"And, on a different note, here's some new shit," announced Barcodez of Photosynthesizers from the stage after acknowledging the creative journey the band has taken to get to where they are today.
And tonight was Photosynthesizers' record release show at Gallery 5 for the new album Speakers in Black Holes. When I got there around 10, the show was already behind because the band G.D.A.C. were stuck in traffic driving down from Philly (and no doubt having their souls sucked out by the merciless I-95).
But once the female-fronted Afro-punk band took the stage, they were all about some music (and hair, lots of excellent hair). Their music crosses genres, mixing elements of rock, punk, girl groups and anything else they care to throw in.
The Philly girls' stage banter was especially colorful ("Are we talking about oral sex here?") and the crowd responded enthusiastically.
They broke down quickly afterwards and then it was Photosynthesizers' turn to rock the room. With no fanfare, they began to play and the crowd of devoted fans was right there with them.
And it was a diverse crowd, too. A guy in a monogrammed sweater vest, plaid shirt and khakis danced next to a a guy in a monster t-shirt, baggy jeans and hat. There were a lot of dreadlocks in the room.
The set list was a mixture, too, giving the crowd both familiar and new material ("This is the first time we've done this song live.").
Given the unique quality of their sound, which they like to call Tronic Soul School Hip Hop, it's not surprising that they appeal to so many different kinds of music lovers. I became an instant fan the very first time I heard them at WRIR's birthday bash.
I would never call myself a hip hop fan, but when you've got an excellent live band fronted by both a male and female vocalist trading/sharing vocals and with plenty of soul woven in, I'm a fan of whatever you call it.
Because it was the record release show, the band had agreed beforehand to dress up and Barcodez was looking especially fine in a three-piece suit and colorful scarf.
Vocalist Samsun made it clear that, "Dresses are not for onstage," even though she'd worn one and looked great in it (of course, I am partial to dresses myself).
Just before they played their last song, Barcodez announced that the six-piece band's after-party would be at the Cellar Door, no doubt the smallest basement bar in RVA. I can only imagine how fast that place will fill up.
I decided against going, but I've no doubt that there's a sweaty, dancing good time happening right about now.
Because after all, new shit needs to be celebrated.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Stopping to Smell the Flowers
Fine Arts and Flowers made me do it. Despite months of methodically discovering the new VMFA gallery by gallery, today I think I ended up in every single one, at least for a short while. It was not what I had intended.
I'm embarrassed to say that it was my first time experiencing the Fine Arts & Flowers exhibit begun in 1987, modeled on the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston's "Art in Bloom" concept. But given the newly remodeled space, maybe there was a reason I waited until now to experience it.
The idea of creating a flower arrangement based on a work of art is an intriguing one. Sometimes the flowers reflected only the color scheme, other times it was the shape, the geometry or texture of the piece. In any case, it was a series of beautiful things to observe.
I could never begin to describe the artistry these floral designers brought to their interpretations; about the best I could do is try to share a few that captured my imagination, but it won't represent a fraction of the 76 designs I saw.
William Wetmore Story's Cleopatra sculpture reclines and the floral arrangement did the same, with the all-white flowers echoing the white marble. Entwined in the flowers was a snake, noticeable only on close inspection, but very much there.
Thomas Moran's Bridalveil Falls, Yosemite Valley was a literal interpretation of the painting. The triangular vase represented the crevice from which the white falls cascaded from above. The white flowers emerging from the vase were an exact evocation of the gushing water.
Henri Rousseau's Tropical Landscape: An American Indian Struggling with a Gorilla was perfectly depicted in a fantastical arrangement containing vivid Fauvist colors and fantastic-looking flowers. I feel sure Rousseau would have approved.
Not all of the floral arrangements were easily associated with the artwork from which they were derived. Sometimes it took some work to find the connection (the carrot in the beloved gold Large Leaping Hare) and other times it was impossible.
After viewing Maxfield Parrish's Little Sugar River at Noon, I struggled to see the relationship between the placid, almost photographic landscape and the colorful arrangement. A nearby couple apparently felt just as flummoxed.
"It's not just you," he said to me, his wife nodding. We talked about what we might be missing in the designer's floral interpretation of the painting. She mentioned that a ballot would have been a good idea for attendees. Allow visitors to pay $1 for a ballot and vote for the best job; let them pay $5 and vote for the poorest re-imagining. She may have been on to something.
At Martin Puryear's Untitled, a guy said to me, "This is like a scavenger hunt. It brings people into every gallery." True that, something I had not anticipated, since I'd been visiting the galleries so far in a logical pattern so as not to miss or rush through anything.
In addition to the 76 arrangements, there were any number of random arrangements scattered about simply for our enjoyment. A peacock near the elevator on the second floor was charming in her necklace, a massive elephant near the marble hall stood on a carpet of flowers.
And the intoxicating smell of roses and stargazer lilies was everywhere I turned. As beautiful and interpretive as the arrangements were, my favorite flowers are always the ones with the strongest scents, so there were moments when I just followed my nose.
I finished up my afternoon at Amuse, the only person at the bar and with the perennially pleasant company of bartender Tommy. The late afternoon sun is a thing of beauty in Amuse overlooking the sculpture garden; leaning back to enjoy it, I began with the Pontes Rose.
Tommy has been my genial host on my every visit to Amuse and he is delightful. We discussed the Folk Fest (he'd regretfully missed the 2 Street Festival), his talent for making fried chicken and both our plans for tonight.
I asked for a recommendation for a nibble and once again he steered me right. The curried lentil croquettes with tzatziki and harrissa were outstanding, sauced cool and hot, and with perfectly cooked lentils. I couldn't have asked for a better close to my afternoon at the museum.
Except, perhaps, to stop and inhale deeply at each of the floral arrangements I passed on the way out.
Surely smelling something so wonderful means that anything is possible. Good things, I mean.
I'm embarrassed to say that it was my first time experiencing the Fine Arts & Flowers exhibit begun in 1987, modeled on the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston's "Art in Bloom" concept. But given the newly remodeled space, maybe there was a reason I waited until now to experience it.
The idea of creating a flower arrangement based on a work of art is an intriguing one. Sometimes the flowers reflected only the color scheme, other times it was the shape, the geometry or texture of the piece. In any case, it was a series of beautiful things to observe.
I could never begin to describe the artistry these floral designers brought to their interpretations; about the best I could do is try to share a few that captured my imagination, but it won't represent a fraction of the 76 designs I saw.
William Wetmore Story's Cleopatra sculpture reclines and the floral arrangement did the same, with the all-white flowers echoing the white marble. Entwined in the flowers was a snake, noticeable only on close inspection, but very much there.
Thomas Moran's Bridalveil Falls, Yosemite Valley was a literal interpretation of the painting. The triangular vase represented the crevice from which the white falls cascaded from above. The white flowers emerging from the vase were an exact evocation of the gushing water.
Henri Rousseau's Tropical Landscape: An American Indian Struggling with a Gorilla was perfectly depicted in a fantastical arrangement containing vivid Fauvist colors and fantastic-looking flowers. I feel sure Rousseau would have approved.
Not all of the floral arrangements were easily associated with the artwork from which they were derived. Sometimes it took some work to find the connection (the carrot in the beloved gold Large Leaping Hare) and other times it was impossible.
After viewing Maxfield Parrish's Little Sugar River at Noon, I struggled to see the relationship between the placid, almost photographic landscape and the colorful arrangement. A nearby couple apparently felt just as flummoxed.
"It's not just you," he said to me, his wife nodding. We talked about what we might be missing in the designer's floral interpretation of the painting. She mentioned that a ballot would have been a good idea for attendees. Allow visitors to pay $1 for a ballot and vote for the best job; let them pay $5 and vote for the poorest re-imagining. She may have been on to something.
At Martin Puryear's Untitled, a guy said to me, "This is like a scavenger hunt. It brings people into every gallery." True that, something I had not anticipated, since I'd been visiting the galleries so far in a logical pattern so as not to miss or rush through anything.
In addition to the 76 arrangements, there were any number of random arrangements scattered about simply for our enjoyment. A peacock near the elevator on the second floor was charming in her necklace, a massive elephant near the marble hall stood on a carpet of flowers.
And the intoxicating smell of roses and stargazer lilies was everywhere I turned. As beautiful and interpretive as the arrangements were, my favorite flowers are always the ones with the strongest scents, so there were moments when I just followed my nose.
I finished up my afternoon at Amuse, the only person at the bar and with the perennially pleasant company of bartender Tommy. The late afternoon sun is a thing of beauty in Amuse overlooking the sculpture garden; leaning back to enjoy it, I began with the Pontes Rose.
Tommy has been my genial host on my every visit to Amuse and he is delightful. We discussed the Folk Fest (he'd regretfully missed the 2 Street Festival), his talent for making fried chicken and both our plans for tonight.
I asked for a recommendation for a nibble and once again he steered me right. The curried lentil croquettes with tzatziki and harrissa were outstanding, sauced cool and hot, and with perfectly cooked lentils. I couldn't have asked for a better close to my afternoon at the museum.
Except, perhaps, to stop and inhale deeply at each of the floral arrangements I passed on the way out.
Surely smelling something so wonderful means that anything is possible. Good things, I mean.
'Zine Fest Delivers So Much More
If you've never been to Richmond's annual 'Zine Fest, you can't imagine what you're missing. Technically, it's a DIY literary and artistic event, but that's far too simplistic a description for the roomful of passionate people and talented writers and artists who comprise the event.
Walking the large room at the Gay Community Center affords an opportunity to meet 'zinesters from all over the east coast, peruse their work and discover what their passions are. I found myself caught up in all kinds of interesting conversations with strangers at table after table.
And I love the creativity of zine titles. There was Fort Mortgage: First Time Home Buying for Punks, Coffeehouse Crushes: Tales of Love and Lust in Coffeehouses, Cuddle-Puddles and Hotpants, Cryptic Slaughter, and Hoax: Feminism and Relationships, to name all too few, but all of which caught my eye and insisted I pick them up and check them out.
I was talking to a 'zinester who asked me, "Are you tabling?" and I had to laugh, saying that while I can write, I have no artistic talent whatsoever, not even basic cut and paste skills. Turns out he was impressed that I was an attendee because of my age.
"It's so cool to see someone here who's over 18," he explained. "Not that you don't look nineteen, because you totally do, but you know what I mean. It's great that you were interested enough to come out. Wish more people would." And, blatant lie aside, I did know what he meant.
Another guy was a valet who write 'zines about hating his job and his dreams of improvements in RVA's bike friendliness and safety. "VCU will have to get involved for bike lanes to happen," he predicted.
He told me he bikes to work nine miles, commuting from Church Hill to the near West End. He mentioned how few cyclists he sees in his neighborhood, then shares the road with plenty in the city center and then they disappear again on the other side of the Museum District.
As a person who bikes semi-regularly, I can relate. I see plenty of bikers where I live and play, but no bike lanes. It's a serious flaw in a city that otherwise has a great quality of life. It's something I would love to see addressed by the city. Portland and Cambridge can do it; why can't we?
