Even a swine-lover can find reason to go to the Vegetarian Festival.
Friends invited me to join them in the 90-degree heat at Bryan Park for the annual event and since I didn't have any plans for a few hours, why not?
I slathered on sunscreen, grabbed a straw hat and bottle of water and I was ready to go meatless.
We arrived at peak time and were directed to the outermost parking area near the front of the park. No problem since I always enjoy a good walk. Up and over the hills we went.
One thing you can always count on at the Veggie Fest is dozens of dogs and today was no different. Some of the tiniest dogs risked being trampled underfoot given the crowds, not that their owners seemed to notice.
Walking in, I was immediately surprised to see Carytown Burger and Fries, but their menu demonstrated that they have a kinder, gentler veggie side (of which I'd been largely unaware) and the lines were long for the garden burgers, mushroom burgers, bean burgers and other non-meat options.
I got spring rolls from Ginger Thai and my friends gravitated to Ma-Musus's African Cuisine for bean cakes, sweet fried plantains and sweet cornbread.
We tried non-dairy coconut milk "ice cream" sandwiches which I liked because I'm a coconut fan. We sampled vegan chocolate (better than I expected) from Whole Foods, vegan chocolate cake from Good Foods Grocery and pita crackers with tomato bruschetta from Trader Joe's.
The people watching is so great at Veggie Fest. Of course there are an inordinate number of plugs and tattoos. I saw a belly dancer in full regalia with a flowered parasol.
Classic rock covers were being provided courtesy of Tina Marie and Vinyl Tease, a band I'd never heard of but my friends had.
One of my favorite local bands, Marionette, was up next but I had to go before they came on. Pity because enjoying them under the shade of the park's big old trees would have been lovely..
A Baby Boomer wore a Neil Young "Harvest" t-shirt while a 19-year old wore "The Smiths." Size aside, I feel pretty sure either would have been satisfied with the other's shirt.
After walking the perimeter of the festival a couple of times, we headed back to our distant parking space. On the way, we saw a bumper sticker that said it all.
Eat like you give a damn.
It's a sentiment I can get behind, whether scarfing down plantains or pork. And I intend to keep eating both.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Nipples and Disco Balls
A friend was looking for a way to kill time until his 10:00 date and decided to use me.
I told him I was beginning my evening at the VMFA for the documentary "A Woman Like That" about the only female Baroque artist, Artemisia Gentileschi.
The two filmmakers were there to introduce the film, and assured us that "This is not a dead artist film."
In fact, it had many funny moments such as one of the filmmakers strapping a camera to her body to surreptitiously film an exhibit of Gentileschi's paintings after the museum refused her permission.
She was an interesting woman for many reasons, not the least of which was how audacious she was for her time, painting female nudes in a more realistically natural way than male artists had done.
Because she was a freelance artist with no patron, she had to forcefully speak up for herself to be treated fairly as an artist and as a result, was called a virago. You know, a woman like that.
I suppose it's a lot like Madonna saying that by holding her own with music executives back in the 80s, she was called a bitch, unlike a male artist who might do the same.
Referring to one of her works, St. Louis Museum curator Judith Mann said, "This was the first time a breast was really painted, even showing the areola." Women know what breasts look like without a bra, she said.
During the discussion with the filmmakers and curator after the screening, a woman asked Mann what her thoughts were on the VMFA's Gentileschi, "Venus and Cupid," a beautifully languorous work showing a reclining nude looking rapturous (I have my theory as to why).
Mann was quick to say that she no longer believed it was done by Gentileschi as she once had when she'd included it in a show of the artist's work in St. Louis.
The collective surprise at her statement resonated with a huge silence in the room. The near-capacity crowd clearly loved our presumed Gentileschi.
I'm not going to lie; it was a bit of a buzz kill after watching a movie about such a fascinating and talented woman.
Afterwards, my friend and I stopped for a bite at 821 for, what else, black bean nachos (I've made a convert of him) while listening to the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs being blasted on the sound system.
That's a little bit of heaven right there, music and food-wise anyway.
Just as we were tearing into our food, my friend noticed the woman next to him as a regular customer (he's a bartender), which led to an extended discussion about food and restaurants while I ate away and minimally contributed.
On the plus side, she gave us her plate of onion rings which she was too full to eat and which had been torturing us with its smell as we awaited our food.
Her fawning over my friend ended when his girlfriend called to see when he was picking her up. They were headed to Sprout, as was I.
My timing was perfect as Lydia Ooghe was just starting her soft-sung set when I walked in.
It was good to hear some new material from her upcoming album, even if the bar crowd did provide an overly-loud backdrop for her sweet voice.
A last minute addition, Terror Pigeon Dance Revolt, put on as unusual a show as their name would suggest.
After a lengthy set-up, the singer said, "We're going to do a tiny little sound check and then melt your faces."
There was a colorful backdrop, an enormous blow-up Winnie the Pooh, and the drummer's drums were taped together and strapped to his body.
The guitarist wore a furry dog rug around his waist, its head dangling between his legs suggestively. The lead singer had a Robert Smith of the Cure haircut circa 1983 and wore a dress. Everyone else wore helmets that lit up.
The band played on the floor rather than the stage as the singer moved through the crowd dancing and throwing his body around.
The only female member put on a disco ball helmet and twirled while someone pointed a flashlight at her head.
It was performance art and pure theater.
Their disco-ish sound was all about dancing and the crowd was quickly engaged. I sat atop the booth back to stay out of the fray and give me a bird's-eye view of the action.
The singer spent a fair amount of time writhing on the floor as he sang, sometimes to prerecorded music as the band accompanied it live.
It certainly wasn't like anything I've ever witnessed at Sprout before and I could see why the New York Times has written them up.
Atlanta's Omelet followed and they were a tad odd, too, but in a much different way. Wigs, unusual clothing, masks and sunglasses were part of their Zappa-meets-GWAR energy.
A friend described them as Primus-like and I could see that. The saxophone and clarinet were a nice touch for an otherwise classic progressive metal sound.
By that point, I'd swung as far as I cared to for the evening and was ready to move on despite two more bands being on the bill.
A girl has to recognize when she's had enough of everything she needs for the moment.
At least audacious women like that do and I'd like to think that I'm one of those.
I told him I was beginning my evening at the VMFA for the documentary "A Woman Like That" about the only female Baroque artist, Artemisia Gentileschi.
The two filmmakers were there to introduce the film, and assured us that "This is not a dead artist film."
In fact, it had many funny moments such as one of the filmmakers strapping a camera to her body to surreptitiously film an exhibit of Gentileschi's paintings after the museum refused her permission.
She was an interesting woman for many reasons, not the least of which was how audacious she was for her time, painting female nudes in a more realistically natural way than male artists had done.
Because she was a freelance artist with no patron, she had to forcefully speak up for herself to be treated fairly as an artist and as a result, was called a virago. You know, a woman like that.
I suppose it's a lot like Madonna saying that by holding her own with music executives back in the 80s, she was called a bitch, unlike a male artist who might do the same.
Referring to one of her works, St. Louis Museum curator Judith Mann said, "This was the first time a breast was really painted, even showing the areola." Women know what breasts look like without a bra, she said.
During the discussion with the filmmakers and curator after the screening, a woman asked Mann what her thoughts were on the VMFA's Gentileschi, "Venus and Cupid," a beautifully languorous work showing a reclining nude looking rapturous (I have my theory as to why).
Mann was quick to say that she no longer believed it was done by Gentileschi as she once had when she'd included it in a show of the artist's work in St. Louis.
The collective surprise at her statement resonated with a huge silence in the room. The near-capacity crowd clearly loved our presumed Gentileschi.
I'm not going to lie; it was a bit of a buzz kill after watching a movie about such a fascinating and talented woman.
Afterwards, my friend and I stopped for a bite at 821 for, what else, black bean nachos (I've made a convert of him) while listening to the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs being blasted on the sound system.
That's a little bit of heaven right there, music and food-wise anyway.
Just as we were tearing into our food, my friend noticed the woman next to him as a regular customer (he's a bartender), which led to an extended discussion about food and restaurants while I ate away and minimally contributed.
On the plus side, she gave us her plate of onion rings which she was too full to eat and which had been torturing us with its smell as we awaited our food.
Her fawning over my friend ended when his girlfriend called to see when he was picking her up. They were headed to Sprout, as was I.
My timing was perfect as Lydia Ooghe was just starting her soft-sung set when I walked in.
It was good to hear some new material from her upcoming album, even if the bar crowd did provide an overly-loud backdrop for her sweet voice.
A last minute addition, Terror Pigeon Dance Revolt, put on as unusual a show as their name would suggest.
After a lengthy set-up, the singer said, "We're going to do a tiny little sound check and then melt your faces."
There was a colorful backdrop, an enormous blow-up Winnie the Pooh, and the drummer's drums were taped together and strapped to his body.
The guitarist wore a furry dog rug around his waist, its head dangling between his legs suggestively. The lead singer had a Robert Smith of the Cure haircut circa 1983 and wore a dress. Everyone else wore helmets that lit up.
The band played on the floor rather than the stage as the singer moved through the crowd dancing and throwing his body around.
The only female member put on a disco ball helmet and twirled while someone pointed a flashlight at her head.
It was performance art and pure theater.
Their disco-ish sound was all about dancing and the crowd was quickly engaged. I sat atop the booth back to stay out of the fray and give me a bird's-eye view of the action.
The singer spent a fair amount of time writhing on the floor as he sang, sometimes to prerecorded music as the band accompanied it live.
It certainly wasn't like anything I've ever witnessed at Sprout before and I could see why the New York Times has written them up.
Atlanta's Omelet followed and they were a tad odd, too, but in a much different way. Wigs, unusual clothing, masks and sunglasses were part of their Zappa-meets-GWAR energy.
A friend described them as Primus-like and I could see that. The saxophone and clarinet were a nice touch for an otherwise classic progressive metal sound.
By that point, I'd swung as far as I cared to for the evening and was ready to move on despite two more bands being on the bill.
A girl has to recognize when she's had enough of everything she needs for the moment.
At least audacious women like that do and I'd like to think that I'm one of those.
Friday, June 17, 2011
From Monk to Minimalism
I can only be the poster child for doing things by myself for so long before I crave friends.
Tonight's odyssey began at the VMFA for their weekly Jazz Cafe, tonight featuring Monk's Playground, a quartet that re-imagines Thelonious Monk's music for an electric guitar-led group.
I hadn't been to the Jazz cafe in months so I was surprised that it wasn't nearly as mobbed as it had been last winter. More options at this time of year, I suppose.
But I found a seat and settled in to listen to the group's interpretations of Monk with a crowd clearly more familiar with him than I. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the music a lot; I just lacked familiarity with it.
I'd be the first to admit that about all I know of the great composer/pianist is that he's the second most recorded jazz composer and he only wrote seventy-some songs.
As a bonus, the sun was slowly setting behind the Pauley Center (the former Home for Confederate Women), making for a stunning visual to accompany the seminal music. I didn't get that last winter.
A couple of sets in, I was getting hungry, so I drove the few blocks to Acacia for dinner. The barely populated bar had plenty of room for me and there was a new bartender in place.
After a taste, I chose the J. Mourat "Collection" Rose, an elegantly dry pink wine made from Cabernet Franc, Negrette and Pinot Noir to sip while making my food choices.
I was reminded that Chef Dale had driven to the river to get softshells yesterday, but decided to go more in a tasting direction.
Starting with the tempura-fried squash blossoms with chive mascarpone was a choice as seasonally appropriate and short-lived as softshells.
I love when squash are flowering and begin showing up on menus all over town. The delicate flower is really about the tempura and the mascarpone was decadently rich and flavorful. I came this close to ordering another plate of them.
Instead, I tried the fried wontons over seaweed salad. The crispy wontons were filled to bursting with a flavorful mixture of chicken and cabbage, much enhanced by the seaweed and accompanying honey/soy sauce. I was two for two.
I decided to end on a richer note, choosing the rabbit raviolis with roasted mushrooms in a rabbit jus. Three good-sized hat-looking pillows contained the delicate-tasting shredded rabbit which sang when dipped in the jus.
For dessert I had more Rose while the bartender and I discussed the best brunch spots because it's the only meal he and his girlfriend can eat out together due to their nighttime schedules.
That led to a discussion of cooking eggs, a subject on which he was passionate. For whatever reason, not everyone in the business can do eggs well, much to his disgust (he's a former cook). I have a good friend who says the same thing.
We finally wound up our discussion so that I could go to Sprout for a show where I knew I'd see all kinds of friends and hear some interesting music.
And the friends were there and I even made a new one. A girl introduced herself saying, "Have we not met officially? I feel like I see you everywhere."
That's a line I've heard literally dozens of times, causing others around me to nod in acknowledgement.
One of the bearded ones piped up with, "Karen! She's everywhere you should be!" I appreciate a good smart-assed comment when I hear one.
I couldn't have asked for a better musical start to the night than recent transplant Nelly Kate, a girl capable of a dense sound thanks to her looping abilities.
She sang, she played guitar, she banged on a wooden box, she scratched said box and it all became part of a bigger whole.
Her experimental pop and little girl voice made for an entrancing sound and I was sorry her set was so short. Hopefully now that she's in RVA, we'll see her play out more often.
