I'm a sucker for photography shows.
The Library of Virginia's just-opened "Dark Side: Night Photography in Virginia" seemed like the ideal way to wile away part of the afternoon.
The large-format show led off with several photographs taken at night during the 1907 Jamestown Centennial Exposition when photographers were first exploring the wonder of picture-taking after dark.
"Jamestown Centennial Covered Bridge at Night" looked positively Parisian.
Another from the centennial, "Night Scene of Naval Regatta" looked like an all-black print except for the thin, white line of lighted battleships that bisected the print horizontally.
Surely even President Teddy Roosevelt, sitting in the grandstands watching, was just as impressed.
There were more than a few pictures of Norfolk at night, one of the seedier beer halls and dance joints and another of WW II sailors dancing with their dates, hands all over the girls.
"State Capital Richmond" from 1934 showed the iconic building and grounds, light reflecting off a recent significant snowstorm.
A 1937 shot of the Byrd Theater when "Super Sleuth" was playing was striking for two reasons.
First, how remarkably unchanged it appears with only the center of the Art Deco marquee looking any different than today.
And secondly, that Cary Street must have still been two-way since there are cars parked westward on it.
"Broad Street at Night" from 1959 showed how brightly lit our main drag was, although the adjoining side streets looked to have not a single street light of their own.
Of the nearly 30 photographs in the show, only five were color.
My favorite of that bunch was "Virginia Night Sky" by Chris Anton, a composite of 80+ individual 30-second exposures taken outside Charlottesville.
The sky looks like a pulsing series of star scratches, each echoing the shape of the others and filling the night sky.
It's a beautiful visual demonstration of something you could never see looking at the sky.
But then, the whole exhibit is like that, showing a world I missed but can now appreciate because these talented photographers took the time to record them.
Not a bad way to pass a warm afternoon away.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Primary Donut
Good neighbor, good citizen.
My daily walk has taken me right by Sugar Shack Donuts since it was nothing but a scroungy used car corner lot.
I watched daily as it was cleaned up, refitted and then nothing seemed to happen forever.
When I read that today was finally the day, I stuffed money in my bra and headed out to walk, knowing there'd be a treat to pick up along the way.
As I approached, I saw only two vehicles in the parking lot - a Dominion truck and a VCU truck, neither of which looked promising.
But inside, the place was buzzing with people, so apparently like me, they'd walked over.
Score one for my neighborhood donut shop.
The case held a mix of cake and yeast donuts as well as "outcasts," as they call them, like bear claws and other non-donut types.
Sadly, they were already sold out of my favorite, chocolate cake donuts.
Instead I chose a fresh orange zest-iced cake donut to go and asked the girl at the counter what today had been like.
They'd opened at 6 a.m. and long since run out of vegan and gluten-free donuts, not to mention other people's favorites.
Of course, now I have a reason to stop by again soon and see if they've got it.
Further down Leigh Street, I ran into the chef from Magpie, who also had plans to get neighborhood donuts before turning into Carver School to do my duty as a citizen.
Unlike a full election where they're expecting a big turnout, school was still in session with lots of excited children lined up to go to the cafeteria for lunch.
Me, I sailed right into the auditorium with my donut still bagged, stated my name, showed my ID and found out I was only the 47th voter of the morning.
Forty seven!
Considering the polls had opened an hour after Sugar Shack had, I had a feeling that far more people had been there than here.
Sadly.
All I'm saying is, I deserve the orange zest crumbs now on my mouth because I'm also wearing an "I Voted" sticker.
Come on, people, didn't your mother tell you, no donuts unless you vote?
My daily walk has taken me right by Sugar Shack Donuts since it was nothing but a scroungy used car corner lot.
I watched daily as it was cleaned up, refitted and then nothing seemed to happen forever.
When I read that today was finally the day, I stuffed money in my bra and headed out to walk, knowing there'd be a treat to pick up along the way.
As I approached, I saw only two vehicles in the parking lot - a Dominion truck and a VCU truck, neither of which looked promising.
But inside, the place was buzzing with people, so apparently like me, they'd walked over.
Score one for my neighborhood donut shop.
The case held a mix of cake and yeast donuts as well as "outcasts," as they call them, like bear claws and other non-donut types.
Sadly, they were already sold out of my favorite, chocolate cake donuts.
Instead I chose a fresh orange zest-iced cake donut to go and asked the girl at the counter what today had been like.
They'd opened at 6 a.m. and long since run out of vegan and gluten-free donuts, not to mention other people's favorites.
Of course, now I have a reason to stop by again soon and see if they've got it.
Further down Leigh Street, I ran into the chef from Magpie, who also had plans to get neighborhood donuts before turning into Carver School to do my duty as a citizen.
Unlike a full election where they're expecting a big turnout, school was still in session with lots of excited children lined up to go to the cafeteria for lunch.
Me, I sailed right into the auditorium with my donut still bagged, stated my name, showed my ID and found out I was only the 47th voter of the morning.
Forty seven!
Considering the polls had opened an hour after Sugar Shack had, I had a feeling that far more people had been there than here.
Sadly.
All I'm saying is, I deserve the orange zest crumbs now on my mouth because I'm also wearing an "I Voted" sticker.
Come on, people, didn't your mother tell you, no donuts unless you vote?
Rainy Nights and Mondays
Portland we're not.
And yet it took me three tries before the rain let up enough to venture to the car and then on to Secco.
Unexpectedly, there I found every table taken and half the bar, too.
It may have been a rainy Monday night, but people wanted to be o-u-t.
They were down to only one French Rose, La Grange Tiphaine, a pale salmon-colored delight with hints of strawberries, which I happily took from my server Kenneth (not his real name, nor did he resemble a Kenneth, which I told him, much to his disappointment).
As the rain tapered off now that I was safely inside, I ordered Montasio cheese crackers with late summer tomato jam, an exemplary sweet/salty tease to get me started.
As luck would have it, a friend arrived and asked if she could join me.
I assumed it was a rhetorical question.
Since we hadn't chatted for a while, I got to hear about her boyfriend's new position, the first two times she was sexually harassed at work and her current read, "At the Mouth of the River of Bees," a book recommended to her by the guy who lived in my apartment before I did.
Barely one degree of separation in this town.
Over a salad of field greens, pistachios, chevre and lemon/thyme dressing, I told her one of my first sexual harassment stories, which involved a DJ, a slap on the ass and a misguided compliment.
Not long after, two women came in, took seats at the end of the bar and jumped into the conversation, inexplicably yielding all kinds of info about their family and past.
That their parents had been only 15 and 16 when they'd married.
That their grandfather, an alcoholic, had thrown his wife down the stairs when he found out she was pregnant.
That they think their grandmother eventually murdered their grandfather, although it was referred to as "pneumonia."
Best line of the night came from the younger sister.
"She was a mistake and I was a regret," she explained perfectly seriously.
Friend and I howled at that.
I left the three of them to more libations and headed down to Balliceaux for an evening of Count Basie and Duke Ellington.
Just as I arrived, the RVA Big Band took off with Sir Duke's "East St. Louis Toodle-oo," so I watched and listened from the steps near the kitchen so as not to interrupt their flow.
During the applause, I slipped in, finding wall space under the kitchen for Basie's "Corner Pocket" and "Jive at Five" and Ellington's "Cotton Tail."
By that point, the band was in full swing and a fellow jazz lover observed that several of the songs being played tonight were from the '30s and must have sounded very exotic to the middle class white people hearing them back then.
At least they would have been dressed to go out. What I was noticing tonight was the dress code.
Many's the time I've gone to hear the Big Band and seen people dressed up nicely in the audience, especially the women in pretty dresses and heels.
Tonight it was mostly short shorts and sandals on the women and guys in longer shorts.
Glamour was noticeably absent, except for in the music.
"Ko-Ko" had the bandleader trading his sax for a clarinet while "Moten Swing" actually got a couple up and swing-dancing to it in that way that made everyone in the room envy their skills.
During the break, a few people left but mostly a whole lot more people arrived (coincidentally, mostly in shorts), making the room very full with a 17-piece band and standing room only for latecomers.
Basie's "Magic Flea" kicked off the second half but it was "Nobody's Perfect" that had one of the sax players pulling out a flute for a couple of notes at the end of the song, making him and the audience grin at the unlikely ending.
No big band night should be complete without "Take the A-Train" and mine wasn't till we heard it, all swinging sophistication and confident musicians.
You can't go wrong with Basie and Ellington on a warm, wet Monday night.
No mistakes, no regrets.
And yet it took me three tries before the rain let up enough to venture to the car and then on to Secco.
Unexpectedly, there I found every table taken and half the bar, too.
It may have been a rainy Monday night, but people wanted to be o-u-t.
They were down to only one French Rose, La Grange Tiphaine, a pale salmon-colored delight with hints of strawberries, which I happily took from my server Kenneth (not his real name, nor did he resemble a Kenneth, which I told him, much to his disappointment).
As the rain tapered off now that I was safely inside, I ordered Montasio cheese crackers with late summer tomato jam, an exemplary sweet/salty tease to get me started.
As luck would have it, a friend arrived and asked if she could join me.
I assumed it was a rhetorical question.
Since we hadn't chatted for a while, I got to hear about her boyfriend's new position, the first two times she was sexually harassed at work and her current read, "At the Mouth of the River of Bees," a book recommended to her by the guy who lived in my apartment before I did.
Barely one degree of separation in this town.
Over a salad of field greens, pistachios, chevre and lemon/thyme dressing, I told her one of my first sexual harassment stories, which involved a DJ, a slap on the ass and a misguided compliment.
Not long after, two women came in, took seats at the end of the bar and jumped into the conversation, inexplicably yielding all kinds of info about their family and past.
That their parents had been only 15 and 16 when they'd married.
That their grandfather, an alcoholic, had thrown his wife down the stairs when he found out she was pregnant.
That they think their grandmother eventually murdered their grandfather, although it was referred to as "pneumonia."
Best line of the night came from the younger sister.
"She was a mistake and I was a regret," she explained perfectly seriously.
Friend and I howled at that.
I left the three of them to more libations and headed down to Balliceaux for an evening of Count Basie and Duke Ellington.
Just as I arrived, the RVA Big Band took off with Sir Duke's "East St. Louis Toodle-oo," so I watched and listened from the steps near the kitchen so as not to interrupt their flow.
During the applause, I slipped in, finding wall space under the kitchen for Basie's "Corner Pocket" and "Jive at Five" and Ellington's "Cotton Tail."
By that point, the band was in full swing and a fellow jazz lover observed that several of the songs being played tonight were from the '30s and must have sounded very exotic to the middle class white people hearing them back then.
At least they would have been dressed to go out. What I was noticing tonight was the dress code.
Many's the time I've gone to hear the Big Band and seen people dressed up nicely in the audience, especially the women in pretty dresses and heels.
Tonight it was mostly short shorts and sandals on the women and guys in longer shorts.
Glamour was noticeably absent, except for in the music.
"Ko-Ko" had the bandleader trading his sax for a clarinet while "Moten Swing" actually got a couple up and swing-dancing to it in that way that made everyone in the room envy their skills.
During the break, a few people left but mostly a whole lot more people arrived (coincidentally, mostly in shorts), making the room very full with a 17-piece band and standing room only for latecomers.
Basie's "Magic Flea" kicked off the second half but it was "Nobody's Perfect" that had one of the sax players pulling out a flute for a couple of notes at the end of the song, making him and the audience grin at the unlikely ending.
No big band night should be complete without "Take the A-Train" and mine wasn't till we heard it, all swinging sophistication and confident musicians.
You can't go wrong with Basie and Ellington on a warm, wet Monday night.
No mistakes, no regrets.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
School of the Intense
Nothing like a little death in the afternoon.
A friend and I made the trek out Patterson Avenue to the West End to the Hatt Theater to see "Gidion's Knot," an award-winning play about which I knew nothing.
Walking in to the theater felt like walking into a schoolroom, complete with school desks in front of the audience's seats.
What we were too slow to realize was that those desks were seats for the show, instead ending up in the back row of the tiny theater.
The two-actor play dealt with a parent-teacher conference after the woman's son was suspended.
Both actresses played their roles to the hilt, one inhabiting the distraught and angry mother and the other the reluctant, upset teacher responsible for the 5th grader's suspension.
Over the course of the next 80 minutes, we were caught up in issues of bullying, homosexuality, suicide, the responsibility of parenting and how much creativity is too much.
As if that weren't enough, there was also the unbearable discussion of putting a beloved pet down.
Honestly, it was far more than I'd been prepared to deal with on a muggy, Sunday afternoon.
Fortunately, there were occasional moments of levity, albeit dark-tinged, serving as much-needed release valves.
When the teacher admits to having changed careers after years in advertising, the mother shoots back unsympathetically, "Aw, did you turn 40 and have a midlife crisis?"
Likewise, her caustic observation, "You're not a liar, which is surprising given your background in advertising."