He also made the point that unfortunately, the people who tend to come to the 'Zine Fest are the people already involved in the causes they support. "We're preaching to the choir here," he said ruefully.
It's too bad really, because I do think a wider audience would not only benefit from the exposure but gain knowledge of all kinds of subculture groups and movements going on in Richmond, some of which might be of interest to them.
Yes there are anarchists and union supporters, but also groups devoted to feminist discussions, feeding the homeless, vinyl lovers, over-caffeination and sexuality of every kind. Something for everyone, I'd hazard to say.
It would be a shame to think that there's anyone who can't get behind a good cuddle-puddle, if you know what I'm saying.
Walking the large room at the Gay Community Center affords an opportunity to meet 'zinesters from all over the east coast, peruse their work and discover what their passions are. I found myself caught up in all kinds of interesting conversations with strangers at table after table.
And I love the creativity of zine titles. There was Fort Mortgage: First Time Home Buying for Punks, Coffeehouse Crushes: Tales of Love and Lust in Coffeehouses, Cuddle-Puddles and Hotpants, Cryptic Slaughter, and Hoax: Feminism and Relationships, to name all too few, but all of which caught my eye and insisted I pick them up and check them out.
I was talking to a 'zinester who asked me, "Are you tabling?" and I had to laugh, saying that while I can write, I have no artistic talent whatsoever, not even basic cut and paste skills. Turns out he was impressed that I was an attendee because of my age.
"It's so cool to see someone here who's over 18," he explained. "Not that you don't look nineteen, because you totally do, but you know what I mean. It's great that you were interested enough to come out. Wish more people would." And, blatant lie aside, I did know what he meant.
Another guy was a valet who write 'zines about hating his job and his dreams of improvements in RVA's bike friendliness and safety. "VCU will have to get involved for bike lanes to happen," he predicted.
He told me he bikes to work nine miles, commuting from Church Hill to the near West End. He mentioned how few cyclists he sees in his neighborhood, then shares the road with plenty in the city center and then they disappear again on the other side of the Museum District.
As a person who bikes semi-regularly, I can relate. I see plenty of bikers where I live and play, but no bike lanes. It's a serious flaw in a city that otherwise has a great quality of life. It's something I would love to see addressed by the city. Portland and Cambridge can do it; why can't we?
He also made the point that unfortunately, the people who tend to come to the 'Zine Fest are the people already involved in the causes they support. "We're preaching to the choir here," he said ruefully.
It's too bad really, because I do think a wider audience would not only benefit from the exposure but gain knowledge of all kinds of subculture groups and movements going on in Richmond, some of which might be of interest to them.
Yes there are anarchists and union supporters, but also groups devoted to feminist discussions, feeding the homeless, vinyl lovers, over-caffeination and sexuality of every kind. Something for everyone, I'd hazard to say.
It would be a shame to think that there's anyone who can't get behind a good cuddle-puddle, if you know what I'm saying.
View from the 8th
When you walk the same general route for four years, you end up with regulars. People in the area start by waving or saying hi and some of them move on to actively engaging you in conversation because they see you so often. After a while we know a fair amount about each other for being merely street acquaintances.
Garrison was one of those. Early on, he'd always ask about my garden because the only place he'd see me besides walking was in the front yard. When I moved, it turned out that we were neighbors even closer and day after day his face was one of the first I'd see when I set out to walk.
After a while of just talking, he started teasing that he was going to start walking with me. Sometimes he'd even catch up with me and say, "Here we go," take a few steps and turn around. "You're too fast for me," he'd say, laughing and going home.
At the beginning of the summer, I ran into him and he said he'd moved to a high-rise on Grace Street. He invited me to stop by and see his new apartment which was right on my daily route, but the timing was never right.
When I left the house today, I could tell something was happening. Belvidere was backed up past 95 and cops were blocking and directing traffic. Parts of Broad were shut down and vendors were out. Turns out today was the VUU Homecoming parade from 10th and Broad to the Lombardy campus.
It actually made things easier for me because of the re-routed traffic. When I got over to Grace, though, it was unusually busy for a weekend morning due to the detouring of cars. And as I walked by, Garrison spotted me and yelled from across the street, "When are you coming up?"
Now seemed as good a time as any. I went in and had a computer take my photograph and personal information; I suppose it was so that the police would have a starting point if he hacked me up while I was upstairs. Kidding.
Taking the elevator to the 8th floor, we exited to a picture-perfect view of the parade on Broad Street. From that high up, and since we were only a block south, we had an excellent view of the marching bands, decorated vehicles and assorted other groups high-stepping it down Broad.
Even better, from his south-facing apartment, I was treated to a lovely panorama of Richmond rooftops stretching almost to the river. First was Franklin Street with all its late 19th century variations in rooving styles, domes and steeples and beyond that the smaller rooftops of the surrounding area.
I stood there picking out familiar places from Monroe Ward to the Fan and admiring the bird's-eye view perspective, so rarely seen in RVA. Garrison is already so accustomed to the view as to be blase about it.
I babbled on about how lovely it must be with snow or even rain falling and he agreed, but with none of the enthusiasm I was feeling. I teased him about not deserving a view he doesn't fully appreciate.
"Call me any time you want to come back and see it again," he said.
I told him I'll wait to enjoy it until he shows some appreciation for what he's got...or the first snowfall, whichever comes first.
Garrison was one of those. Early on, he'd always ask about my garden because the only place he'd see me besides walking was in the front yard. When I moved, it turned out that we were neighbors even closer and day after day his face was one of the first I'd see when I set out to walk.
After a while of just talking, he started teasing that he was going to start walking with me. Sometimes he'd even catch up with me and say, "Here we go," take a few steps and turn around. "You're too fast for me," he'd say, laughing and going home.
At the beginning of the summer, I ran into him and he said he'd moved to a high-rise on Grace Street. He invited me to stop by and see his new apartment which was right on my daily route, but the timing was never right.
When I left the house today, I could tell something was happening. Belvidere was backed up past 95 and cops were blocking and directing traffic. Parts of Broad were shut down and vendors were out. Turns out today was the VUU Homecoming parade from 10th and Broad to the Lombardy campus.
It actually made things easier for me because of the re-routed traffic. When I got over to Grace, though, it was unusually busy for a weekend morning due to the detouring of cars. And as I walked by, Garrison spotted me and yelled from across the street, "When are you coming up?"
Now seemed as good a time as any. I went in and had a computer take my photograph and personal information; I suppose it was so that the police would have a starting point if he hacked me up while I was upstairs. Kidding.
Taking the elevator to the 8th floor, we exited to a picture-perfect view of the parade on Broad Street. From that high up, and since we were only a block south, we had an excellent view of the marching bands, decorated vehicles and assorted other groups high-stepping it down Broad.
Even better, from his south-facing apartment, I was treated to a lovely panorama of Richmond rooftops stretching almost to the river. First was Franklin Street with all its late 19th century variations in rooving styles, domes and steeples and beyond that the smaller rooftops of the surrounding area.
I stood there picking out familiar places from Monroe Ward to the Fan and admiring the bird's-eye view perspective, so rarely seen in RVA. Garrison is already so accustomed to the view as to be blase about it.
I babbled on about how lovely it must be with snow or even rain falling and he agreed, but with none of the enthusiasm I was feeling. I teased him about not deserving a view he doesn't fully appreciate.
"Call me any time you want to come back and see it again," he said.
I told him I'll wait to enjoy it until he shows some appreciation for what he's got...or the first snowfall, whichever comes first.
You Make the Call
Our birthday party group had mixed feelings about it. Was it incredibly strange or charming in an offbeat way?
Suppose you were sitting in a restaurant and along about 10:30ish, maybe 11:00, a guy sitting in one of the front booths pulls out a guitar from under the table and starts playing. As he's sitting in the booth. Plates still on the table. With his female companion across the booth from him. Maybe he even sings softly a little. Weird or wonderful?
The evening started innocuously enough at Pescado's China Street with an overdue happy hour with a girlfriend. We enjoyed the deals on wine and appetizers (shrimp nachos, tomato and fennel mussels), did the usual socializing with one of the owners and tried to cover all the personal ground since our last get-together three weeks ago.
For a change, I even had contributions to make to the "what's new in your personal life?" portion of the conversation. As always, we share everything with each other (okay, almost everything), based on our long-time friendship and understanding of each another's needs. And, probably, general nosiness, too. I'll make you feel better about your life by telling you about mine. Deal.
But also as always, she has a significant other waiting at home for her and the talking ends when she asks what else I'm doing for the evening. Sigh. Not what she has planned, that's for sure.
Kate Duffy's new show at Column B Gallery at Chop Suey was entitled Three-Oh! An Early Onset of Midlife Crisis, surely a title ripe for interpretation and commentary (if 30 is the new midlife, I have a few things to say on the subject). The accessibility and appeal of the drawings was clear by the time I arrived late in the opening; easily three quarters of the pieces had already been sold.
Had I been of a mind to buy a piece (and I wasn't, having just this week hung two new pieces on my walls), my choice had already been earmarked for someone else's collection, so it wouldn't have mattered. But it pleased me to see that she'd done so well already. Even in a recession, it's good to know that people still choose to spend money on local art.
My evening was due to culminate at a birthday dinner for a friend at Zeus and I was the last to arrive. The group was well entrenched at the bar, with one bottle of wine already history, so I dove right in to the second bottle and the conversation.
I've mentioned before how friends who read my blog use it as a starting point to dig for further information when they see me and such was the case tonight. A friend immediately pulled me aside, asking "So who was it you went to the beach with and how do you know them?" That wasn't all he asked, either.
I found out from a friend what it will take before he marries his delightful girlfriend (fortunately, she already knows). We had a discussion about how soon a guy should call after a date (I sided with the male opinion on this one, but then I'm not a phone person).
Like with any group eating endeavor, there was much sharing, so I got to enjoy the braised veal and pasta special, the beef tenderloin meatloaf, the Tasso ham grits, the beef carpaccio and whatever else I was offered, being the equal opportunity eater that I am.
And then there was the guitar guy who began strumming away just before we indulged in cake and ice cream, birthday singing, lit candles and picture-taking. One of our group who was especially unimpressed with the impromptu performance went over and asked the guy's girlfriend what in the world he was doing.
"Oh, he does this at Arby's, too," she explained nonsensically.
"Arby's is a Yugo and this place is a Maserati," my friend retorted, making a poor wine-influenced analogy, but it didn't change anything. Our waitress was as baffled and put off by it as some in our group.
But the birthday girl liked it and said so to the rest of us. And the other booth patrons were drifting out into the night, until it was just us and one other group in the side room and they couldn't hear him.
Eventually guitar guy gave up, packed up and took his show on the road. Or home, more likely.
The romantic in me wants to think that he was going to do a private performance for the adoring girlfriend. And that's great.
It's the PDG (public display of guitar) that seemed somehow inappropriate, especially in such a tiny restaurant. And that's coming from a music lover.
My preference would be to keep it in the case, friend. At least until you're in private.
Or at Arby's.