Broken Fences were from Pittsburgh and their sound was more folky, with two guitars and a male and female voice.
At times, their songs put me in mind of old English folk songs like "Greensleeves" or "Black is the Color." There was no denying that they made pretty music.
Last up was the dynamic duo of Jonathan Vassar and David Shultz of Ophelia (minus bass and drums) and tonight the focus was on David.
He did some of his own material, they did a couple of Ophelia songs and he closed with a Paul Simon cover, as the adoring crowd yelled encouragement.
Good as the music was, one of the unexpected pleasures of the evening was the return of a favorite couple who've been traveling since February.
They got back early and it was great to see them and talk to them after their absence. As she said, "It's so great not to have to be nice to new people all the time now that we're home."
And isn't that what friends are for, so that you don't have to be nice all the time?
Nobody would believe it if I tried it anyway.
Tonight's odyssey began at the VMFA for their weekly Jazz Cafe, tonight featuring Monk's Playground, a quartet that re-imagines Thelonious Monk's music for an electric guitar-led group.
I hadn't been to the Jazz cafe in months so I was surprised that it wasn't nearly as mobbed as it had been last winter. More options at this time of year, I suppose.
But I found a seat and settled in to listen to the group's interpretations of Monk with a crowd clearly more familiar with him than I. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the music a lot; I just lacked familiarity with it.
I'd be the first to admit that about all I know of the great composer/pianist is that he's the second most recorded jazz composer and he only wrote seventy-some songs.
As a bonus, the sun was slowly setting behind the Pauley Center (the former Home for Confederate Women), making for a stunning visual to accompany the seminal music. I didn't get that last winter.
A couple of sets in, I was getting hungry, so I drove the few blocks to Acacia for dinner. The barely populated bar had plenty of room for me and there was a new bartender in place.
After a taste, I chose the J. Mourat "Collection" Rose, an elegantly dry pink wine made from Cabernet Franc, Negrette and Pinot Noir to sip while making my food choices.
I was reminded that Chef Dale had driven to the river to get softshells yesterday, but decided to go more in a tasting direction.
Starting with the tempura-fried squash blossoms with chive mascarpone was a choice as seasonally appropriate and short-lived as softshells.
I love when squash are flowering and begin showing up on menus all over town. The delicate flower is really about the tempura and the mascarpone was decadently rich and flavorful. I came this close to ordering another plate of them.
Instead, I tried the fried wontons over seaweed salad. The crispy wontons were filled to bursting with a flavorful mixture of chicken and cabbage, much enhanced by the seaweed and accompanying honey/soy sauce. I was two for two.
I decided to end on a richer note, choosing the rabbit raviolis with roasted mushrooms in a rabbit jus. Three good-sized hat-looking pillows contained the delicate-tasting shredded rabbit which sang when dipped in the jus.
For dessert I had more Rose while the bartender and I discussed the best brunch spots because it's the only meal he and his girlfriend can eat out together due to their nighttime schedules.
That led to a discussion of cooking eggs, a subject on which he was passionate. For whatever reason, not everyone in the business can do eggs well, much to his disgust (he's a former cook). I have a good friend who says the same thing.
We finally wound up our discussion so that I could go to Sprout for a show where I knew I'd see all kinds of friends and hear some interesting music.
And the friends were there and I even made a new one. A girl introduced herself saying, "Have we not met officially? I feel like I see you everywhere."
That's a line I've heard literally dozens of times, causing others around me to nod in acknowledgement.
One of the bearded ones piped up with, "Karen! She's everywhere you should be!" I appreciate a good smart-assed comment when I hear one.
I couldn't have asked for a better musical start to the night than recent transplant Nelly Kate, a girl capable of a dense sound thanks to her looping abilities.
She sang, she played guitar, she banged on a wooden box, she scratched said box and it all became part of a bigger whole.
Her experimental pop and little girl voice made for an entrancing sound and I was sorry her set was so short. Hopefully now that she's in RVA, we'll see her play out more often.
Broken Fences were from Pittsburgh and their sound was more folky, with two guitars and a male and female voice.
At times, their songs put me in mind of old English folk songs like "Greensleeves" or "Black is the Color." There was no denying that they made pretty music.
Last up was the dynamic duo of Jonathan Vassar and David Shultz of Ophelia (minus bass and drums) and tonight the focus was on David.
He did some of his own material, they did a couple of Ophelia songs and he closed with a Paul Simon cover, as the adoring crowd yelled encouragement.
Good as the music was, one of the unexpected pleasures of the evening was the return of a favorite couple who've been traveling since February.
They got back early and it was great to see them and talk to them after their absence. As she said, "It's so great not to have to be nice to new people all the time now that we're home."
And isn't that what friends are for, so that you don't have to be nice all the time?
Nobody would believe it if I tried it anyway.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Oatmeal Before Wine but Barely
Carpe diem, especially when it involves wine in the morning.
I'd been invited to a wine tasting at 11 a.m. and while that's a tad early to start drinking, I've actually been at wineries at that hour before, so it's not completely unheard of for me.
We were going to be swinging between France and Virginia, making for an interesting tasting.
First up was Chateau Lestrille Entre-Deux-Mers, an easy drinking Sauvignon Blanc clearly made by a winemaker who'd visited New Zealand and brought back a few lessons learned.
More to my taste was the Prieure Saint-Hippolyte Languedoc Rose, a medium-bodied beauty tasting of currant and raspberry, but with just a hint of herbs.
Of course my enthusiasm for drinking pink became the topic of conversation, as we discussed how great it would be to live in a world where roses were available year-round.
From there, we moved across the pond to Cardinal Point, a winery I know well since I've poured for them at the annual wine expo twice now.
We were tasting their Viognier, with its lovely floral nose and delicate peach and pineapple notes. I've gone through many bottles of this wine the past few summers, so I knew what it was all about.
When we moved on to Gabrielle Rausse's wines, it was with great anticipation.
The man in charge of plant propagation for the gardens at Monticello is known for making some beautiful European-style wines and we were eager to taste them.
The Rosso, a red table wine blend, was a light red color and, having had no exposure to oak, was the kind of red that even white wine-only types might enjoy.
It was a wine that could even pair well with a meatless meal (not that I have many of those).
I was more into Rausse's Merlot, appreciating that it didn't disappoint in that way that merlot can sometimes.
But the finale was the Rausse Nebbiolo Reserve, an understated beauty with hints of fig and prune and just enough oak (although nothing like an oak monster), to put it firmly in the "Oh my, yes, let's have a bottle of this with dinner" category if I saw it on a list.
The only disappointing part was learning that Gabrielle Rausse has no tasting room on his small farm winery, although we may be fortunate enough to be able to make an appointment to do a full tasting soon.
And you know what? Forget 11:00 in the morning, if he wants us there at 9 a.m. to taste, I'm there.
I can carpe diem any time of the night or day. Just make me the right offer.
I'd been invited to a wine tasting at 11 a.m. and while that's a tad early to start drinking, I've actually been at wineries at that hour before, so it's not completely unheard of for me.
We were going to be swinging between France and Virginia, making for an interesting tasting.
First up was Chateau Lestrille Entre-Deux-Mers, an easy drinking Sauvignon Blanc clearly made by a winemaker who'd visited New Zealand and brought back a few lessons learned.
More to my taste was the Prieure Saint-Hippolyte Languedoc Rose, a medium-bodied beauty tasting of currant and raspberry, but with just a hint of herbs.
Of course my enthusiasm for drinking pink became the topic of conversation, as we discussed how great it would be to live in a world where roses were available year-round.
From there, we moved across the pond to Cardinal Point, a winery I know well since I've poured for them at the annual wine expo twice now.
We were tasting their Viognier, with its lovely floral nose and delicate peach and pineapple notes. I've gone through many bottles of this wine the past few summers, so I knew what it was all about.
When we moved on to Gabrielle Rausse's wines, it was with great anticipation.
The man in charge of plant propagation for the gardens at Monticello is known for making some beautiful European-style wines and we were eager to taste them.
The Rosso, a red table wine blend, was a light red color and, having had no exposure to oak, was the kind of red that even white wine-only types might enjoy.
It was a wine that could even pair well with a meatless meal (not that I have many of those).
I was more into Rausse's Merlot, appreciating that it didn't disappoint in that way that merlot can sometimes.
But the finale was the Rausse Nebbiolo Reserve, an understated beauty with hints of fig and prune and just enough oak (although nothing like an oak monster), to put it firmly in the "Oh my, yes, let's have a bottle of this with dinner" category if I saw it on a list.
The only disappointing part was learning that Gabrielle Rausse has no tasting room on his small farm winery, although we may be fortunate enough to be able to make an appointment to do a full tasting soon.
And you know what? Forget 11:00 in the morning, if he wants us there at 9 a.m. to taste, I'm there.
I can carpe diem any time of the night or day. Just make me the right offer.
Guerrilla Dining in the Alley
I am the last person to ask for love life coaching.
Still, when someone asks me to listen and make suggestions, I am more than happy to oblige.
So when that happened today, my only requirement was that we do it at Xtra's to avail ourselves of the sparkling special.
Another friend had recommended that I check out the Wednesday night deal (a bottle of bubbly is $10) not long ago, so it seemed as good a place as any to hear her story and talk about the next step (or retreat).
And I'd have to say I was pleasantly surprised; the Simonet Vin de Mousseux Blanc de Blancs delivered more than a ten dollar bottle needed to.
It also greased the wheels for her to ask me about intense connections that don't fade with time, soul mates and comfortable but empty relationships. She has a lot going on right now.
Was I any help? I have no idea. All I can do is offer my take on a subject on which I am far from an expert. But, hey, she asked.
After a couple of hours, we could have kept talking except that I had a guerrilla dinner party to attend and I wasn't about to miss it.
A friend and two others are part of a collective that aims to offer locally grown and made food with hand-crafted cocktails in an alley for the ridiculous price of five dollars.
So every few weeks, they put out the word and several dozen people show up at the specified location to eat the one thing they've chosen to make. In the interest of this being RVA, there is always a meatless variation.
Last time it was grilled pizzas and I missed it; tonight it was BLTs and I was not about to miss it.
But not your garden variety diner BLT. No indeed, this was locally cured and smoked bacon (done by yet another friend with a fondness for pig), Manakintown arugula, tomatoes, homemade mayo and freshly baked sourdough.
There was also a vegan option with tomatoes, salsa verde, raw onion, Romesco sauce, and romaine on the fresh sourdough. But who wants a BLT with no bacon? Hello, B is for bacon.
Arriving in the agreed-upon alley at exactly 10:00 as directed, I walked down to the dead end to find a sweet little setup under a great big ball of a moon.
My friend was energetically making drinks on a wooden nightstand. I paid my five bones.
Tonight's libation contained gin, blueberry-rhubarb jam, homemade cane sugar syrup, egg whites and some magic ingredients which can't be disclosed unless I kill you immediately afterwards.
Taking my well-shaken drink, I moved to the long table decorated with a vase of onion flowers, where my BLT was prepared before my eyes.
The two cooking types chatted me up about their inspiration and their love of daily bread making as they slathered, cut and formed the perfect BLT, wrapped in brown paper and cut in half.
Taking my little feast to a nearby stone wall for a sit-down, I joined a seated couple to eat and share conversation about used book stores, the cooler weather and the beauty of this event.
The sandwich was perfect in every way. The bacon's depth of flavor, the freshness of the peppery arugula, the hint of mustard in the mayo and the crustiness of the home baked bread all made for a superior BLT.
Before long I was also joined by a friend of a friend and her paramour (who'd never had a BLT before tonight).
A guy I know from a hip restaurant arrived. One of RVA's favorite painters and his crew rolled up on bikes.
Like me, everyone was amazed at getting the loveliest of BLTs and a cocktail for such a ridiculous price. And that was before we were handed homemade warm zucchini bread slices for dessert.
As I sat there chatting with various people, one of the food guys came over and said, "It's great that you're still here. We want people to come, but even more, we want them to hang around for a while." I can hang.
All told, there were probably a couple dozen people there. The organizers are hoping for more like forty next time.
One guy had a BLT, then a vegan BLT and was taking his third BLT to go when he stopped to talk to me. Even at $15, it was still a steal of a deal for what he got.
And of course, already those in attendance tonight are worried that a massive influx will ruin the relaxed vibe that made tonight's event feel like a neighborhood picnic.
The cops rolled by at one point, but ended up giving us their limited blessing, a warning about the noise level (it was nearing midnight) and moved on.
And we went right back to sipping our purple gin, savoring our local bacon and meeting new people.
I hope guerrilla dining catches on all over Richmond. People who love growing, making and sharing good food gathering with like-minded souls under a full moon.
By the time they organize another one, it'll be a new moon and a whole new experience. I even suggested a possible alley right here in J-Ward for the next one.
With any luck, it'll be coming soon to an alley near you.
No alleys? Tough luck, I'm afraid. A guerrilla alley meal is truly something spectacular.
Still, when someone asks me to listen and make suggestions, I am more than happy to oblige.
So when that happened today, my only requirement was that we do it at Xtra's to avail ourselves of the sparkling special.
Another friend had recommended that I check out the Wednesday night deal (a bottle of bubbly is $10) not long ago, so it seemed as good a place as any to hear her story and talk about the next step (or retreat).
