Anti-Social Behavior

It's not often two people insist on taking my picture.

A day that began with breakfast at Joe's Inn ended at Camden's for an "oyster informal," an evening of bubbles and bivalves.

With a reservation for three, we entered to find lots of people already indulging, so we claimed three bar stools and a bottle of champagne.

Over the course of the next few hours, I enjoyed Anderson's Neck oysters on the half shell and roasted with spinach, cheese and bacon.

There's really no way I won't eat these things.

No surprise, I talked to everyone I could find - the guy who'd just been down to New Orleans for his anniversary, the new Mom who had to leave before she finished eating, the tunic-wearer who'd matched her outfit to her lipstick.

I met a Saints fan, talked to a guy who thought fried chicken and champagne were the perfect pairing (agreed) and a woman who hated oysters but came anyway.

Meanwhile the Anderson's Neck people shucked non-stop and we ate pretty much at the same rate.

A friend had wanted to join me this evening until a nest of wasps had attacked her yesterday, but I'd promised to eat oysters and drink bubbly in her honor since she couldn't.

"Thank you for falling on that sword for me. XXXOXX," she'd written from her swollen bedside.

The music had begun with the Replacements and stayed in that era for the most part (R.E.M., Echo and the Bunnymen, Joy Division, the Cure), keeping things lively if a tad old-school and eventually working its way around, appropriately, to solo Paul Westerburg.

Do you remember me long ago
I used to wear my heart on my sleeve
I guess it still shows

My little group switched to Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace brut not long before the focus of the evening changed from bivalves to football.

Since the Redskins were playing the Cowboys, the plan was for those so inclined to stick around after the oyster informal and eat wings and watch large men crash into each other.

As an extra incentive, anyone who wore a Redskins jersey got their first half dozen wings for free.

Well, you didn't think I was going to pass up an opportunity for free food, did you?

Negative. I'd made sure to borrow a Mark Rypien jersey (Redskins quarterback 1986-93), putting it on post-oysters and pre-game.

The friend on my right immediately exclaimed, "I need to take a picture!" followed by another woman at the end of the bar saying the same thing. Say cheese.

You'd think it was a big deal for me to wear a football jersey or something.

My wings arrived shortly thereafter with what my friend called the best blue cheese dressing she'd ever inhaled.

And she should know because she ate all of ours and most of what belonged to the guy next to me as well (he offered it up, having eaten two celery sticks, his quota he said).

The wings were every bit as good as the killer dressing and we polished them off in short order, only to watch the Skins fall to the Cowboys.

Not my fault, I did my part. I wore the jersey and unfortunately, now there's a picture of me to prove it.

That's the last time I'll wear my heart team on my sleeve jersey.

Walk This Way

When it comes to bartering, just pay me in food.

A friend had asked me to take him to his first Folk Fest and I'd obliged.

It wasn't my first time playing tour guide to a FF virgin and one year (2011) I'd escorted two (on separate nights).

Last year I'd missed the festival entirely because I was in Italy, so I was overdue to show someone new the ropes.

What I hadn't expected was receiving an e-mail an hour after I got home asking if I wanted to meet for dinner. A thank you meal, so to speak.

Never one to turn down the gift of food, I said hell, yes and chose Dinamo to provide it.

We walked in at prime time and there at the front table, of all the unlikely people, was my friend Pru with a date.

Surprised as I was, she introduced her charming friend and we stood there chatting with them while the restaurant bustled around us.

They'd ended up at Dinamo because earlier today she'd been getting her hair cut and her stylist had recommended she go to Dinamo for the beef cheeks, in fact, said they were the most amazing thing she'd ever put in her mouth.

Mighty high praise, that.

So of course Pru and her date had gotten the cheeks and were now raving to us about them.

One good turn begets another.

We found seats at the bar, ordered Masciarelli Montepulciano and considered our options.

In addition to being a FF virgin before today, my friend was also a Dinamo virgin, so he took my word that the seafood salad was to die for.

When the massive platter of calamari, mussels, shrimp, and clams arrived, "oh, wow," was about all he could muster.