Suppose you were sitting in a restaurant and along about 10:30ish, maybe 11:00, a guy sitting in one of the front booths pulls out a guitar from under the table and starts playing. As he's sitting in the booth. Plates still on the table. With his female companion across the booth from him. Maybe he even sings softly a little. Weird or wonderful?
The evening started innocuously enough at Pescado's China Street with an overdue happy hour with a girlfriend. We enjoyed the deals on wine and appetizers (shrimp nachos, tomato and fennel mussels), did the usual socializing with one of the owners and tried to cover all the personal ground since our last get-together three weeks ago.
For a change, I even had contributions to make to the "what's new in your personal life?" portion of the conversation. As always, we share everything with each other (okay, almost everything), based on our long-time friendship and understanding of each another's needs. And, probably, general nosiness, too. I'll make you feel better about your life by telling you about mine. Deal.
But also as always, she has a significant other waiting at home for her and the talking ends when she asks what else I'm doing for the evening. Sigh. Not what she has planned, that's for sure.
Kate Duffy's new show at Column B Gallery at Chop Suey was entitled Three-Oh! An Early Onset of Midlife Crisis, surely a title ripe for interpretation and commentary (if 30 is the new midlife, I have a few things to say on the subject). The accessibility and appeal of the drawings was clear by the time I arrived late in the opening; easily three quarters of the pieces had already been sold.
Had I been of a mind to buy a piece (and I wasn't, having just this week hung two new pieces on my walls), my choice had already been earmarked for someone else's collection, so it wouldn't have mattered. But it pleased me to see that she'd done so well already. Even in a recession, it's good to know that people still choose to spend money on local art.
My evening was due to culminate at a birthday dinner for a friend at Zeus and I was the last to arrive. The group was well entrenched at the bar, with one bottle of wine already history, so I dove right in to the second bottle and the conversation.
I've mentioned before how friends who read my blog use it as a starting point to dig for further information when they see me and such was the case tonight. A friend immediately pulled me aside, asking "So who was it you went to the beach with and how do you know them?" That wasn't all he asked, either.
I found out from a friend what it will take before he marries his delightful girlfriend (fortunately, she already knows). We had a discussion about how soon a guy should call after a date (I sided with the male opinion on this one, but then I'm not a phone person).
Like with any group eating endeavor, there was much sharing, so I got to enjoy the braised veal and pasta special, the beef tenderloin meatloaf, the Tasso ham grits, the beef carpaccio and whatever else I was offered, being the equal opportunity eater that I am.
And then there was the guitar guy who began strumming away just before we indulged in cake and ice cream, birthday singing, lit candles and picture-taking. One of our group who was especially unimpressed with the impromptu performance went over and asked the guy's girlfriend what in the world he was doing.
"Oh, he does this at Arby's, too," she explained nonsensically.
"Arby's is a Yugo and this place is a Maserati," my friend retorted, making a poor wine-influenced analogy, but it didn't change anything. Our waitress was as baffled and put off by it as some in our group.
But the birthday girl liked it and said so to the rest of us. And the other booth patrons were drifting out into the night, until it was just us and one other group in the side room and they couldn't hear him.
Eventually guitar guy gave up, packed up and took his show on the road. Or home, more likely.
The romantic in me wants to think that he was going to do a private performance for the adoring girlfriend. And that's great.
It's the PDG (public display of guitar) that seemed somehow inappropriate, especially in such a tiny restaurant. And that's coming from a music lover.
My preference would be to keep it in the case, friend. At least until you're in private.
Or at Arby's.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Prabir Walks Stupid Girl Home
What kind of an idiot does something stupid and then beats herself up for her stupidity?
The kind who meets a friend for dinner at Lulu's and listens to tales of her friend's recent dating exploits while enjoying a hearty lentil soup followed by ham and parsley terrine (house-smoked ham hocks, carrots cooked with the ham and parsley), picililli and grilled sourdough.
I loved the huge chunks of hocks in the terrine; they reminded me of all the tastiest bits left around the bone after carving (my family ate a ton of ham growing up).
The kind who goes to Strange Matter to see an outstanding indie triple-bill with a room full of like-minded fans. Marionette opened strong, Long Division post-rocked out and the Diamond Center gazed shoeward.
I met a musician's charming dad (about Long Division, he said, "I like the music, but are they going to sing?" Uh, no, that's why it's post-rock, sir) who thanked me for being a fan of his son's band (and then asked if I was married!).
The kind who came out to find her car vanished, towed away with her bag and cute shoes inside. The kind who could have smacked her forehead realizing her stupidity.
But all was not lost. Strange Matter is barely 3/4 of a mile from home, it was only 52 degrees outside and the bars hadn't closed so there were still plenty of people out and about. A little walk after an enjoyable evening would surely salvage a sorry situation.
I got barely two blocks before running into Prabir, the man who last year coached me on his sure-fire method for mending a broken heart, here. I told him of my stupidity and, since he also lives in J-Ward, he offered to walk home with me. I mean, he was going there anyway, but it was still a nice gesture.
I told him about the stellar show I'd just seen and he told me about the equally good one he'd been to at the Camel. Periodically, I would say something like, "I can't believe how stupid I was!" just so I could live with myself.
Thanking him for the company when we got to my house, I couldn't resist one last moment of self-flagellation. His response?
"Don't sweat it; it'll make a great blog post."
I wouldn't say great.
The kind who meets a friend for dinner at Lulu's and listens to tales of her friend's recent dating exploits while enjoying a hearty lentil soup followed by ham and parsley terrine (house-smoked ham hocks, carrots cooked with the ham and parsley), picililli and grilled sourdough.
I loved the huge chunks of hocks in the terrine; they reminded me of all the tastiest bits left around the bone after carving (my family ate a ton of ham growing up).
The kind who goes to Strange Matter to see an outstanding indie triple-bill with a room full of like-minded fans. Marionette opened strong, Long Division post-rocked out and the Diamond Center gazed shoeward.
I met a musician's charming dad (about Long Division, he said, "I like the music, but are they going to sing?" Uh, no, that's why it's post-rock, sir) who thanked me for being a fan of his son's band (and then asked if I was married!).
The kind who came out to find her car vanished, towed away with her bag and cute shoes inside. The kind who could have smacked her forehead realizing her stupidity.
But all was not lost. Strange Matter is barely 3/4 of a mile from home, it was only 52 degrees outside and the bars hadn't closed so there were still plenty of people out and about. A little walk after an enjoyable evening would surely salvage a sorry situation.
I got barely two blocks before running into Prabir, the man who last year coached me on his sure-fire method for mending a broken heart, here. I told him of my stupidity and, since he also lives in J-Ward, he offered to walk home with me. I mean, he was going there anyway, but it was still a nice gesture.
I told him about the stellar show I'd just seen and he told me about the equally good one he'd been to at the Camel. Periodically, I would say something like, "I can't believe how stupid I was!" just so I could live with myself.
Thanking him for the company when we got to my house, I couldn't resist one last moment of self-flagellation. His response?
"Don't sweat it; it'll make a great blog post."
I wouldn't say great.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Art and Acacia
This new Gallery 5 After 5 series has the potential to become one of my favorite monthly events. It's got everything I like and still allows for an evening afterwards.
The first hour is music with mingling and drinking and the second is a lecture. I enjoyed talking to a girl on her first visit to G5, who'd broken up with her boyfriend of six years and was still getting the hang of going out alone. I did what I could to start her on the path to flying solo successfully (sadly, my specialty).
Tonight's talk was by sculptor Paul diPasquale, whom I'd first met 15 years ago on a community art project. When I brought it up, he remembered the project like it was yesterday. Amazing.
His talk focused on three of his works: Connecticut, the Indian, Arthur Ashe and Neptune in Virginia Beach, as well as his belief that public art should come from passion and not paid complacency.
I couldn't have been more surprised to learn that Connecticut had originally been designed for a building at the intersection of Connecticut and Woodley Avenues in D.C., a short walk from my home in DuPont Circle. I recognized the building at once and it would have certainly been a great location for the brave.
Except that the bed-ridden 90-year old owner of the building didn't want "a god-damn Indian" on his building. Luckily local modern art patron Sydney Lewis came to the rescue, leasing Connecticut for $1500 a month for two years and placing it atop Best Products here in Richmond.
The Arthur Ashe story was just as interesting because the sculptor contacted Ashe about doing a likeness of him only to have Ashe die within weeks. Luckily he'd already stated his requirements for the statue: books, children, him dressed in a warm-up suit, shoelaces untied and without the focus on Ashe.
Since a 1927 ordinance had already decreed that the next statue on Monument Avenue would be at Roseneath, and di Pasquale had obtained the tennis star's permission and preferences, it became so. It was the city that decided that Ashe would face west, welcoming people into the city.
The massive Neptune sculpture in Virginia Beach was a result of the Ashe commission and diPasquale joked that, "I like to think of it as a self-portrait." I have to love an artist with a sense of humor.
Talking to him after the talk, I found him to be charming and still enthusiastic about making art whether for public or private consumption. "Don't give up," was the only advice he'd offer. I wasn't considering it.
After such a satisfying start, I decided on Acacia for dinner and was surprised to find an empty bar (although not surprised at a full restaurant). I began with a glass of the South African Man Chenin Blanc and conversation with bartender Arthur about the state of the cocktail and speakeasy world, since we'd both recently read articles on those very topics.
One thing I love about Acacia's menu is the array of small plates and after a superb apple, mixed lettuce, cashew, golden raisin and bleu cheese salad, eagerly tore into the local rabbit rillettes with house made Saltines.
Nothing but the Pfaffl Gruner Vetliner could have made the rabbit rillettes any better than they were, and that I had. The delicate Saltines were the ideal vehicle for the spicy and perfectly rich rillettes, especially when topped with the tomato compote. I might add that the cost of this dish was $4, less than a combo at a fast food joint.
Arthur, as always, was the perfect host, chatty when I wanted to talk and discreet otherwise. We talked about the failings of the ABC (what happened to el Tesoro anyway?), the requirements for what we consider good tequila (let's not try to appeal to the lowest common denominator) and his impressions after finally seeing No BS Brass Band for the first time (wowed).
And I'm sure it was great, because No BS is great, but local rabbit rilletes for $4? That's freaking awesome.
Certainly right up there with hearing a passionate sculptor talk about taking risks to do the work he loves. Passion, risks and rabbit; now that's an evening that speaks to me.
The first hour is music with mingling and drinking and the second is a lecture. I enjoyed talking to a girl on her first visit to G5, who'd broken up with her boyfriend of six years and was still getting the hang of going out alone. I did what I could to start her on the path to flying solo successfully (sadly, my specialty).
Tonight's talk was by sculptor Paul diPasquale, whom I'd first met 15 years ago on a community art project. When I brought it up, he remembered the project like it was yesterday. Amazing.
His talk focused on three of his works: Connecticut, the Indian, Arthur Ashe and Neptune in Virginia Beach, as well as his belief that public art should come from passion and not paid complacency.
I couldn't have been more surprised to learn that Connecticut had originally been designed for a building at the intersection of Connecticut and Woodley Avenues in D.C., a short walk from my home in DuPont Circle. I recognized the building at once and it would have certainly been a great location for the brave.