And I'd have to say I was pleasantly surprised; the Simonet Vin de Mousseux Blanc de Blancs delivered more than a ten dollar bottle needed to.
It also greased the wheels for her to ask me about intense connections that don't fade with time, soul mates and comfortable but empty relationships. She has a lot going on right now.
Was I any help? I have no idea. All I can do is offer my take on a subject on which I am far from an expert. But, hey, she asked.
After a couple of hours, we could have kept talking except that I had a guerrilla dinner party to attend and I wasn't about to miss it.
A friend and two others are part of a collective that aims to offer locally grown and made food with hand-crafted cocktails in an alley for the ridiculous price of five dollars.
So every few weeks, they put out the word and several dozen people show up at the specified location to eat the one thing they've chosen to make. In the interest of this being RVA, there is always a meatless variation.
Last time it was grilled pizzas and I missed it; tonight it was BLTs and I was not about to miss it.
But not your garden variety diner BLT. No indeed, this was locally cured and smoked bacon (done by yet another friend with a fondness for pig), Manakintown arugula, tomatoes, homemade mayo and freshly baked sourdough.
There was also a vegan option with tomatoes, salsa verde, raw onion, Romesco sauce, and romaine on the fresh sourdough. But who wants a BLT with no bacon? Hello, B is for bacon.
Arriving in the agreed-upon alley at exactly 10:00 as directed, I walked down to the dead end to find a sweet little setup under a great big ball of a moon.
My friend was energetically making drinks on a wooden nightstand. I paid my five bones.
Tonight's libation contained gin, blueberry-rhubarb jam, homemade cane sugar syrup, egg whites and some magic ingredients which can't be disclosed unless I kill you immediately afterwards.
Taking my well-shaken drink, I moved to the long table decorated with a vase of onion flowers, where my BLT was prepared before my eyes.
The two cooking types chatted me up about their inspiration and their love of daily bread making as they slathered, cut and formed the perfect BLT, wrapped in brown paper and cut in half.
Taking my little feast to a nearby stone wall for a sit-down, I joined a seated couple to eat and share conversation about used book stores, the cooler weather and the beauty of this event.
The sandwich was perfect in every way. The bacon's depth of flavor, the freshness of the peppery arugula, the hint of mustard in the mayo and the crustiness of the home baked bread all made for a superior BLT.
Before long I was also joined by a friend of a friend and her paramour (who'd never had a BLT before tonight).
A guy I know from a hip restaurant arrived. One of RVA's favorite painters and his crew rolled up on bikes.
Like me, everyone was amazed at getting the loveliest of BLTs and a cocktail for such a ridiculous price. And that was before we were handed homemade warm zucchini bread slices for dessert.
As I sat there chatting with various people, one of the food guys came over and said, "It's great that you're still here. We want people to come, but even more, we want them to hang around for a while." I can hang.
All told, there were probably a couple dozen people there. The organizers are hoping for more like forty next time.
One guy had a BLT, then a vegan BLT and was taking his third BLT to go when he stopped to talk to me. Even at $15, it was still a steal of a deal for what he got.
And of course, already those in attendance tonight are worried that a massive influx will ruin the relaxed vibe that made tonight's event feel like a neighborhood picnic.
The cops rolled by at one point, but ended up giving us their limited blessing, a warning about the noise level (it was nearing midnight) and moved on.
And we went right back to sipping our purple gin, savoring our local bacon and meeting new people.
I hope guerrilla dining catches on all over Richmond. People who love growing, making and sharing good food gathering with like-minded souls under a full moon.
By the time they organize another one, it'll be a new moon and a whole new experience. I even suggested a possible alley right here in J-Ward for the next one.
With any luck, it'll be coming soon to an alley near you.
No alleys? Tough luck, I'm afraid. A guerrilla alley meal is truly something spectacular.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Social Scavenging with a Soundtrack
Audio met visual at the Anderson Gallery tonight and I'd have to say it was one of the coolest ways to see an art show I've ever experienced.
WRIR was hosting a social with Lotus Land DJ Michael Miracle playing a live, specially curated two-hour show featuring music inspired by the art of "Knock, Knock," the new contemporary art show at the Anderson.
Boomboxes and radios were in every gallery. They had a cash bar, there was food for the taking and people were mingling inside and out. And how great that outside is even an option this week.
But the hook, the absolutely brilliant part of the event, was the scavenger hunt.
Each guest was given a list of some of the works from the show and a list of some of the songs from the broadcast.
The challenge was to look at the art, listen to the music and link them up. Music came from Sparklehorse, Ladytron, Throwing Muses and Louis Prima, to name but a few of the masterfully chosen songs.
The exhibit showcases works from the collection of Paul and Sara Monroe and focused on the human presence in the pieces. There were paintings, sculpture, and video installations.
Much to my surprise, the pleasure of the scavenger hunt was in the multiple viewings I had of each work.
Sometimes hearing the song live triggered the answer, other times it was enough just to study the details of the work.
What I began to realize was that I kept coming back to pieces repeatedly, either because I hadn't yet figured out what song they matched, or because I needed a break from the hunt and wanted to enjoy some of the works not represented in music.
In doing so, I picked my two favorites, both far too large to hang in my apartment, but definitely both pieces I could live with.
Jack Pierson's "I Never Dreamed You'd Leave in Summer" was an acrylic piece done with dots of a vase filled with lush red roses and a biography of actress Jean Seberg, both in the foreground and filling the canvas. It was striking for the sense of loss it conveyed.
The other, Brian Calvin's "The Open Window" showed a hipster-looking couple facing each other, eyes closed, in front of a window.
There was no depth, the colors were flat without nuance and standing in front of it, I was struck by how slightly weird and quietly disconcerting it was.
After numerous trips through all the galleries, I completed my scavenger sheet and turned it in for "grading." I was eager to know what I'd gotten right and what I'd erred on, but that information wasn't forthcoming.
I probably don't need to know. It was enough to have enjoyed the social, talked to some friends I randomly ran into and seen a really interesting art show with an awesome soundtrack.
Audio and visual, you're a match made in heaven. In lesbian parlance, go ahead and rent the U-Haul.
WRIR was hosting a social with Lotus Land DJ Michael Miracle playing a live, specially curated two-hour show featuring music inspired by the art of "Knock, Knock," the new contemporary art show at the Anderson.
Boomboxes and radios were in every gallery. They had a cash bar, there was food for the taking and people were mingling inside and out. And how great that outside is even an option this week.
But the hook, the absolutely brilliant part of the event, was the scavenger hunt.
Each guest was given a list of some of the works from the show and a list of some of the songs from the broadcast.
The challenge was to look at the art, listen to the music and link them up. Music came from Sparklehorse, Ladytron, Throwing Muses and Louis Prima, to name but a few of the masterfully chosen songs.
The exhibit showcases works from the collection of Paul and Sara Monroe and focused on the human presence in the pieces. There were paintings, sculpture, and video installations.
Much to my surprise, the pleasure of the scavenger hunt was in the multiple viewings I had of each work.
Sometimes hearing the song live triggered the answer, other times it was enough just to study the details of the work.
What I began to realize was that I kept coming back to pieces repeatedly, either because I hadn't yet figured out what song they matched, or because I needed a break from the hunt and wanted to enjoy some of the works not represented in music.
In doing so, I picked my two favorites, both far too large to hang in my apartment, but definitely both pieces I could live with.
Jack Pierson's "I Never Dreamed You'd Leave in Summer" was an acrylic piece done with dots of a vase filled with lush red roses and a biography of actress Jean Seberg, both in the foreground and filling the canvas. It was striking for the sense of loss it conveyed.
The other, Brian Calvin's "The Open Window" showed a hipster-looking couple facing each other, eyes closed, in front of a window.
There was no depth, the colors were flat without nuance and standing in front of it, I was struck by how slightly weird and quietly disconcerting it was.
After numerous trips through all the galleries, I completed my scavenger sheet and turned it in for "grading." I was eager to know what I'd gotten right and what I'd erred on, but that information wasn't forthcoming.
I probably don't need to know. It was enough to have enjoyed the social, talked to some friends I randomly ran into and seen a really interesting art show with an awesome soundtrack.
Audio and visual, you're a match made in heaven. In lesbian parlance, go ahead and rent the U-Haul.
Talking Marriage and Long
What do you do when you don't know what to do with yourself?
I started by meeting a girlfriend at The Empress to hear about her recent pirate wedding at the VMFA (she's an artist so it made perfect sense).
We took advantage of "Wine Enthusiast" hours to drink Oveja Negra chardonnay/viognier and L'Enclos des Bories Minervois (okay, mostly the minervois) at a discount.
Talk centered around pre-wedding jitters, bad ball and chain jokes and their lovely wedding dinner at Amuse.
Why have a stealth wedding somewhere that doesn't have great food?
Bacon-wrapped dates in a local honey/Gorgonzola sauce lasted nicely because we were so busy talking; ordinarily they would have been gobbled up for their tantalizing sweet and salty allure, made all the more decadent by that rich sauce.
I wish I could say I had something to equal her stories, but it's tough to top love and marriage.
After she left to work on party preparations (her reception is this weekend), I went home to change and ended up on the phone for two hours.
Those who know me well may want to reread that sentence because my usual phone limit is about two minutes. Simply put, my phone skills suck.
But yesterday was my best friend's birthday and although I'd called her then she'd been out, so tonight was our chance to catch up.
She, a California girl, lives temporarily in god-forsaken North Dakota where there is a two-month summer (she hates snow and being cold), no gay community (so no chance of her dating) and the biggest excitement for the locals is the new Applebee's about to open (they're treating it like a major event).
Shudder. Just when I think my life could use some improvement, I realize how good I have it.
Because we don't talk nearly as often as two women who have been best friends since college should, we had a lot of ground to cover.
Still, that two-hour call may be a lifetime record for me.
By the time we finished chatting, she marveled that I was not out somewhere doing something cultural, an impossibility in her small North Dakota town.
I explained that I was heading out as soon as we finished to listen to music.
I could have just stayed in at that point, but Tuesdays are jazz night at the Camel and there's no cover, so why would I?
To quote a Broadway tune, what good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play.
The Abinnet Berhanu Group was going at it when I arrived.
Like so many incestuous local jazz groups, it contained members I knew from other projects (sax player Marcus Tenney and keyboardist Devonne Harris) and attracted some familiar jazz-loving faces.
The band played original material along with Ellis Marsalis and Wayne Shorter.
My only complaint with them was how long it took them to break down after their set (maybe they were operating on jazz time) while the audience waited for the Scott Clark 4-Tet.
I'm a big fan of these guys with their drums, sax, trumpet and bass lineup.
A guy at the show tonight told me that they are trying to take musician Gerry Mulligan's chordless sound in new directions, whatever that meant.
Personally, I just love how interesting sounding the music is, but then, I'm no musician, unlike probably 90% of the other people in the room.
And I'd bet that every one of them could talk on the phone for two hours and not expect a gold star for it.
My only consolation is that I might have a skill set they don't, although I have absolutely no idea what that might be.
I'll give it some thought and get back to you. But not on the phone.
I started by meeting a girlfriend at The Empress to hear about her recent pirate wedding at the VMFA (she's an artist so it made perfect sense).
We took advantage of "Wine Enthusiast" hours to drink Oveja Negra chardonnay/viognier and L'Enclos des Bories Minervois (okay, mostly the minervois) at a discount.
Talk centered around pre-wedding jitters, bad ball and chain jokes and their lovely wedding dinner at Amuse.
Why have a stealth wedding somewhere that doesn't have great food?
Bacon-wrapped dates in a local honey/Gorgonzola sauce lasted nicely because we were so busy talking; ordinarily they would have been gobbled up for their tantalizing sweet and salty allure, made all the more decadent by that rich sauce.
I wish I could say I had something to equal her stories, but it's tough to top love and marriage.
After she left to work on party preparations (her reception is this weekend), I went home to change and ended up on the phone for two hours.
Those who know me well may want to reread that sentence because my usual phone limit is about two minutes. Simply put, my phone skills suck.
But yesterday was my best friend's birthday and although I'd called her then she'd been out, so tonight was our chance to catch up.
She, a California girl, lives temporarily in god-forsaken North Dakota where there is a two-month summer (she hates snow and being cold), no gay community (so no chance of her dating) and the biggest excitement for the locals is the new Applebee's about to open (they're treating it like a major event).
Shudder. Just when I think my life could use some improvement, I realize how good I have it.
Because we don't talk nearly as often as two women who have been best friends since college should, we had a lot of ground to cover.
Still, that two-hour call may be a lifetime record for me.
By the time we finished chatting, she marveled that I was not out somewhere doing something cultural, an impossibility in her small North Dakota town.
I explained that I was heading out as soon as we finished to listen to music.
I could have just stayed in at that point, but Tuesdays are jazz night at the Camel and there's no cover, so why would I?
To quote a Broadway tune, what good is sitting alone in your room? Come hear the music play.
The Abinnet Berhanu Group was going at it when I arrived.
Like so many incestuous local jazz groups, it contained members I knew from other projects (sax player Marcus Tenney and keyboardist Devonne Harris) and attracted some familiar jazz-loving faces.
The band played original material along with Ellis Marsalis and Wayne Shorter.