The dish takes me back to some of the superb seafood I had last year while in Naples, always a pleasant memory.

About then we heard the same sort of surprised sounds we'd heard when we'd arrived and I turned around to see another couple I knew, as surprised to find Pru and her date holding down the front table as I'd been.

When they finished their meet and greet there, they came over to repeat it. 'What is this, old home week?" she asked, laughing and hugging me.

Our beef cheeks with polenta had just arrived and her husband said it was one of his favorite dishes.

A non-beef eater, she began raving about her favorite, the squid ink fettuccine with crabmeat.

Did she already know she was going to order it, I asked her?

"They already knew she was going to order it when she walked in the door!" he husband insisted.

They took the table nearest us and now 66% of the occupied tables were people I knew.

With the Pixies playing, we attacked the bowl of enormous beef cheeks in the kind of carrot-studded red sauce every good Italian mother makes.

The cheek meat was positively succulent, long-cooked and fork-tender, rendering the serrated knife our server had brought superfluous.

We couldn't even finish both cheeks, try as we did, but part of us also wanted to leave room for dessert, namely chocolate espresso torte.

I'm proud to say we at least had the sense to forgo berries and whipped cream on top or we would have exploded, right there in front of people I know.

I've got no problem trading my time and knowledge for a good meal (it's kind of like dating without any lust or intention), but I prefer not to go into a food coma in front of someone I don't have designs on.

A tour guide's got to maintain some decorum. She never knows who might need her services next.

RVA, I Love You Back

I gave myself over to the Folk Fest today.

Yes, it was a shame about the rain, although I can't recall a wet FF since the very first one, so we've been very lucky.

Walking down 5th Street, the smell of the river wafted up on the breeze most agreeably. It was going to be a fine day to be waterside.

I was there right when  things got started, taking the Gary Gerloff trail to the Altria stage to see Newfoundland's the Dardanelles.

"This is only our third time in the U.S.," guitarist Tom said as a light rain fell on us and the stage. "We didn't expect anyone to show up. We thought we'd be over there with the kettle corn."

By the middle of their enthusiastic set, a FF volunteer was spreading straw on the field in an attempt to fill puddles.

They did jigs (but not the Irish kind) and bouzouki player Matt showed off his magnificent voice doing a song a capella, rendering the crowd as quiet as the Listening Room.

Afterwards Tom drolly observed, "There's not many crowds who would stand in the rain for an unaccompanied ballad."

It may have been the ultimate crowd compliment.

Next up was polka whiz Alex Meixner who already had people dancing before 1:00 with his wild take on traditional music.

Hands down, my favorite was his rendition of Aaron Copland's "Hoedown" from "Rodeo," a piece I never dreamed I'd hear done polka-style and could hear again tonight.

Near the end of his rollicking set, he yelled, "In 100 years, there'll be no emo music. In 100 years, there'll be no screamo music. But in 1,000 years, there will still be polka!"

You can't argue with the truth.

Alash was a trio of Truvan throat singers, a remarkable, almost primal sound if you've never heard it before.

The pavilion was all but full as the three played unfamiliar instruments and sang "songs about how they can sing," according to the interpreter.

Back at the dance pavilion, the Marshall Ford Swing band got people two-stepping on the slippery, grass clipping-covered wooden dance floor.

But when they did a Texas waltz, people started grabbing their honeys for some slow dancing, Texas-style.

Singer Emily Gimble was the real deal (her Daddy's Johnny Gimble, a swing fiddler of great renown) and her voice went a long way toward their authentic sound.

From there, it was back up the hill for food from La Milpa, a welcome sight since I can't seem to get myself to southside to eat there.

Scoring a steak taco, chicken and cheese empanada and a pork tamale, I took my lunch up to the Community stage for Stooges Brass band.

Two of the musicians pitted the right and left sides of the audience against each other in a noise-making match, which was fun, but I kept thinking that they had nothing on our own No BS Brass band.

The crowd was huge, though, so the New Orleans band must have been doing something right.

