Best kind of day to hang around and goof off: a rainy day like today.
In fact, I could have happily stayed home after my walk, but of course I didn't.
No, I went back to see "Spring Awakening" for the second time. And once again, I saw it from a stage seat.
And the best reason to see it a mere three weeks after I last saw it?
I mean, besides the five dollar ticket?
To sit on the opposite side of the stage from last time and notice things I hadn't when I was experiencing the story for the first time.
Like how when the boys in the cast are onstage singing "The Bitch of Living" I could see some of the girls in the cast just offstage dancing with abandon.
From my new vantage point, I could see the band, too, like when the guitarist switched from an electric to an acoustic guitar in full view of me.
Or when I could see the music director, her back to the band and facing the cast onstage, keeping tempo enthusiastically during "Totally F**ked."
But probably the best reason for sitting on the left side of the stage was the up close and personal view of the hilarious masturbation scene.
I'll tell you what, it's moments like that that make lifelong theater fans.
By the time the matinee let out, we were overdue to eat so we headed to Lunch.
It was an ideal time: after the lunch crowd and before the dinner crowd.
Even better, their happy hour runs every day of the week, so our Martin Codax Albarino was a mere $3.50 a glass.
Hello hay and honeysuckle on the cheap.
The River City Smokehouse and the Fay (house made chicken salad on multi-grain) preceded the very berry pound cake with mixed berries and whipped cream.
Best part of the meal: the pulled pork with coleslaw on a bun.
Our soundtrack was pure '60s Motown ("Baby Love," "Ain't No Woman") and while it was suggested I dance, I didn't.
I did, however, compliment our server on her beautiful breasts and she thanked me, saying, "That means so much more coming from a woman instead of a man. Like a woman telling you how good your make-up looks."
Actually her make-up looked great, too, but I didn't want to push my luck.
The best reason to finish up at Gallery 5 for the Commonwealth of Notions show was to benefit WRIR and Gallery 5.
WRIR DJ Shannon Cleary had assembled a stellar cast of bands for our philanthropic dollar.
Best reason to get to a show on time: so you don't miss anything you'd love to have heard.
I missed Snowy Owls' set and they not only played a new song but covered a White Laces song.
Damn, I could have smacked myself for missing out on those.
Best substitute for what I missed: catching the end of White Laces' incredibly tight set from the ticket desk.
Best surround sound set: Colloquial Orchestra's dynamic smorgasbord of eight musicians placed around the room and following the lead of the amazingly talented Dave Watkins on electric dulcitar.
The 27-minute improvised piece featured some of my favorite people, including Adam of Marionette, Matt of Snowy Owls and PJ, a guy who changes from mild-mannered photographer to a beast of a guitar god when he has an instrument in his hand.
Also of note was Brandon, who entered the fray late in the game, setting up a drum and taking over percussion duties impressively a bit after the set had begun.
Best act to overcome technical difficulties: Swordplay.
Isaac's rapping over vinyl is always a testament to his lyrical skills, but tonight he had so much snap, crackle and pop that he finally gave up using the mic and just sang a capella.
Later he told me that he felt like the sound problems were smacking him in the face, fighting him even.
To his credit, he fought back and won.
Best instinctive crowd direction: when the Low Branches' Christina opened her mouth to sing, what sounded like a half dozen people immediately shushed the crowd.
And they stayed quiet for the most part, even (or especially) when she covered the Boss.
For that matter, her comment, "We're the Low Branches and we're living the life. Er, dream. This is why we don't do stage talk," had the crowd, and even fellow bandmate Matt, cracking up.
Best multi-tasking by one musician in three bands: Matt, who played in Snowy Owls, Colloquial Orchestra and The Low Branches.
I don't know how my favorite fuzz-master even had time to do a shot of whiskey.
Best way to get a crowd dancing: having Bermuda Triangles play on the floor in front of the stage.
Their tribal drumming and wailing sax sound immediately got everyone moving and eventually there was full-on dancing going on as people lost their inhibitions and let the music take them away.
Best seamless transition: during Bermuda Triangles' last song, the final band, Canary, oh, Canary, took the stage.
Drummer Mark jumped into the drumming fray, playing along with the Triangles while CoC's guitarist and bass player held their instruments but stayed silent.
After Triangles' last note, they were thanked and Canary, oh, Canary began their set.
Theirs are some of my favorite bass lines.
Later in their set, guitarist Micheal announced, "Mark has broken his snare. Any drummer out there have a spare he can borrow?"
Not surprisingly, the show went on given the number of instruments in the room.
It was exceeded only by the number of musicians in the room.
Which made Gallery 5 the best possible place to spend my Saturday night.
And, just for the record, the light rain falling when I left made for the best possible walk home.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
People Got a Lotta Nerve
I don't care if forever never comes
'Cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling
And what teenager wouldn't want to eat at the food court?
Our food court of choice was the Virginia Historical Society's food court and it was mobbed.
I had a first-timer with me, so we walked the length of the parking lot first to consider all the choices.
I opted for Sustenance's southern salad, an enticing combination of mixed greens, donut peach slices, artichokes, hearts of palm and Asiago in a Vidalia onion vinaigrette.
I took it to a table and set up camp while my partner in crime went off to score his dinner from the Boka truck.
When he returned with a pork belly taco and a short rib taco (with white beans and red wine au jus), we were all set.
Favorite taco: the long-cooked short ribs.
Our table was conveniently located next to the King of Pop truck, so without even standing up, we scored a fresh peach pop so frozen I had to put it between my legs to bring it to edible temperature.
And boy, was it good then. The pop was clearly made from peach pulp and juice.
How do I know?
Three bites immediately set off my peach allergy, causing the roof of my mouth to itch and my tongue to swell.
Even so, it was well worth it.
Before we left, we spent some time listening to the music of Grant Hunnicutt and Allison Self and company, doing bluegrass and Americana under a canopy on the grass.
When we finally tore ourselves away, it was to head to the National to see Neko Case.
Happily, we immediately ran into friends with tales of their recent trip to Italy.
Summary: the food is always good, the people always friendly and I probably need to make a visit.
Opening was Kelly Hogan, aka Neko Case's back-up singer, with her own band.
She did a short but strong set, covering Vic Chesnutt and John Wesley Harding, among others, in between all kinds of humorous remarks and tambourine shaking.
And then the red-headed one took the stage and all was right in my world.
I've probably seen Neko Case five or six times (not including seeing her withe the New Pornographers) and I never fail to be overcome with the sound of her distinctive voice.
How will you know if you found me at last?
Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight
To me, her humor is icing on the cake (and I'm sure her looks are the same to males).
After yet another heartbreaking song, she observed, "How f**king lame is it to tear up over your own song?"
Hogan piped up, saying, "Puffs, brought to you by Neko Case."
The crowd was an adoring one, singing along, but also annoying her.
"Those of you recording this, I see you," she said. "Just because Apple gives you an app doesn't mean you should use it. It makes us nervous, so stop."
I was gratified to see Security come over and tell a couple people near me to stop filming since Neko had specifically dictated no recording.
Come out to meet me
Run out to meet me
Come into the light
They referred to guitar player John as "Gandalf on pedal steel," a worthy compliment for a guy whose playing added immeasurably to her sound.
"You're putting me into hyper-swoon," she raved about him. That made two of us.
When Hogan mentioned the mu-mu she was wearing ("You could have a party in this dress!"), Neko agreed, saying her loose-fitting top did the same job of covering up her body flaws.
"My hip bones and my ribs touch," she admitted, making her my hero since mine do the same.
Short-waisted women of the world unite!
I can't give up acting tough
It's all that I'm made of
Can't scrape together quite enough
To ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love
During "This Tornado Loves You," my friend turned to me to say how much she loved the song.
I do, too, but given the lyrics, you could replace "tornado" with "Gemini" and it would totally work, I pointed out.
But then she's a Gemini, so she knew exactly what I meant.
But I know that I'm your favorite'
And I said "Amen"
And to the gospel of Neko Case, I too say a heartfelt "amen."
'Cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling
And what teenager wouldn't want to eat at the food court?
Our food court of choice was the Virginia Historical Society's food court and it was mobbed.
I had a first-timer with me, so we walked the length of the parking lot first to consider all the choices.
I opted for Sustenance's southern salad, an enticing combination of mixed greens, donut peach slices, artichokes, hearts of palm and Asiago in a Vidalia onion vinaigrette.
I took it to a table and set up camp while my partner in crime went off to score his dinner from the Boka truck.
When he returned with a pork belly taco and a short rib taco (with white beans and red wine au jus), we were all set.
Favorite taco: the long-cooked short ribs.
Our table was conveniently located next to the King of Pop truck, so without even standing up, we scored a fresh peach pop so frozen I had to put it between my legs to bring it to edible temperature.
And boy, was it good then. The pop was clearly made from peach pulp and juice.
How do I know?
Three bites immediately set off my peach allergy, causing the roof of my mouth to itch and my tongue to swell.
Even so, it was well worth it.
Before we left, we spent some time listening to the music of Grant Hunnicutt and Allison Self and company, doing bluegrass and Americana under a canopy on the grass.
When we finally tore ourselves away, it was to head to the National to see Neko Case.
Happily, we immediately ran into friends with tales of their recent trip to Italy.
Summary: the food is always good, the people always friendly and I probably need to make a visit.
Opening was Kelly Hogan, aka Neko Case's back-up singer, with her own band.
She did a short but strong set, covering Vic Chesnutt and John Wesley Harding, among others, in between all kinds of humorous remarks and tambourine shaking.
And then the red-headed one took the stage and all was right in my world.
I've probably seen Neko Case five or six times (not including seeing her withe the New Pornographers) and I never fail to be overcome with the sound of her distinctive voice.
How will you know if you found me at last?
Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight
To me, her humor is icing on the cake (and I'm sure her looks are the same to males).
After yet another heartbreaking song, she observed, "How f**king lame is it to tear up over your own song?"
Hogan piped up, saying, "Puffs, brought to you by Neko Case."
The crowd was an adoring one, singing along, but also annoying her.
"Those of you recording this, I see you," she said. "Just because Apple gives you an app doesn't mean you should use it. It makes us nervous, so stop."
I was gratified to see Security come over and tell a couple people near me to stop filming since Neko had specifically dictated no recording.
Come out to meet me
Run out to meet me
Come into the light
They referred to guitar player John as "Gandalf on pedal steel," a worthy compliment for a guy whose playing added immeasurably to her sound.
"You're putting me into hyper-swoon," she raved about him. That made two of us.
When Hogan mentioned the mu-mu she was wearing ("You could have a party in this dress!"), Neko agreed, saying her loose-fitting top did the same job of covering up her body flaws.
"My hip bones and my ribs touch," she admitted, making her my hero since mine do the same.
Short-waisted women of the world unite!
I can't give up acting tough
It's all that I'm made of
Can't scrape together quite enough
To ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love
During "This Tornado Loves You," my friend turned to me to say how much she loved the song.
I do, too, but given the lyrics, you could replace "tornado" with "Gemini" and it would totally work, I pointed out.
But then she's a Gemini, so she knew exactly what I meant.
But I know that I'm your favorite'
And I said "Amen"
And to the gospel of Neko Case, I too say a heartfelt "amen."
Friday, July 13, 2012
Goodbye, Good Friends
I am the magnet and the world is the steel.
Or, put another way, I can always count on strangers talking to me. Always.
The Virginia Center for Architecture was my first stop for the opening of the new exhibit "Young Architects of Spain."
I found it to be a fascinating look at the design skills for buildings that would never get built in this country, or at the very least, on this coast.
There was an apartment in Madrid made of plastic, which was odd enough, but it had a a pink and white kitchen.
I think we stopped making pink and white kitchens sometime in the Kennedy era.
The Vega Sicilia Garden Pavilion had been designed because the winery needed a place to receive clients and guests.
Naturally, the Spaniard responsible for the design created a place where you could sip wine while overlooking a magnificent, surrounding garden.
As I stood admiring a glass and cedar collective housing project, I wondered aloud what the term "collective housing" meant.
The guy next to me looked as perplexed as I was.
To our rescue came a handsome bystander who explained in a charming accent that it was like a condo, a group building with shared ownership.
Ah-ha.
That led to a discussion of the next panel, which was of a public housing project in Madrid, basically a white box with modules set into it randomly, making for a pastiche of windows, balconies and jutting promontories.
I mentioned that it appeared to me to be a structure light years more stylish and unique than any public housing ever built in this country.
"Are you an architect?" he asked and I had to disappoint him.
Turns out he was and had come to this country from Poland to practice a few years ago.
He admitted that when he'd first come here, he was all about form (as only a young architect can be), only to gradually realize that he's developed a passion for cornices and such.
"Now I feel differently," he said. "It's too cold looking. I didn't like it anymore."
Somehow I'd lucked into having the ideal person to share the exhibit with since clearly he knew way more about architecture than I did.
Score!
He asked what I did and said he wished he had a knack for writing, while I only wish I could design buildings, making for a chat about the other man's grass always being greener.
When he left to get more sangria, I soldiered on without him, marveling at a "Space for Youth Creation" made from a former water tank with three-foot thick walls.
These young Spaniards were nothing if not out-of-the-box thinkers.
Exiting the VCA, I almost ran into the Man About Town, walking home from work.
He was recently back from a sojourn in NYC, and knwoing what a theater geek I am, he shared some theater experiences (masks! liability! six-inch heels!) he'd seen there while we lingered on the brick sidewalk in the early evening air.
My friend sauntered on while I was on to Amuse to meet a friend.
I got the last free barstool and hugs from four people in the first five minutes. Clearly it had been too long.
With a split of Cava and a bowl of mussels with Surry sausage, white wine and garlic (no kissing tonight!), I was happy as a clam.
When I looked up from inhaling my dinner, I noticed that I was now alone at the bar.
Where had everybody gone?
When I mentioned it to the bartender, he wryly observed, "Yea, you seem to do that a lot."
That's my kind of bartender.
My friend filled me in on his recent trip out west and his upcoming plans that will take him from Richmond for at least a couple of years and maybe forever.
I'm happy he's going to pursue something he loves, but I'll miss his good company here.
We brought out our planners, mine a small purple book and his a phone, and coordinated a date to do debauched things before he leaves.
Next thing I know, a man is asking if the recently vacant stool next to me is free.
Come on in, I told him and next thing I knew he was introducing himself and telling me where he worked, about his dislike for a class he's taking and about his carrying on at the Beer and Bourbon Festival.
When he heard my friend talking about his move, he said he'd come and visit, "And I'll even bring Karen!"
Let's be clear here; he'd met me fifteen minutes ago.
And when my Cava was gone, he kindly offered to buy me more, but I had places to be.
I had to go say goodbye to another friend.
His farewell soiree was at Balliceaux and one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, was playing.
The beauty of that is that the friend leaving has been designing Marionette's merch for the past five years.
The Marionette t-shirt I have? His design.
The Marionette postcard on my desk? His design.
And now he's off to San Diego to go to graduate school and continue his artistic bent.
When the band got ready to begin, drummer Kevin announced, "Where's the man of the hour? We need Austin front and center!"
Once he was in full view of the band, they started their set, which included a lot of the new songs that will be on the upcoming album.
The room was packed and I saw at least three musicians from other local bands in the crowd.
A friend came up to chat about my love life before asking me point blank, "Do you think that's the bass player's "O" face? I think it is."
It might very well have been, but as I pointed out, guitarist Adam seemed to be using his "O" face on certain solos, too.
Maybe that's part of the appeal of live music.
Later in the set Adam spoke a few words about Austin leaving and what a contribution he'd made to the band over the years by essentially defining the Marionette aesthetic with his posters and t-shirts.
"If it weren't for Austin's posters, Karen would never have come to see us," Adam informed the crowd.
I turned to Austin then, admitting, "It's true."
Back in the Stone Age of 2007/2008, I was an avid admirer of show posters, stopping to read them every chance I got.
It used to be how I found out about shows in the pre-Facebook days.
And Austin's Marionette posters were uniquely and beautifully artistic. In fact, I still have several of them squirreled away.
For the final song of the set, the vintage video montage that always plays behind Marionette included several of Austin's posters followed by wishes of good luck for his new adventure.