My only complaint with them was how long it took them to break down after their set (maybe they were operating on jazz time) while the audience waited for the Scott Clark 4-Tet.
I'm a big fan of these guys with their drums, sax, trumpet and bass lineup.
A guy at the show tonight told me that they are trying to take musician Gerry Mulligan's chordless sound in new directions, whatever that meant.
Personally, I just love how interesting sounding the music is, but then, I'm no musician, unlike probably 90% of the other people in the room.
And I'd bet that every one of them could talk on the phone for two hours and not expect a gold star for it.
My only consolation is that I might have a skill set they don't, although I have absolutely no idea what that might be.
I'll give it some thought and get back to you. But not on the phone.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Repackaging My Inner Smartass
I wasn't the only one looking for some Monday night action.
The show at Sprout promised skygaze, shoegaze and shoewave, which was as good as a guarantee that I absolutely had to be there.
The surprise was how many other people were, too.
My main reason for going was Now Sleepyhead, a local ambient/shoegaze sounding band of whom I've been a fan for several years now.
The only problem is how rarely they play out.
You don't hear a lot of French horn in indie bands except with them and their combination of mournful lyrics over beautiful music sucks me in every time.
Introducing their last song, Michael said with a grin, "This is probably our happiest song and it's called 'Eternal Damnation."
They're also possibly the only band who claim to have pillowcases along with CDs among their merchandise.
During their set, a loud (drunk? poorly raised? oblivious?) girl right in the front began talking to her friend, getting ever-louder, trying to talk over the sound of an electrified band.
Of course I had no tolerance for her, but as I looked around, I saw steam coming out of several people's ears, so it wasn't just me being offended.
Just as I was about to do my civic/musical duty, a friend stepped up to her and took care of it.
She left in a huff with her girlfriend and later their male friend gave my friend a shove and a look of death.
I'm going to go with poorly raised.
Next up was Sleepy Vikings, a sextet all the way from Tampa ("It's even hot on Christmas in Tampa,") and one of those rare bands, a la Mermaid Skeletons, where everyone is seated.
Their shoegaze sound had moments of pure jangley folk pop, but it was the spacey electric guitar weaving its way through two acoustics that wormed its way into my ear and wouldn't let go.
I'm never one to argue with female vocals, and when a male voice took over, I heard shades of Modest Mouse.
The chill drumming (lots of brushes and mallets) also added a great deal to the overall sound, which benefited from frequent changes in tempo and dynamics.
Okay, so I really, really liked this band.
Humor came through when they mentioned that they had CDs for sale on a back table.
"It's a good time to steal one because no one's guarding them."
Finally we got to the rock portion of the evening, not that I was necessarily ready to let go of shoegaze, with Canary, oh, Canary.
A stripped down trio playing "shoewave" aka dream-gaze pop (think Cocteau Twins), they had some songs with no vocals and others with some dramatic ones (and expressive hand gestures).
When they locked into a groove, they stayed there.
As I walked out, one of the musicians sitting outside asked if I was leaving.
Yes, I explained, I was because the show was over.
I was accused of being a smartass, but as I pointed out, if I didn't pull out that card, he might suspect I'd been replaced with a body double.
And if that does happen, I want a much better body. Just FYI.
The show at Sprout promised skygaze, shoegaze and shoewave, which was as good as a guarantee that I absolutely had to be there.
The surprise was how many other people were, too.
My main reason for going was Now Sleepyhead, a local ambient/shoegaze sounding band of whom I've been a fan for several years now.
The only problem is how rarely they play out.
You don't hear a lot of French horn in indie bands except with them and their combination of mournful lyrics over beautiful music sucks me in every time.
Introducing their last song, Michael said with a grin, "This is probably our happiest song and it's called 'Eternal Damnation."
They're also possibly the only band who claim to have pillowcases along with CDs among their merchandise.
During their set, a loud (drunk? poorly raised? oblivious?) girl right in the front began talking to her friend, getting ever-louder, trying to talk over the sound of an electrified band.
Of course I had no tolerance for her, but as I looked around, I saw steam coming out of several people's ears, so it wasn't just me being offended.
Just as I was about to do my civic/musical duty, a friend stepped up to her and took care of it.
She left in a huff with her girlfriend and later their male friend gave my friend a shove and a look of death.
I'm going to go with poorly raised.
Next up was Sleepy Vikings, a sextet all the way from Tampa ("It's even hot on Christmas in Tampa,") and one of those rare bands, a la Mermaid Skeletons, where everyone is seated.
Their shoegaze sound had moments of pure jangley folk pop, but it was the spacey electric guitar weaving its way through two acoustics that wormed its way into my ear and wouldn't let go.
I'm never one to argue with female vocals, and when a male voice took over, I heard shades of Modest Mouse.
The chill drumming (lots of brushes and mallets) also added a great deal to the overall sound, which benefited from frequent changes in tempo and dynamics.
Okay, so I really, really liked this band.
Humor came through when they mentioned that they had CDs for sale on a back table.
"It's a good time to steal one because no one's guarding them."
Finally we got to the rock portion of the evening, not that I was necessarily ready to let go of shoegaze, with Canary, oh, Canary.
A stripped down trio playing "shoewave" aka dream-gaze pop (think Cocteau Twins), they had some songs with no vocals and others with some dramatic ones (and expressive hand gestures).
When they locked into a groove, they stayed there.
As I walked out, one of the musicians sitting outside asked if I was leaving.
Yes, I explained, I was because the show was over.
I was accused of being a smartass, but as I pointed out, if I didn't pull out that card, he might suspect I'd been replaced with a body double.
And if that does happen, I want a much better body. Just FYI.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Alessi's Ark Floats into J-Ward
It makes me happy that we now have a neighborhood record store in Jackson Ward.
When Steady Sounds opened three blocks from my house last year,it was a big deal. I bought loads of Christmas presents there. I went to a Joanna Newsome listening party there.
And tonight I went to my first live performance there. Playing first was local favorite son Jonathan Vassar doing a short but heartfelt set.
Beginning, he said, "Hi, I'm Jonathan Vassar for those of you who don't know me. Karen does."
And I do, but I always enjoy hearing him sing and play. Today he was standing in the 5:00 sunlight in front of four paintings of the Beatles ($1,000, marked SOLD) doing a too short set.
Between songs, the headliner Alessi called out, "Do you have CDs?" making it clear that she was already a fan three songs in.
After Jonathan came Alessi's Ark, the project of Londoner Alessi Laurent-Marke and the reason for the show today.
Only 21, willowy and with a breathy voice and engaging manner, she began her set by moving closer to the small audience and then having us introduce ourselves.
She pronounced my name so much more beautifully than I can.
She and her parents had bought pizza for the crowd ("The biggest pizzas in the world!" she said with wonder) and offered it around.
Throughout her set, people wandered in, and most lingered at least for a bit to listen. One guy came in to buy albums, got sucked in by her singing and ended up buying one of her CDs as well.
She thanked each person mid-set as they came in.
She complimented Jonathan in the classically British way ("Brilliant!") and asked where he grew up. I can see where Jonathan's Americana sound would be catnip to a Brit folkie.
She got hot performing in her long sundress and shed her flip-flops and seemed worried about playing too long, ending with "Robot" to enthusiastic applause.
Talking to Alessi afterwards, she said she got inspired to make music when her Mum gave her Graham Nash's "Songs for Beginners," an album that came out nineteen years before she was born.
Because she had seemed shy onstage, I suspected she might have some stage fright issues, which she confirmed. "I always have to run to the bathroom before I go on," she explained.
Come to think of it, as soon as Jonathan had started his last song, she had disappeared upstairs so that when he mentioned her, she was absent. The sacrifices made for art.
But once singing, there was no sound of nervousness in her voice, only a whimsical musicality as she sang of time travel and freckles as constellations.
How wonderful to have a barefoot British songbird mesmerize in a Jackson Ward record store on a random Monday afternoon. Thank you, Steady Sounds.
Is this a great neighborhood or what?
When Steady Sounds opened three blocks from my house last year,it was a big deal. I bought loads of Christmas presents there. I went to a Joanna Newsome listening party there.
And tonight I went to my first live performance there. Playing first was local favorite son Jonathan Vassar doing a short but heartfelt set.
Beginning, he said, "Hi, I'm Jonathan Vassar for those of you who don't know me. Karen does."
And I do, but I always enjoy hearing him sing and play. Today he was standing in the 5:00 sunlight in front of four paintings of the Beatles ($1,000, marked SOLD) doing a too short set.
Between songs, the headliner Alessi called out, "Do you have CDs?" making it clear that she was already a fan three songs in.
After Jonathan came Alessi's Ark, the project of Londoner Alessi Laurent-Marke and the reason for the show today.
Only 21, willowy and with a breathy voice and engaging manner, she began her set by moving closer to the small audience and then having us introduce ourselves.
She pronounced my name so much more beautifully than I can.
She and her parents had bought pizza for the crowd ("The biggest pizzas in the world!" she said with wonder) and offered it around.
Throughout her set, people wandered in, and most lingered at least for a bit to listen. One guy came in to buy albums, got sucked in by her singing and ended up buying one of her CDs as well.
She thanked each person mid-set as they came in.
She complimented Jonathan in the classically British way ("Brilliant!") and asked where he grew up. I can see where Jonathan's Americana sound would be catnip to a Brit folkie.
She got hot performing in her long sundress and shed her flip-flops and seemed worried about playing too long, ending with "Robot" to enthusiastic applause.
Talking to Alessi afterwards, she said she got inspired to make music when her Mum gave her Graham Nash's "Songs for Beginners," an album that came out nineteen years before she was born.
Because she had seemed shy onstage, I suspected she might have some stage fright issues, which she confirmed. "I always have to run to the bathroom before I go on," she explained.
Come to think of it, as soon as Jonathan had started his last song, she had disappeared upstairs so that when he mentioned her, she was absent. The sacrifices made for art.
But once singing, there was no sound of nervousness in her voice, only a whimsical musicality as she sang of time travel and freckles as constellations.
How wonderful to have a barefoot British songbird mesmerize in a Jackson Ward record store on a random Monday afternoon. Thank you, Steady Sounds.
Is this a great neighborhood or what?
Drapes to Drink By Part 2
It's not like I haven't made drapes to drink by before. My first ones hang in Secco to this day, here.
This time they're for another soon-to-be-opened restaurant and today was the day to take them (and the matching pillows) there and see just how well they looked with the furniture and walls (magnificent, just saying).
But before we got that far, we crossed the river to eat at Parkside. I knew my restaurant-owner friend would want to check out the place, as much for its decor as its food. And it's a cozy spot for a girls' lunch out.
Like me, she was charmed by what the owners have done with the space. The green walls and red upholstery, the gold-framed vintage prints and the beautiful tabletops are a very attractive combination.
But let's face it, we went to eat. Starting with some lovely peach aqua fresca (my first), we moved on to baked Virginia cheddar with apples, grapes, pickles and grilled bread.
The cheese was lovely, if small, but we didn't realize it came in phyllo dough, problematic for someone who can't eat gluten. She dug her cheese out trying to avoid the wrapper.
Part of the reason I'd suggested Parkside was because they have five meal-sized salads, which is more than most places, all creative and tasty-sounding.
And since we were both in the mood for salads, she tried the excellent baby spinach, shrimp, avocado and warm bacon vinaigrette version I'd had last time.
I got the baby lettuces with craisins, apple matchsticks, sunflower seeds, and bleu cheese in a poppyseed vinaigrette. It was a lovely combination of flavors and contrasting textures (and at a mere six bucks; a steal).
We bypassed dessert (she'd brought me a piece of five-layer coconut cake, one of my very favorite sweeties) to go assess the drapes that drinkers will soon be admiring as they enjoy their imbibing and dining.
Okay, so that's my personal delusion. It's enough that she was so happy with how they looked. From here on out (once they open) it's up to the kitchen and bar to carry the place.
Jackson Ward will once again be representing in another neighborhood. I've done my job.
This time they're for another soon-to-be-opened restaurant and today was the day to take them (and the matching pillows) there and see just how well they looked with the furniture and walls (magnificent, just saying).
But before we got that far, we crossed the river to eat at Parkside. I knew my restaurant-owner friend would want to check out the place, as much for its decor as its food. And it's a cozy spot for a girls' lunch out.
Like me, she was charmed by what the owners have done with the space. The green walls and red upholstery, the gold-framed vintage prints and the beautiful tabletops are a very attractive combination.
But let's face it, we went to eat. Starting with some lovely peach aqua fresca (my first), we moved on to baked Virginia cheddar with apples, grapes, pickles and grilled bread.
The cheese was lovely, if small, but we didn't realize it came in phyllo dough, problematic for someone who can't eat gluten. She dug her cheese out trying to avoid the wrapper.
Part of the reason I'd suggested Parkside was because they have five meal-sized salads, which is more than most places, all creative and tasty-sounding.
And since we were both in the mood for salads, she tried the excellent baby spinach, shrimp, avocado and warm bacon vinaigrette version I'd had last time.
I got the baby lettuces with craisins, apple matchsticks, sunflower seeds, and bleu cheese in a poppyseed vinaigrette. It was a lovely combination of flavors and contrasting textures (and at a mere six bucks; a steal).