Except that the bed-ridden 90-year old owner of the building didn't want "a god-damn Indian" on his building. Luckily local modern art patron Sydney Lewis came to the rescue, leasing Connecticut for $1500 a month for two years and placing it atop Best Products here in Richmond.
The Arthur Ashe story was just as interesting because the sculptor contacted Ashe about doing a likeness of him only to have Ashe die within weeks. Luckily he'd already stated his requirements for the statue: books, children, him dressed in a warm-up suit, shoelaces untied and without the focus on Ashe.
Since a 1927 ordinance had already decreed that the next statue on Monument Avenue would be at Roseneath, and di Pasquale had obtained the tennis star's permission and preferences, it became so. It was the city that decided that Ashe would face west, welcoming people into the city.
The massive Neptune sculpture in Virginia Beach was a result of the Ashe commission and diPasquale joked that, "I like to think of it as a self-portrait." I have to love an artist with a sense of humor.
Talking to him after the talk, I found him to be charming and still enthusiastic about making art whether for public or private consumption. "Don't give up," was the only advice he'd offer. I wasn't considering it.
After such a satisfying start, I decided on Acacia for dinner and was surprised to find an empty bar (although not surprised at a full restaurant). I began with a glass of the South African Man Chenin Blanc and conversation with bartender Arthur about the state of the cocktail and speakeasy world, since we'd both recently read articles on those very topics.
One thing I love about Acacia's menu is the array of small plates and after a superb apple, mixed lettuce, cashew, golden raisin and bleu cheese salad, eagerly tore into the local rabbit rillettes with house made Saltines.
Nothing but the Pfaffl Gruner Vetliner could have made the rabbit rillettes any better than they were, and that I had. The delicate Saltines were the ideal vehicle for the spicy and perfectly rich rillettes, especially when topped with the tomato compote. I might add that the cost of this dish was $4, less than a combo at a fast food joint.
Arthur, as always, was the perfect host, chatty when I wanted to talk and discreet otherwise. We talked about the failings of the ABC (what happened to el Tesoro anyway?), the requirements for what we consider good tequila (let's not try to appeal to the lowest common denominator) and his impressions after finally seeing No BS Brass Band for the first time (wowed).
And I'm sure it was great, because No BS is great, but local rabbit rilletes for $4? That's freaking awesome.
Certainly right up there with hearing a passionate sculptor talk about taking risks to do the work he loves. Passion, risks and rabbit; now that's an evening that speaks to me.
Ideas from the Great Depression
I don't know what lunch and a lecture cost back during the Great Depression, but today it was $2.22, not that that isn't a perfectly reasonable price given the current Great Recession (and don't tell me it's over).
Arriving early enough to have lunch before the lecture at the Library of Virginia, I noticed for the first time the "Please enjoy the patio today" signs and thought, why not? Around the corner at the Positive Vibe Express, nothing was grabbing my attention, but my server informed me, "We can make whatever you want." Well, okay then.
A request for a BLT on wheat yielded a large sandwich within moments, and brought one of the staffers out to find the source of the delicious smell. She admitted she hadn't had bacon in two years (just kill me now) and I offered my sympathy. But nothing could have prepared me for the price when she rang me up: $2.22. Excuse me? Isn't that less than a drink usually costs?
The little patio on the 9th Street side had a couple of other occupants and was a lovely place to enjoy an al fresco lunch away from the fray but with a great view of people bustling by on their lunch hour.
I was very interested in the lecture topic, Soul of a People, about the lives and experiences of people who worked on the Federal Writer's Project back in the1930s. Naturally I'm one of those people who believe that during tough economic times, we need to look out for the creative class and the bounty of work that came out of doing just that back then should be proof enough of why.
It's not just that stories of massive unemployment resonate especially now, although of course they do, but the idea of economic stimulus policies that benefit the cultural good as well as the physical infrastructure should be on the table.
Author and filmmaker David Taylor spoke of the Federal Writer's Project as undoubtedly the most amazing instance of democracy in literature that we'll ever see. Just as importantly, it allowed for a mirror to be held up to American life, something that hadn't been done before.
Since there were still slaves and Civil War veterans alive in the 30s, even as the old ways of life were dying, the project coincided with an urgency to get people's individual stories. Part of the project became obtaining oral histories, an unprecedented effort to balance official histories with life history interviews.
I think a clear case could be made for the same sort of cultural collecting today and goodness knows we've got plenty of un- and under-employed writers and filmmakers available to do the job. We might have to up the pay from $70 a month, though.
While we're better about getting oral histories now, the fact is that the people who lived through the Great Depression, fought in WWII and Korea and have memories of a life completely unlike the ones we live today are rapidly dying. Every one of them has a unique experience to share.
In the same way that the Federal Writer's Project's travel books still provide a viable link to knowing and understanding the country's regions as they were 70 years ago (several attendees mentioned still using them when traveling), the accumulated knowledge collected in the 21st century would only grow more valuable with time.
And probably just like back then, it would be no badge of honor for the people doing federally-funded interviewing and writing. But it would be one rung above joblessness, and that alone would be worthwhile.
Maybe it's time to look backwards for inspiration, much like Positive Vibe Express' backward-looking pricing. Both suit the time.
Arriving early enough to have lunch before the lecture at the Library of Virginia, I noticed for the first time the "Please enjoy the patio today" signs and thought, why not? Around the corner at the Positive Vibe Express, nothing was grabbing my attention, but my server informed me, "We can make whatever you want." Well, okay then.
A request for a BLT on wheat yielded a large sandwich within moments, and brought one of the staffers out to find the source of the delicious smell. She admitted she hadn't had bacon in two years (just kill me now) and I offered my sympathy. But nothing could have prepared me for the price when she rang me up: $2.22. Excuse me? Isn't that less than a drink usually costs?
The little patio on the 9th Street side had a couple of other occupants and was a lovely place to enjoy an al fresco lunch away from the fray but with a great view of people bustling by on their lunch hour.
I was very interested in the lecture topic, Soul of a People, about the lives and experiences of people who worked on the Federal Writer's Project back in the1930s. Naturally I'm one of those people who believe that during tough economic times, we need to look out for the creative class and the bounty of work that came out of doing just that back then should be proof enough of why.
It's not just that stories of massive unemployment resonate especially now, although of course they do, but the idea of economic stimulus policies that benefit the cultural good as well as the physical infrastructure should be on the table.
Author and filmmaker David Taylor spoke of the Federal Writer's Project as undoubtedly the most amazing instance of democracy in literature that we'll ever see. Just as importantly, it allowed for a mirror to be held up to American life, something that hadn't been done before.
Since there were still slaves and Civil War veterans alive in the 30s, even as the old ways of life were dying, the project coincided with an urgency to get people's individual stories. Part of the project became obtaining oral histories, an unprecedented effort to balance official histories with life history interviews.
I think a clear case could be made for the same sort of cultural collecting today and goodness knows we've got plenty of un- and under-employed writers and filmmakers available to do the job. We might have to up the pay from $70 a month, though.
While we're better about getting oral histories now, the fact is that the people who lived through the Great Depression, fought in WWII and Korea and have memories of a life completely unlike the ones we live today are rapidly dying. Every one of them has a unique experience to share.
In the same way that the Federal Writer's Project's travel books still provide a viable link to knowing and understanding the country's regions as they were 70 years ago (several attendees mentioned still using them when traveling), the accumulated knowledge collected in the 21st century would only grow more valuable with time.
And probably just like back then, it would be no badge of honor for the people doing federally-funded interviewing and writing. But it would be one rung above joblessness, and that alone would be worthwhile.
Maybe it's time to look backwards for inspiration, much like Positive Vibe Express' backward-looking pricing. Both suit the time.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Drinking to My Health
You'd think that a person going to the screening of a documentary called Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead would have the sense not to get buttered popcorn to scarf down while being educated and entertained. But not me and I didn't even feel too badly about it because I wasn't the only one.
Joe Cross' first moviemaking endeavor revolved around his quest to lose weight and get healthy after years of getting heavier and sicker. The Australian decided to challenge himself by accomplishing this in the land of plenty, namely NYC for a month followed a by a month-long cross-country trip. All in full view of a film crew so he couldn't cheat.
With the approval of his physician, he set out to do a two-month juice diet and see if he could go off the meds that were barely keeping his medical conditions in check.
Along the way he interviewed scores of Americans about their health and obesity (to a man/woman, they blamed only themselves), occasionally inspiring others to try what was working so well for him.
The film had plenty of humor, from one fat sibling nonchalantly judging his fat brother ("He needs to do something.") to a friend of Joe's stating that his "weight had fluctuated up and down like a broad's nightie." Said in a thick Australian accent, that was a big laugh-getter.
Australia was also nicely represented in the music choices, which included INXS and Men at Work, as well as the scenic locations where Cross jogged.
One of the people inspired by Joe's efforts was a truck driver from Iowa who weighed 429 pounds and had the same auto-immune disease that Joe had suffered from before his weight loss. He was willing to try a plant-based liquid diet out of fear he would soon die otherwise.
Phil's story became the emotional heart of the film and by the time he was finally able to jog and play ball with his son towards the end, the audience was cheering and clapping for him and his determination.
Whole Foods was sponsoring the screening at the Byrd and Joe Cross took questions afterwards from a seriously interested audience. Cross' Australian accent was thick at times, but the difference in how he'd first appeared in the movie at 310 pounds and now was dramatic. He'd looked much older fat and much younger these three years later after losing ninety pounds.
The film won't be released in the U.S. until next March, so tonight's preview was yet another example of RVA scoring an event that many cities won't get, definitely our gain.
The takeaway was that since 70% of the negative health and body effects we experience are caused by lifestyle issues, everyone has the ability to make better choices and live longer and healthier if they so choose.
I did take that message to heart, really I did, but I also stopped off for a drink at Rosie Connelly's on the way home to think about how I can possibly incorporate more micro-nutrients (fruits and veggies) into my diet. And I wasn't nearly as bad as I could have been.
As the bartender smilingly reminded me when she served me, "At least you don't have anyone trying to force tequilas on you tonight," a reference to one of my recent visits where a close-talking regular was determined to buy me drinks I didn't want.
Come to think of it, though, tequila is plant-based. But no, probably not what Joe had in mind.
Joe Cross' first moviemaking endeavor revolved around his quest to lose weight and get healthy after years of getting heavier and sicker. The Australian decided to challenge himself by accomplishing this in the land of plenty, namely NYC for a month followed a by a month-long cross-country trip. All in full view of a film crew so he couldn't cheat.
With the approval of his physician, he set out to do a two-month juice diet and see if he could go off the meds that were barely keeping his medical conditions in check.
Along the way he interviewed scores of Americans about their health and obesity (to a man/woman, they blamed only themselves), occasionally inspiring others to try what was working so well for him.
The film had plenty of humor, from one fat sibling nonchalantly judging his fat brother ("He needs to do something.") to a friend of Joe's stating that his "weight had fluctuated up and down like a broad's nightie." Said in a thick Australian accent, that was a big laugh-getter.
Australia was also nicely represented in the music choices, which included INXS and Men at Work, as well as the scenic locations where Cross jogged.