It was a fitting tribute to him and his art. When it ended, he'd disappeared.
As I went to leave Balliceaux, the front room was playing Beach House's "Teen Dream" album.
It was bittersweet because that was an album Austin and I bonded over many times, both of us obsessed with its sound and having listened to it for months on end.
I left to find Austin just outside the door, smoking and talking to people.
Holding the door open so he could hear what was playing, I told him how fitting it was that I got to say goodbye to him to Beach House.
Before I could say the rest of what I wanted to say to him, he said the exact words in my head to me.
"I'm so glad that I got to know you," he said, hugging me.
Luck is having strangers talk to me because I never know which ones will end up being friends.
Even if I have to eventually bid them farewell.
Or, put another way, I can always count on strangers talking to me. Always.
The Virginia Center for Architecture was my first stop for the opening of the new exhibit "Young Architects of Spain."
I found it to be a fascinating look at the design skills for buildings that would never get built in this country, or at the very least, on this coast.
There was an apartment in Madrid made of plastic, which was odd enough, but it had a a pink and white kitchen.
I think we stopped making pink and white kitchens sometime in the Kennedy era.
The Vega Sicilia Garden Pavilion had been designed because the winery needed a place to receive clients and guests.
Naturally, the Spaniard responsible for the design created a place where you could sip wine while overlooking a magnificent, surrounding garden.
As I stood admiring a glass and cedar collective housing project, I wondered aloud what the term "collective housing" meant.
The guy next to me looked as perplexed as I was.
To our rescue came a handsome bystander who explained in a charming accent that it was like a condo, a group building with shared ownership.
Ah-ha.
That led to a discussion of the next panel, which was of a public housing project in Madrid, basically a white box with modules set into it randomly, making for a pastiche of windows, balconies and jutting promontories.
I mentioned that it appeared to me to be a structure light years more stylish and unique than any public housing ever built in this country.
"Are you an architect?" he asked and I had to disappoint him.
Turns out he was and had come to this country from Poland to practice a few years ago.
He admitted that when he'd first come here, he was all about form (as only a young architect can be), only to gradually realize that he's developed a passion for cornices and such.
"Now I feel differently," he said. "It's too cold looking. I didn't like it anymore."
Somehow I'd lucked into having the ideal person to share the exhibit with since clearly he knew way more about architecture than I did.
Score!
He asked what I did and said he wished he had a knack for writing, while I only wish I could design buildings, making for a chat about the other man's grass always being greener.
When he left to get more sangria, I soldiered on without him, marveling at a "Space for Youth Creation" made from a former water tank with three-foot thick walls.
These young Spaniards were nothing if not out-of-the-box thinkers.
Exiting the VCA, I almost ran into the Man About Town, walking home from work.
He was recently back from a sojourn in NYC, and knwoing what a theater geek I am, he shared some theater experiences (masks! liability! six-inch heels!) he'd seen there while we lingered on the brick sidewalk in the early evening air.
My friend sauntered on while I was on to Amuse to meet a friend.
I got the last free barstool and hugs from four people in the first five minutes. Clearly it had been too long.
With a split of Cava and a bowl of mussels with Surry sausage, white wine and garlic (no kissing tonight!), I was happy as a clam.
When I looked up from inhaling my dinner, I noticed that I was now alone at the bar.
Where had everybody gone?
When I mentioned it to the bartender, he wryly observed, "Yea, you seem to do that a lot."
That's my kind of bartender.
My friend filled me in on his recent trip out west and his upcoming plans that will take him from Richmond for at least a couple of years and maybe forever.
I'm happy he's going to pursue something he loves, but I'll miss his good company here.
We brought out our planners, mine a small purple book and his a phone, and coordinated a date to do debauched things before he leaves.
Next thing I know, a man is asking if the recently vacant stool next to me is free.
Come on in, I told him and next thing I knew he was introducing himself and telling me where he worked, about his dislike for a class he's taking and about his carrying on at the Beer and Bourbon Festival.
When he heard my friend talking about his move, he said he'd come and visit, "And I'll even bring Karen!"
Let's be clear here; he'd met me fifteen minutes ago.
And when my Cava was gone, he kindly offered to buy me more, but I had places to be.
I had to go say goodbye to another friend.
His farewell soiree was at Balliceaux and one of my favorite local bands, Marionette, was playing.
The beauty of that is that the friend leaving has been designing Marionette's merch for the past five years.
The Marionette t-shirt I have? His design.
The Marionette postcard on my desk? His design.
And now he's off to San Diego to go to graduate school and continue his artistic bent.
When the band got ready to begin, drummer Kevin announced, "Where's the man of the hour? We need Austin front and center!"
Once he was in full view of the band, they started their set, which included a lot of the new songs that will be on the upcoming album.
The room was packed and I saw at least three musicians from other local bands in the crowd.
A friend came up to chat about my love life before asking me point blank, "Do you think that's the bass player's "O" face? I think it is."
It might very well have been, but as I pointed out, guitarist Adam seemed to be using his "O" face on certain solos, too.
Maybe that's part of the appeal of live music.
Later in the set Adam spoke a few words about Austin leaving and what a contribution he'd made to the band over the years by essentially defining the Marionette aesthetic with his posters and t-shirts.
"If it weren't for Austin's posters, Karen would never have come to see us," Adam informed the crowd.
I turned to Austin then, admitting, "It's true."
Back in the Stone Age of 2007/2008, I was an avid admirer of show posters, stopping to read them every chance I got.
It used to be how I found out about shows in the pre-Facebook days.
And Austin's Marionette posters were uniquely and beautifully artistic. In fact, I still have several of them squirreled away.
For the final song of the set, the vintage video montage that always plays behind Marionette included several of Austin's posters followed by wishes of good luck for his new adventure.
It was a fitting tribute to him and his art. When it ended, he'd disappeared.
As I went to leave Balliceaux, the front room was playing Beach House's "Teen Dream" album.
It was bittersweet because that was an album Austin and I bonded over many times, both of us obsessed with its sound and having listened to it for months on end.
I left to find Austin just outside the door, smoking and talking to people.
Holding the door open so he could hear what was playing, I told him how fitting it was that I got to say goodbye to him to Beach House.
Before I could say the rest of what I wanted to say to him, he said the exact words in my head to me.
"I'm so glad that I got to know you," he said, hugging me.
Luck is having strangers talk to me because I never know which ones will end up being friends.
Even if I have to eventually bid them farewell.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
That Was Then
According to one of the out-of-towners, we were "raging on a Wednesday night."
But we got things rolling with Popeye and Olive Oil.
The Anderson Gallery's happy hour this week featured classic cartoons along with the usual wine and beer.
We were no fools; we scored a spot on the banquette and settled in to watch the 1939 "Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp," part of the fabulous Fleischer folio.
Because it was in Technicolor, we got to see just how green every can of spinach Popeye opened was. And don't even get me started on seeing Olive in harem pants.
Next came "Gopher Spinach" from 1954 and not nearly as interestingly animated.
It did feature a classic cartoon moment when Popeye was chasing the spinach-eating gopher with a lawn mower.
The gopher threw a barrel of nails into the mower's path and they spit out the back of the mower, nailing Popeye to the nearby barn wall with their force.
They'd saved the best for last: "Betty Boop: A Song a Day" was about Betty's animal hospital.
It was like a catalog of animals, each with an appropriate illness tag on its sickbed.
Herring, Condition: pickled.
Giraffe: Condition: pain in the neck.
You get the idea.
As cute as Betty looked in her nurse's uniform, it wasn't enough to stop the animals' pain and she called in Professor Grampy to sing and dance so everyone felt better.
The funniest part was we were told that that was the only Betty Boop film suitable for the family audience the Anderson was expecting tonight.
Seems that most Boop shorts feature her in a skimpy dress and usually wiggling seductively.
And while it was okay to show kids vampy, scantily-clad cartoon characters in 1936, we're a bit more circumspect in 2012.
You gotta give the Anderson Gallery credit for creativity; a happy hour of vintage cartoons is a terrific way to start a Wednesday.
Once that fun ended, we went to Xtra's Cafe in Carytown to get jacked up on some cheap champagne (a la Scissor Sisters) and eat dinner.
Naturally on an evening headed into the mid-seventies, the balcony was full, so we did bar time.
The Simonet Blanc de Blanc Brut was cold (if poured in wine glasses rather than flutes), the Nantucket Nexus salad (mesclun, cranberries, Gorgonzola, Granny Smith apples, cucumbers, pecans and bacon) full of complementary flavors and the music just good enough (XX, Bon Iver and extra points for Youth Group).
All around us were other bubbles drinkers laughing and talking more loudly as the night wore on.
We went with the house-made dessert of the day, Mexican chocolate cookies with Kahlua ice cream, especially good when the ice cream was spread on the crumbly cookies.
Properly sated, we headed out to music at, of all places, Bogart's.
Playing tonight was a Jacksonville duo called Folk is People. They're in the middle of an East Coast tour promoting their EP, headed to Boston tomorrow night.
I don't envy them that drive.
But I'd done my online research and I not only liked their sound, but their claim to deliver good looks and offensive banter.
Truth be told, I often aim for the same.
We took a front table, the better to hear them (the bar crowd wasn't as attentive as they could have been at times), and admire their good looks.
Banjo in hand, Stacey cleared up a few things immediately.
"We're not brother and sister and we don't do it," she deadpanned. "We're just in a band."
I'd have to say that that was more informative than offensive.
"Here's a song we started doing yesterday," she said before the lovely "Tell Me Love."
Both Stacey and Rick had strong voices and with their handful of songs, continued to impress.
After reminding us of our midweek raging tonight, they did the Tom Petty (a fellow Floridian) cover "Yer So Bad."
But not me, baby, I've got you to save me
Oh, yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad
Rick's vocal take on Petty was spot on, giving the phrasing the Petty nod but also making it his own.
The crowd ate it up and Rick acknowledged, "It's tricky with Petty. People just keep wanting more. Alright then, this song is not as good. It's called 'Gift Horse."
Depending on your Petty fandom, it was damn fine, though.
Rick stuck to guitar while Stacey played banjo, guitar (but not Rick's, she made clear), mandolin and mouth harp.
Considering the two have only been playing together for ten months, their set was satisfying and strong.
From "Becoming Unbecoming" to "Ships and Shades," we were treated to lots of stringed instruments, harmonies and well-written songs.
One, two, three
You said you loved me
But you just wanted the company
Oh, I wanted the company alright.
But I also wanted the distinct pleasure of hearing an out-of-town band woo me with their sound tonight.
And as good-looking as they were, I'd have gotten their CD even if they'd been ugly.
In a world gone mad, I'm a sucker for well-executed folk rock raging on a Wednesday night.
Well, that and offensive banter.
But we got things rolling with Popeye and Olive Oil.
The Anderson Gallery's happy hour this week featured classic cartoons along with the usual wine and beer.
We were no fools; we scored a spot on the banquette and settled in to watch the 1939 "Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp," part of the fabulous Fleischer folio.
Because it was in Technicolor, we got to see just how green every can of spinach Popeye opened was. And don't even get me started on seeing Olive in harem pants.
Next came "Gopher Spinach" from 1954 and not nearly as interestingly animated.
It did feature a classic cartoon moment when Popeye was chasing the spinach-eating gopher with a lawn mower.
The gopher threw a barrel of nails into the mower's path and they spit out the back of the mower, nailing Popeye to the nearby barn wall with their force.
They'd saved the best for last: "Betty Boop: A Song a Day" was about Betty's animal hospital.
It was like a catalog of animals, each with an appropriate illness tag on its sickbed.
Herring, Condition: pickled.
Giraffe: Condition: pain in the neck.
You get the idea.
As cute as Betty looked in her nurse's uniform, it wasn't enough to stop the animals' pain and she called in Professor Grampy to sing and dance so everyone felt better.
The funniest part was we were told that that was the only Betty Boop film suitable for the family audience the Anderson was expecting tonight.
Seems that most Boop shorts feature her in a skimpy dress and usually wiggling seductively.
And while it was okay to show kids vampy, scantily-clad cartoon characters in 1936, we're a bit more circumspect in 2012.
You gotta give the Anderson Gallery credit for creativity; a happy hour of vintage cartoons is a terrific way to start a Wednesday.
Once that fun ended, we went to Xtra's Cafe in Carytown to get jacked up on some cheap champagne (a la Scissor Sisters) and eat dinner.
Naturally on an evening headed into the mid-seventies, the balcony was full, so we did bar time.
The Simonet Blanc de Blanc Brut was cold (if poured in wine glasses rather than flutes), the Nantucket Nexus salad (mesclun, cranberries, Gorgonzola, Granny Smith apples, cucumbers, pecans and bacon) full of complementary flavors and the music just good enough (XX, Bon Iver and extra points for Youth Group).
All around us were other bubbles drinkers laughing and talking more loudly as the night wore on.
We went with the house-made dessert of the day, Mexican chocolate cookies with Kahlua ice cream, especially good when the ice cream was spread on the crumbly cookies.
Properly sated, we headed out to music at, of all places, Bogart's.
Playing tonight was a Jacksonville duo called Folk is People. They're in the middle of an East Coast tour promoting their EP, headed to Boston tomorrow night.
I don't envy them that drive.
But I'd done my online research and I not only liked their sound, but their claim to deliver good looks and offensive banter.
Truth be told, I often aim for the same.
We took a front table, the better to hear them (the bar crowd wasn't as attentive as they could have been at times), and admire their good looks.
Banjo in hand, Stacey cleared up a few things immediately.
"We're not brother and sister and we don't do it," she deadpanned. "We're just in a band."
I'd have to say that that was more informative than offensive.
"Here's a song we started doing yesterday," she said before the lovely "Tell Me Love."
Both Stacey and Rick had strong voices and with their handful of songs, continued to impress.
After reminding us of our midweek raging tonight, they did the Tom Petty (a fellow Floridian) cover "Yer So Bad."
But not me, baby, I've got you to save me
Oh, yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad
Rick's vocal take on Petty was spot on, giving the phrasing the Petty nod but also making it his own.
The crowd ate it up and Rick acknowledged, "It's tricky with Petty. People just keep wanting more. Alright then, this song is not as good. It's called 'Gift Horse."
Depending on your Petty fandom, it was damn fine, though.
Rick stuck to guitar while Stacey played banjo, guitar (but not Rick's, she made clear), mandolin and mouth harp.
Considering the two have only been playing together for ten months, their set was satisfying and strong.
From "Becoming Unbecoming" to "Ships and Shades," we were treated to lots of stringed instruments, harmonies and well-written songs.
One, two, three
You said you loved me
But you just wanted the company
Oh, I wanted the company alright.
But I also wanted the distinct pleasure of hearing an out-of-town band woo me with their sound tonight.
And as good-looking as they were, I'd have gotten their CD even if they'd been ugly.
In a world gone mad, I'm a sucker for well-executed folk rock raging on a Wednesday night.
Well, that and offensive banter.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Silk Degrees Smackdown
I make a great date of last resort.
What I mean is, when a friend suddenly finds him or herself free, I'm a good one to ask the obvious.
Today's was pretty basic.
"Hey, whatcha up to?"
Nothing yet, I wrote.
"Wanna grab something quick?" he shot back.
Don't we all want to grab something quick?
Since it was half priced wine night, I suggested Six Burner, knowing my friend hadn't yet experienced the new menu.
I walked in to find my usual stool occupied, but made do in a foreign stool.
Moments later the owner noticed my strange location and said, "My new upstairs tenants didn't know they were in your seat."
The two girls laughed and apologized, but I assured them it was my stool in name only.
Unlike my friend who went red with a Pinotage (Paarl Heights), I went the Provence route with Rose Mas de Gourrgonnier, nutty on the nose and fresh and fruity on the palate.
After we dispensed with restaurant and wine gossip, we eyed the menu.
Since my pal was unfamiliar with it, I let him decide what we should nibble on.
The potato gnocchi with seasonal mushrooms caught his eye and while he loved the mushrooms, we found the dish a tad salty, unlike last time I'd had it.
But the second dish made our taste buds sing.