We bypassed dessert (she'd brought me a piece of five-layer coconut cake, one of my very favorite sweeties) to go assess the drapes that drinkers will soon be admiring as they enjoy their imbibing and dining.
Okay, so that's my personal delusion. It's enough that she was so happy with how they looked. From here on out (once they open) it's up to the kitchen and bar to carry the place.
Jackson Ward will once again be representing in another neighborhood. I've done my job.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Give Me a Woody
"All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well."
Not many films satisfy my inner art geek, my inner literature geek and my inner hopeless romantic, but I'd have to say that Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris" did the trick.
A girlfriend had suggested we see it tonight but then took a spill, putting her on crutches, so I ended up at a romantic comedy by myself. So what else is new?
For a Sunday night, the theater drew a good-sized crowd of mostly couples and post-twenty-somethings, so I at least fit into one subgroup.
To my delight, the time-travelling plot delivered all kinds of characters from art history like Picasso, Man Ray, Lautrec, Dali, Gauguin and Matisse.
Scratching my literature itch were F. Scott Fitzgerald (and Zelda), Hemingway and T.S. Elliott.
Along the way, we also got portrayals of Gertrude Stein, Luis Brunel and Cole Porter. What an era.
Of course, the entire film is a love letter to the city of Paris, which I've not yet seen, but shot so as to make it utterly desirable for so much more than just art and food.
As one who always enjoyed Woody Allen's acting, it was a pleasure to watch Owen Wilson do a superb Allen imitation, right down to cadence and delivery.
Surfer dude channels NYC nebbish and totally makes it work.
And as if I needed any reinforcement, the film's message about following your dreams in life and love got me all choked up about the here and now.
My here and now.
I pulled out of it by reminding myself that I am many things (nerdy, talkative, inquisitive and ever-hopeful) but not a coward.
Why love if not well?
Not many films satisfy my inner art geek, my inner literature geek and my inner hopeless romantic, but I'd have to say that Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris" did the trick.
A girlfriend had suggested we see it tonight but then took a spill, putting her on crutches, so I ended up at a romantic comedy by myself. So what else is new?
For a Sunday night, the theater drew a good-sized crowd of mostly couples and post-twenty-somethings, so I at least fit into one subgroup.
To my delight, the time-travelling plot delivered all kinds of characters from art history like Picasso, Man Ray, Lautrec, Dali, Gauguin and Matisse.
Scratching my literature itch were F. Scott Fitzgerald (and Zelda), Hemingway and T.S. Elliott.
Along the way, we also got portrayals of Gertrude Stein, Luis Brunel and Cole Porter. What an era.
Of course, the entire film is a love letter to the city of Paris, which I've not yet seen, but shot so as to make it utterly desirable for so much more than just art and food.
As one who always enjoyed Woody Allen's acting, it was a pleasure to watch Owen Wilson do a superb Allen imitation, right down to cadence and delivery.
Surfer dude channels NYC nebbish and totally makes it work.
And as if I needed any reinforcement, the film's message about following your dreams in life and love got me all choked up about the here and now.
My here and now.
I pulled out of it by reminding myself that I am many things (nerdy, talkative, inquisitive and ever-hopeful) but not a coward.
Why love if not well?
Amused by a Cocktail of a Brunch
At what point does brunch cease to be brunch and become an all-day adventure?
Running into a friend unexpectedly yesterday, I suggested brunch at Amuse today with his sweetie only to find that he was all for it. One caveat, however: he had to go to work afterwards.
He called later to confirm and we decided on 11:45, which would allow for a civilized wake-up time and still let us to beat the pretty people/churchgoers in.
Arriving close to on time despite my new-found propensity for tardiness, I found them absent and planted myself at the bar. Bartender Stephen greeted me and. without a word, made me feel welcome.
Reaching for the absinthe drip, he hauled it down and said, "Maybe I'd better refill this just in case." It wasn't even noon and he was making presumptions about my future absinthe consumption. Good or bad, I couldn't decide.
My friends the happy couple arrived and were pleased to see I'd scored bar stools for them.
When Stephen automatically began pouring Montand Sparkling Brut Rose for me, they followed suit and had the same.
It was the earliest I'd ever been at Amuse and I felt fortunate to experience the pleasures of the early afternoon light, so different from the late afternoon and early evening light, on the nearby museum walls
At times, we could even see the play of the water's reflection from downstairs on the wall and glass panels. It was lovely transient art.
With a couple of glasses of bubbles imbibed, we moved on to the eating portion of brunch, which began with hunks of raspberry coffeecake as the bread du jour. Moist and with bits of raspberries throughout, it took the edge off our appetites.
When we finally did order, two of us couldn't resist the special of Marguez lamb sausage over a Spanish tortilla with caramelized onion, spinach, and Manchego topped with a Romesco sauce; a side salad accompanied it, adding its peppery flavors to the mix.
The harissa seasoning of the sausage gave the dish a decided piquancy and the caramelized onion provided the sweetness. The eggy tortilla and sausage made for a hearty dish. Plainly put, we had laid down the base layer.
Afterwards, Stephen teased us by telling us about a new drink of which he was quite proud, although it was not yet on the menu. Don't tease and not produce, I warned him.
With a little prodding, we were able to order the Lady Blackberry, an enticing combination of Patron and gin that somehow also involved egg whites. A study in pink layers, it was complex and silky.
Should you be in Amuse anytime soon and seeking a unique cocktail, ask about it; this is a drink that will speak to many palates.
Once done with that guilty pleasure, we continued with the cocktail portion of the afternoon, which for me meant the green fairy arrived (okay, so Stephen had been prescient in filling the drip earlier) while my friends began with a Bamboozle and a Hemingway.
We finally got around to discussing dessert, only to become lost in other topics like life's priorities. The male half of the couple boiled his down simply enough: women, music, blueberry pie, steak and then bourbon.
I will have to give it some thought before producing my own such list. It did, however, spur us to order dessert. We tried one of today's specials, the blueberry buckle as well as the old standby, the chocolate pate.
The buckle came over a mango/goat cheese combination and beside an enormous gob of fresh whipped cream.
As the three of us enjoyed the buckle, we got into a discussion of young men's presumed wisdom. It was a good thing the green fairy had visited me repeatedly by that point.
My friend said that when he was in college, he was sure he knew absolutely everything.
"That blueberry almost came out my nose," his loving girlfriend said in response to that statement. The visual alone made the day a success.
At several points in the afternoon, it was acknowledged that we had been there for three, four and finally five hours. Only then did it seem wise to end our endless brunch and move on.
Had it not been for a surreptitious trip through the "Civil War Redux: Pinhole Photographs of Reenactments" exhibit in a nearby hallway earlier, I would not have been ready to leave.
Much as I love Amuse, I do require at least some art when visiting the museum; I am an art geek after all.
The shadowy pictures of re-enactors on the steps of the White House of the Confederacy and in front of the Lee Memorial danced the line between modern day and the past.
I especially loved the occasional anachronistic detail like a Custer re-enactor leaning against a Dodge truck. Where history meets the highway, so to speak.
It's the same bizarre intersection as when a quiet little brunch becomes a day-long odyssey through food, cocktails and conversation.
I honestly thought I'd be home in an hour and a half. I'm sincerely glad that I wasn't. And that's without even sharing the best part of the day.
Mum's the word. Or, for now, Montand Sparkling Brut Rose.
And, needless to say, no one did any work afterwards.
Running into a friend unexpectedly yesterday, I suggested brunch at Amuse today with his sweetie only to find that he was all for it. One caveat, however: he had to go to work afterwards.
He called later to confirm and we decided on 11:45, which would allow for a civilized wake-up time and still let us to beat the pretty people/churchgoers in.
Arriving close to on time despite my new-found propensity for tardiness, I found them absent and planted myself at the bar. Bartender Stephen greeted me and. without a word, made me feel welcome.
Reaching for the absinthe drip, he hauled it down and said, "Maybe I'd better refill this just in case." It wasn't even noon and he was making presumptions about my future absinthe consumption. Good or bad, I couldn't decide.
My friends the happy couple arrived and were pleased to see I'd scored bar stools for them.
When Stephen automatically began pouring Montand Sparkling Brut Rose for me, they followed suit and had the same.
It was the earliest I'd ever been at Amuse and I felt fortunate to experience the pleasures of the early afternoon light, so different from the late afternoon and early evening light, on the nearby museum walls
At times, we could even see the play of the water's reflection from downstairs on the wall and glass panels. It was lovely transient art.
With a couple of glasses of bubbles imbibed, we moved on to the eating portion of brunch, which began with hunks of raspberry coffeecake as the bread du jour. Moist and with bits of raspberries throughout, it took the edge off our appetites.
When we finally did order, two of us couldn't resist the special of Marguez lamb sausage over a Spanish tortilla with caramelized onion, spinach, and Manchego topped with a Romesco sauce; a side salad accompanied it, adding its peppery flavors to the mix.
The harissa seasoning of the sausage gave the dish a decided piquancy and the caramelized onion provided the sweetness. The eggy tortilla and sausage made for a hearty dish. Plainly put, we had laid down the base layer.
Afterwards, Stephen teased us by telling us about a new drink of which he was quite proud, although it was not yet on the menu. Don't tease and not produce, I warned him.
With a little prodding, we were able to order the Lady Blackberry, an enticing combination of Patron and gin that somehow also involved egg whites. A study in pink layers, it was complex and silky.
Should you be in Amuse anytime soon and seeking a unique cocktail, ask about it; this is a drink that will speak to many palates.
Once done with that guilty pleasure, we continued with the cocktail portion of the afternoon, which for me meant the green fairy arrived (okay, so Stephen had been prescient in filling the drip earlier) while my friends began with a Bamboozle and a Hemingway.
We finally got around to discussing dessert, only to become lost in other topics like life's priorities. The male half of the couple boiled his down simply enough: women, music, blueberry pie, steak and then bourbon.
I will have to give it some thought before producing my own such list. It did, however, spur us to order dessert. We tried one of today's specials, the blueberry buckle as well as the old standby, the chocolate pate.
The buckle came over a mango/goat cheese combination and beside an enormous gob of fresh whipped cream.
As the three of us enjoyed the buckle, we got into a discussion of young men's presumed wisdom. It was a good thing the green fairy had visited me repeatedly by that point.
My friend said that when he was in college, he was sure he knew absolutely everything.
"That blueberry almost came out my nose," his loving girlfriend said in response to that statement. The visual alone made the day a success.
At several points in the afternoon, it was acknowledged that we had been there for three, four and finally five hours. Only then did it seem wise to end our endless brunch and move on.
Had it not been for a surreptitious trip through the "Civil War Redux: Pinhole Photographs of Reenactments" exhibit in a nearby hallway earlier, I would not have been ready to leave.
Much as I love Amuse, I do require at least some art when visiting the museum; I am an art geek after all.
The shadowy pictures of re-enactors on the steps of the White House of the Confederacy and in front of the Lee Memorial danced the line between modern day and the past.
I especially loved the occasional anachronistic detail like a Custer re-enactor leaning against a Dodge truck. Where history meets the highway, so to speak.
It's the same bizarre intersection as when a quiet little brunch becomes a day-long odyssey through food, cocktails and conversation.
I honestly thought I'd be home in an hour and a half. I'm sincerely glad that I wasn't. And that's without even sharing the best part of the day.
Mum's the word. Or, for now, Montand Sparkling Brut Rose.
And, needless to say, no one did any work afterwards.
Six Burner & Balliceaux, Asian Style
There was a lot going on tonight, but I narrowed it down to the least likely to be repeated event: Asian pop rock.
That let out the dance party (near West End, too far for this city girl), the pool party (thunderstorms and bathing suits, oh my) and the ever-persistent admirer who suggested making me dinner ("How about seared foie gras and a half bottle of Sauternes?").
Thanks all, but no thanks.
Beginning my night at Six Burner after the storms rolled through, my 8:30 arrival yielded a dining room in full weeds mode.
Every table was taken, every bar stool and the bar was two deep. The staff had a sheen and a glazed look.
With greetings from the staff and assurances that I would have a stool shortly, I stood in my usual place.
When bartender Josh suggested I wile away the time with a glass of wine, I had only to nod before a glass of vino verdhe showed up under the vase of purple hydrangeas.
Now I was good to wait for as long as it took.
The foursome nearest me soon noticed me skulking next to them and one of the men turned and asked, "Are you waiting for your husband?"
Snort.
I fear a solitary woman on a Saturday night is perceived as only being out to await the arrival of her man.
I was found out again.This one's got no man.
People continued to arrive and eventually a stool opened up at the far end of the bar; I wasted no time in taking it.
Body heat surrounded me on all sides despite the fact that outside, the rain had dropped the temperature considerably.
Would anyone notice if I propped open the door? Did I care if they did?
Although I knew from the frenetic activity in the visible-to-me kitchen that they needed no further work, I couldn't resist ordering the ginger limeade shrimp with green papaya salad, mint, cilantro, shiso and Thai basil
It was a good choice because the extremely generous serving of shrimp was mixed with shredded papaya (looking almost noodle-like) and was incredibly spicy, yet flavorful.
The dish's spiciness is no doubt a surprise to some (read: the blue hair set) who order it, but I found the unexpected heat quite enjoyable.