I left because I wanted to catch fadista Nathalie Pires, having just this past year discovered fado music with RVA's own fadista.

Her voice was beautiful, although a guy near me said he thought it was lost on the enormous Altria stage, and the songs of longing seemed perfect for a gray, rainy day.

By that point in the day, the ground around the Altria stage felt like a saturated sponge and finding a place to stand was challenging given that I hadn't worn boots.

So once she finished, I was happy to leave there, more so because I couldn't wait to hear Mighty Sam McClain, a 70-year old R & B singer I'd interviewed for Style.

From the second he opened his mouth, I was in thrall to his gorgeous voice, an instrument he discovered at 13, but one he'd been using all his life in church and in the cotton fields.

He was dressed in a tuxedo jacket and jeans and moved awfully well for a septuagenarian, executing hip thrusts, head bobs and shoulder shakes to punctuate his songs.

Things got funky fast and all around me people were dancing which seemed to please Sam.

After every song, there was major applause, hooting and hollering and each time, Sam smiled handsomely and said, "I love you back!"

Eventually he said, "I'm gonna squat, like B.B. King," and sat down on a stool for a slow song about love.

"If you're gonna love, you're gonna feel some pain," he warned. Amen to that.

Things got going again with "New Man in Town," a song he said had been used a dozen times on "All McBeal," and a song that got him dancing in place.

The crowd went nuts when the band started covering Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground," sending the funk factor off the charts.

The band got the word that their time was up and people yelled for them to keep going.

Sam dutifully closed with a short song and thank-you to his maker before shaking hands and leaving the stage with the black towel he had used throughout the set to wipe the cascading sweat off his bald head and face draped over one shoulder like a the star that he is.

My last stop was back up the hill for Spanish Harlem Orchestra, a band the Folk Fest has been trying to get for nine years.

The only downside was that by then the field was a marsh and there was absolutely nowhere to stand that didn't involved my feet being partially submerged.

I wasn't going to miss this amazing salsa band, so I backed up to the gravel path, sacrificing a close-up view for the sake of a hard surface to stand on.

Bandleader Oscar Hernandez kicked things off and the percussion never let up which should have been a very god thing but the field was way too wet to dance.

I feel certain my Bronx-born, Puerto-Rican friend Gerry would say that it's just wrong to listen to salsa dura when dancing is not an option.

But we had no choice and the music was hip-shakingly stellar, as evidenced by how many Richmond musicians were in the crowd.

By the time I headed back up the Gary Gerloff trail, my shoes were soaked through (and even so, a woman next to me at SHO had pointed at them and told me they were such cute shoes), my feet were cold from being wet so long and I was ready to take a break from the festivities for a bit.

Every year we rave about how lucky we are to have this annual celebration of music right in our back yard.

And every year, I am in awe of those who make it happen, choosing myriad musical stylings to expose us, to enthrall us, to make us shake our booty, and to make us remember just how wonderful it is to spend three days celebrating music of the world.

There aren't many crowds that would stand in the rain all day long just to hear music they've never heard before.

We're a credit to ourselves, my friends.

Frankly, My Dear

It's not that I'm a weather wimp.

But with the next two days to go to the Folk Festival, I made plans to stay inside tonight.

I started at the VMFA for a highlights tour with a "Gone With the Wind" theme and tied into the upcoming "Hollywood Costume" exhibit.

Who'd have thought a museum tour would attract such a large group on a Friday night?

We strolled between galleries, looking at paintings of wealthy children and their slave nurses, slave women suffocating white men (Kara Walker's work a highlight) and a painting of utter devastation, much like Atlanta after Sherman marched through.

Finishing on such a downer, our docent suggested we get a drink afterwards to recover our Friday night high.

You don't have to tell me twice.

I immediately headed to Amuse where I ran into the predatory lawyer I'd seen just two nights ago.

Lawyers, be gone, I am over you.

The unexpected pleasure at Amuse was that they had Trinity absinthe, the new spirit being featured all over town today (this afternoon at Can Can and tonight at Heritage, neither of which I'd consider frequenting even for absinthe) but which I hadn't expected.