Huevos rancheros style calamari came with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs in a spicy tomato broth arrived in an asymmetrical bowl.
The tiny soft cooked egg melted in my mouth and the spicy chorizo imparted just enough heat.
Best of all, the broth was completely sop-worthy and we all but wiped the dish clean savoring it.
Meanwhile, I had bigger fish to fry.
A music person like me couldn't help but notice tonight's soundtrack, an ode to the late '70s and early '80s.
No, no, not again.
I'm talking Steely Dan, Spinners, Pablo Cruise and (wait for it) Gino Vanelli doing his big hit "I Just Want to Stop."
Let's just say I wanted that music to stop.
When I inquired, I learned it was Pandora set to Boz Skaggs, which explained a lot.
It didn't make it any better, but at least now I understood.
Later the owner came over and asked what we thought of his music choice.
Before I could formulate a way to express my opinion of being subjected to 35-year old music, my friend piped up.
"With the hip, new vibe in here, I think you need something newer."
And this from a guy who plays in both a hip hop band and a country band.
To his credit, the owner asked for some departure points for newer music, admitting he had no expertise in that area.
I'll send you a list, I promised.
Honestly, I have to applaud a man who admits when he doesn't know something.
After resolving the restaurant's music issues for them, we moved on to discussing my friend's impending career change.
I'm excited for him, almost sure that he'll be happier with less driving and more cooking.
"Well, at this age, I've got to do that or else sell my body," he shrugged.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
No one told me about the age at which you have to either cook or sell your body.
I'm not sure I'd be good enough at either one to leave enough time for the important stuff.
You know, like telling people what music to play or being everyone's date of last resort.
Pardon me while I stick to my strong suits.
What I mean is, when a friend suddenly finds him or herself free, I'm a good one to ask the obvious.
Today's was pretty basic.
"Hey, whatcha up to?"
Nothing yet, I wrote.
"Wanna grab something quick?" he shot back.
Don't we all want to grab something quick?
Since it was half priced wine night, I suggested Six Burner, knowing my friend hadn't yet experienced the new menu.
I walked in to find my usual stool occupied, but made do in a foreign stool.
Moments later the owner noticed my strange location and said, "My new upstairs tenants didn't know they were in your seat."
The two girls laughed and apologized, but I assured them it was my stool in name only.
Unlike my friend who went red with a Pinotage (Paarl Heights), I went the Provence route with Rose Mas de Gourrgonnier, nutty on the nose and fresh and fruity on the palate.
After we dispensed with restaurant and wine gossip, we eyed the menu.
Since my pal was unfamiliar with it, I let him decide what we should nibble on.
The potato gnocchi with seasonal mushrooms caught his eye and while he loved the mushrooms, we found the dish a tad salty, unlike last time I'd had it.
But the second dish made our taste buds sing.
Huevos rancheros style calamari came with Mexican chorizo and quail eggs in a spicy tomato broth arrived in an asymmetrical bowl.
The tiny soft cooked egg melted in my mouth and the spicy chorizo imparted just enough heat.
Best of all, the broth was completely sop-worthy and we all but wiped the dish clean savoring it.
A music person like me couldn't help but notice tonight's soundtrack, an ode to the late '70s and early '80s.
No, no, not again.
I'm talking Steely Dan, Spinners, Pablo Cruise and (wait for it) Gino Vanelli doing his big hit "I Just Want to Stop."
Let's just say I wanted that music to stop.
When I inquired, I learned it was Pandora set to Boz Skaggs, which explained a lot.
Later the owner came over and asked what we thought of his music choice.
Before I could formulate a way to express my opinion of being subjected to 35-year old music, my friend piped up.
"With the hip, new vibe in here, I think you need something newer."
And this from a guy who plays in both a hip hop band and a country band.
To his credit, the owner asked for some departure points for newer music, admitting he had no expertise in that area.
I'll send you a list, I promised.
Honestly, I have to applaud a man who admits when he doesn't know something.
After resolving the restaurant's music issues for them, we moved on to discussing my friend's impending career change.
I'm excited for him, almost sure that he'll be happier with less driving and more cooking.
"Well, at this age, I've got to do that or else sell my body," he shrugged.
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
I'm not sure I'd be good enough at either one to leave enough time for the important stuff.
You know, like telling people what music to play or being everyone's date of last resort.
Folks Sure are Friendly in These Parts
Barely back two days from vacation and I headed out again.
I've been missing the ocean anyway, so I was more than happy to go to the river today.
I just didn't expect so much stranger love.
With my WRIR cooler packed with hydration, I gathered up some CDs (Richard Hawley's "Lady's Bridge," Grimes' "Visions," Richmanian Ramblers "World, Sister World" and Mat Kearney's "City of Black and White") for the drive and headed east.
My destination was Kinsale, a tiny Northern Neck town on the Yeocomico River, to talk to a man who's been in the oyster business since 1966.
Arriving at the complex, a man in a golf cart approached me presuming I was lost, but I told him who I was there to see.
A huge smile erupted on his face. "Come on, baby," he grinned, putting his golf cart in gear, "I'll show you."
Inside, the receptionist called the boss and said there was a "young lady" here to see him.
You talking about me?
After a satisfying interview with a man who loves what he does, I got back on the road and before long saw a sign for Vault Fields Winery.
Mid-afternoon grape? Why not?
So I made the turn, winding my way through sunny cornfields, curious about a wine I knew a few Richmond restaurants are now carrying.
But today being Tuesday and all meant no dice.The tasting room is only open Thursdays through Sundays.
Back on the road again.
Coming through Tappahannock, I decided to stop at Parr's Drive-in, two blocks off the riverfront, for ice cream.
Parr's is a throwback: concrete floors, 25-cent gumball machines and a gray-haired guy behind the counter making corny jokes.
Seeing me looking at my choices, he cracked, "One of each?"
I finally decided on a dip-top cone, anticipating it even more when I heard they had chocolate/vanilla swirl soft serve.
Let's just say it had been a while since I'd had a zebra cone.
The guy asked if I wanted small or medium and I told him I'd have a medium, even if it meant I was going to hell in a hand basket after a week of trashy beach eating.
"I won't tell anyone" he said conspiratorially and then winked at me.
My total came to $3.04 ("Just give me three dollars," he said, but I dug out four pennies anyway) and I took my towering treat out to my car to enjoy.
With all the windows down, I enjoyed the 80-degree breeze blowing in from the river while I watched a woman contently sitting on a porch swing on a nearby white house.
Seems like just a few days ago I was sitting on a porch swing overlooking the ocean. Ah, well.
A car pulled up next to me and a guy got out and went in, glancing over at me.
He soon came back out with stuff in his hands, which he put in his car before going back in.
This time he returned with a dip-top cone in hand and looked right at me.
I raised my cone in salute and he did the same.
"Nice idea!" he said, smiling and nodding at me, apparently giving me credit for his decision to dip along with me.
No problem, I told him as he got in his car to leave.
Aw, shucks. Just spreading the gospel of stopping to smell the roses.
Nice idea, if you ask me.
But what do I know? I had chocolate all over my chin.
I've been missing the ocean anyway, so I was more than happy to go to the river today.
I just didn't expect so much stranger love.
With my WRIR cooler packed with hydration, I gathered up some CDs (Richard Hawley's "Lady's Bridge," Grimes' "Visions," Richmanian Ramblers "World, Sister World" and Mat Kearney's "City of Black and White") for the drive and headed east.
My destination was Kinsale, a tiny Northern Neck town on the Yeocomico River, to talk to a man who's been in the oyster business since 1966.
Arriving at the complex, a man in a golf cart approached me presuming I was lost, but I told him who I was there to see.
A huge smile erupted on his face. "Come on, baby," he grinned, putting his golf cart in gear, "I'll show you."
Inside, the receptionist called the boss and said there was a "young lady" here to see him.
You talking about me?
After a satisfying interview with a man who loves what he does, I got back on the road and before long saw a sign for Vault Fields Winery.
Mid-afternoon grape? Why not?
So I made the turn, winding my way through sunny cornfields, curious about a wine I knew a few Richmond restaurants are now carrying.
But today being Tuesday and all meant no dice.The tasting room is only open Thursdays through Sundays.
Back on the road again.
Coming through Tappahannock, I decided to stop at Parr's Drive-in, two blocks off the riverfront, for ice cream.
Parr's is a throwback: concrete floors, 25-cent gumball machines and a gray-haired guy behind the counter making corny jokes.
Seeing me looking at my choices, he cracked, "One of each?"
I finally decided on a dip-top cone, anticipating it even more when I heard they had chocolate/vanilla swirl soft serve.
Let's just say it had been a while since I'd had a zebra cone.
The guy asked if I wanted small or medium and I told him I'd have a medium, even if it meant I was going to hell in a hand basket after a week of trashy beach eating.
"I won't tell anyone" he said conspiratorially and then winked at me.
My total came to $3.04 ("Just give me three dollars," he said, but I dug out four pennies anyway) and I took my towering treat out to my car to enjoy.
With all the windows down, I enjoyed the 80-degree breeze blowing in from the river while I watched a woman contently sitting on a porch swing on a nearby white house.
Seems like just a few days ago I was sitting on a porch swing overlooking the ocean. Ah, well.
A car pulled up next to me and a guy got out and went in, glancing over at me.
He soon came back out with stuff in his hands, which he put in his car before going back in.
This time he returned with a dip-top cone in hand and looked right at me.
I raised my cone in salute and he did the same.
"Nice idea!" he said, smiling and nodding at me, apparently giving me credit for his decision to dip along with me.
No problem, I told him as he got in his car to leave.
Aw, shucks. Just spreading the gospel of stopping to smell the roses.
Nice idea, if you ask me.
But what do I know? I had chocolate all over my chin.
I Am Trying to Break Your Heart
Some nights. it's all about the heartbreak.
But before there was that, there was pie at Pie with a bartender who didn't look old enough to shave.
I don't think I'd been to Pie since the first month they'd opened, so tonight's foray was off my beaten path.
Over a pie of marinara, basil, spinach, mushrooms, red pepper flakes and oodles of garlic, my companion informed me that tonight's event was going to be trite.
"I'm telling you now that all the stories are going to be the same," Mr. Pessimist warned while I begged to differ.
We had only to walk across the street to Balliceaux to see who was right.
Tonight was Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story and the theme was "Heartbreak Hotel."
So right there you know this girl wasn't going to get up and tell a story.
But we paid our admission and each of us got a little black heart drawn on our hands to show we were worthy to listen.
Inside, we quickly grabbed seats in the second row (I would have preferred the first) as the room continued to fill up.
It had to have been the biggest crowd yet for storytelling on a Monday night.
As everyone claimed drinks and seats, the music playing set the tone for the evening with songs like "The Things We Do for Love" and "Bye, Bye, Love."
Oh, it was going to get heartbreaking alright.
Things began with "Rainy Day at Rose's," a story about a guy making a bad call letting his date run to the locked car while he stayed dry with the keys.
I'd say that's a young man's mistake.
"Fangirl Confession" was about how having a crush on Jim Carrey and Lauren Holly when you're 13 years old is bound to eventually beak your heart.
She talked about how tough her dilemma had been in the pre-Internet days. "This was the 90s so it was all 90s problems for a fan."
"Twenty Year Crush" had to do with devotion to singer/activist Billy Bragg and how no matter how often she told someone (usually her husband), "I'm over Billy Bragg," she never really was.
The next storyteller (who also had the best ensemble: white and black fringed shirt, white pants and checkered Vans) got a build-up of an introduction, including his phone number for any interested females.
"The Romance Novel that is My Life: Shower Scene" had some funny/telling moments about how some people are just not right for each other.
His observations were hysterical.
"After the breakup, I descended into single dudedom. But I'm better now. I shave almost every day."
There was a story called "Corazon Roto" about drinking tequila with his Mexican friend who tried to win his former girlfriend's love back by hiring a ten-piece mariachi band to back him as he sang to her.
Te amo, Olivia!
The lesson?
In some cultures, heartbreak is a community event.
After intermission, we got the stories not previously vetted by the Secretly Y'All crew, the ones told by audience members who put their names in a hat hoping to be called onstage.
"Buckeyes and Board Checks" was introduced as being a story to make up for the fact that so far no one had told a story where they were the heartbreaker.
"I think I have that story," he assured us.
Breaking up with your girlfriend during a weekend visit on Valentine's Day so he could go back to New Orleans and party hearty?
Yep, he had that story.
She showed him, though, by claiming to be preganant and ruining three solid hours of his life before taking a pregnancy test (negative).
My favorite storyteller of the evening was the girl who told us about "Failed First Kiss."
Between her charismatic persona, a story of being raised in a seven-children hippie family (Mom was a second-wave feminist) and her impeccable timing, she had the room in stitches.
"I was smitten by Gandhi," she confessed.
To be clear, it wasn't that Gandhi.
This one was the younger brother of the handsome Lotus, but despite going off with Gandhi while sick and attempting to be cool enough to smoke pot with him, the kiss never happened.
That's some serious 13-year old heartbreak.
Chris Milk told a story of being arrested in Mexico for drunkenness, spending a night in jail and then being taken out the next day by the cop who'd arrested him.
They drank together all day. Obviously Mexican cops do things a little differently.
The last story was about leaving the Richmond bubble to go live in San Francisco where the storyteller learned people are not nearly so friendly as they are here.
In fact, in Richmond, California, strangers may even want to kill you at night at a closed BART station. Now that's a heartbreaking lesson to learn 3,000 miles from home.
But if there was one thing tonight's stories proved it was that they were definitely not all the same. They weren't even close.
You want to hear about heartbreak? I could tell a story about heartbreak. Come to think of it, nah.
I wouldn't want to tell another story that's just the same.
But before there was that, there was pie at Pie with a bartender who didn't look old enough to shave.
I don't think I'd been to Pie since the first month they'd opened, so tonight's foray was off my beaten path.
Over a pie of marinara, basil, spinach, mushrooms, red pepper flakes and oodles of garlic, my companion informed me that tonight's event was going to be trite.
"I'm telling you now that all the stories are going to be the same," Mr. Pessimist warned while I begged to differ.
We had only to walk across the street to Balliceaux to see who was right.
Tonight was Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story and the theme was "Heartbreak Hotel."
So right there you know this girl wasn't going to get up and tell a story.
But we paid our admission and each of us got a little black heart drawn on our hands to show we were worthy to listen.
Inside, we quickly grabbed seats in the second row (I would have preferred the first) as the room continued to fill up.
It had to have been the biggest crowd yet for storytelling on a Monday night.
As everyone claimed drinks and seats, the music playing set the tone for the evening with songs like "The Things We Do for Love" and "Bye, Bye, Love."
Oh, it was going to get heartbreaking alright.
Things began with "Rainy Day at Rose's," a story about a guy making a bad call letting his date run to the locked car while he stayed dry with the keys.
I'd say that's a young man's mistake.
"Fangirl Confession" was about how having a crush on Jim Carrey and Lauren Holly when you're 13 years old is bound to eventually beak your heart.
She talked about how tough her dilemma had been in the pre-Internet days. "This was the 90s so it was all 90s problems for a fan."
"Twenty Year Crush" had to do with devotion to singer/activist Billy Bragg and how no matter how often she told someone (usually her husband), "I'm over Billy Bragg," she never really was.
The next storyteller (who also had the best ensemble: white and black fringed shirt, white pants and checkered Vans) got a build-up of an introduction, including his phone number for any interested females.
"The Romance Novel that is My Life: Shower Scene" had some funny/telling moments about how some people are just not right for each other.
His observations were hysterical.
"After the breakup, I descended into single dudedom. But I'm better now. I shave almost every day."
There was a story called "Corazon Roto" about drinking tequila with his Mexican friend who tried to win his former girlfriend's love back by hiring a ten-piece mariachi band to back him as he sang to her.
Te amo, Olivia!
The lesson?
In some cultures, heartbreak is a community event.
After intermission, we got the stories not previously vetted by the Secretly Y'All crew, the ones told by audience members who put their names in a hat hoping to be called onstage.
"Buckeyes and Board Checks" was introduced as being a story to make up for the fact that so far no one had told a story where they were the heartbreaker.