An Asian dish before Asian music, what could be more perfect?
After several hours of conversation (the Arcade Fire show, a friend's broken heart, mint's invasive mature), I politely excused myself to go hear music ("Of course you are," Josh said).
By then it was 11:00 and yet still a twelve-top remained camped out at their table.
Quite a night, indeed.
Over at Balliceaux, the crowd was all about the band rather than the food, what with the kitchen being closed and all by then.
Approaching the bar, Austin greeted me with, "Well, well, well," as if I'd been away a long time.
It was more of a case of us having missed each other on my last few visits.
Playing was Charlottesville's Dzian, a group who reinterpret Asian pop and rock.
And lest that sound too simplistic, this sextet was combining Taiwanese a go-go, Indo-rock, Japanese eleki (a Japanese style named for the electric guitar that had traditional playing styles used on surf rock, by bands like The Ventures), Thai disco and Malaysian pop.
The result was great fun, making for poppy songs sung in various languages by musicians in bright-colored clothing.
At times, there were even red and white boas involved.
Oh, and a mother.
The keyboard player brought her mom up to do lead vocals on a couple of songs, including "Mama, Give Me a Guitar," no doubt autobiographical.
Introducing one set, the singer said, "This will be Asian go-go, not DC go-go."
If DC go-go had come out of them, it would have been hysterical, but this was worth hearing for all kinds of other reasons.
Once again, Balliceaux (and Chris Bopst) had managed to bring to RVA an interesting band in an offbeat genre for a perfectly reasonable price ($5).
I may not have been craving Asian pop, but once in the room, I was enjoying it as if I had (or perhaps this is just how I live my life).
Which was a very good thing, because the band is moving to California any day now, so who knows when I can count on another stellar evening of world surf rock music?
Much less played with musicians in boas while I watch with tequila in hand?
The world is an uncertain place.
I figure to take my pleasure where and when I can.
That let out the dance party (near West End, too far for this city girl), the pool party (thunderstorms and bathing suits, oh my) and the ever-persistent admirer who suggested making me dinner ("How about seared foie gras and a half bottle of Sauternes?").
Thanks all, but no thanks.
Beginning my night at Six Burner after the storms rolled through, my 8:30 arrival yielded a dining room in full weeds mode.
Every table was taken, every bar stool and the bar was two deep. The staff had a sheen and a glazed look.
With greetings from the staff and assurances that I would have a stool shortly, I stood in my usual place.
When bartender Josh suggested I wile away the time with a glass of wine, I had only to nod before a glass of vino verdhe showed up under the vase of purple hydrangeas.
Now I was good to wait for as long as it took.
The foursome nearest me soon noticed me skulking next to them and one of the men turned and asked, "Are you waiting for your husband?"
Snort.
I fear a solitary woman on a Saturday night is perceived as only being out to await the arrival of her man.
I was found out again.This one's got no man.
People continued to arrive and eventually a stool opened up at the far end of the bar; I wasted no time in taking it.
Body heat surrounded me on all sides despite the fact that outside, the rain had dropped the temperature considerably.
Would anyone notice if I propped open the door? Did I care if they did?
Although I knew from the frenetic activity in the visible-to-me kitchen that they needed no further work, I couldn't resist ordering the ginger limeade shrimp with green papaya salad, mint, cilantro, shiso and Thai basil
It was a good choice because the extremely generous serving of shrimp was mixed with shredded papaya (looking almost noodle-like) and was incredibly spicy, yet flavorful.
The dish's spiciness is no doubt a surprise to some (read: the blue hair set) who order it, but I found the unexpected heat quite enjoyable.
An Asian dish before Asian music, what could be more perfect?
After several hours of conversation (the Arcade Fire show, a friend's broken heart, mint's invasive mature), I politely excused myself to go hear music ("Of course you are," Josh said).
By then it was 11:00 and yet still a twelve-top remained camped out at their table.
Quite a night, indeed.
Over at Balliceaux, the crowd was all about the band rather than the food, what with the kitchen being closed and all by then.
Approaching the bar, Austin greeted me with, "Well, well, well," as if I'd been away a long time.
It was more of a case of us having missed each other on my last few visits.
Playing was Charlottesville's Dzian, a group who reinterpret Asian pop and rock.
And lest that sound too simplistic, this sextet was combining Taiwanese a go-go, Indo-rock, Japanese eleki (a Japanese style named for the electric guitar that had traditional playing styles used on surf rock, by bands like The Ventures), Thai disco and Malaysian pop.
The result was great fun, making for poppy songs sung in various languages by musicians in bright-colored clothing.
At times, there were even red and white boas involved.
Oh, and a mother.
The keyboard player brought her mom up to do lead vocals on a couple of songs, including "Mama, Give Me a Guitar," no doubt autobiographical.
Introducing one set, the singer said, "This will be Asian go-go, not DC go-go."
If DC go-go had come out of them, it would have been hysterical, but this was worth hearing for all kinds of other reasons.
Once again, Balliceaux (and Chris Bopst) had managed to bring to RVA an interesting band in an offbeat genre for a perfectly reasonable price ($5).
I may not have been craving Asian pop, but once in the room, I was enjoying it as if I had (or perhaps this is just how I live my life).
Which was a very good thing, because the band is moving to California any day now, so who knows when I can count on another stellar evening of world surf rock music?
Much less played with musicians in boas while I watch with tequila in hand?
The world is an uncertain place.
I figure to take my pleasure where and when I can.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Wouldn't It Be Nice?
"Next time, bring a glass."
That's what the woman sitting near me at Dogwood Dell said to me at the end of the evening. Earlier, when she'd tried to surreptitiously open a bottle of wine, I'd looked over and grinned at her.
All good Richmonders know alcohol is forbidden at the Dell. That said, I've never once been to a a performance there and not seen people drinking. Most people.
So at the end of the evening, she'd made sure to tell me that if I brought a glass in the future, it would be filled. Good to know and yet completely meaningless from a stranger.
A neighbor and I had gone for opening night to see the Upper East Side Big Band. As it turned out, we also got the Mills Family band as an opener.
Their set list ranged from "Little Liza Jane" to Paul Simon's "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover" to Sesame Street, all enhanced by Samson Trinh's unique bluegrass saxophone and nonstop leg gyrations..
We enjoyed our picnic supper of fried chicken, watermelon, grapes and German chocolate cake. We weren't going to starve; he also brought a sandwich and I also ate a salad. Picnic of champions.
The night was beautiful, what with the temperature and humidity having dropped earlier despite no signs of the predicted thunderstorms.
As always at the Dell, dusk brought out the swooping bats over the trees and eventually the moon.
We had Jackson Ward neighbors sitting right in front of us ("We should have formed a caravan over from the Ward"), who only noticed us once my friend began lobbing grapes at them. Ah, the pleasures of thrown foodstuffs at outdoor activities.
The Upper East Side Big Band is big, with probably 18 or 19 musicians, including brass members from Bio Ritmo, Glows in the Dark and No BS Brass Band.
Their set led off with "Very Strange Night" from their first album and bandleader Trinh alternated vigorous musical directing with playing the flute. His multi-tasking was an indication of things to come.
A few songs later, out came five jazz vocalists. four women and one man, to augment the musicians on stage. "This is part one of blowing your mind," he told the audience.
They began with "Back in the USSR" with keyboard player Adrian Duke on lead vocal (the closet vocal comparison I could think of was David Clayton Thomas) and the other five on backup.
Segueing into "Dear Prudence," Trinh became a rubber-legged wonder, all but moon walking across the stage.
Raving about his love for the Beach Boys' masterpiece "Pet Sounds," Trinh said that, "This will be the first time in Richmond that the Beach Boys are done right."
The crowd lapped up "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows" before a guest guitarist was brought onstage for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."
Given Trinh's love of the Beatles, finishing with "Rocky Raccoon" was no surprise. Many people packed up and made for the parking lot at that point, only to miss the barn-burner of the evening, "Helter Skelter." It got the baby boomers dancing, that's for sure.
Clearly pumped at the audience's reaction, Trinh shouted, "Maybe next year we can be on Style's Best Bands list. Five years and nothing!"
Had it been up to the crowd tonight, they'd have been a write-in vote.
After so much retro music, neighbor and I headed to Cous Cous for something much more au courant. The Diamond Center, those recent veterans of South by Southwest and Austin's Psychfest, were playing a free show.
I'm always torn about shows at Cous Cous; it's an ill-configured place to see a band perform and the crowd can be obnoxious.
It's impossible to have a conversation without endlessly repeating yourself and a pain in the neck to get a drink from the overcrowded bar.
But the show was free and the Diamond Center were playing. I always see scads of people I know, always the music lovers. It's a trade-off, she said diplomatically.
Visual projections were by Cosmic Hum and were they ever groovy. Amoeba-like forms morphed and moved over the screen behind the band and the ceiling.
At one point, the red blobs showing on the ductwork looked like blood spatters. Groovy and gruesome.
And then there's the music, with its hazy guitar (including a twelve-string), haunting melodies and a sense of urgency that has bodies moving and heads bobbing.
There is a reason so many of us show up whenever they play. I ran into a musician friend who, like neighbor and I, had begun the evening at the Dell and moved on to something completely different sans his neighbor.
I saw the big-voiced singer and ukulele player I'd seen busking in Charlottesville before the Arcade Fire show. She'd been smart and watched the show from outside, saving herself from group sweat-in I endured.
And I saw the comedian/ukulele player/man-about-town who perennially suggests that I join his group after the show for some late night munchies and chatter at McLean's.
I declined; the picnic had more than scratched that itch. Even my insatiable need for music and conversation had been well-satisfied.
If I didn't know better, I'd say I had everything I need on this Friday night.
But next time, I'll bring a glass and see who's willing to fill it. There's just no telling.
That's what the woman sitting near me at Dogwood Dell said to me at the end of the evening. Earlier, when she'd tried to surreptitiously open a bottle of wine, I'd looked over and grinned at her.
All good Richmonders know alcohol is forbidden at the Dell. That said, I've never once been to a a performance there and not seen people drinking. Most people.
So at the end of the evening, she'd made sure to tell me that if I brought a glass in the future, it would be filled. Good to know and yet completely meaningless from a stranger.
A neighbor and I had gone for opening night to see the Upper East Side Big Band. As it turned out, we also got the Mills Family band as an opener.
Their set list ranged from "Little Liza Jane" to Paul Simon's "Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover" to Sesame Street, all enhanced by Samson Trinh's unique bluegrass saxophone and nonstop leg gyrations..
We enjoyed our picnic supper of fried chicken, watermelon, grapes and German chocolate cake. We weren't going to starve; he also brought a sandwich and I also ate a salad. Picnic of champions.
The night was beautiful, what with the temperature and humidity having dropped earlier despite no signs of the predicted thunderstorms.
As always at the Dell, dusk brought out the swooping bats over the trees and eventually the moon.
We had Jackson Ward neighbors sitting right in front of us ("We should have formed a caravan over from the Ward"), who only noticed us once my friend began lobbing grapes at them. Ah, the pleasures of thrown foodstuffs at outdoor activities.
The Upper East Side Big Band is big, with probably 18 or 19 musicians, including brass members from Bio Ritmo, Glows in the Dark and No BS Brass Band.
Their set led off with "Very Strange Night" from their first album and bandleader Trinh alternated vigorous musical directing with playing the flute. His multi-tasking was an indication of things to come.
A few songs later, out came five jazz vocalists. four women and one man, to augment the musicians on stage. "This is part one of blowing your mind," he told the audience.
They began with "Back in the USSR" with keyboard player Adrian Duke on lead vocal (the closet vocal comparison I could think of was David Clayton Thomas) and the other five on backup.
Segueing into "Dear Prudence," Trinh became a rubber-legged wonder, all but moon walking across the stage.
Raving about his love for the Beach Boys' masterpiece "Pet Sounds," Trinh said that, "This will be the first time in Richmond that the Beach Boys are done right."
The crowd lapped up "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and "God Only Knows" before a guest guitarist was brought onstage for "While My Guitar Gently Weeps."
Given Trinh's love of the Beatles, finishing with "Rocky Raccoon" was no surprise. Many people packed up and made for the parking lot at that point, only to miss the barn-burner of the evening, "Helter Skelter." It got the baby boomers dancing, that's for sure.
Clearly pumped at the audience's reaction, Trinh shouted, "Maybe next year we can be on Style's Best Bands list. Five years and nothing!"
Had it been up to the crowd tonight, they'd have been a write-in vote.
After so much retro music, neighbor and I headed to Cous Cous for something much more au courant. The Diamond Center, those recent veterans of South by Southwest and Austin's Psychfest, were playing a free show.
I'm always torn about shows at Cous Cous; it's an ill-configured place to see a band perform and the crowd can be obnoxious.
It's impossible to have a conversation without endlessly repeating yourself and a pain in the neck to get a drink from the overcrowded bar.
But the show was free and the Diamond Center were playing. I always see scads of people I know, always the music lovers. It's a trade-off, she said diplomatically.
Visual projections were by Cosmic Hum and were they ever groovy. Amoeba-like forms morphed and moved over the screen behind the band and the ceiling.
At one point, the red blobs showing on the ductwork looked like blood spatters. Groovy and gruesome.