Soon the bartender was setting up my drip and regaling me with stories of ex sex and why it's so hard to give up on someone whom you're comfortable with.

All I could do was listen.

I was eager to taste the organic Trinity, described as more feminine absinthe, and see if energy-renewable practices made any difference in the taste.

Not that I'm an absinthe expert, but I found its flavor a tad more subtle than most absinthe while maintaining the distinctive appeal of the "green fairy."

Sipping, I got the scoop on the museum's "60 Films in 60 Days," an upcoming series of films representing the costumes in the "Hollywood" exhibit.

It looks like I'll have all kinds of chances to see movies on the big screen I've never seen before.

Hello "Casino Royale," kiss me "Out of Africa."

How wonderful it will be to have a film every day to amuse me that's conveniently followed by happy hour at Amuse.

There's the real trinity: me, film and absinthe.

By the time conversation and absinthe ended, the guards were only too happy to see me go.

I was starving, but not willing to go too far. Just last week, I'd missed out on the cook's plate at Belmont Butchery because I'd already eaten.

Tonight, after Sonoma wine and absinthe, I was ready to right that wrong.

The only others at the bar were part of a bachelor's party, dawdling and hoping to avoid the unpleasant places on the groom's schedule.

And by unpleasant, I mean places like Havana 59 and Tobacco Company.

I did what I could to discourage them.

To accompany my cook's plate, I drank 2011 "Tami" Nero d'Avola, made by my favorite Sicilian winemaker, Arianna Occhipinti. It was simple, it was well-made and I was happy.

The cook's plate made me just as happy.

Brandade in potato halves, duck leg confit, frisee, two thick slices of pate, warm gougeres, duck hearts and gizzards, pickled mushrooms, red peppers and jalapenos, grilled bread and squash.

Absolutely to die for, every bite.

With '20s music playing (the bartender offered me R. Kelly and I politely and vehemently declined), I tucked into what I consider the best deal in town and some of the tastiest parts ever served on a piece of slate after 11 p.m.

Eventually the chef came out to have a beer and chat and we talked about Chicago, Petersburg, wine foil art and attracting the specific customers you want.

That means not attracting the SUV-driving set challenged by parallel parking and not worrying about people who don't get it.

Personally, I gave up on people who don't get it long ago...weather wimps included.

Maybe Next Year, Baby

Some nights it's good to be called "baby."

It was pouring down rain, I wanted some hot food and the first place that came to mind was Mama J's, four blocks away.

Walking in, I found a WRIR DJ and his son waiting for a table, but when I told the hostess all I needed was a bar stool, she responded, "Right this way, honey."

My DJ friend made fun of me for getting the rock star treatment, but it's all in where you're willing to sit. Pulling out the stool, she gestured, "Especially for you, baby."

With a Motown soundtrack (Supremes, Commodores,Isaac Hayes) blaring over the noise of a full restaurant, the bartender greeted me with, "How you doin' baby?"

Quite well, thank you.

She wanted me to know that I had five minutes until happy hour ended and the guy standing next to me looked at me and said, "I don't know about you, but I'm having a double Jack Daniels."

A single Patron was plenty when what I really wanted was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw and a corn muffin.

I was right by the corner where people come in to grab their to-go orders, so I met the first-timer in picking up food for his wife who worked nearby.

When I asked if he was taking her a piece of cake, he said no, he hadn't ordered any, unaware of the magic of Mama's cakes.

Next time, son, and she'll be yours for life. The woman next to me agreed loudly.

She was picking up and she ruefully shared that she'd just been in on Sunday and was already back.

No shame in being a regular, I told her, but had she gotten the same thing?

"I always get the catfish, but tonight I got the trout," she said, looking pretty pleased with herself.

Not long after my plate arrived, a group of four came in for their to-go order and stopped short when they saw my food.

"I'm gonna come back as a chicken in my next life," one girl claimed.

"I'm gonna eat you if you look like that," her friend said, pointing at my chicken.