"I think I have that story," he assured us.
Breaking up with your girlfriend during a weekend visit on Valentine's Day so he could go back to New Orleans and party hearty?
Yep, he had that story.
She showed him, though, by claiming to be preganant and ruining three solid hours of his life before taking a pregnancy test (negative).
My favorite storyteller of the evening was the girl who told us about "Failed First Kiss."
Between her charismatic persona, a story of being raised in a seven-children hippie family (Mom was a second-wave feminist) and her impeccable timing, she had the room in stitches.
"I was smitten by Gandhi," she confessed.
To be clear, it wasn't that Gandhi.
This one was the younger brother of the handsome Lotus, but despite going off with Gandhi while sick and attempting to be cool enough to smoke pot with him, the kiss never happened.
That's some serious 13-year old heartbreak.
Chris Milk told a story of being arrested in Mexico for drunkenness, spending a night in jail and then being taken out the next day by the cop who'd arrested him.
They drank together all day. Obviously Mexican cops do things a little differently.
The last story was about leaving the Richmond bubble to go live in San Francisco where the storyteller learned people are not nearly so friendly as they are here.
In fact, in Richmond, California, strangers may even want to kill you at night at a closed BART station. Now that's a heartbreaking lesson to learn 3,000 miles from home.
But if there was one thing tonight's stories proved it was that they were definitely not all the same. They weren't even close.
You want to hear about heartbreak? I could tell a story about heartbreak. Come to think of it, nah.
I wouldn't want to tell another story that's just the same.
Monday, July 9, 2012
All or Nothing at All
It's always bittersweet.
The last day of vacation means one last time in the ocean, a sweaty drive back to Richmond and a mental readjustment of place and purpose.
As it shook down today, the water was warm, but still refreshing at 10 a.m.
The drive took less than three hours from cottage door to city door.
Getting my head back into real life mode, though, took a bit longer.
It's not that I'm not glad to be back in Richmond, a city I love with plenty of ways to keep me interested and busy.
But here I don't go around in my bathing suit all day long and the non-stop crash of waves is conspicuously absent.
(heave post-vacation sigh)
Clothes and city sounds? It's a lot of transition to ask of a person in one day.
On the plus side, I had an invitation for dinner (meaning a chance to share some of my vacation stories) and enough time beforehand to do my beach laundry and put away the contents of my bags.
Looking for a cool place to eat and share tales from the beach, we settled on Cellar Door and a corner booth.
The music was satisfyingly eclectic, from Sinatra's "All or Nothing at All" to Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" with Hendrix in between.
Not surprisingly, it was the owner's iPod and not a satellite radio station.
I started with an Italian, the Annalisa Pinot Grigio, since anything but a dry white would be unthinkable on a day I come home to a thermostat that read 99 degrees.
I'm sure it was actually hotter, but the device only goes as high as two digits.
The heat also kept our appetites in check; my choice of the River House was suitably light, with sauteed garlic shrimp over mesclun, avocado, red onion, cukes and grape tomatoes and a house-made Italian vinaigrette.
After our salads, we had the cremini mushrooms sauteed in sherry with garlic and parsley, a generous dish of garlicky mushrooms that ensured that no one would want to kiss either of us later.
Okay, maybe someone but not most people.
While waiting for dessert to arrive, musicians began to set up, but we hadn't a clue as to what to expect.
The Limoncello flute had been described to us as a sorbet but it was creamier than that, almost like a lemon meringue pie in a glass (but minus the crust).
It may have been the perfect hot weather dessert, light and refreshing.
Soon a guy began rapping, but only after announcing before his second song, "I got my epic cheesy ass introduction for this."
With a recommendation like that, who wouldn't want to stay and hear what other bon mots he had to offer?
Okay, us, but one of us had had a late night and for me it had been a long day traversing states and states of mind.
So despite the sweetness of being home and in great company at a favorite subterranean restaurant, I was closing out my day far from a lot of the things that have been giving me pleasure this week.
Bittersweetness aside, as long as I'm back I may as well jump right back in.
I happen to know I can find pleasure wherever I am.
Even with garlic breath.
The last day of vacation means one last time in the ocean, a sweaty drive back to Richmond and a mental readjustment of place and purpose.
As it shook down today, the water was warm, but still refreshing at 10 a.m.
The drive took less than three hours from cottage door to city door.
Getting my head back into real life mode, though, took a bit longer.
It's not that I'm not glad to be back in Richmond, a city I love with plenty of ways to keep me interested and busy.
But here I don't go around in my bathing suit all day long and the non-stop crash of waves is conspicuously absent.
(heave post-vacation sigh)
Clothes and city sounds? It's a lot of transition to ask of a person in one day.
On the plus side, I had an invitation for dinner (meaning a chance to share some of my vacation stories) and enough time beforehand to do my beach laundry and put away the contents of my bags.
Looking for a cool place to eat and share tales from the beach, we settled on Cellar Door and a corner booth.
The music was satisfyingly eclectic, from Sinatra's "All or Nothing at All" to Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" with Hendrix in between.
Not surprisingly, it was the owner's iPod and not a satellite radio station.
I started with an Italian, the Annalisa Pinot Grigio, since anything but a dry white would be unthinkable on a day I come home to a thermostat that read 99 degrees.
I'm sure it was actually hotter, but the device only goes as high as two digits.
The heat also kept our appetites in check; my choice of the River House was suitably light, with sauteed garlic shrimp over mesclun, avocado, red onion, cukes and grape tomatoes and a house-made Italian vinaigrette.
After our salads, we had the cremini mushrooms sauteed in sherry with garlic and parsley, a generous dish of garlicky mushrooms that ensured that no one would want to kiss either of us later.
Okay, maybe someone but not most people.
While waiting for dessert to arrive, musicians began to set up, but we hadn't a clue as to what to expect.
The Limoncello flute had been described to us as a sorbet but it was creamier than that, almost like a lemon meringue pie in a glass (but minus the crust).
It may have been the perfect hot weather dessert, light and refreshing.
Soon a guy began rapping, but only after announcing before his second song, "I got my epic cheesy ass introduction for this."
With a recommendation like that, who wouldn't want to stay and hear what other bon mots he had to offer?
Okay, us, but one of us had had a late night and for me it had been a long day traversing states and states of mind.
So despite the sweetness of being home and in great company at a favorite subterranean restaurant, I was closing out my day far from a lot of the things that have been giving me pleasure this week.
Bittersweetness aside, as long as I'm back I may as well jump right back in.
I happen to know I can find pleasure wherever I am.
Even with garlic breath.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Summer Breeze
A pictures's worth a thousand words.
Hanging in one of the bedrooms of this little white house on the ocean that I have been renting for eighteen years now, is an enlargement of a black and white photograph.
In the old (pre-Photoshop days) picture, an enormous wave, hurricane like in its size and menacing swell, curls over a few tiny oceanfront houses scattered along the mostly undeveloped shoreline of Kitty Hawk.
A closer look reveals that the small house near the center of the photo is the one I am standing in.
The one I come back to every year for a week or two, depending on my pocketbook.
The house in the picture looks exactly the same as it does today; only the proximity of the other houses has changed.
Where there was once long stretches between houses, now they are filled with other cottages, some rustic and many newer.
When I first began renting this particular house, it had no telephone, which I loved.
Until last summer, it had no air conditioning. Now it has three window units which I resent mightily.
The house sits close to the ocean, more so now even than before Hurricane Isabel in 2003.
With every window open during the time I am here, it's like being surrounded by the sun, wind and water.
All three come through every door and window from sunrise to sunset, ensuring that we never have to wonder what the weather is.
Today the water reached a week-long high of seventy five degrees, so warm it is like bath water.
Not once but twice today, a school of dolphins swam so close by that some people floated on rafts further out than where they jumped.
After an extended happy hour on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, we took a group vote and decided to let someone else cook for our last night.
We played "follow the leader" the eighth of a mile to the Rundown Cafe, which is no longer rundown.
When I first started going there in the '90s, it was a beach shack with a limited menu for locals.
Once they built a rickety deck on the roof, it was the perfect place for a few drinks once the sun went down.
And if the deck shifted a bit as we lingered on the roof, we chalked it up to the cocktails.
It's since been renovated (twice, I think) and is a bloated shadow of its former self, although the vintage surfboards and other beach ephemera haven't changed.
So we sat on the deck facing the ocean and ate locally caught mahi, fried up into fish bites, served with a ginger habanero sauce and some fabulous pickled cabbage.
I sipped tequila as we ate pound after pound of locally caught shrimp and the sun finally sank behind the sound.
Walking back toward the house, many of the houses were lit up from within, providing a voyeuristic thrill for the nosy among us.
Me, I couldn't have cared less what was going on anywhere else on the beach.
Let's just say that vacation has been very, very good to me.
But I will miss the constant sound of the surf. It unwinds me like nothing else can.
After nearly a week at the seaside, I am as relaxed as I could hope to be.
Someone even told me today that it showed on my face.
Maybe I should take a picture.
Hanging in one of the bedrooms of this little white house on the ocean that I have been renting for eighteen years now, is an enlargement of a black and white photograph.
In the old (pre-Photoshop days) picture, an enormous wave, hurricane like in its size and menacing swell, curls over a few tiny oceanfront houses scattered along the mostly undeveloped shoreline of Kitty Hawk.
A closer look reveals that the small house near the center of the photo is the one I am standing in.
The one I come back to every year for a week or two, depending on my pocketbook.
The house in the picture looks exactly the same as it does today; only the proximity of the other houses has changed.
Where there was once long stretches between houses, now they are filled with other cottages, some rustic and many newer.
When I first began renting this particular house, it had no telephone, which I loved.
Until last summer, it had no air conditioning. Now it has three window units which I resent mightily.
The house sits close to the ocean, more so now even than before Hurricane Isabel in 2003.
With every window open during the time I am here, it's like being surrounded by the sun, wind and water.
All three come through every door and window from sunrise to sunset, ensuring that we never have to wonder what the weather is.
Today the water reached a week-long high of seventy five degrees, so warm it is like bath water.
Not once but twice today, a school of dolphins swam so close by that some people floated on rafts further out than where they jumped.
After an extended happy hour on the screened porch overlooking the ocean, we took a group vote and decided to let someone else cook for our last night.
We played "follow the leader" the eighth of a mile to the Rundown Cafe, which is no longer rundown.
When I first started going there in the '90s, it was a beach shack with a limited menu for locals.
Once they built a rickety deck on the roof, it was the perfect place for a few drinks once the sun went down.
And if the deck shifted a bit as we lingered on the roof, we chalked it up to the cocktails.
It's since been renovated (twice, I think) and is a bloated shadow of its former self, although the vintage surfboards and other beach ephemera haven't changed.
So we sat on the deck facing the ocean and ate locally caught mahi, fried up into fish bites, served with a ginger habanero sauce and some fabulous pickled cabbage.
I sipped tequila as we ate pound after pound of locally caught shrimp and the sun finally sank behind the sound.
Walking back toward the house, many of the houses were lit up from within, providing a voyeuristic thrill for the nosy among us.
Me, I couldn't have cared less what was going on anywhere else on the beach.
Let's just say that vacation has been very, very good to me.
But I will miss the constant sound of the surf. It unwinds me like nothing else can.
After nearly a week at the seaside, I am as relaxed as I could hope to be.
Someone even told me today that it showed on my face.
Maybe I should take a picture.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Under a Blood Red Moon
A heat wave isn't much of a heat wave when you're staying on the oceanfront.
We started the day with breakfast on the pier served by an ancient waitress named Paula who informed us that the grill had just died.
One in our group who works in a restaurant looked stricken at the news, knowing the hardship it would cause the kitchen staff.
"Only thing worse that could happen during breakfast would be for the pier to collapse," he noted with the assurance of one who knows.
The grill came back to life and we were saved.
As proof, my pancakes and sausage arrived unscathed.
Coming back from my daily walk on the beach, I saw that the lifeguard's chalkboard had a big warning.
"The west wind will take you and your raft out to sea!" it announced.
Warning or promise, I couldn't decide.
An hour later, we watched as a guy took a raft and a six pack and headed out, soon to be sound asleep in his raft.
He drifted further and further out until he was barely a speck on the sea.
It came to the attention of the beach patrol, one of whom stationed himself directly in front of where the idiot had drifted out.
Eventually, he woke up, realized how far out he was (and probably saw the lifeguard in his vehicle glaring his way) and drunkenly began to try to paddle back in.
With the wind so strong, it took a long while for him to get back to even a reasonable distance and by then it was clear he was exhausted.
But he also knew he was in trouble, so rather than come back to shore while the beach patrol was waiting for him, he lingered in the raft until the authorities deemed him out of harm's way and left to rescue other idiots.
We were more mindful of the warnings and while we spent almost the entire afternoon in the 72-degree ocean, we were too busy admiring how clear the water was (the crabs! the fish!) to allow ourselves to be put in harm's way.
Or maybe it was just that we didn't have a six pack out there with us.
Silly moron, imbibing works better out of the water.
After cool showers in the outside shower, we convened for libations on napkins reading "Why limit happy to an hour?"
Don't worry, we didn't.
One of the more talented in the group made grilled pizzas for dinner and we scarfed them sitting at the big table on the porch while watching the dolphins and pelicans have a feeding frenzy over an enormous school of fish darkening the water right in front of our cottage.
Like last night, it was past 10:00 when the moon finally appeared, once again blood red, and began its ascent into the night sky, eventually turning orange and casting a shimmering reflection on the ocean.
"Are you anywhere close to being ready to go back home?" one of the group asked me as I gazed at it, knowing we have only a few days left.
Sadly, no.
But as the Finn brothers reminded me, better be home soon.
We started the day with breakfast on the pier served by an ancient waitress named Paula who informed us that the grill had just died.
One in our group who works in a restaurant looked stricken at the news, knowing the hardship it would cause the kitchen staff.
"Only thing worse that could happen during breakfast would be for the pier to collapse," he noted with the assurance of one who knows.
The grill came back to life and we were saved.
As proof, my pancakes and sausage arrived unscathed.
Coming back from my daily walk on the beach, I saw that the lifeguard's chalkboard had a big warning.
"The west wind will take you and your raft out to sea!" it announced.
Warning or promise, I couldn't decide.
An hour later, we watched as a guy took a raft and a six pack and headed out, soon to be sound asleep in his raft.
He drifted further and further out until he was barely a speck on the sea.
It came to the attention of the beach patrol, one of whom stationed himself directly in front of where the idiot had drifted out.
Eventually, he woke up, realized how far out he was (and probably saw the lifeguard in his vehicle glaring his way) and drunkenly began to try to paddle back in.
With the wind so strong, it took a long while for him to get back to even a reasonable distance and by then it was clear he was exhausted.
But he also knew he was in trouble, so rather than come back to shore while the beach patrol was waiting for him, he lingered in the raft until the authorities deemed him out of harm's way and left to rescue other idiots.
We were more mindful of the warnings and while we spent almost the entire afternoon in the 72-degree ocean, we were too busy admiring how clear the water was (the crabs! the fish!) to allow ourselves to be put in harm's way.
Or maybe it was just that we didn't have a six pack out there with us.
Silly moron, imbibing works better out of the water.
After cool showers in the outside shower, we convened for libations on napkins reading "Why limit happy to an hour?"
Don't worry, we didn't.
One of the more talented in the group made grilled pizzas for dinner and we scarfed them sitting at the big table on the porch while watching the dolphins and pelicans have a feeding frenzy over an enormous school of fish darkening the water right in front of our cottage.
Like last night, it was past 10:00 when the moon finally appeared, once again blood red, and began its ascent into the night sky, eventually turning orange and casting a shimmering reflection on the ocean.
"Are you anywhere close to being ready to go back home?" one of the group asked me as I gazed at it, knowing we have only a few days left.
Sadly, no.
But as the Finn brothers reminded me, better be home soon.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Snapshots from Beach Week
Of course I don't want to be one of those people who bores others with their vacation pictures.
Instead, I'll use my weapon of choice and bore you with some vacation stories.
Sunday: Driving down caravan style, we eventually stop at a small produce stand to procure the essentials of beach produce, namely watermelon, corn and shelled butter beans.