By the end of the play, I was mentally exhausted by the heartbreak that had been the subject of their "discussion," almost as if it had happened to me.
Just like the characters, I felt wrung out by the fever pitch of the unresolved situations that had been sustained throughout the play as we applauded two stellar performances.
And isn't that what really good theater is supposed to do?
A friend and I made the trek out Patterson Avenue to the West End to the Hatt Theater to see "Gidion's Knot," an award-winning play about which I knew nothing.
Walking in to the theater felt like walking into a schoolroom, complete with school desks in front of the audience's seats.
What we were too slow to realize was that those desks were seats for the show, instead ending up in the back row of the tiny theater.
The two-actor play dealt with a parent-teacher conference after the woman's son was suspended.
Both actresses played their roles to the hilt, one inhabiting the distraught and angry mother and the other the reluctant, upset teacher responsible for the 5th grader's suspension.
Over the course of the next 80 minutes, we were caught up in issues of bullying, homosexuality, suicide, the responsibility of parenting and how much creativity is too much.
As if that weren't enough, there was also the unbearable discussion of putting a beloved pet down.
Honestly, it was far more than I'd been prepared to deal with on a muggy, Sunday afternoon.
Fortunately, there were occasional moments of levity, albeit dark-tinged, serving as much-needed release valves.
When the teacher admits to having changed careers after years in advertising, the mother shoots back unsympathetically, "Aw, did you turn 40 and have a midlife crisis?"
Likewise, her caustic observation, "You're not a liar, which is surprising given your background in advertising."
By the end of the play, I was mentally exhausted by the heartbreak that had been the subject of their "discussion," almost as if it had happened to me.
Just like the characters, I felt wrung out by the fever pitch of the unresolved situations that had been sustained throughout the play as we applauded two stellar performances.
And isn't that what really good theater is supposed to do?
Too Hot for Pig
Who'd have thought that a bacon festival could be so off-putting?
After parking west of 14th Street and walking three blocks, I joined the masses of hot, cranky people waiting in endless lines to get plates of bacon-centric dishes.
Why anyone thought mid-June would be a good day for an outdoor food fest with grills fired up is beyond me.
I'm looking at you, Broad Appetit and definitely you, Bacon Fest.
But I was there, so I began the slow-moving circuit to see which restaurants were there and what they had to offer.
Given the 87-degree weather and 50% humidity, not surprisingly the line for Granny's ice cream was long.
Now, whether that was because of the bacon sundaes and shakes or just for something cool, I don't know.
Given the hordes of sweaty people and the unpleasantly hot grills, I'd already started looking for something on the light side.
Of all places, Casa del Barco won out with a pork belly-stuffed avocado, sprinkled with chopped tomatoes and queso blanco.
It was far from the best pork belly I've ever had but the freshness of the other ingredients had me enjoying it and lots of people inquiring where I'd gotten it.
Everywhere I turned, I heard people fed up with the interminable lines.
The beer lines were stupidly long, both for tickets and beverages, but since I don't do beer, I continued making my way around the booths.
As badly as I wanted the Roosevelt's pork belly slider with bacon slaw, I gave up when I saw the line snaked almost the entire length of the farmers' market.
Somehow, Rapphanock's line was even longer.
Nearing the end of the hot-as-hell-like loop, I stopped at the Berkeley Hotel Dining Room's booth for dark chocolate bacon sea salt truffles.
The soft and dense chocolates had just enough essence of bacon to stand up to the impossibly rich dark chocolate.
Again, three or four people stopped me to find out what I was eating and from whence it came.
I overheard a miserable-looking man in front of me complain to his wife, "This is busier than the Italian Festival ever was!"
They walked determinedly out of the festival in front of me, clearly just as over it as I was.
What will it take to convince this city that a southern summer day is the wrong time for a food festival in the streets?
I'll have to vote with my non-participation next time.
Everything's better with bacon...except long lines, miserable heat and crabby people.
After parking west of 14th Street and walking three blocks, I joined the masses of hot, cranky people waiting in endless lines to get plates of bacon-centric dishes.
Why anyone thought mid-June would be a good day for an outdoor food fest with grills fired up is beyond me.
I'm looking at you, Broad Appetit and definitely you, Bacon Fest.
But I was there, so I began the slow-moving circuit to see which restaurants were there and what they had to offer.
Given the 87-degree weather and 50% humidity, not surprisingly the line for Granny's ice cream was long.
Now, whether that was because of the bacon sundaes and shakes or just for something cool, I don't know.
Given the hordes of sweaty people and the unpleasantly hot grills, I'd already started looking for something on the light side.
Of all places, Casa del Barco won out with a pork belly-stuffed avocado, sprinkled with chopped tomatoes and queso blanco.
It was far from the best pork belly I've ever had but the freshness of the other ingredients had me enjoying it and lots of people inquiring where I'd gotten it.
Everywhere I turned, I heard people fed up with the interminable lines.
The beer lines were stupidly long, both for tickets and beverages, but since I don't do beer, I continued making my way around the booths.
As badly as I wanted the Roosevelt's pork belly slider with bacon slaw, I gave up when I saw the line snaked almost the entire length of the farmers' market.
Somehow, Rapphanock's line was even longer.
Nearing the end of the hot-as-hell-like loop, I stopped at the Berkeley Hotel Dining Room's booth for dark chocolate bacon sea salt truffles.
The soft and dense chocolates had just enough essence of bacon to stand up to the impossibly rich dark chocolate.
Again, three or four people stopped me to find out what I was eating and from whence it came.
I overheard a miserable-looking man in front of me complain to his wife, "This is busier than the Italian Festival ever was!"
They walked determinedly out of the festival in front of me, clearly just as over it as I was.
What will it take to convince this city that a southern summer day is the wrong time for a food festival in the streets?
I'll have to vote with my non-participation next time.
Everything's better with bacon...except long lines, miserable heat and crabby people.
No Lemonworld
Some bands have a limit.
I saw the Shins back in May 2009, so when they came through a couple of weeks ago, I opted out.
Once was enough.
Same with Passion Pit. Saw them June 2009 and I was satisfied.
The fact that they're doing two shows the next two nights at the National doesn't much interest me.
Ah, but the National are a different story.
Not the venue, the band.
I first saw them back in April 2007 opening for the Arcade Fire in D.C. and was immediately smitten.
Fast forward to 2008 and 2010 and I'd seen them here, too.
Even so, when tickets went on sale back in early March, I marched myself down to the National box office and got a ticket.
Tonight was the pay-off.
Openers People Get Ready were absent and in their place was Lanzendorf, a side project of one of the guys in the National.
Kind of electronic-based, very dancey and with a video of their name morphing into patterns, I had to fight to hear them over the incessant talking of the people around me.
Non-music lovers, that's what I figured.
They were there for the National, plain and simple, and nothing else mattered.
Meanwhile, a guy standing near me asked if I'd ever heard of the National (he hadn't).
Fourth time in six years, I told him to his amazement.
He was there with his brother-in-law from D.C. who'd seen them Thursday night at Merriweather Post Pavilion and driven down 95 to see them again two nights later.
He was a local who'd never been to the National (despite saying "I know one of the owners") although he said he hadn't been to a show since he'd had kids twenty years ago.
Shoot me now.
The novice asked me my favorite National songs and when he relayed them to the bro-in-law, the guy looked puzzled.
"Were those on older albums? I just got into this band two years ago."
Give me patience.
The show started with grainy footage of the band backstage in real time right up until they walked onstage.
With vested singer Matt prowling the stage like a caged lion, the band proceeded to showcase the new album "Trouble Will Find Me" interspersed with enough older songs to placate the masses.
Like "Anyone's Ghost."
You said it was night inside my heart. It was.
You said it should tear a kid apart. It does.
He mentioned having played here a couple of times before, cracking wise about how nice it was to see their name on the venue.
Specifically mentioning the hot tub available to musicians, he referenced a Snoop Dog hot tub story he'd told last time he was here.
"Conversation 16" became a crowd singalong.
I'll try to be more romantic
I want to believe in everything you believe
A fan yelled something and Matt got off talking about "Lost" until guitarist Bryce asked, "Are we going to keep talking about TV or play some notes?"
Promising us an older song, they launched into crowd anthem, "All the Wine."
I'm put together beautifully
Big wet bottle in my fist
Big wet rose in my teeth
I'm a perfect piece of ass
The only place to go after that was the ferocious "Abel," the song that follows it on the album.
My mind's not right
My mind's not right
They did a much slowed-down version of "Apartment Story before telling us about dinner.
Oh, we're so disarming, darling, everything we did believe
Is diving, diving, diving, dicing off the balcony
Guitarist Bryce said, "We ate at Rapphannock and had quite possibly the best food we've ever had on tour."
High praise for a band that's toured the world.
Singer Matt shared that he and his wife had eaten at Heritage and asked the crowd if anyone was from there (they weren't).
"They're both great restaurants," Bryce placated.
"Fuck your restaurant!" Matt countered before starting the heartbreaking live favorite "About Today."
Tonight you just close your eyes
And I just watch you slip away
He introduced the two horn players, one of whom had opened, saying, "Without them, we wouldn't sound all that good."
Not true, but their contribution is immeasurable.
They closed the show with another crowd favorite, "Fake Empire."
Turn the light out, say goodnight
No thinking for a little while
Let's not try to figure out everything at once
It was prolonged applause that brought them back for an encore, with Matt saying, "The hot tub isn't the only reason to come back here."
Naturally, people began calling out requests and the guy right behind me called out for "Karen," a song I would have also loved to have heard.
Instead we got "Mr. November" with Matt running through the crowd as far back as the bar where I'd gotten my Cazadores when I'd come in.
His mic chord stretched over the heads of the audience as he sang from the back corner.
Last time they'd played here, he'd done the same but perched on the sound booth a few feet from where I was standing.
Tonight I had to settle for being slightly farther away.
After "Terrible Love," they finished out the night with an un-amplified take on "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks" with two acoustic guitars, horns and tambourine.
All the very best of us
String ourselves up for love
The first time I saw the National, they were the opening band.
The second time, they were playing during an off night opening for R.E.M. and seemed very staid.
By the third time, Matt had a big, wet bottle of red wine in his fist and things were much looser all around.
Tonight's show seemed to fall somewhere in between the second and third, not quite so alcohol-influenced but not so tightly controlled, either.
Long since smitten with Matt's baritone and their melancholy lyrics, I was in hog heaven the entire night listening to the band for the fourth time on the fourth night of their tour.
They're so disarming, darling, I'm not sure I have a National limit.
I saw the Shins back in May 2009, so when they came through a couple of weeks ago, I opted out.
Once was enough.
Same with Passion Pit. Saw them June 2009 and I was satisfied.
The fact that they're doing two shows the next two nights at the National doesn't much interest me.
Ah, but the National are a different story.
Not the venue, the band.
I first saw them back in April 2007 opening for the Arcade Fire in D.C. and was immediately smitten.
Fast forward to 2008 and 2010 and I'd seen them here, too.
Even so, when tickets went on sale back in early March, I marched myself down to the National box office and got a ticket.
Tonight was the pay-off.
Openers People Get Ready were absent and in their place was Lanzendorf, a side project of one of the guys in the National.
Kind of electronic-based, very dancey and with a video of their name morphing into patterns, I had to fight to hear them over the incessant talking of the people around me.
Non-music lovers, that's what I figured.
They were there for the National, plain and simple, and nothing else mattered.
Meanwhile, a guy standing near me asked if I'd ever heard of the National (he hadn't).
Fourth time in six years, I told him to his amazement.
He was there with his brother-in-law from D.C. who'd seen them Thursday night at Merriweather Post Pavilion and driven down 95 to see them again two nights later.
He was a local who'd never been to the National (despite saying "I know one of the owners") although he said he hadn't been to a show since he'd had kids twenty years ago.
Shoot me now.
The novice asked me my favorite National songs and when he relayed them to the bro-in-law, the guy looked puzzled.
"Were those on older albums? I just got into this band two years ago."
Give me patience.
The show started with grainy footage of the band backstage in real time right up until they walked onstage.
With vested singer Matt prowling the stage like a caged lion, the band proceeded to showcase the new album "Trouble Will Find Me" interspersed with enough older songs to placate the masses.
Like "Anyone's Ghost."
You said it was night inside my heart. It was.
You said it should tear a kid apart. It does.
He mentioned having played here a couple of times before, cracking wise about how nice it was to see their name on the venue.
Specifically mentioning the hot tub available to musicians, he referenced a Snoop Dog hot tub story he'd told last time he was here.
"Conversation 16" became a crowd singalong.
I'll try to be more romantic
I want to believe in everything you believe
A fan yelled something and Matt got off talking about "Lost" until guitarist Bryce asked, "Are we going to keep talking about TV or play some notes?"
Promising us an older song, they launched into crowd anthem, "All the Wine."