And then there's the music, with its hazy guitar (including a twelve-string), haunting melodies and a sense of urgency that has bodies moving and heads bobbing.
There is a reason so many of us show up whenever they play. I ran into a musician friend who, like neighbor and I, had begun the evening at the Dell and moved on to something completely different sans his neighbor.
I saw the big-voiced singer and ukulele player I'd seen busking in Charlottesville before the Arcade Fire show. She'd been smart and watched the show from outside, saving herself from group sweat-in I endured.
And I saw the comedian/ukulele player/man-about-town who perennially suggests that I join his group after the show for some late night munchies and chatter at McLean's.
I declined; the picnic had more than scratched that itch. Even my insatiable need for music and conversation had been well-satisfied.
If I didn't know better, I'd say I had everything I need on this Friday night.
But next time, I'll bring a glass and see who's willing to fill it. There's just no telling.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Pink, Bubbly and Unplucked
I got to experience an internet date unfolding for the first time.
It happened at Secco and there was a fair amount of Gruber Zweigelt Punkt Genau Sparkling Rose involved on my part, but it's such a beautiful mouthful of bubbles, acidity and berries that it was hard to say no.
I love the wine list's description that it's a "guiltless two-bottle indulgence." With the right date absolutely it would be.
A friend spotted me and came over to chat; it was then that I learned that the couple at the end of the bar was on their first internet-generated date. How she gleaned her information I didn't ask.
Even without the forewarning, though, I'd have guessed it as a first date and one not going particularly well. He continually leaned in (body language is very telling) and she'd always lean back, away from him.
As they awkwardly drank for several hours, my friend saying that it was a telling sign that food was not being ordered, the girl's posture stayed as rigid and stiff as if she were at a job interview.
To the guy's credit, he kept trying, smiling and making extensive eye contact. He seemed to be following all the first date recommendations for success despite his obvious lack of results.
She, on the other hand, seemed unimpressive. "Look at how over-plucked her eyebrows are," my friend pointed out.
And while it was definitely true, I question how many guys notice, much less care about such a thing.
My brows are unplucked and I wasn't out on a date, so she was already doing better than me.
Back at our end of the bar, we got hungry before they did, and started with the addicting roasted spiced almonds with sea salt. Before long, we also required a massive meat and cheese plate.
The Delice de Borgogne was a buttery triple creme, the Comte nutty and firm and the Cabecou the standout. It was gooey, goaty and gorgeous and positively irresistible.
And because cheese calls out for meat, we also had some of Olli's over-the-top meats: the prosciutto and the salametto.
Olli, you make my hear flutter (and probably my arteries harden, but so what?).
Back at the dating ranch, the couple finally ordered food and ate it with no obvious signs of pleasure. It was tough to guess why she stayed, much less him.
I say that as one who has exhibited less-than-ladylike first date behavior.
Back in 1999, I had a date that so bored me that I excused myself to go to the ladies' room and exited right out of the back door of a not-to-be-named Fan bar. I would handle it better today.
Another time, on a first date in 2002, my date casually informed me that he didn't like strong-flavored cheeses.
Although I was ready to cut bait at that moment, I hung on through the meal before explaining our differences and leaving.
When they finally left, we still had no idea what the chances were for a second date.
My guess would be no, but perhaps she's just the type who can't show pleasure in someone's company.
Chalk it up to age, but I'm much more obvious. If I'm attracted to you, there will be no doubt in your mind.
If I like you, I'll be the one draping myself over your lap while leaning into you and talking. And, by the way, that's with or without the two-bottle indulgence.
Even so, I'm not going to pluck my eyebrows for anyone, although that's probably why she was on a date and I wasn't.
Someday I'll get the hang of this.
It happened at Secco and there was a fair amount of Gruber Zweigelt Punkt Genau Sparkling Rose involved on my part, but it's such a beautiful mouthful of bubbles, acidity and berries that it was hard to say no.
I love the wine list's description that it's a "guiltless two-bottle indulgence." With the right date absolutely it would be.
A friend spotted me and came over to chat; it was then that I learned that the couple at the end of the bar was on their first internet-generated date. How she gleaned her information I didn't ask.
Even without the forewarning, though, I'd have guessed it as a first date and one not going particularly well. He continually leaned in (body language is very telling) and she'd always lean back, away from him.
As they awkwardly drank for several hours, my friend saying that it was a telling sign that food was not being ordered, the girl's posture stayed as rigid and stiff as if she were at a job interview.
To the guy's credit, he kept trying, smiling and making extensive eye contact. He seemed to be following all the first date recommendations for success despite his obvious lack of results.
She, on the other hand, seemed unimpressive. "Look at how over-plucked her eyebrows are," my friend pointed out.
And while it was definitely true, I question how many guys notice, much less care about such a thing.
My brows are unplucked and I wasn't out on a date, so she was already doing better than me.
Back at our end of the bar, we got hungry before they did, and started with the addicting roasted spiced almonds with sea salt. Before long, we also required a massive meat and cheese plate.
The Delice de Borgogne was a buttery triple creme, the Comte nutty and firm and the Cabecou the standout. It was gooey, goaty and gorgeous and positively irresistible.
And because cheese calls out for meat, we also had some of Olli's over-the-top meats: the prosciutto and the salametto.
Olli, you make my hear flutter (and probably my arteries harden, but so what?).
Back at the dating ranch, the couple finally ordered food and ate it with no obvious signs of pleasure. It was tough to guess why she stayed, much less him.
I say that as one who has exhibited less-than-ladylike first date behavior.
Back in 1999, I had a date that so bored me that I excused myself to go to the ladies' room and exited right out of the back door of a not-to-be-named Fan bar. I would handle it better today.
Another time, on a first date in 2002, my date casually informed me that he didn't like strong-flavored cheeses.
Although I was ready to cut bait at that moment, I hung on through the meal before explaining our differences and leaving.
When they finally left, we still had no idea what the chances were for a second date.
My guess would be no, but perhaps she's just the type who can't show pleasure in someone's company.
Chalk it up to age, but I'm much more obvious. If I'm attracted to you, there will be no doubt in your mind.
If I like you, I'll be the one draping myself over your lap while leaning into you and talking. And, by the way, that's with or without the two-bottle indulgence.
Even so, I'm not going to pluck my eyebrows for anyone, although that's probably why she was on a date and I wasn't.
Someday I'll get the hang of this.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Now Surveying Her Future
Imagine telling a person's life story through maps.
In my case, it would start with a city grid (Washington, DC) and eventually change to a planned close-in suburban community, only to be followed by a return to the logical patterns of a couple of cities. And none of the maps would be drawn by yours truly.
But in the case of George Washington, a man who died with over ninety maps in his personal collection, some were by his own hand, while others served him during key periods in his life.
Today's Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society began with the President making an historical joke about settlers praising Virginia's temperate breezes. "I'm glad they were right," he joked.
From the back came an enormous guffaw and snort, to which he responded, "Clearly some people already have heatstroke."
Barnet Schecter's topic was "George Washington's America: A Biography Through His Maps" and he wove a history of the man using only maps as visuals and reference points.
From his early connections to Lord Fairfax's massive land holdings on the Northern Neck (I pass GW's mother's house when I visit my parents out there), it became obvious that GW was fiercely ambitious, sure of what he wanted and going after it to get it.
Maps were Washington's way of thinking about the world; he seemed to presume that whoever had the most detailed information regarding the terrain had the advantage. At the time, he was no doubt correct.
From maps of Mount Vernon to maps he did of the wilderness and Canadian border to maps of Boston Harbor used to help the colonist fight the British, it was clear what an important role they played.
On the subject of the latter, I was fascinated to learn that French map dealers traded heavily with the nearby Brits and thus were able to supply the revolutionaries here with maps of the British armaments in places like Boston. How convenient was that?
The last map we saw was drawn by Washington while still in office but when he was dreaming about returning to the gentleman farmer life.
It showed Mount Vernon as he hoped to see it; after emancipating his slaves, the adjoining land would be farmed by capable agriculturalists who would then hire the freed blacks to work the land and earn a living.
Sadly, his slaves weren't freed until after he died, but it's thought-provoking to imagine how the course of history might have changed if his vision had been realized. And his vision was laid out on a map.
Of course, nobody uses maps anymore, except maybe me occasionally. With no use for the whole GPS revolution, I still occasionally need to pull out a map and I always find it satisfying to do so and figure out what I need to know.
If only everything I needed to know could be found on a map. Perhaps I need to lay out my own map for the future, like the great man did.
Nah, I'm pretty happy just fumbling toward ecstasy, whatever that may be.
In my case, it would start with a city grid (Washington, DC) and eventually change to a planned close-in suburban community, only to be followed by a return to the logical patterns of a couple of cities. And none of the maps would be drawn by yours truly.
But in the case of George Washington, a man who died with over ninety maps in his personal collection, some were by his own hand, while others served him during key periods in his life.
Today's Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society began with the President making an historical joke about settlers praising Virginia's temperate breezes. "I'm glad they were right," he joked.
From the back came an enormous guffaw and snort, to which he responded, "Clearly some people already have heatstroke."
Barnet Schecter's topic was "George Washington's America: A Biography Through His Maps" and he wove a history of the man using only maps as visuals and reference points.
From his early connections to Lord Fairfax's massive land holdings on the Northern Neck (I pass GW's mother's house when I visit my parents out there), it became obvious that GW was fiercely ambitious, sure of what he wanted and going after it to get it.
Maps were Washington's way of thinking about the world; he seemed to presume that whoever had the most detailed information regarding the terrain had the advantage. At the time, he was no doubt correct.
From maps of Mount Vernon to maps he did of the wilderness and Canadian border to maps of Boston Harbor used to help the colonist fight the British, it was clear what an important role they played.
On the subject of the latter, I was fascinated to learn that French map dealers traded heavily with the nearby Brits and thus were able to supply the revolutionaries here with maps of the British armaments in places like Boston. How convenient was that?
The last map we saw was drawn by Washington while still in office but when he was dreaming about returning to the gentleman farmer life.
It showed Mount Vernon as he hoped to see it; after emancipating his slaves, the adjoining land would be farmed by capable agriculturalists who would then hire the freed blacks to work the land and earn a living.
Sadly, his slaves weren't freed until after he died, but it's thought-provoking to imagine how the course of history might have changed if his vision had been realized. And his vision was laid out on a map.
Of course, nobody uses maps anymore, except maybe me occasionally. With no use for the whole GPS revolution, I still occasionally need to pull out a map and I always find it satisfying to do so and figure out what I need to know.
If only everything I needed to know could be found on a map. Perhaps I need to lay out my own map for the future, like the great man did.
Nah, I'm pretty happy just fumbling toward ecstasy, whatever that may be.
Sweating It Out with Arcade Fire
Many things were epic about tonight's show by the Arcade Fire, including the music and my sweat.
Well, not just my sweat, but every stinking person's sweat who crowded into Charlottesville's pavilion for a last minute show, scheduled for the band as they make their way to headline Bonnaroo beginning Thursday and then leaving for a show in Portugal. How did we get so lucky?
The show was general admission, despite some chairs being available. What that meant was that the line started forming some time before I arrived at 5:00 (the gates were supposed to open at 6) and rapidly grew in the late afternoon sunshine.
Once inside, many people made a beeline for the floor, hoping to be as close as possible to the band. Go for it, I thought.
Although I'm usually a stander at shows, the thought of being in that crush of sweaty flesh seemed less than appealing.
I scored a seat in the front row of chairs not even half the way back and was fully satisfied, knowing I'd be standing anyway, but at least no could could be pushing against me from behind.
My seat mates were a couple of girls from Raleigh, devoted show-goers who travel to various cities to see the bands that interest them. My kind of music lovers for sure.
Turns out that they too had seen the Arcade Fire back in 2007 on the "Neon Bible" tour when I saw them in D.C.
Like me, they considered that show, with the National as openers, an all-time top three evening. I still remember how it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye because it was so jaw-droppingly amazing.
The surprise was that although they were from North Carolina, they'd never heard of the opening band, Bowerbirds, band of which I'm very fond.
But once the band began playing their folky Americana with its aching songwriting and lovely harmonies, the girls were on board. The band remind me of an amalgamation of some of RVA's similar bands with violins, accordion and glockenspiel.
I ran into loads of Richmonders- a favorite photographer and his music-loving wife, a bluegrass musician, an event organizer, a bartender, a waiter, another photographer, a talented drummer and several others, none of whom seemed in the least bit surprised to see me there.
Watching all the sweaty bodies move around, I decided my favorite t-shirt was the one saying "Bacon, the gateway meat." I wanted to talk to the guy only because I liked his shirt.
When the Arcade Fire finally took the stage to much shrieking and applause, leader Winn Butler said, "It's so nice to be in temperate weather. It's been so cold in Montreal this spring. It's good to sweat."
Good thing he felt that way because we were all sweating standing still and once the band began, there was no standing still.
And by sweaty, I mean my sundress was wet, as were my bra and underwear and that was definitely a first for me. Sweat poured off of everyone in the still night air. And no one cared.
Naturally they began with a song off the new album "The Suburbs," followed it with a song from "Neon Bible" and then went to my favorite, "Funeral," their first. They jumped around all night from album to album, satisfying all.