Waiting for their order, they caught sight of the cake case and were smitten with the pink and yellow one, asking the bartender what it was.

"Strawberry lemon," she said matter of factly.

"Give. Me. That," on of the guys instructed her, grinning ear to ear.

"Are you gonna get that?" the girl asked incredulously.

"I'm gonna lay in it," he said and asked for a second slice. They left with their order plus four pieces of cake.

Before long, I had to get going ("Sure, baby") to my next stop, Studio 23, freeing up a prime stool for one of the many people lined up by the door.

Richmond's finest print collective was playing host to Music Video Meltdown, part of their monthly film and video series.

Waiting for it to start, I checked out Studio 23's new exhibit, "Sweaty Armpits and Swimming Pools," a summer-themed 'zine show.

The little 'zines ranged from beautifully illustrated books to actual stories with pictures and had post-modern names like "Why Can't the Internet Work Everywhere?" (a title that could only have been thought up by a millennial), "Maybe Next Year" and "Deep End."

Tonight's event had begun with a call for music videos, but the response had been insufficient for an entire evening's programming, so the host had supplemented with videos selected by an informal poll of his friends.

The Spring film and video series had raised enough money to buy a new projector and Bose speakers, and we were the first to experience the new equipment tonight, meaning naturally there were immediate technical difficulties.

They kicked things off with Michael Jackson's "Beat It," a good reminder of MJ pre-cleft chin and final pointy nose, but then went unfortunately to Nicki Minaj, someone whose video I never needed to see.

The submitted videos were cool to see, although it soon became clear that today's young music video-makers are completely fixated on special effects, violence, constantly changing camera angles and blood.

But not all. One was a light show set to Radiohead's "Spinning Plates" and another had a young, red-headed guy singing a song in an empty white room.

One of my favorites began with a guy talking mock-seriously about the infinite cosmos and then shooting a cassette tape out into space and segued into him singing and playing a poppy song with another guy, which they ultimately recorded on (what else?) a cassette tape.

There was a video shot of an evening at Gallery 5, fire twirlers outside, art-hungry crowd inside and I recognized two friends in it. Hell, I was probably there that night.

But for every submission, there was a price to pay, whether M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls" or  a bad white rapper drinking a 40 with his homies, shouting, "Hold up, it's a dance party," at the break.

I had to sit through the Foo Fighters' cheesy, over-wrought video for "There Goes My Hero," but got payback when I saw Cold Cave's synth-laden "God Made the World."

It all evens out in the end.

The last time I spent an evening watching videos was in Italy last October and then they were all McCartney and Lennon videos from the '80s, a far cry from tonight's program.

Seems I need an annual music video dose.

Afterwards, I headed to the Well for a couple of notoriously loud bands.

Like any show there, they weren't even close to starting at 11:15, so I mingled among the PBR-swilling masses.

I got to discuss the terrific Shuggie Otis show with a friend who'd also gone, ran into not one but both of the friends I'd seen in the Gallery 5 video, talked to the guy who's curating an upcoming Listening Room and somehow managed to find a friend who'd never seen the Diamond Center at the Well before.

Considering I've probably seen the band at least a half dozen times there, I was surprised, but warned him that they've been known to come on as late as 12:15.

Nashville's Ttotals played first, all reverb and '90s-sounding and playing to a packed room.

I've seen them before and their exuberant energy is worth experiencing.

During the break after their set, I got into a chat with a scientist who informed me that all human life is descended from six humans.

There's not a lot I can do with that information, my friend.

He also pointed out what he considered to be a fascinating scientific fact: It's 60 degrees and people were wearing jackets and knit caps.

His point was that in six months it'll also be 60 degrees and people will have on shorts and flip-flops.

He's wise beyond his years and hipster haircut.

Another friend and guitarist asked if I'd held the newest restaurant baby (of course) and told me he'd heard from a reliable source that tonight's Diamond Center set was going to be very Phish-like.

Meandering jams sounded like just the ticket at this point.

Around 12:30, the Diamond Center took the floor, breaking their own record, and began their slow, psychedelic groove, made even groovier by Dave Watson's light projections overhead.

