stop at Yuck-Yuck and Joe's, a roadside restaurant with a jukebox playing the likes of the Steve Miller Band, Stevie Nicks and the Eagles and plenty of locals there on a late Sunday afternoon.
That said, none of them were playing pool at the tables, but maybe that's not a Sunday thing around here.
What passes for eastern shore surf and turf at Yuck-Yuck's is two pounds of wings and shrimp, tempting except we already had plans to eat at the Shanty.
After changing into a dry dress at the Sunset Beach Inn, which looked to have been built in the '60s, round with a space needle thing coming out of the top straight out of "The Jetsons," we fumbled our way to The Shanty on the waterfront.
Between the hour and the weather, it was already dark by then, but hard to miss the Spanish galleon sitting next to the restaurant.
The Mechanicsville couple had told us about the galleon, here from Barcelona and staffed with volunteers, which they'd spotted the night before while at The Shanty, saying that the replica of a 16th century merchant vessel was doing a tour of the east coat and only here till Monday.
When the hostess asked for our seating preference, we chose the deck with a direct view of the magnificent El Galeon Andalusia and within earshot of the singer doing covers nearby.
Beginning with guacamole labeled "authentic" (as opposed to inauthentic guac?), we kept to our eastern shore theme with baskets of fried seafood and frites.
Before long, I spotted a guy sitting on the deck of the galleon in the dark, hoisting a beer bottle to the singer every time he finished a song.
Much as I enjoy live music, I had to shake my head when he began doing Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place," my favorite Talking Heads song, but this was a jaded millennial's rewrite of the lyrics.
So instead of the romantic "Never for money, always for love," he chose to sing, "Never for love, always for money," a depressing change to the song.
Good luck in life and love with that kind of sour attitude, son.
Dinner over, we strolled down the dock to get a closer look at the galleon, striking for its long and elaborate beak and many massive masts.
If it wasn't raining tomorrow, I definitely wanted to come back to go aboard and tour it.
We finished out a fine day by walking out on the Cape Charles fishing pier where, despite the late hour, there were still fishermen out there casting their lines in the dark.
Hope never sleeps, I guess.
After stopping to smell the bay all day, I couldn't think of anything I wanted more.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Keeping True
Go away for a week and you've got a lot to make up for.
Stop one was the recently revamped Perly's, where I walked in to find a music-loving friend at the counter and sat down next to him.
Like me, he was fueling up before hitting Fall Line Fest shows tonight but we began by taking stock of the redone but still recognizable space.
Considering that it's mostly the same (the configuration), it's also very different in feel (a Jewish deli now).
I was particularly enamored of the paper place mats with the menu printed on them while he was impressed with the beer selection.
He was having a svelte corned beef sandwich (which was still pretty thick) but I swear my deli salad - chopped lettuce topped with chunks of pastrami, rolls of turkey and strips of salami, swiss, hard cooked eggs and a little too much Russian dressing- had more meat on it.
We'll call it a manly salad.
After dissecting the shows I'd missed and he'd seen at Fall Line Fest last night (Death, Matthew E. White), I left knowing I'd see him later at a show.
There was no way I was missing Potty Mouth, an all-girl punk pop band from Massachusetts, or the chance to see them with my cute friend at Gallery 5.
We stood right in front of the stage, waiting through bottled water being brought to the stage and drummer Victoria tying her shoes before the band could start.
After the first song, "Kids," singer Abby said, "I forgot to take out my ponytail. How can I have any fun like this?"
We all know punk requires flying hair, assuming you have it.
With that, she let down her long, blond hair, leaving it to hang in her face and move around as she sang and played guitar, not so different from Victoria's covering her face the whole time she drummed.
Some say you made a mistake
Well, you can taste my heartache
How does it taste?
Their set was high energy and I can only hope they were having as good a time as it looked like they were.
Inviting my friend to leave G5 for the National, her only request as that I drive.
When we stopped in front of Gallery 5 for the light, the girls of Potty Mouth were out front loading up their vehicle.