Waiting for the rest of the wagon train to catch up, I take shade by sitting on a swing hung from a tree.
It's a flat piece of wood long ago painted white and strung up with rope which is then wrapped around a sizable branch.
In other words, it's a rustic, old fashioned swing completely unlike the variety found on mother approved swingsets.
The best part is the give; the rope and branch mean that every pump of my legs, every arch of my back makes the swing react with my weight and action.
I would guess it's the difference between a wooden roller coaster and a metal one.
It feels like the way swings felt when I was a kid: exhilarating and just a little risky.
Monday: The day starts with thick sliced bacon and pancakes.
Out on the beach, the water is sixty eight degrees and I'm reading Suzan Lori Parks' Pulitzer Prize winning "Getting Mother's Body."
Despite multiple umbrellas, a hat and SPF 70, by the end of the first full day I have burnt my chest and am teased about it by the group.
All derision is forgotten when I have my first outdoor shower of the week, the sky so blue above the wooden boards of the shower's roof.
The day ends with birthday Temperanillo, described by the giver as "not a trivial wine," and an exquisite moonrise, almost translucent until it is high in the night sky.
Tuesday: At breakfast, we hear tales of 4 a.m.planet sightings, but most of us were sound asleep and missed it.
A strong breeze off the land has taken the water temperature even higher into the low 70s and I'm now reading "The Italians," a mid-sixties survey about the Italian people, their history and their attitudes.
Cliff Notes version: move slow, can't be faithful (even when in love) and prefer gestures to words.
Now I know.
A walk less than a mile down the beach puts us at Ocean Boulevard for dinner and wine.
Walking out afterwards, we hear a singer doing "Hallelujah," on the restaurant's patio and I lean on the brick wall to listen to it all.
Just the evening before, that song had been the topic of a roundtable (picnic table, that is) discussion of Leonard Cohen.
What are the chances we'd walk out and hear it being sung tonight, I wonder aloud.
"When I'm with you," my companion says, "About one in two."
Damn fine odds, I think.
We greet Wednesday by getting up at 4:30 to see Venus and Jupiter shining brightly over the horizon.
It's a beautiful thing to witness and others have also wandered from their bedrooms to check it out.
It's a pre-dawn meeting of astronomy enthusiasts. We all return to bed and sleep as if we'd never awakened.
Sunrise brings the day visitors for the holiday.
The water is now up to 74 degrees and so calm it resembles a giant blue/green swimming pool.
For our Independence Day dinner, we go traditional.
During a lunch stop at the Weeping Radish Brewpub on the way down, we'd bought some of the German butcher's signature hot dogs.
We pair the foot longs with corn on the cob, watermelon, fruit salad and butter beans.
We postpone dessert for a walk on the Nature Conservancy's Sweetgum Trail, a hike through a maritime forest.
Until you've gone from pine forest to high sand dune, you can't fully appreciate the juxtaposition of pine needles and fine sand footpaths.
Seeing a red fox shoot through the underbrush is an unexpected pleasure, as is the box turtle in the middle of the trail as we round a bend.
A stop for ice cream (mint chocolate chip over dark chocolate orange) is our reward for the two and a half mile trek.
Back at our little house on the ocean, we take wine and chairs out back to watch fireworks from every direction.
"Sky rockets in flight," one of us sings.
Afternoon delight, indeed, despite the fact that it's nearing long past noon.
The moon is slow to make an appearance tonight, finally showing itself as a red ball low over the horizon.
With infinite slowness, perhaps so as not be a distraction from the explosions in the sky, the red ball rises, turns orange and begin to cast a golden reflection on the ocean.
It's a full two hours later than the moon rose the night before and we have no idea why.
Nearby, one of us is paying his guitar on the beach and another is singing along to old REM songs.
"Driver 8," "Gardening at Night," even "Talk About the Passion."
Yes, let me talk about my passion for spending my days in a bathing suit walking the beach or under an umbrella reading books or floating in the ocean with barely any breakers to disturb the gentle movements of the raft.
And if you think that's boring, you should see what I left out.
Instead, I'll use my weapon of choice and bore you with some vacation stories.
Sunday: Driving down caravan style, we eventually stop at a small produce stand to procure the essentials of beach produce, namely watermelon, corn and shelled butter beans.
Waiting for the rest of the wagon train to catch up, I take shade by sitting on a swing hung from a tree.
It's a flat piece of wood long ago painted white and strung up with rope which is then wrapped around a sizable branch.
In other words, it's a rustic, old fashioned swing completely unlike the variety found on mother approved swingsets.
The best part is the give; the rope and branch mean that every pump of my legs, every arch of my back makes the swing react with my weight and action.
I would guess it's the difference between a wooden roller coaster and a metal one.
It feels like the way swings felt when I was a kid: exhilarating and just a little risky.
Monday: The day starts with thick sliced bacon and pancakes.
Out on the beach, the water is sixty eight degrees and I'm reading Suzan Lori Parks' Pulitzer Prize winning "Getting Mother's Body."
Despite multiple umbrellas, a hat and SPF 70, by the end of the first full day I have burnt my chest and am teased about it by the group.
All derision is forgotten when I have my first outdoor shower of the week, the sky so blue above the wooden boards of the shower's roof.
The day ends with birthday Temperanillo, described by the giver as "not a trivial wine," and an exquisite moonrise, almost translucent until it is high in the night sky.
Tuesday: At breakfast, we hear tales of 4 a.m.planet sightings, but most of us were sound asleep and missed it.
A strong breeze off the land has taken the water temperature even higher into the low 70s and I'm now reading "The Italians," a mid-sixties survey about the Italian people, their history and their attitudes.
Cliff Notes version: move slow, can't be faithful (even when in love) and prefer gestures to words.
Now I know.
A walk less than a mile down the beach puts us at Ocean Boulevard for dinner and wine.
Walking out afterwards, we hear a singer doing "Hallelujah," on the restaurant's patio and I lean on the brick wall to listen to it all.
Just the evening before, that song had been the topic of a roundtable (picnic table, that is) discussion of Leonard Cohen.
What are the chances we'd walk out and hear it being sung tonight, I wonder aloud.
"When I'm with you," my companion says, "About one in two."
Damn fine odds, I think.
We greet Wednesday by getting up at 4:30 to see Venus and Jupiter shining brightly over the horizon.
It's a beautiful thing to witness and others have also wandered from their bedrooms to check it out.
It's a pre-dawn meeting of astronomy enthusiasts. We all return to bed and sleep as if we'd never awakened.
Sunrise brings the day visitors for the holiday.
The water is now up to 74 degrees and so calm it resembles a giant blue/green swimming pool.
For our Independence Day dinner, we go traditional.
During a lunch stop at the Weeping Radish Brewpub on the way down, we'd bought some of the German butcher's signature hot dogs.
We pair the foot longs with corn on the cob, watermelon, fruit salad and butter beans.
We postpone dessert for a walk on the Nature Conservancy's Sweetgum Trail, a hike through a maritime forest.
Until you've gone from pine forest to high sand dune, you can't fully appreciate the juxtaposition of pine needles and fine sand footpaths.
Seeing a red fox shoot through the underbrush is an unexpected pleasure, as is the box turtle in the middle of the trail as we round a bend.
A stop for ice cream (mint chocolate chip over dark chocolate orange) is our reward for the two and a half mile trek.
Back at our little house on the ocean, we take wine and chairs out back to watch fireworks from every direction.
"Sky rockets in flight," one of us sings.
Afternoon delight, indeed, despite the fact that it's nearing long past noon.
The moon is slow to make an appearance tonight, finally showing itself as a red ball low over the horizon.
With infinite slowness, perhaps so as not be a distraction from the explosions in the sky, the red ball rises, turns orange and begin to cast a golden reflection on the ocean.
It's a full two hours later than the moon rose the night before and we have no idea why.
Nearby, one of us is paying his guitar on the beach and another is singing along to old REM songs.
"Driver 8," "Gardening at Night," even "Talk About the Passion."
Yes, let me talk about my passion for spending my days in a bathing suit walking the beach or under an umbrella reading books or floating in the ocean with barely any breakers to disturb the gentle movements of the raft.
And if you think that's boring, you should see what I left out.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Steady Slurp
It's so easy to justify a milkshake when it's 101 degrees outside.
So when I got asked to lunch, my thoughts went immediately to the nearest source for a long, tall glass of ice cream and that would be The Village.
The place was packed and since I'm not a Village regular, I don't know if that's typical for a Saturday or a result of overheated people (like me) trying to escape the heat.
We took the two-top by the ladies room and got a witty server in return.
My chocolate shake got ordered first and when she brought it, I asked for a second straw so my companion and I could share.
Pushing it into the frozen contents of the glass, she announced, "Now you're going steady!"
What? No steady ring, no puka shell necklace, no nothing? Clearly going steady doesn't mean what it used to.
She insisted we order onion rings with our BLT and Reuben because the Food Network had raved about them in years gone by.
Back then they'd noted that the batter used PBR and Richbrau, but obviously there have been some modifications since Richbrau went under.
That said, they were better than average onion rings and neither of us was able to finish them.
While slugging the shake and eating the rings, we were visited by one of my walking regulars, totally out of context there.
He wiggled his eyebrows and made a face behind my lunch companion's back, apparently not used to seeing me in a social situation.
Looking at my mondo BLT and onion rings, he noted, "I'd like to see how all that food is going to fit in your little body."
He should have come back fifteen minutes later.
After gorging ourselves (because let's face it, having a milkshake with a meal is like having dessert throughout), we went to my favorite neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, who'd bragged on Facebook that their store was a cool 73 degrees.
Count me in.
Today was the first in a four-date series called "Summer Sounds at Steady" and featured two performers for our afternoon's pleasure.
Producer/DJ Ohbliv (he of the very smooth mustache) got things started, twisting nobs and calling forth samples, all the while smiling and dancing in place.
After a while, White Laces' guitarist Alex French's solo project, Flossed in Paradise, took over, layering sounds from guitars, drum machines and synthesizers with his effects-laden voice for a sound I instantly fell in love with.
As recently as last night, I had described a favorite sound of mine as reverb-laden with unintelligible lyrics, affectionately known to those who know my taste as "music from a cave."
And ta-da! Here i was getting exactly that in post-punk style four feet from my sweaty, smiling face.
For the next hour and a half, the two traded off the spotlight, (mostly) seamlessly segueing from one set of long, musical-looking fingers to the other.
If there was a better way to spend a hot Saturday afternoon than with a milkshake and Flossed in Paradise, I couldn't tell you what it was.
And two straws do not mean you're going steady.
What is this, the malt shop era?
So when I got asked to lunch, my thoughts went immediately to the nearest source for a long, tall glass of ice cream and that would be The Village.
The place was packed and since I'm not a Village regular, I don't know if that's typical for a Saturday or a result of overheated people (like me) trying to escape the heat.
We took the two-top by the ladies room and got a witty server in return.
My chocolate shake got ordered first and when she brought it, I asked for a second straw so my companion and I could share.
Pushing it into the frozen contents of the glass, she announced, "Now you're going steady!"
What? No steady ring, no puka shell necklace, no nothing? Clearly going steady doesn't mean what it used to.
She insisted we order onion rings with our BLT and Reuben because the Food Network had raved about them in years gone by.
Back then they'd noted that the batter used PBR and Richbrau, but obviously there have been some modifications since Richbrau went under.
That said, they were better than average onion rings and neither of us was able to finish them.
While slugging the shake and eating the rings, we were visited by one of my walking regulars, totally out of context there.
He wiggled his eyebrows and made a face behind my lunch companion's back, apparently not used to seeing me in a social situation.
Looking at my mondo BLT and onion rings, he noted, "I'd like to see how all that food is going to fit in your little body."
He should have come back fifteen minutes later.
After gorging ourselves (because let's face it, having a milkshake with a meal is like having dessert throughout), we went to my favorite neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, who'd bragged on Facebook that their store was a cool 73 degrees.
Count me in.
Today was the first in a four-date series called "Summer Sounds at Steady" and featured two performers for our afternoon's pleasure.
Producer/DJ Ohbliv (he of the very smooth mustache) got things started, twisting nobs and calling forth samples, all the while smiling and dancing in place.
After a while, White Laces' guitarist Alex French's solo project, Flossed in Paradise, took over, layering sounds from guitars, drum machines and synthesizers with his effects-laden voice for a sound I instantly fell in love with.
As recently as last night, I had described a favorite sound of mine as reverb-laden with unintelligible lyrics, affectionately known to those who know my taste as "music from a cave."
And ta-da! Here i was getting exactly that in post-punk style four feet from my sweaty, smiling face.
For the next hour and a half, the two traded off the spotlight, (mostly) seamlessly segueing from one set of long, musical-looking fingers to the other.
If there was a better way to spend a hot Saturday afternoon than with a milkshake and Flossed in Paradise, I couldn't tell you what it was.
And two straws do not mean you're going steady.
What is this, the malt shop era?
Saturday, June 30, 2012
We're Having a Heat Wave
It was too hot to go far.
Really, it was too hot to eat, but my evening's companion was starving.
So we met up at Bistro 27 where I was surprised to see the place rapidly filling up.
Clearly, "Spring Awakening:" is good for the local eateries. That, or everyone's too hot to stay at home.
I know I was; it was 96 degrees in my apartment when I left it.
And Bistro 27 wasn't exactly cool. Between the open kitchen and 108-degree day, it was more like tolerable.
Which was plenty good enough in comparison.
A new bartender awaited me and he was good enough to pour me some Gavi.
Everyone was moving a little slowly tonight and that included us.
We spent some time comparing summer colds and discussing various elements of "Spring Awakening" before even giving the menu a look-see.
A salad of Cabbage Farm arugula, red onion, tomato, pickled quail eggs and fried goat cheese was large but light enough to work on a hot day like this.
Afterwards, I saw a friend and we discussed our upcoming trips away.
He's headed to Nashville with his beloved and had been doing his research online, pleased to learn that the city that houses the Grand Ole Opry (which interests him not at all) also offers a smorgasbord of lesbian bars, male stripper bars and drag queen bars.
He expects to have a ball. And to think his favorite thing about time away is drinking and wild sex.
After hearing the specials, we decided to share the halibut with crab in butter and a medley of zucchini, squash and red pepper matchsticks.
It turned out to be a terrific choice; the fish portion was plenty for two and the abundance of crab and butter filled us up easily.
Once it got late, the chef came over, glass in hand, to give us a cultural lesson.
"This is the summer drink in Argentina," he said, offering up a taste.
The mixture of Malbec, coke and ice was surprisingly more palatable than I'd have guessed given the ingredients.
Or perhaps anything cold tastes good on a day like today.
Despite my protestations, we got dessert, the mixed berries in a chocolate cup with zabaglione, but I wasn't able to do my usual share tonight.
Too much halibut, too much heat.
Look, I love summer and I'm the last person to complain about the heat.
But when it gets to the point where your belly is sweaty, something's up.
An Argentine might say it's time to pack up the Malbec and Coke, a bathing suit and take Ivy's advice.
Roll the windows down
Take a look around
Everything is melting in the sun
Nothing's getting done
I don't have the time
Can't you see that I'm
Trying to get out of the city?
Really, it was too hot to eat, but my evening's companion was starving.
So we met up at Bistro 27 where I was surprised to see the place rapidly filling up.
Clearly, "Spring Awakening:" is good for the local eateries. That, or everyone's too hot to stay at home.
I know I was; it was 96 degrees in my apartment when I left it.
And Bistro 27 wasn't exactly cool. Between the open kitchen and 108-degree day, it was more like tolerable.
Which was plenty good enough in comparison.
A new bartender awaited me and he was good enough to pour me some Gavi.
Everyone was moving a little slowly tonight and that included us.
We spent some time comparing summer colds and discussing various elements of "Spring Awakening" before even giving the menu a look-see.
A salad of Cabbage Farm arugula, red onion, tomato, pickled quail eggs and fried goat cheese was large but light enough to work on a hot day like this.
Afterwards, I saw a friend and we discussed our upcoming trips away.