One of the people inspired by Joe's efforts was a truck driver from Iowa who weighed 429 pounds and had the same auto-immune disease that Joe had suffered from before his weight loss. He was willing to try a plant-based liquid diet out of fear he would soon die otherwise.
Phil's story became the emotional heart of the film and by the time he was finally able to jog and play ball with his son towards the end, the audience was cheering and clapping for him and his determination.
Whole Foods was sponsoring the screening at the Byrd and Joe Cross took questions afterwards from a seriously interested audience. Cross' Australian accent was thick at times, but the difference in how he'd first appeared in the movie at 310 pounds and now was dramatic. He'd looked much older fat and much younger these three years later after losing ninety pounds.
The film won't be released in the U.S. until next March, so tonight's preview was yet another example of RVA scoring an event that many cities won't get, definitely our gain.
The takeaway was that since 70% of the negative health and body effects we experience are caused by lifestyle issues, everyone has the ability to make better choices and live longer and healthier if they so choose.
I did take that message to heart, really I did, but I also stopped off for a drink at Rosie Connelly's on the way home to think about how I can possibly incorporate more micro-nutrients (fruits and veggies) into my diet. And I wasn't nearly as bad as I could have been.
As the bartender smilingly reminded me when she served me, "At least you don't have anyone trying to force tequilas on you tonight," a reference to one of my recent visits where a close-talking regular was determined to buy me drinks I didn't want.
Come to think of it, though, tequila is plant-based. But no, probably not what Joe had in mind.
Girls Gone Cocoa
I can't decide if it's small town-like or big city-like to have a pharmacy connected to a restaurant. Go in for pain reliever and then use the connecting door to have a little lunch while you're there.
Which is just how it went down today when a friend and I returning from Church Hill decided on Aziza's for a late lunch. Pulling up, she commented on needing some aspirin, so we went into Edloe's Pharmacy on Main, a place I knew of but had never been in.
Paying for her Alleve, the pharmacist commented that "It's too nice a day to need this." Actually, it was too nice a day to have a pain, so she took a couple right there at the water fountain before we used the shared door to find a table at Aziza's. Since I'm usually at Aziza's at night, I can't say I'd even noticed the door before.
We chose our meal from the array of deli choices, getting Lebanese meat and potatoes, white bean, basil and tuna salad and stewed veggies with garbanzo beans. All three were excellent and toasted pita bread was used to soak up assorted oil, sauce and juices.
She'd wanted to order a fourth choice, but luckily I'd dissuaded her since we had leftovers out of those three. Still, we both love eating that way, tasting a variety of things. Why settle for one if you don't have to, especially if you can have three?
Of course, we're talking food here, although my friend suggested that she'd like to see me reach that point in my personal life, too. Wouldn't I have to get to one first? Let's just say I laughed out loud at the notion of three.
She wanted our next stop to be Pearl's Cupcake Shop over on the Avenues but worried that it was too far out of my comfort zone for me. Not so; I can do Libbie without hyperventilating.
And even though we stuck out like sore thumbs (so not Avenue types), it was well worth it for the trendier-than-thou cupcakes in the overly spacious and cutesy space, which also had a yarn/knitting shop in the basement.
She wanted gluten free and had the luxury of two choices; hers was the chocolate cake with butter cream frosting. There was no way for me to resist the "Pearl Gone Cocoa," a chocolate cake with white icing and coconut.
A lot of coconut. Falling onto my lap and onto the table with every bite lot of coconut. Moist and sweet coconut with dark chocolate underneath. Kind of like a nonpreservative-filled Hostess Snowball. Note to self: enjoy this combination again.
But no matter how much nudging I might get, I couldn't possibly handle three.
Which is just how it went down today when a friend and I returning from Church Hill decided on Aziza's for a late lunch. Pulling up, she commented on needing some aspirin, so we went into Edloe's Pharmacy on Main, a place I knew of but had never been in.
Paying for her Alleve, the pharmacist commented that "It's too nice a day to need this." Actually, it was too nice a day to have a pain, so she took a couple right there at the water fountain before we used the shared door to find a table at Aziza's. Since I'm usually at Aziza's at night, I can't say I'd even noticed the door before.
We chose our meal from the array of deli choices, getting Lebanese meat and potatoes, white bean, basil and tuna salad and stewed veggies with garbanzo beans. All three were excellent and toasted pita bread was used to soak up assorted oil, sauce and juices.
She'd wanted to order a fourth choice, but luckily I'd dissuaded her since we had leftovers out of those three. Still, we both love eating that way, tasting a variety of things. Why settle for one if you don't have to, especially if you can have three?
Of course, we're talking food here, although my friend suggested that she'd like to see me reach that point in my personal life, too. Wouldn't I have to get to one first? Let's just say I laughed out loud at the notion of three.
She wanted our next stop to be Pearl's Cupcake Shop over on the Avenues but worried that it was too far out of my comfort zone for me. Not so; I can do Libbie without hyperventilating.
And even though we stuck out like sore thumbs (so not Avenue types), it was well worth it for the trendier-than-thou cupcakes in the overly spacious and cutesy space, which also had a yarn/knitting shop in the basement.
She wanted gluten free and had the luxury of two choices; hers was the chocolate cake with butter cream frosting. There was no way for me to resist the "Pearl Gone Cocoa," a chocolate cake with white icing and coconut.
A lot of coconut. Falling onto my lap and onto the table with every bite lot of coconut. Moist and sweet coconut with dark chocolate underneath. Kind of like a nonpreservative-filled Hostess Snowball. Note to self: enjoy this combination again.
But no matter how much nudging I might get, I couldn't possibly handle three.
Garage Guru
Somewhere in the midst of all that activity in September, my car's state inspection had expired (oops), so I made myself get up at the ungodly hour of 7:50 today and take my Altima in for its annual check-up.
Luckily, the garage is only three blocks away, so I was back by 8:10 and they'd already finished with it by the time I got home from my walk at 9:30, so I walked back over.
Entering the garage, I crowed, "I guess I must have passed" to the owner. "You knew you would. It's a well-built car and you take care of it," he praised me. Of course, that has a lot to do with the two cars I destroyed in my twenties by not taking care of them. Live and learn, I always say.
"Luckily, it doesn't take much," I told him. "A little maintenance, some attention here and there."
"Just like a man," he said, chuckling.
"I could use one of those, too, preferably one as reliable as my car," I told him.
"Yea, a little fine tuning, a little effort and we can make you pretty happy. But cars don't talk back, either," he winked, walking me to my car and opening the door.
"Keep working at the men, Karen. It'll be worth it," he advised, hitting the top of the car for emphasis just before he closed the door.
Who knew that sixteen dollars covered the price to drive legally for another year and get unexpected man advice?
Luckily, the garage is only three blocks away, so I was back by 8:10 and they'd already finished with it by the time I got home from my walk at 9:30, so I walked back over.
Entering the garage, I crowed, "I guess I must have passed" to the owner. "You knew you would. It's a well-built car and you take care of it," he praised me. Of course, that has a lot to do with the two cars I destroyed in my twenties by not taking care of them. Live and learn, I always say.
"Luckily, it doesn't take much," I told him. "A little maintenance, some attention here and there."
"Just like a man," he said, chuckling.
"I could use one of those, too, preferably one as reliable as my car," I told him.
"Yea, a little fine tuning, a little effort and we can make you pretty happy. But cars don't talk back, either," he winked, walking me to my car and opening the door.
"Keep working at the men, Karen. It'll be worth it," he advised, hitting the top of the car for emphasis just before he closed the door.
Who knew that sixteen dollars covered the price to drive legally for another year and get unexpected man advice?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Just Slide Off Your Stool, Pal
Question: What's the best time to do a post-mortem of Folk Fest weekend?
Answer: At a Monday night jazz show at The Camel.
Tonight's Scott Clark 4-Tet show (with the Marcus Tenney Trio opening) offered up a house full of musicians, all of whom were eager to share whom they'd seen and how they'd liked them. I was happy to hear everyone's opinions and compare notes.
Consensus: Parking was a bitch but the music absolutely ruled. Need I add that the Persians came up yet again?
When I'd arrived, the door guy had teased me about being back so soon (48 hours after my last visit) and how I'm there so often because The Camel has the best music in town. While that isn't always true, they are the most reliable spot for great music on off nights and tonight was another perfect example of that.
Five bucks bought some of the best local jazz talent playing right now as well as some of the most original composing coming out of RVA. I'm a huge fan of Scott Clark's drumming (see bands Ilad and/or Glows in the Dark) and low-key persona; but when he lets loose on the drums, he becomes anything but.
But not quite like the completely drunk guy at the bar whom I mistakenly sat down next to. He's the same one who often attends shows there and does the fist pumping and off-beat dancing inches away from the band.
Looking at me bleary-eyed, he asked, "Do you need a drink?" to which I answered, "No, I don't need a drink."
He gave me the hairy eyeball and to punish me, I guess, said, "Good, then you're not getting one," and turned his back on me, shortly before beginning his slow slide out of the stool. "Better pay," he mumbled to the bartender. "You already did, Ace," Dave informed him. "Twice."
Trumpet, sax, upright bass and drums. If it's Monday, it must be jazz.
Answer: At a Monday night jazz show at The Camel.
Tonight's Scott Clark 4-Tet show (with the Marcus Tenney Trio opening) offered up a house full of musicians, all of whom were eager to share whom they'd seen and how they'd liked them. I was happy to hear everyone's opinions and compare notes.
Consensus: Parking was a bitch but the music absolutely ruled. Need I add that the Persians came up yet again?
When I'd arrived, the door guy had teased me about being back so soon (48 hours after my last visit) and how I'm there so often because The Camel has the best music in town. While that isn't always true, they are the most reliable spot for great music on off nights and tonight was another perfect example of that.
Five bucks bought some of the best local jazz talent playing right now as well as some of the most original composing coming out of RVA. I'm a huge fan of Scott Clark's drumming (see bands Ilad and/or Glows in the Dark) and low-key persona; but when he lets loose on the drums, he becomes anything but.
But not quite like the completely drunk guy at the bar whom I mistakenly sat down next to. He's the same one who often attends shows there and does the fist pumping and off-beat dancing inches away from the band.
Looking at me bleary-eyed, he asked, "Do you need a drink?" to which I answered, "No, I don't need a drink."
He gave me the hairy eyeball and to punish me, I guess, said, "Good, then you're not getting one," and turned his back on me, shortly before beginning his slow slide out of the stool. "Better pay," he mumbled to the bartender. "You already did, Ace," Dave informed him. "Twice."
Trumpet, sax, upright bass and drums. If it's Monday, it must be jazz.
Columbus Day Field Trip
In fourteen hundred and ninety two
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
With no idea what the appropriate way to celebrate Columbus Day might be, I jumped at a friend's offer to go tripping through Charlottesville wine country today.
His original plan included two wineries and Albemarle Cider Works, but they ended up being closed today, so we subbed another vineyard for the apple juice (and I'm not a cider fan, anyway) and carried on.