Never one to be shy, I called out to bassist Ally to tell her what a great show they'd put on, insisting they come back soon and play a longer set.
It never hurts to let one's admiration be known.
At the National, we were all kinds of surprised to find parking a snap, meaning not nearly enough people were inside.
After taking up residence in front of the sound booth, always my location at shows there, I saw a few friends, but not nearly as many as I'd expected.
Ditto the band, Sweden's Mary Onettes, which amounted to one guy instead of four.
"I was supposed to have my band withe me but they're busy wrestling ice bears in Sweden," singer/guitarist Philip explained.
I liked his sense of humor already.
But even if he hadn't had that, I'd still have been a sucker for the band's dream pop, which he performed using guitar and voice to recorded tracks by the rest of the band.
It may not have been ideal, but it still sounded great, echoing a lot of '80s bands' sounds I loved with songs such as "Everything, Everything," "God Knows I Had Plans" and the aching "Once I Was Pretty."
Everything I've ever done was a part of promising you and keeping true
Everything you've ever said is recorded in my heart.
Yep, I ate it all up with a spoon. I could have listened to them all night.
Instead, Philip introduced Amanda Mair, also from Sweden, who sang back-up for one Mary Onettes song and then did a set of her own of emotional piano ballads.
She reminded me a lot of '90s British songbird Lauren Christy, when my Perly's friend suddenly appeared right next to us, determined to hear her lovely voice from the best possible listening post in the room.
Why do you think this is my permanent position?
My friend got all excited when she saw that Potty Mouth had just tweeted about their set at Gallery 5, saying how friendly people in Richmond were.
"She's talking about you!" she insisted. Good, maybe they'll come back like I asked.
Although the show was running a tad behind schedule, they almost made up for it with an unusually short break and then, hello!
Real Estate took the stage in their unassuming, so very un-Jersey-like way.
What they do very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals, making for the best kind of wistful nerd pop.
I'd been fortunate enough to see them their first time in Richmond, back in April 2012, at Strange Matter in a room that felt like a sauna and left me dripping wet after the show.
Not that it wasn't worth it.
Like last time, lead singer Martin isn't big on banter between songs, or even smiling much, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
They began with the instrumental gem "Kinder Blumen," the ideal song to ease into their catalog, full of guitar interplay and catchy hooks and moved on to new stuff off their latest album, "Atlas."
Bassist Alex took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
Haven't we all had those moments in a relationship?
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams and extended finishes that equaled pure pop heaven.
Before it was all over, they mentioned the hot tub backstage and invited us all to bring swimsuits and join them.
After a week away, I had a lot to make up for but not enough time for a soak.
It's enough that I tried a new restaurant, saw four stellar bands and told complete strangers what to do, from my car no less.
I can't do everything in one night.
Stop one was the recently revamped Perly's, where I walked in to find a music-loving friend at the counter and sat down next to him.
Like me, he was fueling up before hitting Fall Line Fest shows tonight but we began by taking stock of the redone but still recognizable space.
Considering that it's mostly the same (the configuration), it's also very different in feel (a Jewish deli now).
I was particularly enamored of the paper place mats with the menu printed on them while he was impressed with the beer selection.
He was having a svelte corned beef sandwich (which was still pretty thick) but I swear my deli salad - chopped lettuce topped with chunks of pastrami, rolls of turkey and strips of salami, swiss, hard cooked eggs and a little too much Russian dressing- had more meat on it.
We'll call it a manly salad.
After dissecting the shows I'd missed and he'd seen at Fall Line Fest last night (Death, Matthew E. White), I left knowing I'd see him later at a show.
There was no way I was missing Potty Mouth, an all-girl punk pop band from Massachusetts, or the chance to see them with my cute friend at Gallery 5.
We stood right in front of the stage, waiting through bottled water being brought to the stage and drummer Victoria tying her shoes before the band could start.