He's headed to Nashville with his beloved and had been doing his research online, pleased to learn that the city that houses the Grand Ole Opry (which interests him not at all) also offers a smorgasbord of lesbian bars, male stripper bars and drag queen bars.
He expects to have a ball. And to think his favorite thing about time away is drinking and wild sex.
After hearing the specials, we decided to share the halibut with crab in butter and a medley of zucchini, squash and red pepper matchsticks.
It turned out to be a terrific choice; the fish portion was plenty for two and the abundance of crab and butter filled us up easily.
Once it got late, the chef came over, glass in hand, to give us a cultural lesson.
"This is the summer drink in Argentina," he said, offering up a taste.
The mixture of Malbec, coke and ice was surprisingly more palatable than I'd have guessed given the ingredients.
Or perhaps anything cold tastes good on a day like today.
Despite my protestations, we got dessert, the mixed berries in a chocolate cup with zabaglione, but I wasn't able to do my usual share tonight.
Too much halibut, too much heat.
Look, I love summer and I'm the last person to complain about the heat.
But when it gets to the point where your belly is sweaty, something's up.
An Argentine might say it's time to pack up the Malbec and Coke, a bathing suit and take Ivy's advice.
Roll the windows down
Take a look around
Everything is melting in the sun
Nothing's getting done
I don't have the time
Can't you see that I'm
Trying to get out of the city?
Friday, June 29, 2012
Swallow the Leader
Sometimes I have the best job.
Like when a story I'm writing requires me to go to Rappahannock River Company's Merroir Tasting Room on the Northern Neck.
Sure, I was there to interview the owners and spend time with the guy who 's responsible for raising the baby oysters before they go out to the aqua-farms.
But it was with the chef, Pete, that I had the most fun.
So after spending the morning on the porch doing my interviewing, it was time for lunch.
I had a choice of where to eat: the tiny (but air-conditioned) bar inside, the porch (where I'd just been) or the yard under the shade of a huge, old tree.
Three guesses where I chose.
Despite being mere feet from the water, the river was still, almost glass-like today so it was still hot even in the shade.
Near the water's edge sat a giant pile of oyster shells.
My server was the personable girl who was the first oysterista hired when they decided to open the Tasting Room.
A pro.
She didn't even bring me a menu, just sat down across the wooden picnic table from me and started chatting.
How hungry was I? Did I prefer beer or wine? Did I eat my oysters raw?
When I said wine, she lit up. "Then I have the perfect wine for you! The Wimmer Gruner Veltliner goes perfectly with everything on the menu."
She then punched my order into her phone and was off.
Sure enough, the wine was ideal: aromatic, fresh and just acidic enough.
Moments later, my dozen oysters arrived and I was treated to Rappahannocks (buttery and mild), Yorks (a "skosh saltier than the Stingrays" she said) and the Chincoteague-raised Old Salts (perfectly named).
With them came three housemade sauces: cocktail, tomatillo cocktail and red wine mignonette with shallots.
Good thing I had a dozen so I could try each variety with all the sauces.
As I slurped, two men were measuring all around me for the soon-to-be installed pergola to augment the big tree's shade.
When she brought out my enormous crabcake ("150% crab meat," she'd said), she insisted I keep my cocktail sauce in addition to the remoulade it came with.
"I'll tell you a secret," she said, leaning in. "I put that sauce on my crabcake once and Chef Pete saw me and asked if that was cocktail sauce on his crabcake. I told him so what, he had made the cocktail sauce and that they were great together. He said he couldn't condone it, but I always eat it that way."
You know I did the same after a recommendation like that.
Pete came out to join me once I finished eating and began telling me stories about his life.
My favorite concerned his wife of five years.
They'd lived across the street from each other as kids and he was her protector. They grew up, lost touch and married other people.
They had only occasional phone calls over the years. And then Pete's Dad died.
After a nasty divorce on both of their parts, he called her up out of the blue. He hadn't seen her in twenty years.
After a few long phone calls, he flew out to Colorado where she lived to get reacquainted.
"I fell madly in love with her that first night," he said, grinning like a man still very much in love.
He immediately moved to Colorado and married her shortly thereafter.
And now they're living happily ever after in a house spitting distance from where he prepares the tastiest oysters in Virginia.
"I got lucky," he admitted as I finished the last of my Gruner Veltliner. "And that's not lost on me."
Ditto.
I may not make as much money as I'd like doing freelance writing, but every time I meet someone like Pete, or enjoy the pleasures of an unexpected lunch by the river on a summer day, I remind myself just how lucky I am.
(insert sound of slurp)
Incredibly so.
Like when a story I'm writing requires me to go to Rappahannock River Company's Merroir Tasting Room on the Northern Neck.
Sure, I was there to interview the owners and spend time with the guy who 's responsible for raising the baby oysters before they go out to the aqua-farms.
But it was with the chef, Pete, that I had the most fun.
So after spending the morning on the porch doing my interviewing, it was time for lunch.
I had a choice of where to eat: the tiny (but air-conditioned) bar inside, the porch (where I'd just been) or the yard under the shade of a huge, old tree.
Three guesses where I chose.
Despite being mere feet from the water, the river was still, almost glass-like today so it was still hot even in the shade.
Near the water's edge sat a giant pile of oyster shells.
My server was the personable girl who was the first oysterista hired when they decided to open the Tasting Room.
A pro.
She didn't even bring me a menu, just sat down across the wooden picnic table from me and started chatting.
How hungry was I? Did I prefer beer or wine? Did I eat my oysters raw?
When I said wine, she lit up. "Then I have the perfect wine for you! The Wimmer Gruner Veltliner goes perfectly with everything on the menu."
She then punched my order into her phone and was off.
Sure enough, the wine was ideal: aromatic, fresh and just acidic enough.
Moments later, my dozen oysters arrived and I was treated to Rappahannocks (buttery and mild), Yorks (a "skosh saltier than the Stingrays" she said) and the Chincoteague-raised Old Salts (perfectly named).
With them came three housemade sauces: cocktail, tomatillo cocktail and red wine mignonette with shallots.
Good thing I had a dozen so I could try each variety with all the sauces.
As I slurped, two men were measuring all around me for the soon-to-be installed pergola to augment the big tree's shade.
When she brought out my enormous crabcake ("150% crab meat," she'd said), she insisted I keep my cocktail sauce in addition to the remoulade it came with.
"I'll tell you a secret," she said, leaning in. "I put that sauce on my crabcake once and Chef Pete saw me and asked if that was cocktail sauce on his crabcake. I told him so what, he had made the cocktail sauce and that they were great together. He said he couldn't condone it, but I always eat it that way."
You know I did the same after a recommendation like that.
Pete came out to join me once I finished eating and began telling me stories about his life.
My favorite concerned his wife of five years.
They'd lived across the street from each other as kids and he was her protector. They grew up, lost touch and married other people.
They had only occasional phone calls over the years. And then Pete's Dad died.
After a nasty divorce on both of their parts, he called her up out of the blue. He hadn't seen her in twenty years.
After a few long phone calls, he flew out to Colorado where she lived to get reacquainted.
"I fell madly in love with her that first night," he said, grinning like a man still very much in love.
He immediately moved to Colorado and married her shortly thereafter.
And now they're living happily ever after in a house spitting distance from where he prepares the tastiest oysters in Virginia.
"I got lucky," he admitted as I finished the last of my Gruner Veltliner. "And that's not lost on me."
Ditto.
I may not make as much money as I'd like doing freelance writing, but every time I meet someone like Pete, or enjoy the pleasures of an unexpected lunch by the river on a summer day, I remind myself just how lucky I am.
(insert sound of slurp)
Incredibly so.
All Life is Dancing
This geek was at the Firehouse Theater tonight because of Edward Albee.
That's right, the playwright of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?" and the man who once said,"What could be worse than getting to the end of your life and realizing you hadn't lived it?" (answer: nothing) was at the root of it.
Apparently back in 1999 at a Firehouse Theater fundraiser, he'd challenged them to hold playwriting contests to encourage new works.
They'd taken him up on it and the result was the annual Festival of New American Plays, which began tonight.
On the bill was "Nureyev's Eyes" by David Rush about the friendship that developed between painter Jamie Wyeth and dancer Rudolph Nureyev back in the '70s.
It wasn't an historical drama but an imagining of what might have happened during their many encounters.
After all, it wasn't like reality TV was around to document it back then.
The premise was deceptively simple; Wyeth wanted to paint Nureyev, who didn't think a dancer could be captured on canvas.
Over years of male bickering, vodka, apple pie and endless sketching, an eventual friendship developed.
The title comes from the artist's belief that "The truth of the man sits in the eyes."
As it does for the woman. Just look.
Because it was a staged reading, the two-actor play required a narrator tonight to provide locations and actions.
Matt Bloch played Nureyev with a believable Russian accent and the wariness of a man who'd defected and couldn't stop watching his back.
One of my favorite local actors, Dean Knight, played Wyeth with the understated persistence of a young artist who came from a family of very well-known artists and had a lot to prove.
Despite it being a reading and not a fully staged production, the interplay between the two worked beautifully
Salty language abounded ("Ballet for the mind is always better than ballet for the dick").
Artistic truths came out ("I don't do the painting. The painting does me").
So did laugh-out-loud humor ("It's not a sin to be straight. Only limiting").
It was even possible to learn about ballet ("All dance begins with the belly").
With a passion for both art and dance, I found it difficult to decide which character appealed to me more.
True, Nureyev was egotistical and guarded, but when asked when the happiest day of his life was, he answered, "Tomorrow."
That's a beautiful kind of optimism. And he could dance.
But I also found Wyeth's character irresistible.
His frequent references to his beloved wife Phyllis made it clear that he saw her as the center of his life and the reason for not only his happiness, but everything he was.
That's a fascinating man, in my opinion.
At the talkback after the play, I was intrigued to learn that some people hadn't known who Wyeth or Nureyev were.
Not that we don't all have holes in our cultural history knowledge, but Nureyev had been considered "the Beatles of ballet," so I was a little surprised.
I'm sure I wasn't the only one eager to go home and look up the picture Wyeth eventually painted of Nureyev in 1977, who'd complained that the artist hadn't gotten the eyes right.
Because of course he had to complain about something. He was Russian.
The audience was pretty unanimous in thinking that this was a strong play (and it plays again Saturday night) which would make a worthy offering to produce at a future date.
And since past Festival of New American Plays winners have gone on to be produced in New York, Los Angeles and Chicago, I'd say Firehouse should jump on it before someone else does it first.
The way I see it, Nureyev said it best.
"What good is potential if it's never made concrete?"
That's right, the playwright of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?" and the man who once said,"What could be worse than getting to the end of your life and realizing you hadn't lived it?" (answer: nothing) was at the root of it.
Apparently back in 1999 at a Firehouse Theater fundraiser, he'd challenged them to hold playwriting contests to encourage new works.
They'd taken him up on it and the result was the annual Festival of New American Plays, which began tonight.
On the bill was "Nureyev's Eyes" by David Rush about the friendship that developed between painter Jamie Wyeth and dancer Rudolph Nureyev back in the '70s.
It wasn't an historical drama but an imagining of what might have happened during their many encounters.
After all, it wasn't like reality TV was around to document it back then.
The premise was deceptively simple; Wyeth wanted to paint Nureyev, who didn't think a dancer could be captured on canvas.
Over years of male bickering, vodka, apple pie and endless sketching, an eventual friendship developed.
The title comes from the artist's belief that "The truth of the man sits in the eyes."
Because it was a staged reading, the two-actor play required a narrator tonight to provide locations and actions.
Matt Bloch played Nureyev with a believable Russian accent and the wariness of a man who'd defected and couldn't stop watching his back.
One of my favorite local actors, Dean Knight, played Wyeth with the understated persistence of a young artist who came from a family of very well-known artists and had a lot to prove.
Despite it being a reading and not a fully staged production, the interplay between the two worked beautifully
Salty language abounded ("Ballet for the mind is always better than ballet for the dick").
Artistic truths came out ("I don't do the painting. The painting does me").
So did laugh-out-loud humor ("It's not a sin to be straight. Only limiting").
It was even possible to learn about ballet ("All dance begins with the belly").
With a passion for both art and dance, I found it difficult to decide which character appealed to me more.
True, Nureyev was egotistical and guarded, but when asked when the happiest day of his life was, he answered, "Tomorrow."
That's a beautiful kind of optimism. And he could dance.
But I also found Wyeth's character irresistible.
That's a fascinating man, in my opinion.
At the talkback after the play, I was intrigued to learn that some people hadn't known who Wyeth or Nureyev were.
Not that we don't all have holes in our cultural history knowledge, but Nureyev had been considered "the Beatles of ballet," so I was a little surprised.
I'm sure I wasn't the only one eager to go home and look up the picture Wyeth eventually painted of Nureyev in 1977, who'd complained that the artist hadn't gotten the eyes right.
The audience was pretty unanimous in thinking that this was a strong play (and it plays again Saturday night) which would make a worthy offering to produce at a future date.
And since past Festival of New American Plays winners have gone on to be produced in New York, Los Angeles and Chicago, I'd say Firehouse should jump on it before someone else does it first.
The way I see it, Nureyev said it best.
"What good is potential if it's never made concrete?"
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Playing the Field Every Night
It's a good night when a guy hugs an album.
My plans got scrambled early on when an out-of-town friend called to say she was in Richmond and thirsty. That led to a rendezvous at Rowland, where she walked in with a gash in her leg that looked like it had a story behind it.
It did.
She was just back from a trip to Greece where she'd had the best french fries in her extensive travels (the potatoes were less than five days out of the ground), she'd stayed in a hotel built into the side of a cliff overlooking the sea (the rooms were essentially caves) and she'd gone on a motorbike ride that ended badly.
From what I heard, her beloved's limbs looked even worse because they were now infected. We drowned her wounds in bottles of Mumm Brut Prestige while nibbling on plates of pork carnitas spring rolls with tomatillo sauce.
While the Mumm didn't entirely stop the pain, it seemed to be less noticeable, said she. Such is the beauty of bubbles, said I.
Meanwhile, a woman at the table behind us made a mustache and beard out of her long hair, much to the amusement of her dining companion. Strangers as entertainment.
Because we hadn't seen each other in almost two months, we gabbed right up until I had to leave for Balliceaux. On the bill tonight were Rattlemouth, who were already playing for a bustling crowd when I arrived.
Since I'd seen them before, I knew to expect a world beat sound, dancey in a hypnotic kind of way and with lots of Ethiopian grooves. They delivered all that in the second half of the set which I saw, including their last song, a popular Ethiopian one, described as known to anyone in that country.
Since I know no one there, I can't confirm that.
The Richmanian Ramblers were the stars of the night because it was their CD release show. The first thing I noticed was that there were more ramblers than the last time I'd seen them.
Five had become seven.
Both the clarinet and violin had doubled to two each with the addition of bandleader Nate's dad on violin and the ubiquitous Jason Scott on clarinet (and also as head cheerleader). For the uninitiated, the Ramblers play gypsy-influenced Romanian folk music which is both beautiful and hilarious.
Vocalist Antonia (yes, she of the Speckled Bird and The Bird and her Consort) introduced the first song, saying, "This song is about the worst dowry ever." Can't say I recall the last song I heard about a dowry, good or bad.
It was during the second song about crossing a river and not wanting to pay the toll that I saw a guy in a Smiths t-shirt shush some nearby chatterers. It was a futile gesture. Too many in the crowd tonight were talking non-stop.
And, yes, it's a bar so people will talk but I'd have thought that once they heard the sound of haunting gypsy music, it would abate. I was dreaming.
A dance song followed and the crowd was exhorted to do so and Nate's Mom was the first to take to the floor doing steps that clearly looked traditional. A couple of girls joined in, but Mom had the moves.
Clarinetist Jason was a hard-working guy tonight, leading singalongs and playing beautiful,extended parts to weave the gypsy sound throughout the room.
Later he told me he was just trying to get drunk and have a good time with the crowd. Well done, sir.
In an odd coincidence, Nate, who'd never heard Rattlemouth before tonight, said he knew one of its members because he'd once bought worms from him. "He's a worm enthusiast," Nate explained. Now there's a phrase you don't often hear.