After a drawn-out first song, they reverted to some newish material and eventually a brand-new one.

"That's a song that'll be on our new CD," leader Kyle joked, "which should come out in about fifteen years."

I guess parenthood has slowed them down, too.

As many times as I've seen the Diamond Center, they never fail to impress as I was reminded when a friend walked up and assuredly said, "They're going to end up being the biggest band to ever come out of Richmond."

Entirely possible. That's why I'm willing to go see them start playing at 12:30 on a Thursday night.

My ears may be ringing, but baby, it was worth it.

History with a Side of Humor

There are two guarantees at a Banner Lecture.

I will learn some history and I will overhear some senior citizen conversation.

The two women next to me were chatterboxes talking about how they hoped this was an interesting speaker because not all are.

"I know," the tinier of the two agreed. "Some of them just drone on, and the lights are low and these seats are so comfortable, it's no wonder people fall asleep."

"I've woken up and missed the whole thing!" her friend said.

Since I'd heard Mary Miley Theobald speak before, I leaned over and assured them that she would not put them to sleep.

Thus reassured, they went on to discuss the best uses of the envelopes that come with charity solicitations, one saying that she writes her grocery list on the white side of the envelope and puts her coupons inside.

Her friend was dutifully impressed with her clever re-use strategy and it occurred to me that Depression-era children actually grew up to be re-cyclers long before baby boomers caught the ecology bug. It's just ingrained in them not to waste.

Finally the lecture began to a nearly full house (what else was there to do in this weather?), but Theobald, author of "First House: Two Centuries with Virginia's First Family," began by apologizing.

"I've had a bad cold but I'm all drugged up and I'll be okay," she reassured the crowd. "What I'd like to do today is read the entire book out loud, but they won't let me."

The two women next to me looked over at me as if to give me credit for her humor.

We heard about the original cost of the Governor's mansion started in 1813 and finished at a cost of $18,871, which even translated into today's dollars only comes to about a quarter of a million bucks.

Cheap, right?

We thought so, too, until she pointed out that the rock-bottom price had to do with the absence of plumbing, electricity, running water, fire suppression and other non-standard items for the time.

Even without all the mod cons, Virginia's governor's mansion is the oldest occupied governor's home in the country.

So we have those bragging rights.

Theoblad told us about Governor Andrew Jackson Montague's wife wanting to replace the mansion's dated Victorian furniture with colonial revival furniture which she deemed more appropriate in the early 20th century.

As seems to have been the case since the dawn of Virginia's General Assembly, they didn't want to give her the money to do so, at least until the chairman of the finance committee sat down in a gilt chair at the mansion and shattered it.

Wouldn't you know that $7500 was suddenly appropriated?

I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to learn that beginning in the 1840s, convicts were used to do the heavy housework and yard work at the mansion, a tradition that continues today although now they only get to work outside.

We saw pictures of some of the long-serving butlers, all of whom worked for multiple administrations doing important tasks like prying children out of the house's dumbwaiter.

The mansion has supposedly been haunted since the 1890s by a woman who died in a tragic carriage accident on the slope behind the mansion, but Theobald couldn't find any proof of it.

As for pets in the mansion, apparently tame squirrels were a big favorite, along with chickens and goats.

Like absolutely everything else in the Commonwealth, there was a Jefferson tie because when he'd designed the Capital, he'd apparently also designed a mansion with, what else, an octagon at the center that never got built.

In addition to her wealth of information about the house and its occupants, she showed some fabulous pictures of the exterior and interior of the house over the years.

I recognized many of the rooms because I'd once interviewed First Lady Anne Holton and she'd been gracious enough to show me around.

When the lecture ended, the women next to me were beaming, telling me how right I'd been about our speaker since neither had drifted off.

True that. For being drugged, Theoblad had offered up an especially lively and informative talk.

The proof? I didn't hear a single snore the entire hour and that's saying something.

Doing Nothing Until It Means Something

Lawyers and porn, that's the stuff good evenings are made of.