After the first song, "Kids," singer Abby said, "I forgot to take out my ponytail. How can I have any fun like this?"
We all know punk requires flying hair, assuming you have it.
With that, she let down her long, blond hair, leaving it to hang in her face and move around as she sang and played guitar, not so different from Victoria's covering her face the whole time she drummed.
Some say you made a mistake
Well, you can taste my heartache
How does it taste?
Their set was high energy and I can only hope they were having as good a time as it looked like they were.
Inviting my friend to leave G5 for the National, her only request as that I drive.
When we stopped in front of Gallery 5 for the light, the girls of Potty Mouth were out front loading up their vehicle.
Never one to be shy, I called out to bassist Ally to tell her what a great show they'd put on, insisting they come back soon and play a longer set.
It never hurts to let one's admiration be known.
At the National, we were all kinds of surprised to find parking a snap, meaning not nearly enough people were inside.
After taking up residence in front of the sound booth, always my location at shows there, I saw a few friends, but not nearly as many as I'd expected.
Ditto the band, Sweden's Mary Onettes, which amounted to one guy instead of four.
"I was supposed to have my band withe me but they're busy wrestling ice bears in Sweden," singer/guitarist Philip explained.
I liked his sense of humor already.
But even if he hadn't had that, I'd still have been a sucker for the band's dream pop, which he performed using guitar and voice to recorded tracks by the rest of the band.
It may not have been ideal, but it still sounded great, echoing a lot of '80s bands' sounds I loved with songs such as "Everything, Everything," "God Knows I Had Plans" and the aching "Once I Was Pretty."
Everything I've ever done was a part of promising you and keeping true
Everything you've ever said is recorded in my heart.
Yep, I ate it all up with a spoon. I could have listened to them all night.
Instead, Philip introduced Amanda Mair, also from Sweden, who sang back-up for one Mary Onettes song and then did a set of her own of emotional piano ballads.
She reminded me a lot of '90s British songbird Lauren Christy, when my Perly's friend suddenly appeared right next to us, determined to hear her lovely voice from the best possible listening post in the room.
Why do you think this is my permanent position?
My friend got all excited when she saw that Potty Mouth had just tweeted about their set at Gallery 5, saying how friendly people in Richmond were.
"She's talking about you!" she insisted. Good, maybe they'll come back like I asked.
Although the show was running a tad behind schedule, they almost made up for it with an unusually short break and then, hello!
Real Estate took the stage in their unassuming, so very un-Jersey-like way.
What they do very well is produce sunny songs with layers of guitar and vocals, making for the best kind of wistful nerd pop.
I'd been fortunate enough to see them their first time in Richmond, back in April 2012, at Strange Matter in a room that felt like a sauna and left me dripping wet after the show.
Not that it wasn't worth it.
Like last time, lead singer Martin isn't big on banter between songs, or even smiling much, but he was obviously putting his all into playing music with his long-time friends and band mates.
They began with the instrumental gem "Kinder Blumen," the ideal song to ease into their catalog, full of guitar interplay and catchy hooks and moved on to new stuff off their latest album, "Atlas."
Bassist Alex took over lead vocals for "Wonder Years," yet another catchy pop gem that was instantly memorable ("I'm not trying to be cool, I only wanna be kind, I know that I've pissed you off, Baby, better rewind").
Haven't we all had those moments in a relationship?
As if catchy tunes and longing lyrics weren't enough, the band was masterful at taking off with shimmering guitar jams and extended finishes that equaled pure pop heaven.
Before it was all over, they mentioned the hot tub backstage and invited us all to bring swimsuits and join them.
After a week away, I had a lot to make up for but not enough time for a soak.
It's enough that I tried a new restaurant, saw four stellar bands and told complete strangers what to do, from my car no less.
I can't do everything in one night.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Ode to a Bonnet
Apparently, it's easier than I realized to be a poet's muse.
After sleeping in my own bed for the first time in a week last night, I got up raring to go for my daily walk for the first time in as long.