Starting at Jefferson Vineyards with the grounds still beautifully in bloom, we listened to a perfunctory description of their wines from our tasting guy. I hope he was enjoying himself more than he appeared to be, because otherwise he must hate getting up every day.
The 2009 Rose was my favorite, as was the usual pink advice on the tasting notes: drink soon and often. Done, still doing.
Lunch was at Hamilton's on the downtown mall at an outdoor table to enjoy the perfect October day. Still full from last night's pork belly feast, I toned it down with a salad with Polyface Farm chicken on romaine with apple wood-smoked bacon, fried shallots, local grape tomatoes and a blue cheese vinaigrette.
No ingredient could have tasted any fresher and the Polyface poultry, as always,was light years beyond average yard bird. My friend had the curried Polyface chicken on flat bread and seemed just as satisfied.
Since October is Virginia Wine month Hamilton's had a long list of quaffable specials, so my friend indulged in a glass of the Albemarle Cider, thereby making up for our lost visit. I took a sip, but I just don't think it's for me. Maybe I'm not enough of a farm girl type or something.
Burnley was next, but I'd been there, so nothing new to report; we ended with Cooper Vineyards in Louisa. It turned out to be my favorite tasting of the day and included Virginia's native grape Norton, the grape with no middling ground; you either love it or hate it and their Reserve had a lot to recommend it to lovers.
He had three ships and sailed from Spain
He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain.
Cooper was satisfying also because winemaking was in full view and progress; I passed the winemaker stirring vats of bright red grapes on my way through the arbor (okay, on my way to the restroom, but whatever), flies buzzing around. My only regret was not meeting the winery beagle who was apparently off napping. Next time, I hope.
October 12, their dream came true
You never saw a happier crew!
We were pretty happy ourselves, tastings done, future wine festivals discussed, bottles of wine in the trunk and a fine full day in the sunshine.
Just not sure we discovered anything we didn't already know, but some days I guess it's just about savoring the exploration.
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
With no idea what the appropriate way to celebrate Columbus Day might be, I jumped at a friend's offer to go tripping through Charlottesville wine country today.
His original plan included two wineries and Albemarle Cider Works, but they ended up being closed today, so we subbed another vineyard for the apple juice (and I'm not a cider fan, anyway) and carried on.
Starting at Jefferson Vineyards with the grounds still beautifully in bloom, we listened to a perfunctory description of their wines from our tasting guy. I hope he was enjoying himself more than he appeared to be, because otherwise he must hate getting up every day.
The 2009 Rose was my favorite, as was the usual pink advice on the tasting notes: drink soon and often. Done, still doing.
Lunch was at Hamilton's on the downtown mall at an outdoor table to enjoy the perfect October day. Still full from last night's pork belly feast, I toned it down with a salad with Polyface Farm chicken on romaine with apple wood-smoked bacon, fried shallots, local grape tomatoes and a blue cheese vinaigrette.
No ingredient could have tasted any fresher and the Polyface poultry, as always,was light years beyond average yard bird. My friend had the curried Polyface chicken on flat bread and seemed just as satisfied.
Since October is Virginia Wine month Hamilton's had a long list of quaffable specials, so my friend indulged in a glass of the Albemarle Cider, thereby making up for our lost visit. I took a sip, but I just don't think it's for me. Maybe I'm not enough of a farm girl type or something.
Burnley was next, but I'd been there, so nothing new to report; we ended with Cooper Vineyards in Louisa. It turned out to be my favorite tasting of the day and included Virginia's native grape Norton, the grape with no middling ground; you either love it or hate it and their Reserve had a lot to recommend it to lovers.
He had three ships and sailed from Spain
He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain.
Cooper was satisfying also because winemaking was in full view and progress; I passed the winemaker stirring vats of bright red grapes on my way through the arbor (okay, on my way to the restroom, but whatever), flies buzzing around. My only regret was not meeting the winery beagle who was apparently off napping. Next time, I hope.
October 12, their dream came true
You never saw a happier crew!
We were pretty happy ourselves, tastings done, future wine festivals discussed, bottles of wine in the trunk and a fine full day in the sunshine.
Just not sure we discovered anything we didn't already know, but some days I guess it's just about savoring the exploration.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
On Not Squaring Shoulders
Why is it that long days always follow short nights? There was the excitement of the Folk Fest, followed by a much-needed nap and finally getting some work done, and all of a sudden it was after 8 and I hadn't even begun to consider dinner.
And Sunday nights can be problematic for going out anyway because so many places aren't open or close early (missed the Kuba, Kuba cut-off by 8 minutes). But not Bonvenu and with their door sitting invitingly open on Cary Street, I made a bee-line for it, only to be greeted with, "Long time, no see!" from the bartender. It had been a while.
Which worked out well, because there were plenty of changes to the menu, two of which I tried. Tonight's soup was a chicken, veggie and rice gumbo, chock full of okra and carrots and just what I needed to warm me up in the overly air-conditioned temperature of the restaurant (it takes me a while to adjust to cool, especially when outside was so nice and warm. No blood).
Dinner was the bourbon-braised pork belly brochettes topped with citrus gremolata with a side of pickled red onions over arugula and sweet potato chips, freshly fried. Each of the four brochettes was a good-sized hunk of meat/fat, perfectly seasoned and dripping in, well, you know. The tang of the onions cut all that delicious fat and the chips were just a crispy bonus.
More new food choices are on the brunch menu over which I salivated (BLT: pork belly, arugula and tomato sandwich, a lobster hoagie), trying to think of which friends might be free for brunch some Sunday soon.
The bartender and one other bar sitter and I had a lively discussion of some earlier customers (a 23-top containing one particularly arrogant finger-snapping ass) and our thoughts on a couple of the new restaurants we'd all tried. Meanwhile John the magician was doing his tricks for the Byrd Theater crowds just across the street in the warm October air.
After some talk and so much filling food, I settled in with my newspapers, beginning with yesterday's which I still hadn't gotten to. Just another solo diner without someone with whom I could discuss what I was reading or eating.
Or, as my Saturday horoscope explained so succinctly:
You are self-sufficient and when it comes down to it, you can take care of all your needs. But this does not stop you from wanting to know that you belong and fit into another person's life.
Yes, wanting to know that. Who wouldn't?
And Sunday nights can be problematic for going out anyway because so many places aren't open or close early (missed the Kuba, Kuba cut-off by 8 minutes). But not Bonvenu and with their door sitting invitingly open on Cary Street, I made a bee-line for it, only to be greeted with, "Long time, no see!" from the bartender. It had been a while.
Which worked out well, because there were plenty of changes to the menu, two of which I tried. Tonight's soup was a chicken, veggie and rice gumbo, chock full of okra and carrots and just what I needed to warm me up in the overly air-conditioned temperature of the restaurant (it takes me a while to adjust to cool, especially when outside was so nice and warm. No blood).
Dinner was the bourbon-braised pork belly brochettes topped with citrus gremolata with a side of pickled red onions over arugula and sweet potato chips, freshly fried. Each of the four brochettes was a good-sized hunk of meat/fat, perfectly seasoned and dripping in, well, you know. The tang of the onions cut all that delicious fat and the chips were just a crispy bonus.
More new food choices are on the brunch menu over which I salivated (BLT: pork belly, arugula and tomato sandwich, a lobster hoagie), trying to think of which friends might be free for brunch some Sunday soon.
The bartender and one other bar sitter and I had a lively discussion of some earlier customers (a 23-top containing one particularly arrogant finger-snapping ass) and our thoughts on a couple of the new restaurants we'd all tried. Meanwhile John the magician was doing his tricks for the Byrd Theater crowds just across the street in the warm October air.
After some talk and so much filling food, I settled in with my newspapers, beginning with yesterday's which I still hadn't gotten to. Just another solo diner without someone with whom I could discuss what I was reading or eating.
Or, as my Saturday horoscope explained so succinctly:
You are self-sufficient and when it comes down to it, you can take care of all your needs. But this does not stop you from wanting to know that you belong and fit into another person's life.
Yes, wanting to know that. Who wouldn't?
Is It Warm or Is It Me?
Oops, I did it again. I went back to the Folk Fest to hear and see more intriguing music and I allowed myself to be sucked in by the Persian's pink bagpipes and hips. Forgive me for my weakness, for which I make no apologies.
Today I got on the Danny Train, as my friend likes to refer to himself, because he hadn't yet made it down to the festival. We parked early and easily and were in place in the second row for Capoeira Luanda with half an hour to spare and time to cruise the food booths before the Brazilians took the stage.
We picked up some candied almonds at the Oktoberfest booth and settled in for the national sport of Brazil. I was fascinated to learn that the art of the moves developed as a disguise for the Africans to practice martial arts without their colonial Portuguese masters being aware.
The restraint, the control and the athleticism of the performers literally took my breath away...and more than once. Their lithe bodies seemed to bend and hold in unimaginable ways before snapping back to normal without ever making contact with the other bodies on stage.
Picture a handsome man in a handstand position doing scissor kicks upside down across the stage. Truly the "gentle warriors" that were described and a thing of beauty to witness.
Afterwards we got Thai food from Carytown's Ginger Thai and trudged up the hill to eat lunch before seeing Otrov, a group of Croatian-American musicians paying gypsy bluegrass music, if such a thing can be imagined (and if we've got gypsy punk, why not gypsy bluegrass?). They employed five different fretted string instruments and sang in their native tongue in voices easily imagined in a tavern.
And because I'm weak and because I'd already run into three people who'd agreed that Ensemble Shanbehzadeh had stolen the festival, I took the D-Train to the Dominion Stage for a repeat performance. The MC made the comment that over the weekend, the band "has become as popular in Richmond as it is unpopular with its native government." High praise indeed.
I was gratified to hear from the female half of the couple who had hosted the ensemble earlier in the week that when she suggested that the pink bagpipe had a sensual quality to it, Shanbehzadeh openly acknowledged, "Not just sensual, sexual."
Yes well, I certainly had noticed. Just like I'd noticed other repeat female audience members besides myself today.
What a lovely hot afternoon at the Folk Fest. Perhaps I should have brought a fan.
Today I got on the Danny Train, as my friend likes to refer to himself, because he hadn't yet made it down to the festival. We parked early and easily and were in place in the second row for Capoeira Luanda with half an hour to spare and time to cruise the food booths before the Brazilians took the stage.
We picked up some candied almonds at the Oktoberfest booth and settled in for the national sport of Brazil. I was fascinated to learn that the art of the moves developed as a disguise for the Africans to practice martial arts without their colonial Portuguese masters being aware.
The restraint, the control and the athleticism of the performers literally took my breath away...and more than once. Their lithe bodies seemed to bend and hold in unimaginable ways before snapping back to normal without ever making contact with the other bodies on stage.
Picture a handsome man in a handstand position doing scissor kicks upside down across the stage. Truly the "gentle warriors" that were described and a thing of beauty to witness.
Afterwards we got Thai food from Carytown's Ginger Thai and trudged up the hill to eat lunch before seeing Otrov, a group of Croatian-American musicians paying gypsy bluegrass music, if such a thing can be imagined (and if we've got gypsy punk, why not gypsy bluegrass?). They employed five different fretted string instruments and sang in their native tongue in voices easily imagined in a tavern.