At one point Butler put down his guitar and went to the piano, observing, "There's always sweat on the piano, but not always blood." Duly noted.
I didn't smell my first whiff of weed until near the end, during a personal favorite, "Rebellion (Lies)."
People say that your dreams
are the only things that save ya.
Come on baby in our dreams,
we can live on misbehavior
Given the lack of air movement, the scent hung in the air until everyone's body odors overtook it. It was just the way of the night.
Or maybe it was just the epic quality of the song and the intensity the band brought to tonight's Bonnaroo warm-up show that made it tough to focus on anything but the music, not to mention the epic heat.
As I walked out, I saw a girl looking wan and weak sitting next to a bag of ice with her hands laying on it, clearly seeking to cool down. I think I'd have sat on it or embraced it instead.
It would have been tough to cool down after that performance any night, but tonight it was impossible. I know; I drove home with all the windows down, hoping to dry my damp dress and undies.
There's nothing like a road trip to let your mind wander and mine was wandering and dreaming in all kinds of epic directions tonight.
Because dreams are the only thing that save ya.
I heard it in a song, so it must be true.
Well, not just my sweat, but every stinking person's sweat who crowded into Charlottesville's pavilion for a last minute show, scheduled for the band as they make their way to headline Bonnaroo beginning Thursday and then leaving for a show in Portugal. How did we get so lucky?
The show was general admission, despite some chairs being available. What that meant was that the line started forming some time before I arrived at 5:00 (the gates were supposed to open at 6) and rapidly grew in the late afternoon sunshine.
Once inside, many people made a beeline for the floor, hoping to be as close as possible to the band. Go for it, I thought.
Although I'm usually a stander at shows, the thought of being in that crush of sweaty flesh seemed less than appealing.
I scored a seat in the front row of chairs not even half the way back and was fully satisfied, knowing I'd be standing anyway, but at least no could could be pushing against me from behind.
My seat mates were a couple of girls from Raleigh, devoted show-goers who travel to various cities to see the bands that interest them. My kind of music lovers for sure.
Turns out that they too had seen the Arcade Fire back in 2007 on the "Neon Bible" tour when I saw them in D.C.
Like me, they considered that show, with the National as openers, an all-time top three evening. I still remember how it seemed to be over in the blink of an eye because it was so jaw-droppingly amazing.
The surprise was that although they were from North Carolina, they'd never heard of the opening band, Bowerbirds, band of which I'm very fond.
But once the band began playing their folky Americana with its aching songwriting and lovely harmonies, the girls were on board. The band remind me of an amalgamation of some of RVA's similar bands with violins, accordion and glockenspiel.
I ran into loads of Richmonders- a favorite photographer and his music-loving wife, a bluegrass musician, an event organizer, a bartender, a waiter, another photographer, a talented drummer and several others, none of whom seemed in the least bit surprised to see me there.
Watching all the sweaty bodies move around, I decided my favorite t-shirt was the one saying "Bacon, the gateway meat." I wanted to talk to the guy only because I liked his shirt.
When the Arcade Fire finally took the stage to much shrieking and applause, leader Winn Butler said, "It's so nice to be in temperate weather. It's been so cold in Montreal this spring. It's good to sweat."
Good thing he felt that way because we were all sweating standing still and once the band began, there was no standing still.
And by sweaty, I mean my sundress was wet, as were my bra and underwear and that was definitely a first for me. Sweat poured off of everyone in the still night air. And no one cared.
Naturally they began with a song off the new album "The Suburbs," followed it with a song from "Neon Bible" and then went to my favorite, "Funeral," their first. They jumped around all night from album to album, satisfying all.
At one point Butler put down his guitar and went to the piano, observing, "There's always sweat on the piano, but not always blood." Duly noted.
I didn't smell my first whiff of weed until near the end, during a personal favorite, "Rebellion (Lies)."
People say that your dreams
are the only things that save ya.
Come on baby in our dreams,
we can live on misbehavior
Given the lack of air movement, the scent hung in the air until everyone's body odors overtook it. It was just the way of the night.
Or maybe it was just the epic quality of the song and the intensity the band brought to tonight's Bonnaroo warm-up show that made it tough to focus on anything but the music, not to mention the epic heat.
As I walked out, I saw a girl looking wan and weak sitting next to a bag of ice with her hands laying on it, clearly seeking to cool down. I think I'd have sat on it or embraced it instead.
It would have been tough to cool down after that performance any night, but tonight it was impossible. I know; I drove home with all the windows down, hoping to dry my damp dress and undies.
There's nothing like a road trip to let your mind wander and mine was wandering and dreaming in all kinds of epic directions tonight.
Because dreams are the only thing that save ya.
I heard it in a song, so it must be true.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
A Happy Meal
Everyone has a preference for what needs to be eaten the day after an overly indulgent evening.
Personally, I think a cheeseburger does the job better than anything else. And if I'm in need of a nice, fatty burger, one guaranteed to leave grease stains on the paper it's wrapped in, Roy's Big Burger is my default.
By the time I rolled up, the mad lunch rush was over and there were just a few people standing around waiting for their orders.
A cute couple was smooching under the shade of the overhang and two business women were making catty remarks about a co-worker. That made for more females than I've ever seen at Roy's at one time. Maybe the male-only hours end at 2:00 or something.
Much as I love Roy's milkshakes, today was a day that this non-coffee drinker needed caffeine, so I got a Coke with my cheeseburger and fries.
I rolled my eyes when the two women's order got called out: two double cheeseburgers, large onion rings, large fries, a water and a Diet Coke. Not that it's any of my business, but I tend to judge that kind of twisted logic with bemusement.
Ready to mainline my Rx, I took the bag to the shaded place in the back parking lot to enjoy my meal while reading today's Washington Post.
Thanks, Roy's, for once again saving me from myself. There's a particular pleasure in treating one indulgence with another.
Color me satisfied on any number of levels at this moment...and not just about getting my Roy's fix.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Celebrating Someone Else
What's the best way to say happy birthday to another Gemini?
I have no idea, but here's my strategy. I walked up to the Belvidere at Broad with a quick stop at the Rite-Aid.
There, a neighbor I know grabbed me, reminded me that we hadn't had lunch for a year (I fear she's correct) and insisted that we meet up soon. Okay, I'm not getting out enough.
At the Belvidere at Broad, I immediately ran into a wine friend from Secco, who called me out for being in my own neighborhood.
After taking a seat at the bar, yet another neighbor with whom I'd worked the census, came over and reminded me that it had been too long.
Since losing the beagle, clearly I am not out and about on the streets of Jackson Ward enough. This needs to be corrected.
Starting with the Gatao vino verdhe, I moved on to the ahi tuna tacos while trying to discern the source of the music being played. Finally, I gave up and asked what was playing.
"Elton Jon," the bartender blithely responded. Duh. What station were we listening to, I questioned, asking what I really wanted to know.
A bar sitter gave the right response. "You mean, not what is this crazy rock and roll music?" Right.
"Classic Vinyl," she responded, explaining the Led Zeppelin, Kinks. Beatles, the Band and Derek and the Dominoes soundtrack that was assaulting my ears.
Sigh. Really?
But the vino verdhe was good, the tacos superb and the music to be tolerated, so I soldiered on. Even a classic rock hater like me can appreciate the heroin-fueled passion of a song like "Layla."
When 9:00 rolled around, I excused myself to go to a friend's birthday soiree at Ballcieaux.
There, the crowd was gathering for the Chris Pureka show (he/she's gender-neutral) while we gathered for Kevin's birthday celebration.
I met a handsome theater critic who gave me great conversation about RVA's theater scene past and present.
Best of all, he's newly arrived from Chicago, so his opinion is that of a come-here, always my favorite. I may have a guaranteed theater date from here on out.
I met an interior decorator who expressed interest in getting his hand on my 1876 apartment (slowly, friend, slowly). Coffee blogger was there as well as Style's new calendar editor (your work is cut out for you, friend).
I drank Hornitas to add to the festivities (and because the bartender Sean automatically poured it).
When the birthday boy was presented with an unexpected shot of tequila, I coached him on proper methodology. Gin and tonic is not a proper tequila back,
My birthday card summed up my philosophy: Work less, play more. He laughed but acknowledged the truth of it
I could only say that to another Gemini. As he would know, life is too short.
I have no idea, but here's my strategy. I walked up to the Belvidere at Broad with a quick stop at the Rite-Aid.
There, a neighbor I know grabbed me, reminded me that we hadn't had lunch for a year (I fear she's correct) and insisted that we meet up soon. Okay, I'm not getting out enough.
At the Belvidere at Broad, I immediately ran into a wine friend from Secco, who called me out for being in my own neighborhood.
After taking a seat at the bar, yet another neighbor with whom I'd worked the census, came over and reminded me that it had been too long.
Since losing the beagle, clearly I am not out and about on the streets of Jackson Ward enough. This needs to be corrected.
Starting with the Gatao vino verdhe, I moved on to the ahi tuna tacos while trying to discern the source of the music being played. Finally, I gave up and asked what was playing.
"Elton Jon," the bartender blithely responded. Duh. What station were we listening to, I questioned, asking what I really wanted to know.
A bar sitter gave the right response. "You mean, not what is this crazy rock and roll music?" Right.
"Classic Vinyl," she responded, explaining the Led Zeppelin, Kinks. Beatles, the Band and Derek and the Dominoes soundtrack that was assaulting my ears.
Sigh. Really?
But the vino verdhe was good, the tacos superb and the music to be tolerated, so I soldiered on. Even a classic rock hater like me can appreciate the heroin-fueled passion of a song like "Layla."
When 9:00 rolled around, I excused myself to go to a friend's birthday soiree at Ballcieaux.
There, the crowd was gathering for the Chris Pureka show (he/she's gender-neutral) while we gathered for Kevin's birthday celebration.
I met a handsome theater critic who gave me great conversation about RVA's theater scene past and present.
Best of all, he's newly arrived from Chicago, so his opinion is that of a come-here, always my favorite. I may have a guaranteed theater date from here on out.
I met an interior decorator who expressed interest in getting his hand on my 1876 apartment (slowly, friend, slowly). Coffee blogger was there as well as Style's new calendar editor (your work is cut out for you, friend).
I drank Hornitas to add to the festivities (and because the bartender Sean automatically poured it).
When the birthday boy was presented with an unexpected shot of tequila, I coached him on proper methodology. Gin and tonic is not a proper tequila back,
My birthday card summed up my philosophy: Work less, play more. He laughed but acknowledged the truth of it
I could only say that to another Gemini. As he would know, life is too short.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Conspicuous in My Absence
So far today, I've had four e-mails checking to see if I'm alive.
I am. Apparently it upset the natural order of things when I did not post last night, a fact of which I was unaware. People were worried that I was roadkill somewhere because I didn't blog.
I don't want to disappoint anyone, but I didn't go out last night. It was a beautiful evening and I had a new book of poetry given to me for my birthday so I took it to my back porch to read.
Honestly, the only thing that could have made it better would have been if the beagle had been at my feet.
The book "Hello Sunshine" is by singer/songwriter Ryan Adams, a man whose music I greatly enjoy.
I hadn't read his first book of poems "Infinity Blues" but I knew they were written when he was still very much a miserable person using drugs and completely cynical about life.
"Hello Sunshine" was written after he fell in love (and married) and got clean; it's like reading the journal of a man discovering love and life for the first time.
To a hopeless romantic like me, it was best kind of porch read; once the sun began setting, I turned on the light so I could stay outside and finish the book. The scent of the gardenia bush wafting up from under my balcony only added to the mood.
we pass through these days like sunlight
through gauzy wet sheets
damp
and yellow in the backyard
riddled with hopeful light
and
my world is nothing but day
and
it was the silence stirring in the room
that sent
my dream
back
to me
and
back to you
or
back to us
always
back to us
I'll do my best not to mess with the natural order again. But sometimes all I need is poetry read from a rocking chair in the waning light and, really, how interesting a post does that make?
I rest my case.
I am. Apparently it upset the natural order of things when I did not post last night, a fact of which I was unaware. People were worried that I was roadkill somewhere because I didn't blog.
I don't want to disappoint anyone, but I didn't go out last night. It was a beautiful evening and I had a new book of poetry given to me for my birthday so I took it to my back porch to read.
Honestly, the only thing that could have made it better would have been if the beagle had been at my feet.
The book "Hello Sunshine" is by singer/songwriter Ryan Adams, a man whose music I greatly enjoy.
I hadn't read his first book of poems "Infinity Blues" but I knew they were written when he was still very much a miserable person using drugs and completely cynical about life.
"Hello Sunshine" was written after he fell in love (and married) and got clean; it's like reading the journal of a man discovering love and life for the first time.
To a hopeless romantic like me, it was best kind of porch read; once the sun began setting, I turned on the light so I could stay outside and finish the book. The scent of the gardenia bush wafting up from under my balcony only added to the mood.
we pass through these days like sunlight
through gauzy wet sheets
damp
and yellow in the backyard
riddled with hopeful light
and
my world is nothing but day
and
it was the silence stirring in the room
that sent
my dream
back
to me
and
back to you
or
back to us
always
back to us
I'll do my best not to mess with the natural order again. But sometimes all I need is poetry read from a rocking chair in the waning light and, really, how interesting a post does that make?
I rest my case.
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