Feeling the need to properly baptize my legs in the James River, I then headed back up the hill hoping to catch the end of Tea for Two, an outdoor poetry reading in the park behind the main library.
Impressed to see how many people were already there, I found a seat in the back on a bench between two men to hear Henry Hart read poems about his daughter before she could speak, his son's difficult birth and his father's Christmas tree farm.
"You're going to be sick of my family by the time I finish reading," he joked.
Closing with a poem about retracing his grandfather's expedition across the Gobi desert, he spoke of being lost, threatened and moved by the trip.
Applause followed and then the man to my right looked at me and unexpectedly said, "I'm going to write a poem about you and your bonnet."
The "bonnet" to which he referred is my sun hat, a necessity lately with these long river walks I've been doing.
Not sure why I was so inspiring, so I asked.
Come to find out he's a sports writer in town for today's NASCAR race who'd left his hotel room to go for a walk and been drawn in by the shady park, nice looking crowd and free coffee.
But as he listened to poetry, he was unsettled by the beeping of a truck backing up, the roar of a Harley blasting down Main Street and other jarring sounds.
He said just as he was thinking that a grace note was needed, "A pretty woman in a bonnet and Nikes showed up and sat down next to me. You will be the subject of my next poem."
We introduced ourselves and I learned he was from northern Virginia, a former USA Today baseball writer who now freelances.
He said that the good thing about NASCAR drivers is that they're far more willing to talk to the press than pro team athletes.
I wished him good luck with the race. He thanked me for showing up and providing the muse for a poem.
On the way home, I stopped to pick up my Fall Line Fest wristband on Broad Street and ran into my friend Andrew.
Telling him my poetry story, he shook his head, laughing. "Only you, Karen, these things only happen to you."
I know, but aren't I lucky for it?
After sleeping in my own bed for the first time in a week last night, I got up raring to go for my daily walk for the first time in as long.
Feeling the need to properly baptize my legs in the James River, I then headed back up the hill hoping to catch the end of Tea for Two, an outdoor poetry reading in the park behind the main library.
Impressed to see how many people were already there, I found a seat in the back on a bench between two men to hear Henry Hart read poems about his daughter before she could speak, his son's difficult birth and his father's Christmas tree farm.
"You're going to be sick of my family by the time I finish reading," he joked.
Closing with a poem about retracing his grandfather's expedition across the Gobi desert, he spoke of being lost, threatened and moved by the trip.
Applause followed and then the man to my right looked at me and unexpectedly said, "I'm going to write a poem about you and your bonnet."
The "bonnet" to which he referred is my sun hat, a necessity lately with these long river walks I've been doing.
Not sure why I was so inspiring, so I asked.
Come to find out he's a sports writer in town for today's NASCAR race who'd left his hotel room to go for a walk and been drawn in by the shady park, nice looking crowd and free coffee.
But as he listened to poetry, he was unsettled by the beeping of a truck backing up, the roar of a Harley blasting down Main Street and other jarring sounds.
He said just as he was thinking that a grace note was needed, "A pretty woman in a bonnet and Nikes showed up and sat down next to me. You will be the subject of my next poem."
We introduced ourselves and I learned he was from northern Virginia, a former USA Today baseball writer who now freelances.
He said that the good thing about NASCAR drivers is that they're far more willing to talk to the press than pro team athletes.
I wished him good luck with the race. He thanked me for showing up and providing the muse for a poem.
On the way home, I stopped to pick up my Fall Line Fest wristband on Broad Street and ran into my friend Andrew.
Telling him my poetry story, he shook his head, laughing. "Only you, Karen, these things only happen to you."
I know, but aren't I lucky for it?
Friday, September 5, 2014
My Secret History
According to my friend, I look like I spent three days at S & M camp. Truth be told, I do feel a little beat up.
Six bruises, five on my legs and one on my instep where a couch corner unexpectedly landed.
Broken off parts or all of eight fingernails (admittedly, two to crab eating) and sacrificed half of a toenail to a box that dropped on it at just theright wrong angle.