And because I'm weak and because I'd already run into three people who'd agreed that Ensemble Shanbehzadeh had stolen the festival, I took the D-Train to the Dominion Stage for a repeat performance. The MC made the comment that over the weekend, the band "has become as popular in Richmond as it is unpopular with its native government." High praise indeed.
I was gratified to hear from the female half of the couple who had hosted the ensemble earlier in the week that when she suggested that the pink bagpipe had a sensual quality to it, Shanbehzadeh openly acknowledged, "Not just sensual, sexual."
Yes well, I certainly had noticed. Just like I'd noticed other repeat female audience members besides myself today.
What a lovely hot afternoon at the Folk Fest. Perhaps I should have brought a fan.
Pulling Back the Curtain
Any way you look at it, tonight was a stellar opportunity to hear music in the capital city. There was Folk Fest, Acme Thunderer Label launch at Gallery 5, Built to Spill at the National, Diamond Center house show in Oregon Hill. And my choice, the Triple Stamp show at the Camel.
Any Triple Stamp show is worth taking in because of the quality of the musicians on their label, but tonight there was the added bonus of a reunion show by the too-long absent Mermaid Skeletons.
Yes, the same Mermaid Skeletons who seared a permanent place in my heart a few summers back with a memorable show in the garden of the Poe Museum on a sticky hot night where fans surrounded the garden to listen to the sold-out show.
They were preceded by the always-excellent Ophelia, minus their drummer and, for a change, Grant on guitar and David on bass and banjo. For several of my friends, it was their first Ophelia show and they were as impressed as I'd assured them they'd be.
Mermaid Skeletons, they of the many members, entrancing music and beautiful/silly lyrics, took the stage to a capacity crowd. When you haven't played for a few years, the devoted gather in droves. Tonight no one had to climb a pointed stone wall to see the band, but the enthusiasm to hear that distinctive sound was just as great.
During Homemade Knives's set, Will got almost four songs in before remembering to acknowledge his stage fright, a rarity for a guy who usually opens their set with panic attack talk. His voice, as ever, was as stirring on older original material as it was on an Otis Redding cover learned for a recent wedding.
Last but certainly not least, was Anousheh Khalili, a member of Homemade Knives, but doing her own thing along with drum and bass. Hers was the loudest set, relatively speaking, and the combination of her keyboards and voice did justice to the 80s-influenced new songs she was playing.
It was a truly mesmerizing show start to finish and the fact that the Camel was just as crowded at the start of the evening as it was at midnight was tribute to the brilliance of the Triple Stamp bill.
An unexpected highlight of the evening was meeting one of my most regular blog commenters who came to the show with a mutual friend. Owing to some music opining I had done for him, he was in my debt for a good tequila, so after the show we went around the corner to Balliceaux to settle up.
Satisfyingly, he turned out to be as big a music geek as I am, and it's always a pleasure to talk to those as obsessed as oneself. He has the added fortune of actually being a musician, so technically he's probably even more obsessed, a fact I almost envy. After discovering our mutual fandom for Beach House, bartender Austin made it so by playing the album.
My only concern is that now that he's met the person behind the curtain, he won't be nearly as fascinated by my ramblings.
And you can imagine how much I'd hate to lose a clever commenter. After all, it's the hope that my writing will engage someone enough to cause them to comment that makes all of this worthwhile in the first place.
Conversation, whether virtual or face-to-face, is always the objective with me. Nothing like stating the obvious.
Any Triple Stamp show is worth taking in because of the quality of the musicians on their label, but tonight there was the added bonus of a reunion show by the too-long absent Mermaid Skeletons.
Yes, the same Mermaid Skeletons who seared a permanent place in my heart a few summers back with a memorable show in the garden of the Poe Museum on a sticky hot night where fans surrounded the garden to listen to the sold-out show.
They were preceded by the always-excellent Ophelia, minus their drummer and, for a change, Grant on guitar and David on bass and banjo. For several of my friends, it was their first Ophelia show and they were as impressed as I'd assured them they'd be.
Mermaid Skeletons, they of the many members, entrancing music and beautiful/silly lyrics, took the stage to a capacity crowd. When you haven't played for a few years, the devoted gather in droves. Tonight no one had to climb a pointed stone wall to see the band, but the enthusiasm to hear that distinctive sound was just as great.
During Homemade Knives's set, Will got almost four songs in before remembering to acknowledge his stage fright, a rarity for a guy who usually opens their set with panic attack talk. His voice, as ever, was as stirring on older original material as it was on an Otis Redding cover learned for a recent wedding.
Last but certainly not least, was Anousheh Khalili, a member of Homemade Knives, but doing her own thing along with drum and bass. Hers was the loudest set, relatively speaking, and the combination of her keyboards and voice did justice to the 80s-influenced new songs she was playing.
It was a truly mesmerizing show start to finish and the fact that the Camel was just as crowded at the start of the evening as it was at midnight was tribute to the brilliance of the Triple Stamp bill.
An unexpected highlight of the evening was meeting one of my most regular blog commenters who came to the show with a mutual friend. Owing to some music opining I had done for him, he was in my debt for a good tequila, so after the show we went around the corner to Balliceaux to settle up.
Satisfyingly, he turned out to be as big a music geek as I am, and it's always a pleasure to talk to those as obsessed as oneself. He has the added fortune of actually being a musician, so technically he's probably even more obsessed, a fact I almost envy. After discovering our mutual fandom for Beach House, bartender Austin made it so by playing the album.
My only concern is that now that he's met the person behind the curtain, he won't be nearly as fascinated by my ramblings.
And you can imagine how much I'd hate to lose a clever commenter. After all, it's the hope that my writing will engage someone enough to cause them to comment that makes all of this worthwhile in the first place.
Conversation, whether virtual or face-to-face, is always the objective with me. Nothing like stating the obvious.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
"What a Waste!"
There's an old Rx form hanging in Tarrant's that prescribes a gallon of beer for treatment of diabetes. I'd like to see an Rx that prescribes brunch with a girlfriend for any number of female maladies, particularly machinations of the head and heart.
That's a roundabout way of saying that after three hours at the Empress with a girlfriend, I feel so much better about all the stuff that's been chasing around in my head the past two weeks.
As she pointed out, I have a habit of squaring my shoulders to the world and never letting on when things are occupying my mind, which they most certainly have been of late.
She chose the Empress because she's gluten-intolerant and every single thing on the brunch menu is gluten-free, including French toast and crepes. She ordered my favorite salad with arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken, garbanzo bean, sunflower seeds in a red wine vinaigrette, but I wasn't going to let myself go that route again.
Instead, I couldn't pass up the green eggs and lamb (Derby sage scrambled eggs, grilled lamb chops and hash browns), which was every bit as amazing as it sounds.
Props to Dr. Seuss for being the inspiration for something so catchy-sounding and mouth-watering. And how often do you get to suck bones at brunch? I'd say not nearly often enough.
Our server was a delight, relating to us and our conversation every time he stopped by to check on us. For every dilemma we were discussing, he had an anecdote and empathy to offer (men!). After the first hour, we were the only customers left, so we didn't feel like we were taking him from more pressing things.
Dessert was the ginger/cayenne chocolate pate, more because the kind of serious dishing we were doing called for chocolate than because either of us really needed it. Or perhaps it was celebratory since she'd been finally addressing a couple of personal issues in her life and I'd had a couple of almost forward steps in mine.
Which is not to say that either of us is satisfied with where our lives are at the moment, but when we're really honest with each other, maybe there is hope that things will eventually work out. You know, like before we're dead.
Or maybe I just need to quit squaring my shoulders and get my prescription refilled more often.
I need to do something, that's for sure.
That's a roundabout way of saying that after three hours at the Empress with a girlfriend, I feel so much better about all the stuff that's been chasing around in my head the past two weeks.
As she pointed out, I have a habit of squaring my shoulders to the world and never letting on when things are occupying my mind, which they most certainly have been of late.
She chose the Empress because she's gluten-intolerant and every single thing on the brunch menu is gluten-free, including French toast and crepes. She ordered my favorite salad with arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken, garbanzo bean, sunflower seeds in a red wine vinaigrette, but I wasn't going to let myself go that route again.
Instead, I couldn't pass up the green eggs and lamb (Derby sage scrambled eggs, grilled lamb chops and hash browns), which was every bit as amazing as it sounds.
Props to Dr. Seuss for being the inspiration for something so catchy-sounding and mouth-watering. And how often do you get to suck bones at brunch? I'd say not nearly often enough.
Our server was a delight, relating to us and our conversation every time he stopped by to check on us. For every dilemma we were discussing, he had an anecdote and empathy to offer (men!). After the first hour, we were the only customers left, so we didn't feel like we were taking him from more pressing things.
Dessert was the ginger/cayenne chocolate pate, more because the kind of serious dishing we were doing called for chocolate than because either of us really needed it. Or perhaps it was celebratory since she'd been finally addressing a couple of personal issues in her life and I'd had a couple of almost forward steps in mine.
Which is not to say that either of us is satisfied with where our lives are at the moment, but when we're really honest with each other, maybe there is hope that things will eventually work out. You know, like before we're dead.
Or maybe I just need to quit squaring my shoulders and get my prescription refilled more often.
I need to do something, that's for sure.
Folk Me
What's the best thing about the Richmond Folk Fest over the National Folk Fest? That would be the increasing focus on international music and tonight provided a an unparalleled kick-off to that emphasis.
I was meeting a favorite couple, so I arrived just before 6:30 to stake out the best seats (second row center) for a 7:15 show. Already in place in the same row was a guy looking as eager as I no doubt did, who immediately engaged me in conversation. He turned out to be a drummer who recently moved back to RVA from Colorado after 8 years away.
You can imagine what a conversation starter that was! He's just discovering all the changes in our music scene since he was last here and he was terribly impressed when he learned how often I'm out for live music ("I wish everyone was like you.") and asked for recommendations on local bands to check out. Happy to oblige, friend.
After last year's Folk Fest performance by Debashish Bhattacharya, here, I knew that if I was only going to see one performance this weekend, it was going to be Zakir Hussain playing tabla. As my handsome Indian friend (and half my couple date) had told me, the man is a maestro.
Midway through his first piece, the audience began clapping and cheering during one especially fast part, causing Hussain to throw out his hands in a "What are you people doing?" gesture. I had been wondering the same thing since they were drowning out the man's playing.
During the next piece, he was even clearer with the overly-noisy and enthusiastic, admonishing them "I'll tell you when to clap." Of note was that the sizable Indian contingent of the audience knew better than to mar the performance with making noise mid-music.
My new drummer friend, who was not clapping either, said between pieces, "People always do that on a drum solo. They don't know any better." Presumably they did after being told by the maestro.
Hussain had said that all the tabla movement was from the wrist down ("We get tennis wrist.") and at times, his fingers flew so fast they were unrecognizable as digits. His partner, playing the melody, had fingers just as fleet. And it wasn't just me who was left wowed.
After the encore, the drummer turned to me and said, "I can die happy now" with an enormous grin on his face. Drummer nirvana from the second row for both the talented and the mere fan.