The highlight was a song about a girl in a field pining for a sheep and her beloved (she's knitting him a sweater) and contained sheep sounds, courtesy of Antonia.
If you've ever heard her vox saw, you'd expect that a woman who can emulate a saw would have no trouble at all doing a sheep. She didn't.
I especially enjoyed watching guitarist Clifton play tambourine with his feet. Talent apparently excludes no limb.
They closed with "World, Sister, World," the title track from their new CD but I had to strain to hear over the talkers, sadly including some of the musicians in the room. Bad form, guys, real bad form.
I ran into the poet who said nice things about my form and my friend and admitted that she'd been hungover all day. Ah, the pleasures of summer when school is out.
After saying goodnight to her, I got myself to Ipanema, where it was the final night for the Blood Brothers. And while I've no doubt that something will rise from the ashes of the fabulous Blood Brothers (Blood Blisters was suggested), it won't be the unique dynamic duo of the Blood Brothers themselves.
Duane, the hatted member of the duo, is decamping RVA for Brooklyn, so it was my last chance to hear these two long time friends spin vintage vinyl from the '60s and '70s together.
I always hear a lot of great music and I rarely recognize most of it, but that's the point: to hear great old music I haven't already heard a zillion times. But, like any good DJs, they always toss in a few crowd pleasers just to show they can.
Hence Archie Bell and the Drells doing "Tighten Up" and Patti Smith doing "Because the Night." I was busy talking to Blood Brother Jamie when I heard Duane play the Rolling Stones' "Tumblin' Dice."
Surprised, I told Jamie that wasn't something I'd expected to hear Duane play. "Yea, I brought "Street Fighting Man, but that's not gonna happen now," he grinned.
Blood Brothers never duplicate.
And sometimes they like a novelty, like "Li'l Red Riding Hood," with the lyric, "Li'l Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good, You're everything a big, bad wolf could want." Try selling that line, Justin Bieber.
I was introduced to a guy who told me about the "butt fries" he'd had at the State Fair (pork butt over fries with fake cheese sauce...blech), I saw a sous chef I've known for years who invited me to a dinner on his new picnic table so he could read about himself in my blog and, as usual, I got hugged repeatedly by a member of Team Sex.
But that couldn't beat Jamie coming over to sit next to me on the bench clutching a copy of the "Nilsson Schmilsson" album with a goofy grin on his face. Yes, Nilsson still makes us smile in delight.
I even saw Duane dance with his lovely wife late in the night (when she was obviously tired) and by dance, I mean he held her up while her feet swung in the air. It was adorable.
At the end of the night, I bade a fond farewell to the Brooklyn-bound, having rolled through meeting a scabbed friend, straining to hear Romanian gypsy music and socializing to the sounds of the sixties before heading back to J-Ward.
Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider
You can be my partner in crime
But baby I can't stay
You got to roll me and call me the tumblin'
Roll me and call me the tumblin' dice
Rank outsider? Purely in the mind of the beholder.
My plans got scrambled early on when an out-of-town friend called to say she was in Richmond and thirsty. That led to a rendezvous at Rowland, where she walked in with a gash in her leg that looked like it had a story behind it.
It did.
She was just back from a trip to Greece where she'd had the best french fries in her extensive travels (the potatoes were less than five days out of the ground), she'd stayed in a hotel built into the side of a cliff overlooking the sea (the rooms were essentially caves) and she'd gone on a motorbike ride that ended badly.
From what I heard, her beloved's limbs looked even worse because they were now infected. We drowned her wounds in bottles of Mumm Brut Prestige while nibbling on plates of pork carnitas spring rolls with tomatillo sauce.
While the Mumm didn't entirely stop the pain, it seemed to be less noticeable, said she. Such is the beauty of bubbles, said I.
Meanwhile, a woman at the table behind us made a mustache and beard out of her long hair, much to the amusement of her dining companion. Strangers as entertainment.
Because we hadn't seen each other in almost two months, we gabbed right up until I had to leave for Balliceaux. On the bill tonight were Rattlemouth, who were already playing for a bustling crowd when I arrived.
Since I'd seen them before, I knew to expect a world beat sound, dancey in a hypnotic kind of way and with lots of Ethiopian grooves. They delivered all that in the second half of the set which I saw, including their last song, a popular Ethiopian one, described as known to anyone in that country.
Since I know no one there, I can't confirm that.
The Richmanian Ramblers were the stars of the night because it was their CD release show. The first thing I noticed was that there were more ramblers than the last time I'd seen them.
Five had become seven.
Both the clarinet and violin had doubled to two each with the addition of bandleader Nate's dad on violin and the ubiquitous Jason Scott on clarinet (and also as head cheerleader). For the uninitiated, the Ramblers play gypsy-influenced Romanian folk music which is both beautiful and hilarious.
Vocalist Antonia (yes, she of the Speckled Bird and The Bird and her Consort) introduced the first song, saying, "This song is about the worst dowry ever." Can't say I recall the last song I heard about a dowry, good or bad.
It was during the second song about crossing a river and not wanting to pay the toll that I saw a guy in a Smiths t-shirt shush some nearby chatterers. It was a futile gesture. Too many in the crowd tonight were talking non-stop.
And, yes, it's a bar so people will talk but I'd have thought that once they heard the sound of haunting gypsy music, it would abate. I was dreaming.
A dance song followed and the crowd was exhorted to do so and Nate's Mom was the first to take to the floor doing steps that clearly looked traditional. A couple of girls joined in, but Mom had the moves.
Clarinetist Jason was a hard-working guy tonight, leading singalongs and playing beautiful,extended parts to weave the gypsy sound throughout the room.
Later he told me he was just trying to get drunk and have a good time with the crowd. Well done, sir.
In an odd coincidence, Nate, who'd never heard Rattlemouth before tonight, said he knew one of its members because he'd once bought worms from him. "He's a worm enthusiast," Nate explained. Now there's a phrase you don't often hear.
The highlight was a song about a girl in a field pining for a sheep and her beloved (she's knitting him a sweater) and contained sheep sounds, courtesy of Antonia.
If you've ever heard her vox saw, you'd expect that a woman who can emulate a saw would have no trouble at all doing a sheep. She didn't.
I especially enjoyed watching guitarist Clifton play tambourine with his feet. Talent apparently excludes no limb.
They closed with "World, Sister, World," the title track from their new CD but I had to strain to hear over the talkers, sadly including some of the musicians in the room. Bad form, guys, real bad form.
I ran into the poet who said nice things about my form and my friend and admitted that she'd been hungover all day. Ah, the pleasures of summer when school is out.
After saying goodnight to her, I got myself to Ipanema, where it was the final night for the Blood Brothers. And while I've no doubt that something will rise from the ashes of the fabulous Blood Brothers (Blood Blisters was suggested), it won't be the unique dynamic duo of the Blood Brothers themselves.
Duane, the hatted member of the duo, is decamping RVA for Brooklyn, so it was my last chance to hear these two long time friends spin vintage vinyl from the '60s and '70s together.
I always hear a lot of great music and I rarely recognize most of it, but that's the point: to hear great old music I haven't already heard a zillion times. But, like any good DJs, they always toss in a few crowd pleasers just to show they can.
Hence Archie Bell and the Drells doing "Tighten Up" and Patti Smith doing "Because the Night." I was busy talking to Blood Brother Jamie when I heard Duane play the Rolling Stones' "Tumblin' Dice."
Surprised, I told Jamie that wasn't something I'd expected to hear Duane play. "Yea, I brought "Street Fighting Man, but that's not gonna happen now," he grinned.
Blood Brothers never duplicate.
And sometimes they like a novelty, like "Li'l Red Riding Hood," with the lyric, "Li'l Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good, You're everything a big, bad wolf could want." Try selling that line, Justin Bieber.
I was introduced to a guy who told me about the "butt fries" he'd had at the State Fair (pork butt over fries with fake cheese sauce...blech), I saw a sous chef I've known for years who invited me to a dinner on his new picnic table so he could read about himself in my blog and, as usual, I got hugged repeatedly by a member of Team Sex.
But that couldn't beat Jamie coming over to sit next to me on the bench clutching a copy of the "Nilsson Schmilsson" album with a goofy grin on his face. Yes, Nilsson still makes us smile in delight.
I even saw Duane dance with his lovely wife late in the night (when she was obviously tired) and by dance, I mean he held her up while her feet swung in the air. It was adorable.
At the end of the night, I bade a fond farewell to the Brooklyn-bound, having rolled through meeting a scabbed friend, straining to hear Romanian gypsy music and socializing to the sounds of the sixties before heading back to J-Ward.
Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider
You can be my partner in crime
But baby I can't stay
You got to roll me and call me the tumblin'
Roll me and call me the tumblin' dice
Rank outsider? Purely in the mind of the beholder.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Fairy Tale for a Fine Day
Sometimes, only a fable will do.
After yesterday's tornadoes or microbursts (they just keep making up these terms, don't they?), today's crystalline skies and dry air made for a day a photographer friend referred to as cool, bright and beautiful.
It's a description I wouldn't mind being called myself.
And by the time I finished doing my necessaries, I wanted an evening just as wonderful, some sort of lovely escapism, something as exquisite as this day.
So naturally I went to see my first Wes Anderson film.
I know, I know, but somehow I hadn't, so there you have it.
Perhaps because it was my first, I found "Moonrise Kingdom" touching, whimsical and earnest.
And since I revel in period details, watching a film set in 1965 was a visual treat, both for the veracity and the occasional misstep.
Coffee percolators weren't electric, they sat on stoves.
Men wore white socks with black shoes,
Men and boys wore shorts that were actually short (no doubt offensive by today's standards).
No one, not even the island's only policeman, used a seat belt.
Kids sprawled on the floor listening to record players and playing Parcheesi all summer long.
Scout leaders smoked, even when they were doing troop activities.
Twelve-year old girls wore dresses that short and knee socks that high.
All perfectly 1965.
But I would argue that a woman, much less one working for Social Services, would not have worn a pantsuit in 1965.
Pantsuits came into vogue in the late 60s and more so the 70s. By the time pantsuits came in, hats were out.
Also, the young hero asks his heroine if she's depressed. I'm willing to bet the farm that no twelve-year old would have asked that question in 1965.
But that's nitpicking and overall, the evocation of the era of LBJ's "Great Society" was charmingly evoked.
And besides charm, there was the wistful depiction of first love, albeit in a most fantastical setting.
The tale of two kids who run away together to the other side of an island was rife with first passion.
After the two go swimming in the cove, they hang their clothes up to dry.
That affords a golden opportunity for him to paint her in her training bra and high-waisted flowered underpants, which he does wearing his own underwear.
She's brought along her record player (and spare batteries) so they play the French singer Francoise Hardy's record her Grandma had given her, dancing to it on the sand.
Despite their youth, both scenes were sweetly romantic.
And certainly their conversation about what they wanted to do when they grew up was.
"Go on an adventure and not get stuck," she tells him, no doubt already aware that her own parents are very much stuck in lives they couldn't have wanted.
Coincidentally, that's exactly what I want to do when I grow up.
Therein lies today's lesson in film.
When it comes to life, Wes Anderson and I are on the same page.
After yesterday's tornadoes or microbursts (they just keep making up these terms, don't they?), today's crystalline skies and dry air made for a day a photographer friend referred to as cool, bright and beautiful.
It's a description I wouldn't mind being called myself.
And by the time I finished doing my necessaries, I wanted an evening just as wonderful, some sort of lovely escapism, something as exquisite as this day.
So naturally I went to see my first Wes Anderson film.
I know, I know, but somehow I hadn't, so there you have it.
Perhaps because it was my first, I found "Moonrise Kingdom" touching, whimsical and earnest.
And since I revel in period details, watching a film set in 1965 was a visual treat, both for the veracity and the occasional misstep.
Coffee percolators weren't electric, they sat on stoves.
Men wore white socks with black shoes,
Men and boys wore shorts that were actually short (no doubt offensive by today's standards).
No one, not even the island's only policeman, used a seat belt.
Kids sprawled on the floor listening to record players and playing Parcheesi all summer long.
Scout leaders smoked, even when they were doing troop activities.
Twelve-year old girls wore dresses that short and knee socks that high.
All perfectly 1965.
But I would argue that a woman, much less one working for Social Services, would not have worn a pantsuit in 1965.
Pantsuits came into vogue in the late 60s and more so the 70s. By the time pantsuits came in, hats were out.
Also, the young hero asks his heroine if she's depressed. I'm willing to bet the farm that no twelve-year old would have asked that question in 1965.
But that's nitpicking and overall, the evocation of the era of LBJ's "Great Society" was charmingly evoked.
And besides charm, there was the wistful depiction of first love, albeit in a most fantastical setting.
The tale of two kids who run away together to the other side of an island was rife with first passion.
After the two go swimming in the cove, they hang their clothes up to dry.
That affords a golden opportunity for him to paint her in her training bra and high-waisted flowered underpants, which he does wearing his own underwear.
She's brought along her record player (and spare batteries) so they play the French singer Francoise Hardy's record her Grandma had given her, dancing to it on the sand.
Despite their youth, both scenes were sweetly romantic.
And certainly their conversation about what they wanted to do when they grew up was.
"Go on an adventure and not get stuck," she tells him, no doubt already aware that her own parents are very much stuck in lives they couldn't have wanted.
Coincidentally, that's exactly what I want to do when I grow up.
Therein lies today's lesson in film.
When it comes to life, Wes Anderson and I are on the same page.
Grab My Alto Sax and I'm Back on the Road
First rule of Karen's storm plan: Always go out.
After this afternoon's horizontal rain, epic wind and subsequent power outages (although not here in J-Ward), the only concession made to Mother Nature's fury was checking with the restaurant where I was meeting friends to ensure they still had power.
They did and even more importantly, my friend Holmes had made reservations for us.
And while a normal Monday night at Six Burner might not require a reservation, tonight was no ordinary Monday night.
The place was packed with lost souls trying to escape their powerless homes. In fact, the couple we were meeting was among them.
So the joint was mobbed.
Our quartet wrapped itself around the corner of the bar so as to be able to both see and hear each other.
Naturally, everyone had arrived at the same moment, so the staff was scrambling to keep up with drink and food orders for so many hungry/thirsty patrons at once.
It didn't matter to us because we had the right attitude and nothing but time. Oh, yes, and Prosecco.
But it also meant that the trio of raw oysters was 86'd by 7:30, minutes after we arrived. So it wasn't going to be a local oyster night.
And since Six Burner recently switched to an all-small-plate menu, it also meant that whatever we ordered came out as it was ready.
We started with sugar snaps, English cucumber, and watermelon radish in Jean Marc citron vinegar, finding it as crunchy and satisfying as when we'd sampled it on opening night.
That was followed by one of tonight's specials, roasted King Mackerel with fiddleheads and baby carrots in an Asian-inspired sauce.
There's nothing like fiddleheads when you can get them.
By the time our panzanella salad of tomatoes,feta, mint and olives arrived, we were too full and it was boxed up to go.
Holmes was explaining that if his power didn't return, he was going to have a freezer party tomorrow night and cook up its contents.
All I heard was lobster tails before I agreed to be a guest should that happen.
When it came time for dessert, nothing on the sweet menu was calling our name, so we opted for dessert at Balliceaux, our next stop.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band night.
Lombardy was pretty dark when we arrived, but the chalkboard in front said, "We are open!" and we waltzed through the wide-open front doors.
But wait.
While there were a few of the overhead lights on, for the most part the place was candlelit.
As in, they had no power, either.
Waling toward us was a red-haired musician, instrument case in hand, talking into his phone. "So there's no gig," he informed the other end.
But they had a big cooler and a willing barkeep, so we agreed to stay put and make the best of it, even without dessert.
The cocktail list was limited because many of the needed ingredients were in the pitch-black back room and thus inaccessible.
But our group is a flexible one and Negronis and Old Old Fashioneds (New Old Fashioneds wouldn't do) took care of the group's needs.
It was as lovely a night weather-wise as anyone could have hoped for inside.
The wide-open front doors allowed the breeze to move through and escape through the big, open windows over the stairs.
"Man, I hope my house feels this breezy when I get home," Holmes observed.