And feet so sore from endless trips up and down steps (yesterday, I stopped counting after the 42nd time up and down that narrow staircase), that even my intrepid feet, the ones used to six and seven-mile daily walks, were aching.
To put it bluntly, my dogs were barking.
But after long days of helping her get moved in and worn out nights inhaling food and drink (not my best efforts), I was ready to head south.
Reveling in sitting down when the cab driver came to pick me up, I wasted no time in stretching out my legs and getting to know my chariot driver who, for a middle-aged man, either had the most unattractive bowl haircut and awful dye job or the worst wig I've ever seen.
Choosing to sit directly behind him, I asked if he was an Annapolis native. Born and raised, he said, still loves it but hates the influx of Yuppies.
Don't we all?
When I asked him what his first concert was (Huey Lewis and the News, 1986, the year he graduated high school), he was quick to tell me unsolicited his most recent concert (Cher and highly jealous that I had seen her in 1978).
We were practically buddies by the time he dropped me off.
Only when I got to the train station did I discover that my train was running half an hour late, but it didn't matter because I'd finally found my live music for the week.
Crush Funk Brass - tuba, trombone, trumpet and drums - was playing just outside the station, barely in the shadows on what was a stupidly sticky, hot late afternoon.
Finding a shady spot to watch them and wile away the half hour delay, it made me happy to see so many people pause to listen and then drop money in their case.
They weren't re-inventing the wheel with songs such as "Blueberry Hill," "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and "What a Wonderful World," but they were giving it their all and I was happy to listen.
I only had a dollar with me, but it went straight into their coffers when I finally went inside to catch my train.
Once on, I took a seat next to an older woman who had to move her purse so I could sit down, promising I'd move once we got to Washington and most of the passengers got off (I did).
But in the meantime, I introduced myself and asked her where she was going.
Well, well, imagine that: Richmond. Said she lived in northern Henrico and asked where I live.
When I said Jackson Ward, her eyes grew big. "Where?" she asked eagerly.
Turns out she grew up at Third and Baker Street in J-Ward, an area I know well from my regular walks to Shockoe Hill Cemetery north of I-95, although blighted now and undoubtedly nothing like the neighborhood where she spent 18 years.
When she mentioned being raised Catholic, I told her I'd been as well without sharing that I'm more of a card-carrying heathen these days.
Telling me her church has always been St. Peter's on Grace Street, she suggested I look for her next time I'm at the 8:30 mass.
I smiled sweetly and told her next time I was at that mass, I would make sure to find her.
Don't laugh, if I actually went, I would most certainly seek her out.
She was just returning from a week up north - in the Poconos, Philly and finishing up in Delaware - and was exhausted from everything she'd been doing, so we compared sore feet and exhaustion states.
I let her win due to her being a septuagenarian.
At Union Station, I took advantage of the mass exodus and scored a row to myself, bidding her farewell and lost no time in stretching out my bruised legs on the seat next to me.
I was bound and determined to finally finish "The Secret History" and very nearly did until I started to get distracted by the varying degrees of sunsets over all the bodies of water we kept crossing.
First, it was the giant orange ball making for a brilliantly colorful river, then as it sunk lower, a golden sparkly streak and eventually just the last light of evening beaming up from behind the tree line.
When we got to the Occoquan River and marina, the water was still full of boats cutting through the water leaving white wakes behind them.
In other words, I didn't fully finish my book, although I made it through the climax.
It's now my intention to take this bruised and battered body and finish those last 43 pages soaking my barking dogs.
One nagging thought still lingers, though.
Do they really have S & M camps?
Six bruises, five on my legs and one on my instep where a couch corner unexpectedly landed.
Broken off parts or all of eight fingernails (admittedly, two to crab eating) and sacrificed half of a toenail to a box that dropped on it at just the
And feet so sore from endless trips up and down steps (yesterday, I stopped counting after the 42nd time up and down that narrow staircase), that even my intrepid feet, the ones used to six and seven-mile daily walks, were aching.