I'm put together beautifully
Big wet bottle in my fist
Big wet rose in my teeth
I'm a perfect piece of ass
The only place to go after that was the ferocious "Abel," the song that follows it on the album.
My mind's not right
My mind's not right
They did a much slowed-down version of "Apartment Story before telling us about dinner.
Oh, we're so disarming, darling, everything we did believe
Is diving, diving, diving, dicing off the balcony
Guitarist Bryce said, "We ate at Rapphannock and had quite possibly the best food we've ever had on tour."
High praise for a band that's toured the world.
Singer Matt shared that he and his wife had eaten at Heritage and asked the crowd if anyone was from there (they weren't).
"They're both great restaurants," Bryce placated.
"Fuck your restaurant!" Matt countered before starting the heartbreaking live favorite "About Today."
Tonight you just close your eyes
And I just watch you slip away
He introduced the two horn players, one of whom had opened, saying, "Without them, we wouldn't sound all that good."
Not true, but their contribution is immeasurable.
They closed the show with another crowd favorite, "Fake Empire."
Turn the light out, say goodnight
No thinking for a little while
Let's not try to figure out everything at once
It was prolonged applause that brought them back for an encore, with Matt saying, "The hot tub isn't the only reason to come back here."
Naturally, people began calling out requests and the guy right behind me called out for "Karen," a song I would have also loved to have heard.
Instead we got "Mr. November" with Matt running through the crowd as far back as the bar where I'd gotten my Cazadores when I'd come in.
His mic chord stretched over the heads of the audience as he sang from the back corner.
Last time they'd played here, he'd done the same but perched on the sound booth a few feet from where I was standing.
Tonight I had to settle for being slightly farther away.
After "Terrible Love," they finished out the night with an un-amplified take on "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks" with two acoustic guitars, horns and tambourine.
All the very best of us
String ourselves up for love
The first time I saw the National, they were the opening band.
The second time, they were playing during an off night opening for R.E.M. and seemed very staid.
By the third time, Matt had a big, wet bottle of red wine in his fist and things were much looser all around.
Tonight's show seemed to fall somewhere in between the second and third, not quite so alcohol-influenced but not so tightly controlled, either.
Long since smitten with Matt's baritone and their melancholy lyrics, I was in hog heaven the entire night listening to the band for the fourth time on the fourth night of their tour.
They're so disarming, darling, I'm not sure I have a National limit.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Shot of Estrogen
It was two weeks in the making.
Right after my birthday, I'd begun planning with two girlfriends to meet and celebrate.
A fortnight later, my birthday brunch rolled out at 821, a choice based on the fact that two of us love it and one hadn't been in forever.
In place when I arrived was the friend who'd already been to Goochland to thrift while the friend who's looking for a jazz guitarist got detained by traffic coming through the Bottom.
Once in a booth, it was time to catch up on each other's lives, a necessity since it had been a couple of months.
We straddled the brunch line nicely with them getting Nutella-stuffed French toast and the other a peanut butter and banana sandwich with fries and me my usual.
The waitress actually asked me if I was getting black bean nachos before I could tell her.
It makes it easy, I have to say.
So during non-stop eating, we covered male perceptions, broken noses and festival bookings.
I think we all ended up in a food coma, but sufficient information had been exchanged before we succumbed.
Walking out through the always-mixed crowd (the hipster mom with her toddler in cuffed up jeans and hi-top Chucks, the wholesome-looking white-haired couple who looked like they were passing through), it was clear what an institution 821 is at this point.
I know I've done my part one plate of nachos at a time for over a decade.
Back in the Ward, the rain had finally given way to sunshine so Steady Sounds was crowded for the afternoon's in-store.
Maybe it was the tropical storm blowing through and swelling the James, but in what surely must be a first, the show started on time.
I got there maybe 2:20 and Nashville band Cheap Time was walking out with their instruments.
A friend saw me and said, "Yea, I only caught their last song."
Too bad cause I'd been ready for some garage rock.
I flipped through albums, eventually talking to the visitor on my right doing the same.
When he came across "John Denver's Greatest Hits," he held it up and explained how he'd once made a lampshade of that very album cover.
I was impressed.
Pulling a Traffic album I'd just seen out of the bin, I countered by telling him that I'd once taken Traffic's "The Low Spark of High Heel Boys" and softened it to shape it into a popcorn bowl.
I'm not the crafty sort, but I can play one when there's music involved.
Luckily, locals Positive No were playing next and I was overdue to see them.
I'm a big fan of their drummer Willis and was eager to enjoy some pure '90s alt drumming, dimples and all.
Now they'd added Josh on bass.
Josh won my ears long ago playing cello and I've been in his fan club ever since.
The surprise and delight came from how much harder his bass playing was than the other configurations I'd seen him in.
And looking like he was having a lot of pleasure doing it.
Maybe not as much as I was having watching and hearing him, but definitely good.
The music drew a direct line back to the '90s, so I was on familiar territory.
Leaning against the record bins facing the band directly, singer Tracy's voice and stage presence perfectly channeled any number of '90s women.
As I told a friend, she had great energy. And bangs.
Girl power Saturday.
Right after my birthday, I'd begun planning with two girlfriends to meet and celebrate.
A fortnight later, my birthday brunch rolled out at 821, a choice based on the fact that two of us love it and one hadn't been in forever.
In place when I arrived was the friend who'd already been to Goochland to thrift while the friend who's looking for a jazz guitarist got detained by traffic coming through the Bottom.
Once in a booth, it was time to catch up on each other's lives, a necessity since it had been a couple of months.
We straddled the brunch line nicely with them getting Nutella-stuffed French toast and the other a peanut butter and banana sandwich with fries and me my usual.
The waitress actually asked me if I was getting black bean nachos before I could tell her.
It makes it easy, I have to say.
So during non-stop eating, we covered male perceptions, broken noses and festival bookings.
I think we all ended up in a food coma, but sufficient information had been exchanged before we succumbed.
Walking out through the always-mixed crowd (the hipster mom with her toddler in cuffed up jeans and hi-top Chucks, the wholesome-looking white-haired couple who looked like they were passing through), it was clear what an institution 821 is at this point.
I know I've done my part one plate of nachos at a time for over a decade.
Back in the Ward, the rain had finally given way to sunshine so Steady Sounds was crowded for the afternoon's in-store.
Maybe it was the tropical storm blowing through and swelling the James, but in what surely must be a first, the show started on time.
I got there maybe 2:20 and Nashville band Cheap Time was walking out with their instruments.
A friend saw me and said, "Yea, I only caught their last song."
Too bad cause I'd been ready for some garage rock.
I flipped through albums, eventually talking to the visitor on my right doing the same.
When he came across "John Denver's Greatest Hits," he held it up and explained how he'd once made a lampshade of that very album cover.
I was impressed.
Pulling a Traffic album I'd just seen out of the bin, I countered by telling him that I'd once taken Traffic's "The Low Spark of High Heel Boys" and softened it to shape it into a popcorn bowl.
I'm not the crafty sort, but I can play one when there's music involved.
Luckily, locals Positive No were playing next and I was overdue to see them.
I'm a big fan of their drummer Willis and was eager to enjoy some pure '90s alt drumming, dimples and all.
Now they'd added Josh on bass.
Josh won my ears long ago playing cello and I've been in his fan club ever since.
The surprise and delight came from how much harder his bass playing was than the other configurations I'd seen him in.
And looking like he was having a lot of pleasure doing it.
Maybe not as much as I was having watching and hearing him, but definitely good.
The music drew a direct line back to the '90s, so I was on familiar territory.
Leaning against the record bins facing the band directly, singer Tracy's voice and stage presence perfectly channeled any number of '90s women.
As I told a friend, she had great energy. And bangs.
Girl power Saturday.
Paint Me
Oh, to have been immortalized in paint.
Such was the fortune of Claire Wesselmann, wife of Tom, and part of tonight's documentary screening at VMFA.
I picked up a girlfriend on the rainy way to the museum, the better to have a conversational partner for after the movie.
One must always think ahead.
Walking up to the desk to get a ticket, I discovered my bottle of water had leaked all over the inside of my purse, leaving a 2" puddle at the bottom.
It wasn't pretty.
Ticket secured, we went downstairs to find good seats and await, "I Only Want to Paint," made in 1996.
The film opened with Wesselmann in his NYC studio, opera music playing, before going on to him explaining the arc of his career through specific works.
He came across as smart, driven and eager to share what he'd been trying to do every step of the way.
I was a little surprised to hear him say that at no point had he intended any social or cultural commentary in his large scale collages using billboard imagery.
But who knows? He was saying that as a 70-something, and perhaps he was remembering it as she chose to and not as it really was.
After recently having seen "Red," a play about painter Mark Rothko, I got a big kick out of that artist's assessment of pop art.
"There comes a time when one must say no!" he opined, clearly disdaining the work of the up and coming generation behind him.
In the film, we saw his model and assistant and it occurred to me what a fabulous job it must be to mix paints and take off your clothes for an artist like Wesselmann.
It was interesting to hear Wesselmann say that he would enlarge his drawings on a wall to "see how big they want to be."
Because, you see, it was up to the drawings, the source of all art, in his opinion.
We learned that Wesselmann had written and recorded scores of country songs, but the most interesting moment came in the talk after the film with the artist's wife and former studio manager.
Curator John Ravenal mentioned a painting now hanging at the end of the exhibition, hung just a few days ago.
Turns out it's a gift from the artist's estate to the VMFA for giving Wesselmann his first retrospective in America.
The crowd burst into applause when they heard the news.
Claire was full of anecdotes from past years, talking about the group of young lions coming up in the art world in the '60s.
She recalled a cocktail party with many of them in attendance and eavesdropping on their conversation.
They were bragging to each other about how long they worked at painting each day.
Not about concepts or methods or even art history, but about time put in to the work of art.
What a fascinating picture it presents of that generation of painters.
By the time the discussion ended, I felt like I had much more of a sense of the man who'd created all those nudes and smoking mouths.
And isn't that why we go out on a Friday night, to learn something?
Yes, of course, but also to eat, drink and be merry, so rain be damned, we made our way to Secco for supper.
Settled into the center of the bar, I ignored the gray weather with a Brazilier Rose, tasting of red berries and with nice acidity.
Because Friend has upcoming bathing suit season on the brain, I suggested salads, which was met with limited enthusiasm.
That changed once she had a bowl of local field greens, roasted pistachios ("I do so like a good pistachio," she admitted) and chevre in a lemon-thyme vinaigrette.
Perfectly balanced flavors in every bite.
Next came a smoked fish dip with the most gloriously pungent ramp pesto and grilled sourdough intended as a conveyance to get that fish and pesto into our mouths.
"They should put a warning on the menu not to order this if you're going to kiss anyone later," she laughed as we both piled it on every bite.
No applicable, we agreed.
Personally, I'd find a man who likes onions and garlic as much as I do and kiss away.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my back and there was a chef I know, uncharacteristically dressed up and out with his main squeeze celebrating her birthday.
It may well have been the first time I ever saw them together except for in the restaurant.
But, as we all know, birthdays are sacred, so good for them for escaping for a night of celebration.
We finished with a bruschetta rubbed with garlic, topped with crushed avocado, radish slices, English peas (so perfectly al dente we both mentioned it), fresh basil and chunks of beets.
When our charming server described it to us, he summed it up simply. "It's magical!"
Who wouldn't love the sound of that?
The melange of flavors with the earthy sweetness of the beets at the finish was such a well-thought out parade of flavors that we both agreed we'd order it again next time we were in.
And then we ordered more wine so we could linger and talk about beach vacations, clothes that fit but don't look the same as they once did and, naturally, men.
Don't get us started.
When we came up for air, it was to notice that the bar population was dwindling fast, once again leaving us to wonder how we'd not noticed the tables emptying out.
Damn, I hate to think it was our raging ramp breath.
Such was the fortune of Claire Wesselmann, wife of Tom, and part of tonight's documentary screening at VMFA.
I picked up a girlfriend on the rainy way to the museum, the better to have a conversational partner for after the movie.
One must always think ahead.
Walking up to the desk to get a ticket, I discovered my bottle of water had leaked all over the inside of my purse, leaving a 2" puddle at the bottom.
It wasn't pretty.
Ticket secured, we went downstairs to find good seats and await, "I Only Want to Paint," made in 1996.
The film opened with Wesselmann in his NYC studio, opera music playing, before going on to him explaining the arc of his career through specific works.
He came across as smart, driven and eager to share what he'd been trying to do every step of the way.
I was a little surprised to hear him say that at no point had he intended any social or cultural commentary in his large scale collages using billboard imagery.
But who knows? He was saying that as a 70-something, and perhaps he was remembering it as she chose to and not as it really was.
After recently having seen "Red," a play about painter Mark Rothko, I got a big kick out of that artist's assessment of pop art.
"There comes a time when one must say no!" he opined, clearly disdaining the work of the up and coming generation behind him.