That performance alone would have made for an absolutely amazing night, but due to the genius of the programming staff, there was more to come. Ensemble Shanbehzadeh, an Iranian trio, followed with a performance unlike anything I could have imagined.
Leader Saied Shanbehzadeh (now exiled in Paris because he wouldn't alter his music to suit his government) is a master of the double-reed bagpipe, which, I might add, was pink and tasseled. It's hard to describe the magnificence of a man passionately dancing while playing a pink bagpipe between two drummers (one his teenage son).
There may be men with more sinuous dance stylings on the planet, but I doubt you could find a member of tonight's audience who would believe that. From Cossack-style leg kicks to provocative pelvic thrusting and the most fluid hips imaginable on a man, you could almost see the females in the crowd responding.
At one point, the female half of my couple date looked over at me, her eyes enormous and just nodded knowingly at me. I nodded right back. Words weren't necessary, although we came up with a few choice ones later.
Afterwards, I spotted a friend who looked a little glazed and she said, "I need to go find someplace to dance and release some of this pent-up energy after that." I'm quite sure she wasn't the only one feeling that way. The man was a force of nature and the music's raw emotion was captivating.
With a mere 45 minutes to perform, Shanbehzadeh eschewed stage banter, saying only that he "loved people of all countries." He closed the show with, "Next year, all of us in New York!" Don't I wish.
Walking back up 5th Street, the handsome one suggested Lemaire to finish off the evening with wine, cocktails, cheeses and beef tartare. Since we'd been engrossed in music all evening, it was really our first chance for extended conversation.
He, like Hussain, is Indian, she's from Ukraine and the ensemble was Persian, making for a most international night at the Richmond Folk Fest.
I couldn't feel any more white-bread or any more thrilled to have witnessed such far-flung talent tonight.
Did I mention those hips?
I was meeting a favorite couple, so I arrived just before 6:30 to stake out the best seats (second row center) for a 7:15 show. Already in place in the same row was a guy looking as eager as I no doubt did, who immediately engaged me in conversation. He turned out to be a drummer who recently moved back to RVA from Colorado after 8 years away.
You can imagine what a conversation starter that was! He's just discovering all the changes in our music scene since he was last here and he was terribly impressed when he learned how often I'm out for live music ("I wish everyone was like you.") and asked for recommendations on local bands to check out. Happy to oblige, friend.
After last year's Folk Fest performance by Debashish Bhattacharya, here, I knew that if I was only going to see one performance this weekend, it was going to be Zakir Hussain playing tabla. As my handsome Indian friend (and half my couple date) had told me, the man is a maestro.
Midway through his first piece, the audience began clapping and cheering during one especially fast part, causing Hussain to throw out his hands in a "What are you people doing?" gesture. I had been wondering the same thing since they were drowning out the man's playing.
During the next piece, he was even clearer with the overly-noisy and enthusiastic, admonishing them "I'll tell you when to clap." Of note was that the sizable Indian contingent of the audience knew better than to mar the performance with making noise mid-music.
My new drummer friend, who was not clapping either, said between pieces, "People always do that on a drum solo. They don't know any better." Presumably they did after being told by the maestro.
Hussain had said that all the tabla movement was from the wrist down ("We get tennis wrist.") and at times, his fingers flew so fast they were unrecognizable as digits. His partner, playing the melody, had fingers just as fleet. And it wasn't just me who was left wowed.
After the encore, the drummer turned to me and said, "I can die happy now" with an enormous grin on his face. Drummer nirvana from the second row for both the talented and the mere fan.
That performance alone would have made for an absolutely amazing night, but due to the genius of the programming staff, there was more to come. Ensemble Shanbehzadeh, an Iranian trio, followed with a performance unlike anything I could have imagined.
Leader Saied Shanbehzadeh (now exiled in Paris because he wouldn't alter his music to suit his government) is a master of the double-reed bagpipe, which, I might add, was pink and tasseled. It's hard to describe the magnificence of a man passionately dancing while playing a pink bagpipe between two drummers (one his teenage son).
There may be men with more sinuous dance stylings on the planet, but I doubt you could find a member of tonight's audience who would believe that. From Cossack-style leg kicks to provocative pelvic thrusting and the most fluid hips imaginable on a man, you could almost see the females in the crowd responding.
At one point, the female half of my couple date looked over at me, her eyes enormous and just nodded knowingly at me. I nodded right back. Words weren't necessary, although we came up with a few choice ones later.
Afterwards, I spotted a friend who looked a little glazed and she said, "I need to go find someplace to dance and release some of this pent-up energy after that." I'm quite sure she wasn't the only one feeling that way. The man was a force of nature and the music's raw emotion was captivating.
With a mere 45 minutes to perform, Shanbehzadeh eschewed stage banter, saying only that he "loved people of all countries." He closed the show with, "Next year, all of us in New York!" Don't I wish.
Walking back up 5th Street, the handsome one suggested Lemaire to finish off the evening with wine, cocktails, cheeses and beef tartare. Since we'd been engrossed in music all evening, it was really our first chance for extended conversation.
He, like Hussain, is Indian, she's from Ukraine and the ensemble was Persian, making for a most international night at the Richmond Folk Fest.
I couldn't feel any more white-bread or any more thrilled to have witnessed such far-flung talent tonight.
Did I mention those hips?
Friday, October 8, 2010
Pre-Parisian Soul Food
A good friend leaves for France Sunday, which guarantees me two things.
First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).
Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.
The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.
I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.
Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.
You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.
Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.
It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.
I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.
First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).
Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.
The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.
I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.
Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.
You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.
Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.
It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.
I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.
Trout and Bossa Nova
Every restaurant visit should begin with a hug and kiss from both the bartender and chef, don't you think? It sets such an inviting mood for guests. Kudos to Bouchon for already adopting this custom. Now if I can just get them to take bar reservations.
I had suggested Bouchon to a girlfriend who wanted to meet for dinner because the last couple of times she'd suggested going there had been within days of me being there solo, so I'd nixed it.
Since she doesn't go out alone, she hadn't been there in months. She loves the place for both the array of sides (she's a carb fiend) and the always-interesting conversational partners we inevitably meet; tonight was no different.
Additional praise goes to their bar menu, priced at $6 and $14 and only available to bar sitters. The entree choices, all priced at $14, are a steal of a deal. I had the rainbow trout and lemon butter mashed potatoes and she had the chicken stuffed with crab meat and mushrooms and truffled mac and cheese.
My trout was perched atop the potatoes and the lemon butter flavor that permeated both was both subtle and rich. Any virtue I felt about having fish was nullified by the sheer amount of butter on the plate (not complaining), making Karen a very happy camper...for fourteen bones.
Her chicken, prepared in the sous vide method (Olivier: "You know about that?"), was delectable, with its crispy skin and succulent filling. She upped the ante by also ordering pommes frites, after foolishly asking, "Will you eat some if I get them?" Duh.
Midway through dinner, bartender Olivier looked at me and asked, "Why aren't you at 27?" I explained that I was headed there afterwards, but had to laugh at his presumption that he knew me well enough to think I'd be there (even if he was correct).
There were green Chartreuse tastings, discussion of the new wine menu soon to be unveiled (some truly amazing choices by the glass coming) and explanation of the criteria for getting a drink named after oneself (I'll never qualify).
I met another blogger (we're a dime a dozen) and a Slip regular whom my friend and I had met before (she still has his number in her phone from 8 months ago when he insisted we take it and call him next time we were there. I threw away the slip of paper he gave me). It's always a crowd of regulars at the bar at Bouchon.
We lingered longer than I had expected to, so the music had already begun by the time I got to 27. Quatro Na Bossa was playing their smooth bossa nova tonight, so it was a bit more low-key than it had been when Mirimar played two weeks ago. Still it's a superb space for listening to music and dancing.
I ended up situated between two interesting couples I know (and it had been too long since my last couple date, so I was pleased to no end), one from J-Ward whom I've chatted up before at various locations and the other a good friend and his main squeeze. It made for some great back and forth, not to mention over-sharing, in between sets.
The dancing got started a bit later and was a tad more sedate than last time, but just as perfectly suited to the music. I'm always impressed when I see people I know acquit themselves so well on the dance floor (Ron, I'm talking to you).
And then it was the bewitching hour and the band was finished and we all began to leave. Having come from downtown, I had uncharacteristically driven to 27, so I couldn't even walk home with my neighbor couple.
Good thing I'd gotten hugged and kissed at the beginning of the evening. Kidding.
I had suggested Bouchon to a girlfriend who wanted to meet for dinner because the last couple of times she'd suggested going there had been within days of me being there solo, so I'd nixed it.
Since she doesn't go out alone, she hadn't been there in months. She loves the place for both the array of sides (she's a carb fiend) and the always-interesting conversational partners we inevitably meet; tonight was no different.
Additional praise goes to their bar menu, priced at $6 and $14 and only available to bar sitters. The entree choices, all priced at $14, are a steal of a deal. I had the rainbow trout and lemon butter mashed potatoes and she had the chicken stuffed with crab meat and mushrooms and truffled mac and cheese.
My trout was perched atop the potatoes and the lemon butter flavor that permeated both was both subtle and rich. Any virtue I felt about having fish was nullified by the sheer amount of butter on the plate (not complaining), making Karen a very happy camper...for fourteen bones.
Her chicken, prepared in the sous vide method (Olivier: "You know about that?"), was delectable, with its crispy skin and succulent filling. She upped the ante by also ordering pommes frites, after foolishly asking, "Will you eat some if I get them?" Duh.
Midway through dinner, bartender Olivier looked at me and asked, "Why aren't you at 27?" I explained that I was headed there afterwards, but had to laugh at his presumption that he knew me well enough to think I'd be there (even if he was correct).
There were green Chartreuse tastings, discussion of the new wine menu soon to be unveiled (some truly amazing choices by the glass coming) and explanation of the criteria for getting a drink named after oneself (I'll never qualify).
I met another blogger (we're a dime a dozen) and a Slip regular whom my friend and I had met before (she still has his number in her phone from 8 months ago when he insisted we take it and call him next time we were there. I threw away the slip of paper he gave me). It's always a crowd of regulars at the bar at Bouchon.
We lingered longer than I had expected to, so the music had already begun by the time I got to 27. Quatro Na Bossa was playing their smooth bossa nova tonight, so it was a bit more low-key than it had been when Mirimar played two weeks ago. Still it's a superb space for listening to music and dancing.
I ended up situated between two interesting couples I know (and it had been too long since my last couple date, so I was pleased to no end), one from J-Ward whom I've chatted up before at various locations and the other a good friend and his main squeeze. It made for some great back and forth, not to mention over-sharing, in between sets.
The dancing got started a bit later and was a tad more sedate than last time, but just as perfectly suited to the music. I'm always impressed when I see people I know acquit themselves so well on the dance floor (Ron, I'm talking to you).
And then it was the bewitching hour and the band was finished and we all began to leave. Having come from downtown, I had uncharacteristically driven to 27, so I couldn't even walk home with my neighbor couple.
Good thing I'd gotten hugged and kissed at the beginning of the evening. Kidding.
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