To put it bluntly, my dogs were barking.
But after long days of helping her get moved in and worn out nights inhaling food and drink (not my best efforts), I was ready to head south.
Reveling in sitting down when the cab driver came to pick me up, I wasted no time in stretching out my legs and getting to know my chariot driver who, for a middle-aged man, either had the most unattractive bowl haircut and awful dye job or the worst wig I've ever seen.
Choosing to sit directly behind him, I asked if he was an Annapolis native. Born and raised, he said, still loves it but hates the influx of Yuppies.
Don't we all?
When I asked him what his first concert was (Huey Lewis and the News, 1986, the year he graduated high school), he was quick to tell me unsolicited his most recent concert (Cher and highly jealous that I had seen her in 1978).
We were practically buddies by the time he dropped me off.
Only when I got to the train station did I discover that my train was running half an hour late, but it didn't matter because I'd finally found my live music for the week.
Crush Funk Brass - tuba, trombone, trumpet and drums - was playing just outside the station, barely in the shadows on what was a stupidly sticky, hot late afternoon.
Finding a shady spot to watch them and wile away the half hour delay, it made me happy to see so many people pause to listen and then drop money in their case.
They weren't re-inventing the wheel with songs such as "Blueberry Hill," "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and "What a Wonderful World," but they were giving it their all and I was happy to listen.
I only had a dollar with me, but it went straight into their coffers when I finally went inside to catch my train.
Once on, I took a seat next to an older woman who had to move her purse so I could sit down, promising I'd move once we got to Washington and most of the passengers got off (I did).
But in the meantime, I introduced myself and asked her where she was going.
Well, well, imagine that: Richmond. Said she lived in northern Henrico and asked where I live.
When I said Jackson Ward, her eyes grew big. "Where?" she asked eagerly.
Turns out she grew up at Third and Baker Street in J-Ward, an area I know well from my regular walks to Shockoe Hill Cemetery north of I-95, although blighted now and undoubtedly nothing like the neighborhood where she spent 18 years.
When she mentioned being raised Catholic, I told her I'd been as well without sharing that I'm more of a card-carrying heathen these days.
Telling me her church has always been St. Peter's on Grace Street, she suggested I look for her next time I'm at the 8:30 mass.
I smiled sweetly and told her next time I was at that mass, I would make sure to find her.
Don't laugh, if I actually went, I would most certainly seek her out.
She was just returning from a week up north - in the Poconos, Philly and finishing up in Delaware - and was exhausted from everything she'd been doing, so we compared sore feet and exhaustion states.
I let her win due to her being a septuagenarian.
At Union Station, I took advantage of the mass exodus and scored a row to myself, bidding her farewell and lost no time in stretching out my bruised legs on the seat next to me.
I was bound and determined to finally finish "The Secret History" and very nearly did until I started to get distracted by the varying degrees of sunsets over all the bodies of water we kept crossing.
First, it was the giant orange ball making for a brilliantly colorful river, then as it sunk lower, a golden sparkly streak and eventually just the last light of evening beaming up from behind the tree line.
When we got to the Occoquan River and marina, the water was still full of boats cutting through the water leaving white wakes behind them.
In other words, I didn't fully finish my book, although I made it through the climax.
It's now my intention to take this bruised and battered body and finish those last 43 pages soaking my barking dogs.
One nagging thought still lingers, though.
Do they really have S & M camps?
Old Man River
Today 's moving marathon clocked in at 12- plus hours and ended with the satisfying smell of dead fish.
My friend's movers were the same two guys who 'd moved her twice before, so they knew the drill. Doesn't everyone move four times in 3 1/2 years?
In between doing the heavy lifting, one of the guys asked me if I was married. Pleased at my response, he asked if I had a boyfriend. Displeased at that answer, he asked how that was going.
"Tell me your secret," he requested, getting a puzzled look from me. "Tell me something about yourself nobody knows." Meanwhile he's shouldering boxes onto a dolly.