In the film, we saw his model and assistant and it occurred to me what a fabulous job it must be to mix paints and take off your clothes for an artist like Wesselmann.
It was interesting to hear Wesselmann say that he would enlarge his drawings on a wall to "see how big they want to be."
Because, you see, it was up to the drawings, the source of all art, in his opinion.
We learned that Wesselmann had written and recorded scores of country songs, but the most interesting moment came in the talk after the film with the artist's wife and former studio manager.
Curator John Ravenal mentioned a painting now hanging at the end of the exhibition, hung just a few days ago.
Turns out it's a gift from the artist's estate to the VMFA for giving Wesselmann his first retrospective in America.
The crowd burst into applause when they heard the news.
Claire was full of anecdotes from past years, talking about the group of young lions coming up in the art world in the '60s.
She recalled a cocktail party with many of them in attendance and eavesdropping on their conversation.
They were bragging to each other about how long they worked at painting each day.
Not about concepts or methods or even art history, but about time put in to the work of art.
What a fascinating picture it presents of that generation of painters.
By the time the discussion ended, I felt like I had much more of a sense of the man who'd created all those nudes and smoking mouths.
And isn't that why we go out on a Friday night, to learn something?
Yes, of course, but also to eat, drink and be merry, so rain be damned, we made our way to Secco for supper.
Settled into the center of the bar, I ignored the gray weather with a Brazilier Rose, tasting of red berries and with nice acidity.
Because Friend has upcoming bathing suit season on the brain, I suggested salads, which was met with limited enthusiasm.
That changed once she had a bowl of local field greens, roasted pistachios ("I do so like a good pistachio," she admitted) and chevre in a lemon-thyme vinaigrette.
Perfectly balanced flavors in every bite.
Next came a smoked fish dip with the most gloriously pungent ramp pesto and grilled sourdough intended as a conveyance to get that fish and pesto into our mouths.
"They should put a warning on the menu not to order this if you're going to kiss anyone later," she laughed as we both piled it on every bite.
No applicable, we agreed.
Personally, I'd find a man who likes onions and garlic as much as I do and kiss away.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my back and there was a chef I know, uncharacteristically dressed up and out with his main squeeze celebrating her birthday.
It may well have been the first time I ever saw them together except for in the restaurant.
But, as we all know, birthdays are sacred, so good for them for escaping for a night of celebration.
We finished with a bruschetta rubbed with garlic, topped with crushed avocado, radish slices, English peas (so perfectly al dente we both mentioned it), fresh basil and chunks of beets.
When our charming server described it to us, he summed it up simply. "It's magical!"
Who wouldn't love the sound of that?
The melange of flavors with the earthy sweetness of the beets at the finish was such a well-thought out parade of flavors that we both agreed we'd order it again next time we were in.
And then we ordered more wine so we could linger and talk about beach vacations, clothes that fit but don't look the same as they once did and, naturally, men.
Don't get us started.
When we came up for air, it was to notice that the bar population was dwindling fast, once again leaving us to wonder how we'd not noticed the tables emptying out.
Damn, I hate to think it was our raging ramp breath.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Mercurial and Inquisitorial.
When everything around you is making you crazy, it's nice to escape into a dream.
Or, in tonight's case, into "Dreamscapes," the name of Ghostprint Gallery's new show which was previewing tonight.
Described as a show demonstrating that you can live with good art and good furniture, it was a beautiful expression of both.
Catherine Roseberry's enamel-painted wood cabinet, "Aerial" had a scene with figures painted on the front, but it was the list of words painted on both sides that caught my eye.
Capricious. Sanguine. Mercurial. Inquisitorial.
Jeremy Witt's silver image print was absolutely compelling, because it was impossible to figure out what I was seeing.
The black, gray and white that made up the image were exquisite in their richness of color but gave no clue as to what they represented, which naturally pulled me in further.
There were plenty of vintage pieces - an antique Parisian bed, a '70s white plaster twisted column lamp, a '50s glass table with seahorses supporting the top- with my favorite being a classical architectural head on a custom stand.
Easily one of the most striking pieces in a room full of unique pieces was Maurice Bean's "Twig Table," painted a heavenly shade of pale green with black forged steel "twigs" that stretched over 3/4 of the drawer as handles.
Walking around the gallery, I saw many favorite artist names from former Ghostprint shows, only this time integrated into tableaux with tables, lamps and other furniture.
Satisfied that the goal of showing how it's done had been achieved in the most charming manner, I left to meet a friend for dinner.
Hey, people gotta eat.
We decided on Lemon Cuisine of India because neither of us had been yet.
At first, we were worried about the lack of Indian customers in the dining room, always a good indicator, but it wasn't long before that changed.
I'd been curious about how the former Byram's had changed to accommodate an Indian restaurant, but while it was less fussy and dated looking, it really didn't seem all that different than my last memory of it, except cleaner.
We began with a bottle of Gruner Veltliner and the Tandoori sampler, with lamb kebab, chicken tikka and mint chicken kebab.
It wasn't long before I heard my name called and turned to find a friend out on a school night.
"Twice in one week!" she boasted proudly, a nod to her early morning schedule and the fact that she knows I'm out every night.
Like us, it was her first visit and she was eager to experience the food, so we hugged and she moved on to the back room, where they apparently put the cool kids.
Meanwhile, we went back to talking about my friend's recent trip to Charleston, the difference in sand at various beaches, the meals, including Hank's, and the relentless rainy weather while there.
The way I see it, a rainy day at the beach still beats a rainy day anywhere else, if you know what I mean.
Having adjusted our taste buds to Indian spice blends, we ordered lamb pasanda, naan and palak paneer, a creamed spinach with homemade Indian cheese and gorged until we had no more room and the dining room was almost empty.
Not sure if that's the Indian way, but it worked for us.
Or, in tonight's case, into "Dreamscapes," the name of Ghostprint Gallery's new show which was previewing tonight.
Described as a show demonstrating that you can live with good art and good furniture, it was a beautiful expression of both.
Catherine Roseberry's enamel-painted wood cabinet, "Aerial" had a scene with figures painted on the front, but it was the list of words painted on both sides that caught my eye.
Capricious. Sanguine. Mercurial. Inquisitorial.
Jeremy Witt's silver image print was absolutely compelling, because it was impossible to figure out what I was seeing.
The black, gray and white that made up the image were exquisite in their richness of color but gave no clue as to what they represented, which naturally pulled me in further.
There were plenty of vintage pieces - an antique Parisian bed, a '70s white plaster twisted column lamp, a '50s glass table with seahorses supporting the top- with my favorite being a classical architectural head on a custom stand.
Easily one of the most striking pieces in a room full of unique pieces was Maurice Bean's "Twig Table," painted a heavenly shade of pale green with black forged steel "twigs" that stretched over 3/4 of the drawer as handles.
Walking around the gallery, I saw many favorite artist names from former Ghostprint shows, only this time integrated into tableaux with tables, lamps and other furniture.
Satisfied that the goal of showing how it's done had been achieved in the most charming manner, I left to meet a friend for dinner.
Hey, people gotta eat.
We decided on Lemon Cuisine of India because neither of us had been yet.
At first, we were worried about the lack of Indian customers in the dining room, always a good indicator, but it wasn't long before that changed.
I'd been curious about how the former Byram's had changed to accommodate an Indian restaurant, but while it was less fussy and dated looking, it really didn't seem all that different than my last memory of it, except cleaner.
We began with a bottle of Gruner Veltliner and the Tandoori sampler, with lamb kebab, chicken tikka and mint chicken kebab.
It wasn't long before I heard my name called and turned to find a friend out on a school night.
"Twice in one week!" she boasted proudly, a nod to her early morning schedule and the fact that she knows I'm out every night.
Like us, it was her first visit and she was eager to experience the food, so we hugged and she moved on to the back room, where they apparently put the cool kids.
Meanwhile, we went back to talking about my friend's recent trip to Charleston, the difference in sand at various beaches, the meals, including Hank's, and the relentless rainy weather while there.
The way I see it, a rainy day at the beach still beats a rainy day anywhere else, if you know what I mean.
Having adjusted our taste buds to Indian spice blends, we ordered lamb pasanda, naan and palak paneer, a creamed spinach with homemade Indian cheese and gorged until we had no more room and the dining room was almost empty.
Not sure if that's the Indian way, but it worked for us.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Lotus and Lemons
It must be summer because the Anderson Gallery began their happy hour series tonight.
The kick-off was a reprise of one of my favorite events there, the WRIR scavenger hunt, where audio meets visual and guests like me get to figure out which matches are made in heaven.
Using the Anderson's two new excellent summer shows, "Sanford Biggers: Codex" and "Jacob Lawrence: The Harriet Tubman Series," DJ Michael Miracle had come up with songs to match fifteen of the artworks.
There were boomboxes in all the galleries as people took their list of songs and art and tried to match up which were inspired by what.
While Michael's show "Lotus Land" played on the boomboxes, we moved from gallery to gallery trying to see what he had seen in the art, all the while listening to his show.
The challenge was how thematically similar the works in each exhibit were, meaning certain songs could have gone with more than one piece of art.
But he's a clever one, that Michael Miracle, and as I chatted with others doing the hunt, I found that many of them were stymied in the same way I was.
And just like the first scavenger hunt two years ago, a big part of the pleasure of it was going back through the exhibits repeatedly, seeing new details each time.
While others finished up or gave up and went outside for the ice cream social part of the evening, I kept at it, sure I could figure this thing out.
When they announced the two-minute deadline, I turned my sheet in, still questioning two every similar song titles and not sure which painting went with which.
And, ta-da. It was a three-way tie and, no, I wasn't one of the three.
Sure enough, the two I'd gotten wrong were the two I'd repeatedly switched back and forth, not quite certain which was which.
So at least in my own head, I knew how close I'd been. In fact, if I'd turned in my sheet earlier before I started erasing, it might have been a four-way tie.
I consoled myself with romance.
The Westhampton was showing the Danish film "The Bald Hairdresser," which had been renamed for American sensibilities "Love is All You Need."
The perceived need to do that says so much about us as a people, doesn't it?
One of my favorite things about the film was how the characters moved seamlessly between Danish, English and Italian, with only occasional subtitles.
All the Danes had great big, beautiful blue eyes.
Another perk was that most of it was set in sunny and lemon-filled Sorrento, Italy, as gorgeous a place for romance as could be imagined.
That I was there just last Fall and remembered it well didn't hurt, either, especially given the magnificent cinematography.
Because the main characters are middle-aged, it wasn't a typical romantic comedy, instead showing two people who'd been around the block a few times and took a while to acknowledge the feelings developing between them instead of immediate sunshine and rainbows.
You know, like in middle-aged real life.
They even quoted Henry Miller.
The one thing we can never get enough of is love. And the one thing we never give enough of is love.
A truism, even at middle age.
Give me a Danish rom-com any time and hold the corny Americanized title.
The kick-off was a reprise of one of my favorite events there, the WRIR scavenger hunt, where audio meets visual and guests like me get to figure out which matches are made in heaven.
Using the Anderson's two new excellent summer shows, "Sanford Biggers: Codex" and "Jacob Lawrence: The Harriet Tubman Series," DJ Michael Miracle had come up with songs to match fifteen of the artworks.
There were boomboxes in all the galleries as people took their list of songs and art and tried to match up which were inspired by what.
While Michael's show "Lotus Land" played on the boomboxes, we moved from gallery to gallery trying to see what he had seen in the art, all the while listening to his show.
The challenge was how thematically similar the works in each exhibit were, meaning certain songs could have gone with more than one piece of art.
But he's a clever one, that Michael Miracle, and as I chatted with others doing the hunt, I found that many of them were stymied in the same way I was.
And just like the first scavenger hunt two years ago, a big part of the pleasure of it was going back through the exhibits repeatedly, seeing new details each time.
While others finished up or gave up and went outside for the ice cream social part of the evening, I kept at it, sure I could figure this thing out.
When they announced the two-minute deadline, I turned my sheet in, still questioning two every similar song titles and not sure which painting went with which.
And, ta-da. It was a three-way tie and, no, I wasn't one of the three.
Sure enough, the two I'd gotten wrong were the two I'd repeatedly switched back and forth, not quite certain which was which.
So at least in my own head, I knew how close I'd been. In fact, if I'd turned in my sheet earlier before I started erasing, it might have been a four-way tie.
I consoled myself with romance.
The Westhampton was showing the Danish film "The Bald Hairdresser," which had been renamed for American sensibilities "Love is All You Need."
The perceived need to do that says so much about us as a people, doesn't it?
One of my favorite things about the film was how the characters moved seamlessly between Danish, English and Italian, with only occasional subtitles.
All the Danes had great big, beautiful blue eyes.
Another perk was that most of it was set in sunny and lemon-filled Sorrento, Italy, as gorgeous a place for romance as could be imagined.
That I was there just last Fall and remembered it well didn't hurt, either, especially given the magnificent cinematography.