I knew mine would; I'd made sure to leave every window open.
As we sat there talking about what constitutes pop music and how Italian words must be pronounced with passion, in walked another musician toting his case.
When he was informed that there was no show tonight, he looked surprised.
Turns out he wasn't part of the usual 17-piece but a visiting musician from Hartford, Connecticut in town for the evening.
As long as he was here, he'd hoped to stop by and sit in before he leaves for a three-month flute/sax gig aboard a Holland cruise ship to Alaska.
Not surprisingly, he looked a little bummed when he heard.
And that's when I kicked into storm mode.
"But it would be awesome if you'd play your sax for us anyway," I said in my most earnest voice.
When the devoted music fan in me takes over, she is as sincere as they come.
He smiled, ordered a drink and considered.
"I'll buy you a drink if you do," Holmes said, sweetening the pot, but Pete the sax player was already taking his instrument out and moistening the reed.
With nary an acknowledgement, he launched into Coltrane's "Mr. P.C."
I know that only because I had no shame about asking him what he played after each song.
There was a song called "Dig" (he said it had been done by Miles Davis) as well as Charlie Parker's "Scrapple for the Apple."
Despite the ingrates chattering around him, I savored every note from the impromptu performance.
He eventually settled into a slow burn of the jazz standard, "Body and Soul," much to the delight of Holmes' beloved.
"When's the last time you heard this live?" I asked mischievously as she swooned over the music.
"Never!" she exclaimed wide-eyed and clearly thrilled.
And why not?
We were sitting in a candlelit bar in a darkened neighborhood with a lovely breeze blowing over us while a visiting sax player serenaded us with vintage jazz.
My companion turned to me grinning.
"This kind of thing only happens when I'm with you," he said as if reluctant to state the obvious.
Correction: this kind of thing only happens when you ask for what you want.
I tell you I mean it
I'm all for you
Body and soul
That's the second rule of Karen's storm plan.
After this afternoon's horizontal rain, epic wind and subsequent power outages (although not here in J-Ward), the only concession made to Mother Nature's fury was checking with the restaurant where I was meeting friends to ensure they still had power.
They did and even more importantly, my friend Holmes had made reservations for us.
And while a normal Monday night at Six Burner might not require a reservation, tonight was no ordinary Monday night.
The place was packed with lost souls trying to escape their powerless homes. In fact, the couple we were meeting was among them.
So the joint was mobbed.
Our quartet wrapped itself around the corner of the bar so as to be able to both see and hear each other.
Naturally, everyone had arrived at the same moment, so the staff was scrambling to keep up with drink and food orders for so many hungry/thirsty patrons at once.
It didn't matter to us because we had the right attitude and nothing but time. Oh, yes, and Prosecco.
But it also meant that the trio of raw oysters was 86'd by 7:30, minutes after we arrived. So it wasn't going to be a local oyster night.
And since Six Burner recently switched to an all-small-plate menu, it also meant that whatever we ordered came out as it was ready.
We started with sugar snaps, English cucumber, and watermelon radish in Jean Marc citron vinegar, finding it as crunchy and satisfying as when we'd sampled it on opening night.
That was followed by one of tonight's specials, roasted King Mackerel with fiddleheads and baby carrots in an Asian-inspired sauce.
There's nothing like fiddleheads when you can get them.
By the time our panzanella salad of tomatoes,feta, mint and olives arrived, we were too full and it was boxed up to go.
Holmes was explaining that if his power didn't return, he was going to have a freezer party tomorrow night and cook up its contents.
All I heard was lobster tails before I agreed to be a guest should that happen.
When it came time for dessert, nothing on the sweet menu was calling our name, so we opted for dessert at Balliceaux, our next stop.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band night.
Lombardy was pretty dark when we arrived, but the chalkboard in front said, "We are open!" and we waltzed through the wide-open front doors.
But wait.
While there were a few of the overhead lights on, for the most part the place was candlelit.
As in, they had no power, either.
Waling toward us was a red-haired musician, instrument case in hand, talking into his phone. "So there's no gig," he informed the other end.
But they had a big cooler and a willing barkeep, so we agreed to stay put and make the best of it, even without dessert.
The cocktail list was limited because many of the needed ingredients were in the pitch-black back room and thus inaccessible.
But our group is a flexible one and Negronis and Old Old Fashioneds (New Old Fashioneds wouldn't do) took care of the group's needs.
It was as lovely a night weather-wise as anyone could have hoped for inside.
The wide-open front doors allowed the breeze to move through and escape through the big, open windows over the stairs.
"Man, I hope my house feels this breezy when I get home," Holmes observed.
I knew mine would; I'd made sure to leave every window open.
As we sat there talking about what constitutes pop music and how Italian words must be pronounced with passion, in walked another musician toting his case.
When he was informed that there was no show tonight, he looked surprised.
Turns out he wasn't part of the usual 17-piece but a visiting musician from Hartford, Connecticut in town for the evening.
As long as he was here, he'd hoped to stop by and sit in before he leaves for a three-month flute/sax gig aboard a Holland cruise ship to Alaska.
Not surprisingly, he looked a little bummed when he heard.
And that's when I kicked into storm mode.
"But it would be awesome if you'd play your sax for us anyway," I said in my most earnest voice.
When the devoted music fan in me takes over, she is as sincere as they come.
He smiled, ordered a drink and considered.
"I'll buy you a drink if you do," Holmes said, sweetening the pot, but Pete the sax player was already taking his instrument out and moistening the reed.
With nary an acknowledgement, he launched into Coltrane's "Mr. P.C."
I know that only because I had no shame about asking him what he played after each song.
There was a song called "Dig" (he said it had been done by Miles Davis) as well as Charlie Parker's "Scrapple for the Apple."
Despite the ingrates chattering around him, I savored every note from the impromptu performance.
He eventually settled into a slow burn of the jazz standard, "Body and Soul," much to the delight of Holmes' beloved.
"When's the last time you heard this live?" I asked mischievously as she swooned over the music.
"Never!" she exclaimed wide-eyed and clearly thrilled.
And why not?
We were sitting in a candlelit bar in a darkened neighborhood with a lovely breeze blowing over us while a visiting sax player serenaded us with vintage jazz.
My companion turned to me grinning.
"This kind of thing only happens when I'm with you," he said as if reluctant to state the obvious.
Correction: this kind of thing only happens when you ask for what you want.
I tell you I mean it
I'm all for you
Body and soul
That's the second rule of Karen's storm plan.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Just What I Needed
It was a perfectly beautiful, understated Sunday.
I'd been fortunate enough to be invited to my second rose' party of the season, this one at a friend's big, beautiful house just south of Carytown.
This time the invitation didn't stipulate the wearing of pink, but I wore a little fuchsia pink skirt just to be on the safe side.
I didn't want to get there and be denied pink because I wasn't wearing any (let's just say it wasn't my first time atthe rodeo a rose' party).
And it was a large wagon full of pink for guests to choose from.
The wine industry was well represented in the backyard, both reps and retail, but it wasn't only oenophiles.
Hell, one chef had brought his own cooler of Miller High Life, pointing out humorously that it was the "champagne of beer," albeit at a rose' party.
He turned out to be great company, sharing his journey through the world of food-making and, when I asked, what he'd learned at each stop along the way.
Because, let's face it, with cooking, like with life, if you don't take something away from every experience, aren't you just wasting time?
A favorite artist/wine geek was there, sharing his restaurant gossip and raving about Basque rose' poured from on high (it was deliciously refreshing).
The hostess had made a stellar mix, including everything from The Cars to Peter, Bjorn and John to Michael Jackson to MGMT, making for a constantly changing soundscape throughout the evening and the perfect party mix.
Some people just know how to make a mix tape and I like to know those people.
I have to admit that, social as I can be, my summer cold kept me from doing as much mingling as I usually would, but not from savoring a variety of pinks, none of which I will name here.
Okay, the Lucien Crochet Sancerre was an elegant delight, long in its finish, and my first pink Sancerre, so probably worth noting.
As the late afternoon edged into early evening, my companion and I said our farewells to head over to the Dell for Prime Time Swing, a big band we'd never heard before.
By the time we'd grabbed our picnic, it was an hour and a half into the show, so we decided to skip the music and picnic elsewhere.
The elsewhere became Libbie Park a bit before dusk, a truly magical time to be so high on the hill.
As the light faded, the river was changing from blue to grayish, the lights of the city were coming up on buildings and we spotted a bonfire on the banks over on the south side of the river.
Sitting at a wooden table overlooking the railroad tracks, we unloaded the wicker picnic basket and watched impossibly long trains roll by, screeching as they braked.
Fireflies began to appear, followed by the moon and we really hadn't done much more than eat, drink and admire the view.
It was the subtlest of Sundays: a thoroughly satisfying backyard rose' party and a park picnic.
How did I get so lucky?
I'd been fortunate enough to be invited to my second rose' party of the season, this one at a friend's big, beautiful house just south of Carytown.
This time the invitation didn't stipulate the wearing of pink, but I wore a little fuchsia pink skirt just to be on the safe side.
I didn't want to get there and be denied pink because I wasn't wearing any (let's just say it wasn't my first time at
And it was a large wagon full of pink for guests to choose from.
The wine industry was well represented in the backyard, both reps and retail, but it wasn't only oenophiles.
Hell, one chef had brought his own cooler of Miller High Life, pointing out humorously that it was the "champagne of beer," albeit at a rose' party.
He turned out to be great company, sharing his journey through the world of food-making and, when I asked, what he'd learned at each stop along the way.
Because, let's face it, with cooking, like with life, if you don't take something away from every experience, aren't you just wasting time?
A favorite artist/wine geek was there, sharing his restaurant gossip and raving about Basque rose' poured from on high (it was deliciously refreshing).
The hostess had made a stellar mix, including everything from The Cars to Peter, Bjorn and John to Michael Jackson to MGMT, making for a constantly changing soundscape throughout the evening and the perfect party mix.
Some people just know how to make a mix tape and I like to know those people.
I have to admit that, social as I can be, my summer cold kept me from doing as much mingling as I usually would, but not from savoring a variety of pinks, none of which I will name here.
Okay, the Lucien Crochet Sancerre was an elegant delight, long in its finish, and my first pink Sancerre, so probably worth noting.
As the late afternoon edged into early evening, my companion and I said our farewells to head over to the Dell for Prime Time Swing, a big band we'd never heard before.
By the time we'd grabbed our picnic, it was an hour and a half into the show, so we decided to skip the music and picnic elsewhere.
The elsewhere became Libbie Park a bit before dusk, a truly magical time to be so high on the hill.
As the light faded, the river was changing from blue to grayish, the lights of the city were coming up on buildings and we spotted a bonfire on the banks over on the south side of the river.
Sitting at a wooden table overlooking the railroad tracks, we unloaded the wicker picnic basket and watched impossibly long trains roll by, screeching as they braked.
Fireflies began to appear, followed by the moon and we really hadn't done much more than eat, drink and admire the view.
It was the subtlest of Sundays: a thoroughly satisfying backyard rose' party and a park picnic.
How did I get so lucky?
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Haunted By the Legs of a Woman
"Are you here to audition?"
As if.
Not unless you have to audition to be an audience member, I told the woman at the table with the clipboard.
Actually I was there to get on-stage seats for "Spring Awakening" at the Empire Theater, four blocks from my house.
Once I'd learned that there were a dozen seats available up close and personal with the cast, I was determined to plant myself in one of them.
Well, that and the fact that stage seats are $5 and regular seats are $44, well out of the range of this poor writer's pocketbook.
We were escorted to our seats by the House Manager who instructed us to sit in any seats except those that had drawers on the back.
It wasn't long before two cast members took the seats with drawers next to us and the play was off and running.
What I hadn't realized was that the cast members next to me were going to be singing from where they were,
Sometimes sitting ("Mama Who Bore Me"), sometimes standing on their chairs ("The Bitch of Living"), they were performing inches away.
It may have been the coolest theater experience I've ever had.
And just for the record, while the on-stage seats were not as comfy as the regular theater seats, they were located directly under the box seats, always the priciest seats in the house, so the view was spectacular.
Frankly, for a play dealing with child abuse, masturbation, abortion, suicide and sexual abuse (not to mention a bare male butt), I want a good view.
Of course I was going to love a musical with an alternative music score by singer/songwriter Duncan Sheik, but I was equally as enthralled with having a band (guitars, bass, drums, cello, violin, viola, keys) accompany that music rather than an orchestra.
The story of hormone-driven teenagers ("Why am I haunted by the legs of a woman?") living in repressed 1890s Germany (but one with neon shoelaces, wildly gelled hair and jeweled sandals) took its spark from the energetic young cast, many of whom couldn't legally buy a drink during intermission.
But wow, could they ever dance and sing. And they nailed teen angst magnificently.
From "My Junk" to "Totally F**ked" and whether they were laying on stage singing to the rafters or pulling a mic out of their pockets to sing rock star-style, you really couldn't take your eyes off of them.
During the ensemble numbers, the actors were literally a couple of feet from my face.
I don't want to brag, but I could see them spit. And, yes, I like that.
And John Mincks, your ability to spring from stage to mid-air (mid-note) was nothing short of breathtaking from where I sat.
During intermission, I heard a woman tell someone that she'd seen "Spring Awakening" at a Broadway matinee a few years back and had been so impressed by it that she'd gone back that same night to see it again.
Pshaw. I'd realized that I would do the same before the first act was even over.
And at five dollars a pop, I can easily afford to see it again.
Fortunately, I think I passed the audition to be a stage-sitting audience member.
Pardon my enthusiasm, Virginia Rep, but there's nothing quite like the view from the cheap seats.
As if.
Not unless you have to audition to be an audience member, I told the woman at the table with the clipboard.
Actually I was there to get on-stage seats for "Spring Awakening" at the Empire Theater, four blocks from my house.
Once I'd learned that there were a dozen seats available up close and personal with the cast, I was determined to plant myself in one of them.
Well, that and the fact that stage seats are $5 and regular seats are $44, well out of the range of this poor writer's pocketbook.
We were escorted to our seats by the House Manager who instructed us to sit in any seats except those that had drawers on the back.
It wasn't long before two cast members took the seats with drawers next to us and the play was off and running.
What I hadn't realized was that the cast members next to me were going to be singing from where they were,
Sometimes sitting ("Mama Who Bore Me"), sometimes standing on their chairs ("The Bitch of Living"), they were performing inches away.
It may have been the coolest theater experience I've ever had.
And just for the record, while the on-stage seats were not as comfy as the regular theater seats, they were located directly under the box seats, always the priciest seats in the house, so the view was spectacular.
Frankly, for a play dealing with child abuse, masturbation, abortion, suicide and sexual abuse (not to mention a bare male butt), I want a good view.
Of course I was going to love a musical with an alternative music score by singer/songwriter Duncan Sheik, but I was equally as enthralled with having a band (guitars, bass, drums, cello, violin, viola, keys) accompany that music rather than an orchestra.
The story of hormone-driven teenagers ("Why am I haunted by the legs of a woman?") living in repressed 1890s Germany (but one with neon shoelaces, wildly gelled hair and jeweled sandals) took its spark from the energetic young cast, many of whom couldn't legally buy a drink during intermission.
But wow, could they ever dance and sing. And they nailed teen angst magnificently.
From "My Junk" to "Totally F**ked" and whether they were laying on stage singing to the rafters or pulling a mic out of their pockets to sing rock star-style, you really couldn't take your eyes off of them.
During the ensemble numbers, the actors were literally a couple of feet from my face.
I don't want to brag, but I could see them spit. And, yes, I like that.
And John Mincks, your ability to spring from stage to mid-air (mid-note) was nothing short of breathtaking from where I sat.
During intermission, I heard a woman tell someone that she'd seen "Spring Awakening" at a Broadway matinee a few years back and had been so impressed by it that she'd gone back that same night to see it again.
Pshaw. I'd realized that I would do the same before the first act was even over.
And at five dollars a pop, I can easily afford to see it again.
Fortunately, I think I passed the audition to be a stage-sitting audience member.
Pardon my enthusiasm, Virginia Rep, but there's nothing quite like the view from the cheap seats.
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