The man was quite the multi -tasker.
Once we'd accomplished great things setting up her new household, we were off to enjoy some off time.
Her new digs are in Eastport which is just across Spa Creek from downtown Annapolis, in a charming, older riverfront neighborhood crowded with every type of home imaginable.
But for me, Eastport's strength is its eclectic vibe with bakeries, bars, stores and everything you need for the business of life mixed in with the houses.
Not to mention the smell of the river around every corner.
We supped at Davis' Pub, a delightful, old place that began life in the '20s as a general store and was converted to a neighborhood bar for watermen in the '40s.
It had its 15 minutes of fame when the Food Network's "Diners, Drive-Ins and Divez" stopped by for their crab pretzel, an obscene use of a soft pretzel layered with crab dip (and plenty of crab, even by Maryland standards) and melted cheese.
The "D Pub" as locals call it, suited me fine with pub fare - BLT, grilled cheese, fries - as did the affable bartender supplying me with Cazadores and my friend with Patron.
With the jukebox playing and a couple of guys next to me talking motorcycles (Yahama versus Honda), we rested our feet and scarfed a well- deserved meal.
As our final endeavor of the day, we walked to George Washington Park, a tiny pocket park with benches and a dock, to admire the masts bobbing in the night lights.
Taking a deep breath, I commented on how lucky she was to live so near the water and it's distinct smell.
"You mean the smell of dead fish?" she laughed.
I mean enjoying what you have to the utmost.
My friend's movers were the same two guys who 'd moved her twice before, so they knew the drill. Doesn't everyone move four times in 3 1/2 years?
In between doing the heavy lifting, one of the guys asked me if I was married. Pleased at my response, he asked if I had a boyfriend. Displeased at that answer, he asked how that was going.
"Tell me your secret," he requested, getting a puzzled look from me. "Tell me something about yourself nobody knows." Meanwhile he's shouldering boxes onto a dolly.
The man was quite the multi -tasker.
Once we'd accomplished great things setting up her new household, we were off to enjoy some off time.
Her new digs are in Eastport which is just across Spa Creek from downtown Annapolis, in a charming, older riverfront neighborhood crowded with every type of home imaginable.
But for me, Eastport's strength is its eclectic vibe with bakeries, bars, stores and everything you need for the business of life mixed in with the houses.
Not to mention the smell of the river around every corner.
We supped at Davis' Pub, a delightful, old place that began life in the '20s as a general store and was converted to a neighborhood bar for watermen in the '40s.
It had its 15 minutes of fame when the Food Network's "Diners, Drive-Ins and Divez" stopped by for their crab pretzel, an obscene use of a soft pretzel layered with crab dip (and plenty of crab, even by Maryland standards) and melted cheese.
The "D Pub" as locals call it, suited me fine with pub fare - BLT, grilled cheese, fries - as did the affable bartender supplying me with Cazadores and my friend with Patron.
With the jukebox playing and a couple of guys next to me talking motorcycles (Yahama versus Honda), we rested our feet and scarfed a well- deserved meal.
As our final endeavor of the day, we walked to George Washington Park, a tiny pocket park with benches and a dock, to admire the masts bobbing in the night lights.
Taking a deep breath, I commented on how lucky she was to live so near the water and it's distinct smell.
"You mean the smell of dead fish?" she laughed.
I mean enjoying what you have to the utmost.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Bubble Wrapped
On the road again...
Hopped a train last night to Annapolis, a train delayed by the conductor making repeated announcements that no dogs were allowed on Amtrack.
This seemed a tad strange to me since there was a woman two rows in front of me with a small white dog who was reacting not at all to the warnings that any dog carrier would be put off the train.
When two Amtrack employees showed up, she gave them what for, informing them that she was a pain therapist and that her dog was her assistant, helping people relax as she treated them.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
Bottom line: they got to stay while I went back to reading the three days' worth of Washington Posts I was behind on after my Labor Day sojourn.