Because the main characters are middle-aged, it wasn't a typical romantic comedy, instead showing two people who'd been around the block a few times and took a while to acknowledge the feelings developing between them instead of immediate sunshine and rainbows.
You know, like in middle-aged real life.
They even quoted Henry Miller.
The one thing we can never get enough of is love. And the one thing we never give enough of is love.
A truism, even at middle age.
Give me a Danish rom-com any time and hold the corny Americanized title.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
A Glass Case of Emotion
It's a slow road catching up on my cultural touchstones.
9:55 Comedy is doing their part to help me with their tongue-in-cheek staged readings of movies that everyone but me can quote.
Last time it was "Clerks" and tonight it was "Anchorman," set in that long ago time before cable when people believed everything they saw on TV.
Actually, I wasn't watching any more TV back then than I do now, so I never believed anything anyway.
Knowing the drill, I rounded up some "Anchorman" lovers (they're surprisingly easy to find) and made it to Bottoms Up in time to get the front table facing the "stage" area.
As people trickled in, we did some major damage on a spinach salad and a Karen Combo (ordered as much for its ricotta, sausage, spinach and onions as its name), adjusting it from a red to a white pizza.
While we ate '70s music played and I was told by those far more knowledgeable that a lot of it was from the movie.
After a brief delay to allow those stuck on a snarled I-95 to arrive, the splendor that is "Anchorman" began with the multi-talented Evan Nasteff as Ron Burgundy.
Evan's got a knack for playing smarmy and the role gave him carte blanche to do so, which was hilarious.
WCVE's theater critic John Porter had narrator duties, frequently cracking up at the shenanigans onstage (and cheering on the actor who played a public TV reporter).
From the get-go the entire cast was laugh-out-loud funny, as much to the people who'd seen it dozens of times as to an "Anchorman" virgin like me.
The guy playing Ron's dog Baxter gets a special nod just for his standout performance as a bi-lingual dog, not to mention his cute fur hat.
Not missing an opportunity to bring the script home, several lines about reporter Brian's Sex Panther cologne (it's illegal in nine countries, you know) had been Richmond-ified.
It smells like Shockoe Bottom after 2 a.m.
It smells like the Mars bar bathroom!
During what was apparently a seminal scene where Ron tries to impress Veronica by playing jazz flute, Evan grabbed a three-hole punch and played it throughout the room.
Hey, Aqualung!
Ridiculous as it looked for him to be blowing into a hole punch, it was the never-ending trail of little white paper holes coming out of it that kept the crowd in stitches.
There was also a crazy funny group singalong to "Afternoon Delight," complete with harmonizing, a thumb war between the two lovers and a reference to a Fotomat, which couldn't have meant much to most of the audience but was the site of my first job.
No, seriously, I was a Fotomate. But I digress.
During the big fight scene between Channel 4 news and Channel 9, the actors left the stage and instead we got a video screen showing an epic battle between warriors, complete with cheetahs, cliffs and shields.
Even the environs played into the story when required, like when a train went clanging by making screeching noises just after Ron Burgundy told the TV audience off and an angry mob gathered at the station to heckle him.
So once again, I have upped my cultural literacy thanks to a bunch of actors and comedians who barely had to look at their scripts because they knew every line so well.
Milk was a bad choice.
Got it. "Anchorman" was kind of a big deal.
9:55 Comedy is doing their part to help me with their tongue-in-cheek staged readings of movies that everyone but me can quote.
Last time it was "Clerks" and tonight it was "Anchorman," set in that long ago time before cable when people believed everything they saw on TV.
Actually, I wasn't watching any more TV back then than I do now, so I never believed anything anyway.
Knowing the drill, I rounded up some "Anchorman" lovers (they're surprisingly easy to find) and made it to Bottoms Up in time to get the front table facing the "stage" area.
As people trickled in, we did some major damage on a spinach salad and a Karen Combo (ordered as much for its ricotta, sausage, spinach and onions as its name), adjusting it from a red to a white pizza.
While we ate '70s music played and I was told by those far more knowledgeable that a lot of it was from the movie.
After a brief delay to allow those stuck on a snarled I-95 to arrive, the splendor that is "Anchorman" began with the multi-talented Evan Nasteff as Ron Burgundy.
Evan's got a knack for playing smarmy and the role gave him carte blanche to do so, which was hilarious.
WCVE's theater critic John Porter had narrator duties, frequently cracking up at the shenanigans onstage (and cheering on the actor who played a public TV reporter).
From the get-go the entire cast was laugh-out-loud funny, as much to the people who'd seen it dozens of times as to an "Anchorman" virgin like me.
The guy playing Ron's dog Baxter gets a special nod just for his standout performance as a bi-lingual dog, not to mention his cute fur hat.
Not missing an opportunity to bring the script home, several lines about reporter Brian's Sex Panther cologne (it's illegal in nine countries, you know) had been Richmond-ified.
It smells like Shockoe Bottom after 2 a.m.
It smells like the Mars bar bathroom!
During what was apparently a seminal scene where Ron tries to impress Veronica by playing jazz flute, Evan grabbed a three-hole punch and played it throughout the room.
Hey, Aqualung!
Ridiculous as it looked for him to be blowing into a hole punch, it was the never-ending trail of little white paper holes coming out of it that kept the crowd in stitches.
There was also a crazy funny group singalong to "Afternoon Delight," complete with harmonizing, a thumb war between the two lovers and a reference to a Fotomat, which couldn't have meant much to most of the audience but was the site of my first job.
No, seriously, I was a Fotomate. But I digress.
During the big fight scene between Channel 4 news and Channel 9, the actors left the stage and instead we got a video screen showing an epic battle between warriors, complete with cheetahs, cliffs and shields.
Even the environs played into the story when required, like when a train went clanging by making screeching noises just after Ron Burgundy told the TV audience off and an angry mob gathered at the station to heckle him.
So once again, I have upped my cultural literacy thanks to a bunch of actors and comedians who barely had to look at their scripts because they knew every line so well.
Milk was a bad choice.
Got it. "Anchorman" was kind of a big deal.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Hot Damn, Come Back Soon
Sometimes you gotta give back what wasn't yours in the first place.
Richmond's loss is Gainesville's, well, gain.
The lovely Julie Karr is returning home to Gainesville and tonight was her last show in Richmond.
So after a rainy day spent driving out to the Northern Neck and back, nothing sounded as appealing as a three-block walk to Gallery 5 for music.
I got there early enough to have to compete with an ear-splitting sound check to discuss a friend's cute new dresses and how to ride on bikes with them without, you know, flashing people.
Seems she's just discovered the glories of wearing a dress in the summertime and is trying to acquire them as rapidly as possible.
I've been doing the same for decades. Dresses are easy; no coordination required.
And speaking of coordination, first up was Hot Dolphin, and while I knew all the members in other bands, I'd never experienced this configuration.
The drummer came from the Diamond Center and the guitarist and bassist from Tyrannosaurus Awesome.
Out in front was Lindsey, dressed oh-so fetchingly in a "hot damn" t-shirt, shorts and a head scarf.
She. Never. Stopped. Dancing.
As if it wasn't enough to shake her scarf-tied tambourine and growl out garage pop, she kicked and pranced and jumped and danced to every song she sang.
By the third song, she ripped the cute scarf off her head and tossed it to the side of the stage.
Extra layer? Unnecessary.
When she said the next song owed a debt to Bo Diddley, audience-member Julie Karr yelled, "He lived in Gainesville!"
Gesturing with her hands, Lindsey humorously observed, "And it all comes full circle."
Cue Elton John music.
And now Julie is returning to the land of Bo Diddley.
As a friend pointed out, "I can't let myself be sad about Julie leaving, so I'll be angry that we're losing such a talented musician."
On Hot Dolphin's last song, "Animal," Lindsey exorcised her anger with more frenetic dancing, ending to big applause.
The next band took long enough to get set up that I walked outside to enjoy the lovely night air where drummer Tim looked half-melted sitting on the sidewalk having a cigarette post-set.
I couldn't help but admire that at nearly 9:15, the sky was still blue, not dark.
Summer is a beautiful thing.
I hadn't seen Little Master before, but a friend said she'd seen them and they'd done a Brian Eno cover, impressive enough for her to recall.
They played more covers tonight along with original stuff, but mostly I just watched the drummer's hands blur as he worked up a sweat keeping the requisite punk pop beat driving.
And sculpting nice arms.
By the time they finished, the show went into overdrive because the last band included Julie, our soon-to-depart songstress, and it had to be over by 11:00.
They chose to set up on the floor rather than on the stage, putting them in the middle of the crowd and making for a much more intimate vibe for their set.
Saying, "We're going to get started. I'm Bad and this is Magic," she gestured to Jimmy from White Laces on drums and Tim, whom we'd already seen, on bass.
If you never heard Julie sing during the years she was here, shame on you, because she's got a distinctively earthy voice unlike any other in this town.
I'd never seen her in this project, which was so straight-ahead rock that she was even playing an electric guitar, something I'd yet to see her do.
It's always been an acoustic.
But tonight the trio was going hard and sounding good and at one point she looked around and said, "There's not a single person here I don't recognize. Thank you all for coming."
This is the part where people were trying not to feel sad about her going to graduate school in Florida.
When she noticed how late it was getting she rearranged the remaining set list, saying, "We're crunching on time-age. We need to step it up."
Between songs, Tim told a joke about the difference between a rubber and a rattlesnake,
"Nothing, I don't want to f*ck with either," he deadpanned.
Ba-dum-bum.
Facing him with her guitar poised, Julie said, "As a soon-to-be health care professional, I say don't tell that joke again."
I don't know if you can tell Tim what to do, but she sure sounded serious.
Then it was back to the business of rocking as Bad Magic finished out their final set.
It felt a little emotional.
But everyone there wishes Julie nothing but the best, so the evening ended with many hugs and farewells.
But let's not focus on that. Better to focus on being mad at losing one of the really good ones.
If we're lucky, she'll cycle back through Richmond again someday.
Cause she's Bad.
Richmond's loss is Gainesville's, well, gain.
The lovely Julie Karr is returning home to Gainesville and tonight was her last show in Richmond.
So after a rainy day spent driving out to the Northern Neck and back, nothing sounded as appealing as a three-block walk to Gallery 5 for music.
I got there early enough to have to compete with an ear-splitting sound check to discuss a friend's cute new dresses and how to ride on bikes with them without, you know, flashing people.
Seems she's just discovered the glories of wearing a dress in the summertime and is trying to acquire them as rapidly as possible.
I've been doing the same for decades. Dresses are easy; no coordination required.
And speaking of coordination, first up was Hot Dolphin, and while I knew all the members in other bands, I'd never experienced this configuration.
The drummer came from the Diamond Center and the guitarist and bassist from Tyrannosaurus Awesome.
Out in front was Lindsey, dressed oh-so fetchingly in a "hot damn" t-shirt, shorts and a head scarf.
She. Never. Stopped. Dancing.
As if it wasn't enough to shake her scarf-tied tambourine and growl out garage pop, she kicked and pranced and jumped and danced to every song she sang.
By the third song, she ripped the cute scarf off her head and tossed it to the side of the stage.
Extra layer? Unnecessary.
When she said the next song owed a debt to Bo Diddley, audience-member Julie Karr yelled, "He lived in Gainesville!"
Gesturing with her hands, Lindsey humorously observed, "And it all comes full circle."
Cue Elton John music.
And now Julie is returning to the land of Bo Diddley.
As a friend pointed out, "I can't let myself be sad about Julie leaving, so I'll be angry that we're losing such a talented musician."
On Hot Dolphin's last song, "Animal," Lindsey exorcised her anger with more frenetic dancing, ending to big applause.
The next band took long enough to get set up that I walked outside to enjoy the lovely night air where drummer Tim looked half-melted sitting on the sidewalk having a cigarette post-set.
I couldn't help but admire that at nearly 9:15, the sky was still blue, not dark.
Summer is a beautiful thing.
I hadn't seen Little Master before, but a friend said she'd seen them and they'd done a Brian Eno cover, impressive enough for her to recall.
They played more covers tonight along with original stuff, but mostly I just watched the drummer's hands blur as he worked up a sweat keeping the requisite punk pop beat driving.
And sculpting nice arms.
By the time they finished, the show went into overdrive because the last band included Julie, our soon-to-depart songstress, and it had to be over by 11:00.
They chose to set up on the floor rather than on the stage, putting them in the middle of the crowd and making for a much more intimate vibe for their set.
Saying, "We're going to get started. I'm Bad and this is Magic," she gestured to Jimmy from White Laces on drums and Tim, whom we'd already seen, on bass.
If you never heard Julie sing during the years she was here, shame on you, because she's got a distinctively earthy voice unlike any other in this town.
I'd never seen her in this project, which was so straight-ahead rock that she was even playing an electric guitar, something I'd yet to see her do.
It's always been an acoustic.
But tonight the trio was going hard and sounding good and at one point she looked around and said, "There's not a single person here I don't recognize. Thank you all for coming."
This is the part where people were trying not to feel sad about her going to graduate school in Florida.
When she noticed how late it was getting she rearranged the remaining set list, saying, "We're crunching on time-age. We need to step it up."
Between songs, Tim told a joke about the difference between a rubber and a rattlesnake,
"Nothing, I don't want to f*ck with either," he deadpanned.
Ba-dum-bum.
Facing him with her guitar poised, Julie said, "As a soon-to-be health care professional, I say don't tell that joke again."
I don't know if you can tell Tim what to do, but she sure sounded serious.
Then it was back to the business of rocking as Bad Magic finished out their final set.
It felt a little emotional.
But everyone there wishes Julie nothing but the best, so the evening ended with many hugs and farewells.
But let's not focus on that. Better to focus on being mad at losing one of the really good ones.
If we're lucky, she'll cycle back through Richmond again someday.
Cause she's Bad.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Nights Go By
It was just as humid inside as out.
At least when I arrived, Ipanema was a tad sticky given the recent spate of thunderstorms, with a puddle near the front door that required jumping for entry.
It was just to keep out the un-worthy.
Inside, I took a prime bar stool for Live at Ipanema and watched as so many familiar faces rolled in.
The scientist, the poet, the beekeeper, the new mother. People kept coming in and so many of them I knew.
Everyone was in attendance because playing tonight was Jonathan Vassar who'd been tied up for a good long while, what with his new son and all.
But tonight the wee one was at home and he was all about the drinking and cigarette songs.
Starting with "Jefferson," a song he said he wrote when he was 20, it was an evening of his mournful voice and downbeat songs.
In other words, Jonathan Vassar perfection.
After the first song, he told us he was now 33, but had been "sirred" the other day, clearly a traumatic moment for him.
"I had on a skeleton t-shirt and jeans and this guy said 'sir' to me," he complained. His guess was that he had a "new dad" look that gave him away.
It happens to the best of us.
After doing several songs originally written in 2003, he told us about his hazardous day cleaning house.
Apparently it led to a burnt finger and a cut lip. "Everyday life is dangerous," he explained oh-so seriously.
He did several songs co-written with Grant Hunnicutt, like the evocative "Bay Bridge," about how even steel-clad structures can be moved.
"I'll tune because I'm a hot person to begin with," he said comically before realizing how that sounded.
At one point, he acknowledged his beaming wife, Antonia, saying, "Sitting over there is my lovely wife and next to her is Karen, who recently had a birthday, which she's probably still celebrating."
Affirmative nod from me.
"Happy birthday," he said before asking if there were any questions or comments.
Antonia had one.
"Is your set list written on a baby photo?"
Actually, it was written on a piece of paper sitting next to a photo of his son, he explained.
"Pass it around!" someone called and he smilingly obliged.
It was that kind of show, despite the drinking and cigarette songs.
"Days Go By" followed, with the memorable lyric, "That was the day I called you mine. Have you noticed how the days go by?"
Have I ever.
I wasn't sure what he meant when he said, "This is my Anousheh-dependent song. I wasn't going to play it unless she came," but when I saw Anousheh crying midway through, I understood.
He closed with the crowd favorite, "Catch Me if You Can," saying, "These were songs I wrote. I hope you like them."
We liked them so much we called for another, with the bartender calling the loudest, and he graciously sang one.
A warm basement on a wet summer night listening to an hour of sad songs sung beautifully.
Thank you, sir.
At least when I arrived, Ipanema was a tad sticky given the recent spate of thunderstorms, with a puddle near the front door that required jumping for entry.
It was just to keep out the un-worthy.
Inside, I took a prime bar stool for Live at Ipanema and watched as so many familiar faces rolled in.
The scientist, the poet, the beekeeper, the new mother. People kept coming in and so many of them I knew.
Everyone was in attendance because playing tonight was Jonathan Vassar who'd been tied up for a good long while, what with his new son and all.
But tonight the wee one was at home and he was all about the drinking and cigarette songs.
Starting with "Jefferson," a song he said he wrote when he was 20, it was an evening of his mournful voice and downbeat songs.
In other words, Jonathan Vassar perfection.
After the first song, he told us he was now 33, but had been "sirred" the other day, clearly a traumatic moment for him.
"I had on a skeleton t-shirt and jeans and this guy said 'sir' to me," he complained. His guess was that he had a "new dad" look that gave him away.
It happens to the best of us.
After doing several songs originally written in 2003, he told us about his hazardous day cleaning house.
Apparently it led to a burnt finger and a cut lip. "Everyday life is dangerous," he explained oh-so seriously.
He did several songs co-written with Grant Hunnicutt, like the evocative "Bay Bridge," about how even steel-clad structures can be moved.
"I'll tune because I'm a hot person to begin with," he said comically before realizing how that sounded.
At one point, he acknowledged his beaming wife, Antonia, saying, "Sitting over there is my lovely wife and next to her is Karen, who recently had a birthday, which she's probably still celebrating."
Affirmative nod from me.
"Happy birthday," he said before asking if there were any questions or comments.
Antonia had one.
"Is your set list written on a baby photo?"
Actually, it was written on a piece of paper sitting next to a photo of his son, he explained.
"Pass it around!" someone called and he smilingly obliged.
It was that kind of show, despite the drinking and cigarette songs.
"Days Go By" followed, with the memorable lyric, "That was the day I called you mine. Have you noticed how the days go by?"
Have I ever.
I wasn't sure what he meant when he said, "This is my Anousheh-dependent song. I wasn't going to play it unless she came," but when I saw Anousheh crying midway through, I understood.
He closed with the crowd favorite, "Catch Me if You Can," saying, "These were songs I wrote. I hope you like them."
We liked them so much we called for another, with the bartender calling the loudest, and he graciously sang one.
A warm basement on a wet summer night listening to an hour of sad songs sung beautifully.
Thank you, sir.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Broadly Appetizing
Broad Appetit is the new Watermelon Festival.
And by that, I mean in the same way that the Watermelon Fest is guaranteed to be a disgustingly hot day in August, Broad Appetit requires an ungodly hot and sunny day in June.
Which would be fine if I were on my shaded balcony but less fine walking the asphalt of Broad Street.
But how can I ignore a food festival two blocks from my house?
What I can do is go early before massive body heat is added to the existing conditions.
The unwritten rule is that I do one lap around before buying any food.
We call this the "scoping out" part.
My eye was caught by Poor Georgie's Bakery because I saw something blue.
It turned out to be blue velvet cake, but then I noticed divorce cake...made with bittersweet chocolate.
Humor and heat.
I stopped at Field of Dreams' Farm when I saw jars of jam.
Here was a cheerleader for local farmers, a guy who gathers up what farmers have and brings it in to the city to sell five days a week.
He insisted I taste one of his farm-ripe peaches, insisting that it was ripe even though it didn't feel like it.
I took a bite and was surprised at how pure the peach taste was.
But, because I am allergic to peaches, I handed off the rest of it to a guy standing next to me admiring Cumberland County squash.
And I bought a quart of apple butter, to be picked up later.
Stopped cold by the couple in front of me at the Mama J's Kitchen booth, I listened as she read the offerings, a $3 plate, a $5 plate and finally a $7 plate.
Catfish nuggets, three sides and dessert for $7, she read to him.
Why didn't they just put that one at the top of the chalkboard, I asked to much laughter.
"Seriously," the woman said. "Who wouldn't want it all?"
I made it 2/3 of the way around the loop before caving and buying food.
The game changer was Chez Foushee's boudin balls, dirty rice mixed with pulled pork and deep fried with a white remoulade.
I was right to break my rule because they were out of this world.
It was getting uncomfortably hot by then unless you were in the shade, so I stopped by Balliceaux to get one of mixologist's Sean's Carny Coolers.
May have been the first time he's ever handed me something non-alcoholic.
The cooler was made from watermelon and lime and served with jalapeno cotton candy, which added a bit of heat at the end of the refreshing but not sweet drink.
At Magpie's booth, I joined the line for smoked crab with jalapeno oil and corn nuts.
Amour was offering a three-course delight of foie gras creme brulee, a vegetable creme brulee with coconut on top and chocolate sea salt cream brulee.
Holy cow.
Lehja's line was long but on my second pass slightly shorter, so I got sea bass with mango salad and marveled at the generous portion.
Although I'd come alone, friends had hoped to find me ("I will look for your legs - might be easier to recognize you") and hook up for some comparative eating, but I never ran into them.
But I did run into a friend and her hound (about to share her catfish nuggets with him), a friend and his be-hatted main squeeze ("I saw you honk at the girl making the illegal U-turn on Grove the other day") and a woman whose past was awkwardly entangled with mine long ago and whom I hadn't seen in probably seven years.
After asking if I could hug her, we chatted for far longer than either of us would have probably expected.
It was one of those satisfyingly karmic moments when old wrongs are righted and it made my day.
After collecting my apple butter from the farmer, I headed back towards home.
A woman in front of me turned to her friends, all eating as they walked.
"This is one of those times I love Richmond," she said, still chewing.
Get on board, ladies.
For me, Broad Appetit is yet another one of those times I love Richmond.
It's as lovable every day as you want it to be.
And by that, I mean in the same way that the Watermelon Fest is guaranteed to be a disgustingly hot day in August, Broad Appetit requires an ungodly hot and sunny day in June.
Which would be fine if I were on my shaded balcony but less fine walking the asphalt of Broad Street.
But how can I ignore a food festival two blocks from my house?
What I can do is go early before massive body heat is added to the existing conditions.
The unwritten rule is that I do one lap around before buying any food.
We call this the "scoping out" part.
My eye was caught by Poor Georgie's Bakery because I saw something blue.
It turned out to be blue velvet cake, but then I noticed divorce cake...made with bittersweet chocolate.
Humor and heat.
I stopped at Field of Dreams' Farm when I saw jars of jam.
Here was a cheerleader for local farmers, a guy who gathers up what farmers have and brings it in to the city to sell five days a week.
He insisted I taste one of his farm-ripe peaches, insisting that it was ripe even though it didn't feel like it.
I took a bite and was surprised at how pure the peach taste was.
But, because I am allergic to peaches, I handed off the rest of it to a guy standing next to me admiring Cumberland County squash.
And I bought a quart of apple butter, to be picked up later.
Stopped cold by the couple in front of me at the Mama J's Kitchen booth, I listened as she read the offerings, a $3 plate, a $5 plate and finally a $7 plate.
Catfish nuggets, three sides and dessert for $7, she read to him.
Why didn't they just put that one at the top of the chalkboard, I asked to much laughter.
"Seriously," the woman said. "Who wouldn't want it all?"
I made it 2/3 of the way around the loop before caving and buying food.
The game changer was Chez Foushee's boudin balls, dirty rice mixed with pulled pork and deep fried with a white remoulade.
I was right to break my rule because they were out of this world.
It was getting uncomfortably hot by then unless you were in the shade, so I stopped by Balliceaux to get one of mixologist's Sean's Carny Coolers.
May have been the first time he's ever handed me something non-alcoholic.
The cooler was made from watermelon and lime and served with jalapeno cotton candy, which added a bit of heat at the end of the refreshing but not sweet drink.
At Magpie's booth, I joined the line for smoked crab with jalapeno oil and corn nuts.
Amour was offering a three-course delight of foie gras creme brulee, a vegetable creme brulee with coconut on top and chocolate sea salt cream brulee.
Holy cow.
Lehja's line was long but on my second pass slightly shorter, so I got sea bass with mango salad and marveled at the generous portion.
Although I'd come alone, friends had hoped to find me ("I will look for your legs - might be easier to recognize you") and hook up for some comparative eating, but I never ran into them.
But I did run into a friend and her hound (about to share her catfish nuggets with him), a friend and his be-hatted main squeeze ("I saw you honk at the girl making the illegal U-turn on Grove the other day") and a woman whose past was awkwardly entangled with mine long ago and whom I hadn't seen in probably seven years.
After asking if I could hug her, we chatted for far longer than either of us would have probably expected.
It was one of those satisfyingly karmic moments when old wrongs are righted and it made my day.
After collecting my apple butter from the farmer, I headed back towards home.
A woman in front of me turned to her friends, all eating as they walked.
"This is one of those times I love Richmond," she said, still chewing.
Get on board, ladies.
For me, Broad Appetit is yet another one of those times I love Richmond.
It's as lovable every day as you want it to be.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Upon a Midnight Pillow
It was exactly as I liked it.
A talented group of actors were putting on a Shakespeare play at Sycamore Rouge in Petersburg.
The room was small, the admission was free and none of the actors knew what play or role they'd have until they showed up at the theater.
Hell, the audience didn't even find out until 60 seconds before the play began.
Answer: "As You Like It," which I'd last seen in March of 2012.
Three of us drove down soul-sucking I-95 in time to get seats, but not all together.