Traveling on the train at night, especially on the Quiet Car, was decidedly different from all my recent day trips where passing scenery and weather competed with my read-a-thon to pass the hours north.
Arriving at 10:30, my friend took me directly to Gordon Biersch brewery, promising, "This'll be your least favorite part of your week."
Not so, I told her, surprising her with the fact that I'd just been to Lickinghole brewery Monday.
Besides, train riding works up an appetite so fish tacos and two kinds of sliders were just the thing along about midnight.
After a full day helping her get ready to move -packing and unpacking boxes- she suggested a couple of restaurants and I countered with river-side crabs.
She amiably agreed with the stipulation that we eat inside, which lasted until we arrived and I suggested we eat outside.
It had turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant evening, damp enough that I needed the wrap I'd borrowed from her almost immediately, so she agreed to eat al fresco.
With Herradura and hush puppies in front of me, it was just a matter of time until the large crabs arrived, making me a happy camper.
Not so my friend, who was facing a nearby table where a child was watching a movie with the sound loud enough to be heard at our table.
Soon after, the table behind us began smoking and I saw her begin to lose it.
Even the arrival of the crabs didn't help, but I knew what would.
With the skill of a pro, I suggested some Herradura STAT and by the second one, she began to relax.
It didn't hurt that the smokers and the TV family paid their bills and left, but a lot of credit goes to the tequila.
As anyone who picks crabs knows, bits go flying in the feeding frenzy and at one point, some landed in her drink.
"There's shell in my tequila!" she squealed.
So? I asked, prompting her to wonder if anything ever really gets to me.
She said she had dozens of things that set her off.
Let me think about it for a while and I'll let you know, I told her.
Still thinking.
Hopped a train last night to Annapolis, a train delayed by the conductor making repeated announcements that no dogs were allowed on Amtrack.
This seemed a tad strange to me since there was a woman two rows in front of me with a small white dog who was reacting not at all to the warnings that any dog carrier would be put off the train.
When two Amtrack employees showed up, she gave them what for, informing them that she was a pain therapist and that her dog was her assistant, helping people relax as she treated them.
I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
Bottom line: they got to stay while I went back to reading the three days' worth of Washington Posts I was behind on after my Labor Day sojourn.
Traveling on the train at night, especially on the Quiet Car, was decidedly different from all my recent day trips where passing scenery and weather competed with my read-a-thon to pass the hours north.
Arriving at 10:30, my friend took me directly to Gordon Biersch brewery, promising, "This'll be your least favorite part of your week."
Not so, I told her, surprising her with the fact that I'd just been to Lickinghole brewery Monday.
Besides, train riding works up an appetite so fish tacos and two kinds of sliders were just the thing along about midnight.
After a full day helping her get ready to move -packing and unpacking boxes- she suggested a couple of restaurants and I countered with river-side crabs.
She amiably agreed with the stipulation that we eat inside, which lasted until we arrived and I suggested we eat outside.
It had turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant evening, damp enough that I needed the wrap I'd borrowed from her almost immediately, so she agreed to eat al fresco.
With Herradura and hush puppies in front of me, it was just a matter of time until the large crabs arrived, making me a happy camper.
Not so my friend, who was facing a nearby table where a child was watching a movie with the sound loud enough to be heard at our table.
Soon after, the table behind us began smoking and I saw her begin to lose it.
Even the arrival of the crabs didn't help, but I knew what would.
With the skill of a pro, I suggested some Herradura STAT and by the second one, she began to relax.
It didn't hurt that the smokers and the TV family paid their bills and left, but a lot of credit goes to the tequila.
As anyone who picks crabs knows, bits go flying in the feeding frenzy and at one point, some landed in her drink.
"There's shell in my tequila!" she squealed.
So? I asked, prompting her to wonder if anything ever really gets to me.
She said she had dozens of things that set her off.
Let me think about it for a while and I'll let you know, I told her.
Still thinking.
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