And that's why we have discussions after the play is over.
What passions put these weights upon my tongue?
There were plenty of contemporary touches - a servant taking pictures with his cell phone, two ladies repeatedly high-fiving each other- and plenty of ad-libbing.
"He's an old one," quipped Orlando as his ancient servant Adam slowly trundled off stage. "He needs time."
Costumes were based on suggestions from the director, Adam Mincks, so we saw one character in shiny, yellow gym shorts with a matching headband, another with sideburns attached to the chin strap on his hat and a priest in a robe that looked more like a dress your aunt wore in the '70s.
Beauty provokes thieves sooner than gold.
There was a good amount of singing, sometimes to "Greensleeves" and sometimes to the theme from "Gilligan's Island" with a last minute ad-lib of "Mary Ann was hot" for those paying attention.
If I was a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me.
The play was funny because, well, Shakespeare wrote comedy well, but also because the actors took every opportunity to milk their lines for everything they could.
And why shouldn't they?
If you can't mug for a devoted Shakespeare-loving audience on a Saturday night, you may as well hang up your couplets.
I was just thrilled to sit in the front row and watch the spit fly. And for free.
Fortune reigns in gifts of the world. True story.
A talented group of actors were putting on a Shakespeare play at Sycamore Rouge in Petersburg.
The room was small, the admission was free and none of the actors knew what play or role they'd have until they showed up at the theater.
Hell, the audience didn't even find out until 60 seconds before the play began.
Answer: "As You Like It," which I'd last seen in March of 2012.
Three of us drove down soul-sucking I-95 in time to get seats, but not all together.
And that's why we have discussions after the play is over.
What passions put these weights upon my tongue?
There were plenty of contemporary touches - a servant taking pictures with his cell phone, two ladies repeatedly high-fiving each other- and plenty of ad-libbing.
"He's an old one," quipped Orlando as his ancient servant Adam slowly trundled off stage. "He needs time."
Costumes were based on suggestions from the director, Adam Mincks, so we saw one character in shiny, yellow gym shorts with a matching headband, another with sideburns attached to the chin strap on his hat and a priest in a robe that looked more like a dress your aunt wore in the '70s.
Beauty provokes thieves sooner than gold.
There was a good amount of singing, sometimes to "Greensleeves" and sometimes to the theme from "Gilligan's Island" with a last minute ad-lib of "Mary Ann was hot" for those paying attention.
If I was a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me.
The play was funny because, well, Shakespeare wrote comedy well, but also because the actors took every opportunity to milk their lines for everything they could.
And why shouldn't they?
If you can't mug for a devoted Shakespeare-loving audience on a Saturday night, you may as well hang up your couplets.
I was just thrilled to sit in the front row and watch the spit fly. And for free.
Fortune reigns in gifts of the world. True story.
Shaken, Not Stirred
The film was fun and the eater was gross.
Since I'd never seen the first Bond movie, "Dr. No," much less on the big screen, I was once again seduced by Movies & Mimosas at Movieland.
Honestly, I expected it to be crowded, but the ticket seller told me I was only the eighth person to go in.
So at least I got a great seat.
I settled in to admire a young Sean Connery (relatively speaking, anyway, he was 33) and the beautiful Jamaica location shots.
It was maybe ten or fifteen minutes into the movie when a big guy lumbered in, his hands laden with food and drink.
He sat down (naturally) two seats away from me and took a few minutes getting settled in, even standing up to remove his jacket despite the movie being in progress.
All at once I heard a sound like a buzz saw and looked over to see him eating so fast and furiously that he was making a continuous noise scarfing and chewing.
No kidding, he was making it difficult to hear the dialog.
I couldn't see what he was eating but soon that sound stopped and he slurped down his drink in one fell swoop.
The good news was things were quiet in my row again.
A couple of minutes later, he got up and left.
What the hell?
Moneypenny! What gives?
Me, given an ounce of encouragement.
Since I hadn't seen the old Bond movies, I found it charming to see the source of all the cliches and catchphrases now associated with Bond.
Are you looking for shells, too?
No, I'm just looking.
Of course, he was looking at Honey Ryder in that bikini copied years later for Halle Berry, but what struck me was how different Ursula Andress' body was than Halle's or any ideal woman's today.
No sculpted arms, no washboard abs, just soft curves and the firmness of youth.
Bond also showed his inner oenophile, stating that he preferred the '53 Dom Perignon over Dr. No's coveted '55.
I'd happily take either.
I'd also take Ursula's body or an evening with Bond.
When the movie ended and I got up to leave, I saw what the big guy had left in his wake.
The floor was strewn with empty boxes, bags, napkins and cups.
It looked like a family of four had been eating there.
I can forgive the guy his gluttony, but how he left before Bondtook off his clothes saved the U.S. space program, I'll never understand.
To paraphrase a friend, that was a good-looking hunk of 37-year old man meat.
An ounce of encouragement? Shoot, it wouldn't have taken me a gram.
Since I'd never seen the first Bond movie, "Dr. No," much less on the big screen, I was once again seduced by Movies & Mimosas at Movieland.
Honestly, I expected it to be crowded, but the ticket seller told me I was only the eighth person to go in.
So at least I got a great seat.
I settled in to admire a young Sean Connery (relatively speaking, anyway, he was 33) and the beautiful Jamaica location shots.
It was maybe ten or fifteen minutes into the movie when a big guy lumbered in, his hands laden with food and drink.
He sat down (naturally) two seats away from me and took a few minutes getting settled in, even standing up to remove his jacket despite the movie being in progress.
All at once I heard a sound like a buzz saw and looked over to see him eating so fast and furiously that he was making a continuous noise scarfing and chewing.
No kidding, he was making it difficult to hear the dialog.
I couldn't see what he was eating but soon that sound stopped and he slurped down his drink in one fell swoop.
The good news was things were quiet in my row again.
A couple of minutes later, he got up and left.
What the hell?
Moneypenny! What gives?
Me, given an ounce of encouragement.
Since I hadn't seen the old Bond movies, I found it charming to see the source of all the cliches and catchphrases now associated with Bond.
Are you looking for shells, too?
No, I'm just looking.
Of course, he was looking at Honey Ryder in that bikini copied years later for Halle Berry, but what struck me was how different Ursula Andress' body was than Halle's or any ideal woman's today.
No sculpted arms, no washboard abs, just soft curves and the firmness of youth.
Bond also showed his inner oenophile, stating that he preferred the '53 Dom Perignon over Dr. No's coveted '55.
I'd happily take either.
I'd also take Ursula's body or an evening with Bond.
When the movie ended and I got up to leave, I saw what the big guy had left in his wake.
The floor was strewn with empty boxes, bags, napkins and cups.
It looked like a family of four had been eating there.
I can forgive the guy his gluttony, but how he left before Bond
To paraphrase a friend, that was a good-looking hunk of 37-year old man meat.
An ounce of encouragement? Shoot, it wouldn't have taken me a gram.
Blame it on Paree
It was all about the girls tonight.
Stop one was Magpie to meet a friend who's a week away from leaving for Paris.
As she joked, it's the trip of a lifetime in many ways, deserving toasting with Tiamo Prosecco, which tasted of apricots and bubbles.
We were the first customers in and the bartender jumped into our chat about Paris, bringing in experiences from his own trip there.
It was a good reminder that even when barkeeps act like they're not listening, they're listening.
Our amuse bouche of a blackberry with bourbon gelee and a mint sauce sparked a discussion about bourbon, aided by the chef's hat which touted Smooth Ambler.
As a bourbon lover, my friend asked to the sniff the bottle of West Virginia-made spirits afterwards, promising herself that she'd bring bourbon to Paris.
But for tonight, we moved on to Le Saint Andre Rose, a lovely salmon-colored rose that tasted like wild strawberries.
Since it was happy hour, we jumped into some happy hour food, namely duck liver mousse with scallion pesto (liver and onions, yum!), seafood sausage of scallop, bacon and snapper with chevre and pear butter and a dish of Virginia crab with pickled onion, jalapeno/corn relish and country ham vinaigrette (lumps of crabs the size of my thumb, yes, please).
At one point, my friend looked at me and wryly observed, "He thinks we're having Costco potpies for dinner tonight!" about her husband.
My guess is, he might still be, but she sure wasn't after that spread.
I heard about all the places in Paris she wants to visit - the Musee d'Orsay, Cherbourg, Luxembourg Gardens- and how she's been given explicit instructions about how to dress.
Seems that her worldly sister is concerned that she won't fit in and has directed her to wear nothing but black (and positively no shorts ever).
She's now been warned of this not once, but twice.
Knowing what a troublemaker she likes to be, I can just about bet the farm that she'll wear/say/do something that annoys the friend and sister who've been trying to ensure she falls into line.
I can't wait to hear the stories when she gets back.
But she's also a talented artist, so I inquired if she planned to bring a sketchbook with her to capture whatever she might.
Fortunately, they haven't told her she can't sketch in Paris.
By the time we finished talking about all the important stuff, it was still early evening and she was off to her husband while I made my way to another girlfriend's house.
She was ready for me with Le Ferme Julien Rose and a host of questions not answered on my blog.
I heard how she was all but out of white wine due to a neighbor who persists in dropping by to "borrow" a bottle of wine on an alarmingly regular basis.
Me, I'd laugh at a neighbor who was so bold, but she's far kinder.
But all great conversations must come to an end when it's culture time, so eventually, we got in the car to go to Criterion to see "Frances Ha."
I'd read more than a few good reviews of director Noah Baumbach's black and white take on a 27-year old dancer's attempts at creating an adult life.
It centered on those post-college years when people are desperately trying to become adults while still making irresponsible decisions and having no clue about how to move forward.
Those bygone days of living with roommates, never making enough money and wondering if you'll ever meet The One.
On the plus side, by the time you reach a certain age (say, mine) you no longer have to live with roommates.
Enough said.
As the film unfolds, we see each of Frances' ever-changing addresses, including one in NYC on Catherine Street, significant only because I live a block from Catherine Street.
Interestingly enough, Frances takes a weekend trip to Paris (probably some of the film's saddest, if most picaresque, scenes), making me even more envious of my friend's upcoming trip.
Fortunately, she's not going alone.
But the best part of having a favorite girlfriend going off to Paris?
I know she'll come back with tales of art and gardens, meals and wine, adventures and people and hopefully of behaving exactly how she wants to behave.
And if she makes some irresponsible decisions, all I can say is, I can't wait to hear the stories.
Stop one was Magpie to meet a friend who's a week away from leaving for Paris.
As she joked, it's the trip of a lifetime in many ways, deserving toasting with Tiamo Prosecco, which tasted of apricots and bubbles.
We were the first customers in and the bartender jumped into our chat about Paris, bringing in experiences from his own trip there.
It was a good reminder that even when barkeeps act like they're not listening, they're listening.
Our amuse bouche of a blackberry with bourbon gelee and a mint sauce sparked a discussion about bourbon, aided by the chef's hat which touted Smooth Ambler.
As a bourbon lover, my friend asked to the sniff the bottle of West Virginia-made spirits afterwards, promising herself that she'd bring bourbon to Paris.
But for tonight, we moved on to Le Saint Andre Rose, a lovely salmon-colored rose that tasted like wild strawberries.
Since it was happy hour, we jumped into some happy hour food, namely duck liver mousse with scallion pesto (liver and onions, yum!), seafood sausage of scallop, bacon and snapper with chevre and pear butter and a dish of Virginia crab with pickled onion, jalapeno/corn relish and country ham vinaigrette (lumps of crabs the size of my thumb, yes, please).
At one point, my friend looked at me and wryly observed, "He thinks we're having Costco potpies for dinner tonight!" about her husband.
My guess is, he might still be, but she sure wasn't after that spread.
I heard about all the places in Paris she wants to visit - the Musee d'Orsay, Cherbourg, Luxembourg Gardens- and how she's been given explicit instructions about how to dress.
Seems that her worldly sister is concerned that she won't fit in and has directed her to wear nothing but black (and positively no shorts ever).
She's now been warned of this not once, but twice.
Knowing what a troublemaker she likes to be, I can just about bet the farm that she'll wear/say/do something that annoys the friend and sister who've been trying to ensure she falls into line.
I can't wait to hear the stories when she gets back.
But she's also a talented artist, so I inquired if she planned to bring a sketchbook with her to capture whatever she might.
Fortunately, they haven't told her she can't sketch in Paris.
By the time we finished talking about all the important stuff, it was still early evening and she was off to her husband while I made my way to another girlfriend's house.
She was ready for me with Le Ferme Julien Rose and a host of questions not answered on my blog.
I heard how she was all but out of white wine due to a neighbor who persists in dropping by to "borrow" a bottle of wine on an alarmingly regular basis.
Me, I'd laugh at a neighbor who was so bold, but she's far kinder.
But all great conversations must come to an end when it's culture time, so eventually, we got in the car to go to Criterion to see "Frances Ha."
I'd read more than a few good reviews of director Noah Baumbach's black and white take on a 27-year old dancer's attempts at creating an adult life.
It centered on those post-college years when people are desperately trying to become adults while still making irresponsible decisions and having no clue about how to move forward.
Those bygone days of living with roommates, never making enough money and wondering if you'll ever meet The One.
On the plus side, by the time you reach a certain age (say, mine) you no longer have to live with roommates.
Enough said.
As the film unfolds, we see each of Frances' ever-changing addresses, including one in NYC on Catherine Street, significant only because I live a block from Catherine Street.
Interestingly enough, Frances takes a weekend trip to Paris (probably some of the film's saddest, if most picaresque, scenes), making me even more envious of my friend's upcoming trip.
Fortunately, she's not going alone.
But the best part of having a favorite girlfriend going off to Paris?
I know she'll come back with tales of art and gardens, meals and wine, adventures and people and hopefully of behaving exactly how she wants to behave.
And if she makes some irresponsible decisions, all I can say is, I can't wait to hear the stories.
Friday, May 31, 2013
21st Century Birthday
The Gemini celebration train rolls on.
In honor of a friend's birthday a few days ago, we were meeting at the VMFA for gallery-walking and lunch.
Despite the fact that I'm at the museum almost every week, the birthday girl doesn't have that kind of free time. So we began in the 20th century galleries, allowing her time to take in the Wyeths, the Hoppers and Hartleys with which I'm so familiar.
The treat for me came when we got to the 21st century galleries because, despite having been in them several times, it had been a while and there were plenty of new additions since my last visit.
But the main wow factor came from who I was seeing on the walls of the VMFA. People I've met and people who live here in Richmond. A photograph by Georgianne Stinnett, with whom I'd shared cheese, salami and an afternoon of conversation during a thunderstorm.
Siemon Allen, whose exhibit at the Anderson Gallery, "Imagining South Africa: Collection Projects" had turned me on to this south African record collector. Gordon Stettinius, owner of Candela Gallery, whom I'd interviewed and heard about the very photographic series hanging on the walls in front of me. Heide Trepannier, the artist whose distinctive works continue to impress with new shows at Reynolds Gallery.
None of these were hanging in the 21st century galleries last time I'd been through. Which just goes to show, I can be there every week of my life and never keep up with the array of creativity on the walls.
Sated intellectually, we headed upstairs to Amuse where not one, but two, servers asked me within 90 seconds if they should get me some absinthe.
I may have a reputation there.
Instead, we stayed chaste with a lovely ladies' lunch of Manakintowne salads (dates, chickpeas, almonds, pea shoots, champagne vinaigrette) and a big bowl of mussels with Surry sausage. While I wasn't availing myself of the green fairy, the bartender was kind enough to pass on information about the Wormwood Society, a group for people like me, apparently.
We talked about what makes couples we know compatible and the proximity of Languedoc to Catalan. And ultimately, because this was a birthday celebration, we finished with chocolate pate, albeit without anything appropriate to drink with it.
Still, some birthdays are special because of what else is going on for the celebrant and this is one of those years for her. Me, I just take the celebrations wherever I can get them, absinthe or not.
And the art was out of this world.
In honor of a friend's birthday a few days ago, we were meeting at the VMFA for gallery-walking and lunch.
Despite the fact that I'm at the museum almost every week, the birthday girl doesn't have that kind of free time. So we began in the 20th century galleries, allowing her time to take in the Wyeths, the Hoppers and Hartleys with which I'm so familiar.
The treat for me came when we got to the 21st century galleries because, despite having been in them several times, it had been a while and there were plenty of new additions since my last visit.
But the main wow factor came from who I was seeing on the walls of the VMFA. People I've met and people who live here in Richmond. A photograph by Georgianne Stinnett, with whom I'd shared cheese, salami and an afternoon of conversation during a thunderstorm.
Siemon Allen, whose exhibit at the Anderson Gallery, "Imagining South Africa: Collection Projects" had turned me on to this south African record collector. Gordon Stettinius, owner of Candela Gallery, whom I'd interviewed and heard about the very photographic series hanging on the walls in front of me. Heide Trepannier, the artist whose distinctive works continue to impress with new shows at Reynolds Gallery.
None of these were hanging in the 21st century galleries last time I'd been through. Which just goes to show, I can be there every week of my life and never keep up with the array of creativity on the walls.
Sated intellectually, we headed upstairs to Amuse where not one, but two, servers asked me within 90 seconds if they should get me some absinthe.
I may have a reputation there.
Instead, we stayed chaste with a lovely ladies' lunch of Manakintowne salads (dates, chickpeas, almonds, pea shoots, champagne vinaigrette) and a big bowl of mussels with Surry sausage. While I wasn't availing myself of the green fairy, the bartender was kind enough to pass on information about the Wormwood Society, a group for people like me, apparently.
We talked about what makes couples we know compatible and the proximity of Languedoc to Catalan. And ultimately, because this was a birthday celebration, we finished with chocolate pate, albeit without anything appropriate to drink with it.
Still, some birthdays are special because of what else is going on for the celebrant and this is one of those years for her. Me, I just take the celebrations wherever I can get them, absinthe or not.
And the art was out of this world.
Music Math
It was my kind of musical equation.
Take a band showing all kinds of influences I love - Muse, Interpol, maybe even a little Radiohead- and add in a personable local singer of whom I've been a fan for at least five years and, voila, you get a band tailor-made for me.
Those Manic Seas was a three-piece (nattily dressed in shirts, ties and suspenders) with a twist.
Their lead singer wasn't a real person.
Instead, a TV was mounted atop a mannequin and the singer's face and voice were on TV.
It only took me a minute to recognize the face from my seat atop the back banquette, and I'm sure my delayed recognition was partly due to the way he was singing.
Usually Ben plays the sensitive type when singing and tonight his vocal delivery had far more of an edge.
Because the music kicked ass in a post-punk kind of way.
Suddenly I saw Ben in the crowd, clearly having a good time watching himself sing on TV and he spotted me.
He came over to say hi, a big grin on his face.
"You didn't know I was in every band in town, did you?" he joked.
Well, clearly I hadn't known he was in this one.
Being the nosy type, I had to know how it worked to be singing in a band when you don't actually sing onstage, so I asked.
Turns out the band writes the music and then it's his job to put lyrics to it and sing it on camera.
I told him I was amazed to see him seeing in a way so unlike all the other ways I've heard him.
"It is a challenge for me," he admitted.
That said, if he hadn't told me that, I wouldn't have known it didn't come easily to him.
In between songs, the screen went to static, only to return when the sinuous Interpol-like guitars kicked up again.
By the last song, Ben's face onscreen no longer had the beard he'd had in all the other songs.
Artistic statement or unrelated razor incident? We'll never know.
During the break, a couple of friends came over, all as impressed with the band's sound as I'd been.
We agreed that it's always a treat to hear a new local band for the first time.
The headliners were Snowy Owls, a long-time favorite of mine with the talented Dave Watkins doing groovy light projections for them.
Leader Matt looked different; his hair keeps getting longer but now his beard was gone.
A hirsute trade-off, perhaps?
Announcing, "We're going to play some classic rock," the quartet began a spot-on set of shoegaze.
"Who's ready for summer?" Matt asked of the Thursday night audience before delivering three of the four new summer songs from their upcoming EP.
The shimmery, summery songs were exactly what I want the soundtrack to my summer to sound like.
If my summer turns out as good as those songs, I'm golden.
"This next one is more peppy," Matt said, bringing me out of my summer reverie and back to songs that had him shredding while his hair swung around his face.
They closed with the killer, reverb-laden track "Yr Eyes" while I stood on the banquette for one last view of these guys playing before the evening ended.
Long-time favorite band plus three new songs to herald the recently-arrived summer season equals my second satisfying musical equation of the night.
So my kind of math.
Take a band showing all kinds of influences I love - Muse, Interpol, maybe even a little Radiohead- and add in a personable local singer of whom I've been a fan for at least five years and, voila, you get a band tailor-made for me.
Those Manic Seas was a three-piece (nattily dressed in shirts, ties and suspenders) with a twist.
Their lead singer wasn't a real person.
Instead, a TV was mounted atop a mannequin and the singer's face and voice were on TV.
It only took me a minute to recognize the face from my seat atop the back banquette, and I'm sure my delayed recognition was partly due to the way he was singing.
Usually Ben plays the sensitive type when singing and tonight his vocal delivery had far more of an edge.
Because the music kicked ass in a post-punk kind of way.
Suddenly I saw Ben in the crowd, clearly having a good time watching himself sing on TV and he spotted me.
He came over to say hi, a big grin on his face.
"You didn't know I was in every band in town, did you?" he joked.
Well, clearly I hadn't known he was in this one.
Being the nosy type, I had to know how it worked to be singing in a band when you don't actually sing onstage, so I asked.
Turns out the band writes the music and then it's his job to put lyrics to it and sing it on camera.
I told him I was amazed to see him seeing in a way so unlike all the other ways I've heard him.
"It is a challenge for me," he admitted.
That said, if he hadn't told me that, I wouldn't have known it didn't come easily to him.
In between songs, the screen went to static, only to return when the sinuous Interpol-like guitars kicked up again.
By the last song, Ben's face onscreen no longer had the beard he'd had in all the other songs.
Artistic statement or unrelated razor incident? We'll never know.
During the break, a couple of friends came over, all as impressed with the band's sound as I'd been.
We agreed that it's always a treat to hear a new local band for the first time.
The headliners were Snowy Owls, a long-time favorite of mine with the talented Dave Watkins doing groovy light projections for them.
Leader Matt looked different; his hair keeps getting longer but now his beard was gone.
A hirsute trade-off, perhaps?
Announcing, "We're going to play some classic rock," the quartet began a spot-on set of shoegaze.
"Who's ready for summer?" Matt asked of the Thursday night audience before delivering three of the four new summer songs from their upcoming EP.
The shimmery, summery songs were exactly what I want the soundtrack to my summer to sound like.
If my summer turns out as good as those songs, I'm golden.
"This next one is more peppy," Matt said, bringing me out of my summer reverie and back to songs that had him shredding while his hair swung around his face.
They closed with the killer, reverb-laden track "Yr Eyes" while I stood on the banquette for one last view of these guys playing before the evening ended.
Long-time favorite band plus three new songs to herald the recently-arrived summer season equals my second satisfying musical equation of the night.
So my kind of math.
We'll Make Great Pets
Is it time for our annual (or is it semi-annual or tri-annual or something) catch-up-on-what's been going-on-lunch? Does seem like it's been a while.
That's how I ended up at lunch today with an old friend.
We'd met in 1992 when I was working at a radio station and he had co-authored a book with a co-worker.
Back then, he'd suggested we date but it only took one to realize we were better friend material than daters.
I recall he'd made me a cassette tape of Porno for Pyros "Pets" album, telling me then, "Based on their name, I thought they sounded weird enough for you."
At this stage of our friendship, we meet up whenever it occurs to him that it's been too long since we last met.
I got to Garnett's first and was at a table when he came in, took a seat at the counter and told the server he was waiting for a friend.
Apparently it had been long enough that he didn't recognize my back anymore.
He claimed it was my haircut that threw him off.
Over salads for lunch (he informed me he's on a diet that rules out processed foods and sugar), we reminisced about what an incredibly long-ago time ago was 1992, the year we met.
He asked his requisite question ("Do you have a cell phone yet?") and we got off on a tangent about people being out together but on their phones.
He tried to convince me that the beauty of having a cell phone is that when your lunch date is going to be late, they can let you know.
Here's the thing. When my lunch date doesn't show up on time, I realize they're going to be late.
And if they never show up, I just eat lunch without them.
Just proves he was right about how weird I am.
That's how I ended up at lunch today with an old friend.
We'd met in 1992 when I was working at a radio station and he had co-authored a book with a co-worker.
Back then, he'd suggested we date but it only took one to realize we were better friend material than daters.
I recall he'd made me a cassette tape of Porno for Pyros "Pets" album, telling me then, "Based on their name, I thought they sounded weird enough for you."
At this stage of our friendship, we meet up whenever it occurs to him that it's been too long since we last met.
I got to Garnett's first and was at a table when he came in, took a seat at the counter and told the server he was waiting for a friend.
Apparently it had been long enough that he didn't recognize my back anymore.
He claimed it was my haircut that threw him off.
Over salads for lunch (he informed me he's on a diet that rules out processed foods and sugar), we reminisced about what an incredibly long-ago time ago was 1992, the year we met.
He asked his requisite question ("Do you have a cell phone yet?") and we got off on a tangent about people being out together but on their phones.
He tried to convince me that the beauty of having a cell phone is that when your lunch date is going to be late, they can let you know.
Here's the thing. When my lunch date doesn't show up on time, I realize they're going to be late.
And if they never show up, I just eat lunch without them.
Just proves he was right about how weird I am.
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