After a trip to the thrift store and a couple of great scores, I got busy writing late in the day and by the time I came up for air, it was heading toward 6:30.

Time to get cleaned up and see what the evening had in store.

I walked into Amour to a staff remark about the bad weather being all my fault, momentarily forgetting about the tropical storm bearing my name and causing all this unpleasantness.

My intention was to indulge in the Fall rendition of the l'heure heureuse menu, hugely appealing to a starving writer at four small plates for a mere $14.

It was barely ten minutes I was there and in came a lawyer to join me at the bar. We recognized each other because we'd met a while back at Belmont Food Shop.

He must have been a regular because when he saw me looking at the happy hour menu, he highly recommended the roasted beets with candied walnuts and lemon goat cheese over frisee with a honey citrus vinaigrette, having had it recently.

Paired with a half glass of Chateau de Valcombe Costiere de Nimes, it was stellar, so he was right.

Both of us ordered the steak gougeres of grilled flat iron with caramelized onions in a Roqueforte puff pastry with a cabernet demi-glace, but I savored mine with a small pour of Chateau Beau Rivage Bordeaux while the lawyer stuck with coffee.

The lawyer started talking about a magnificent pork chop he'd gotten at Libbie Market about the time I ordered my bratwurst gratin with red onion, potato and Comte, a small crusty crock filled with big flavors.

To go with that cheesy goodness, I had Chateau Jacquet de la Grave Bordeaux while I explained to him that Berkshire was not a brand of chop as he thought, but an heirloom breed of pig.

I know from Berkshire, having recently had the best chops of my life which had come from a Berkshire poppa and a Tamworth momma, which I told him.

"I didn't expect you to know so much about pigs," he said, surprised.

Sir, you don't know me so you couldn't possibly know what I do and do not know.

Let's just say I wasn't sorry when he paid his bill and went back to the office.

Seems he had a brief to finish tonight.

That said, it was barely ten minutes before the owner's lawyer came in for dinner and I had fresh legal company.

What is it with me and lawyers lately?

This one was much more pleasant and far less predatory.

While enjoying a buckwheat crepe filled with poached seafood and wild mushroom-tomato ragout, I sipped on an exquisitely juicy and elegant Henri Bourgeois Sancerre La Porte du Caillou, the epitome of everything a Sancerre should be.

This lawyer was also a biker and he told me about some of the trips he's made, most of them sounding like far greater distances than I'd care to traverse with pedal power.

We got off on a tangent about the law, first about when women got the vote and then about workplace harassment, allowing me an opportunity to share some of my favorite workplace stories from the past.

Between the boss who kissed me in the elevator after a job interview to the co-worker who slapped me on the ass while complimenting said backside, he was aghast that such behavior was still going on in 1992.

I'm here to attest that it was.

By the time he left (seems he also had a brief to finish tonight), it was time for me to go, too, so I could catch the 10:50 showing of "Don Jon" at Movieland.

I was curious to see Joseph Gordon-Levitt's screenwriting and directorial debut, especially given the rave reviews I'd read.

Well, raves once you got past the porn, they all said.

I wasn't going to let a little porn get in the way of a good relationship movie.

As you'd expect for a movie starting after 11 p.m. on a rainy, Wednesday night, the theater held only a handful of people when I arrived.

The film began with JGL's character explaining how porn is better than a real woman, despite the fact that as a bartender, he can get any women he wants any time.

Frankly, it's a little depressing.

Watching porn is just part of his everyday routine, like pumping iron and making his bed, and we see it.

Ten minutes into the movie, three people behind me got up and walked out. Not porn fans, I guess.

Don Jon's a Jersey type- wife beater, chain, pumped-up body- and he and his two best friends hit the bars to pick up girls, preferably nines and tens, as they score them.

His short buddy justifies going out with plainer types, saying, "Twos and threes are some open-minded ladies."

When he meets a true 10 (Scarlet Johansson), who's looking for storybook love like in the movies, his buddies warn him, "This is a long game," meaning she'll take work to bed down.

By work, they mean, taking her to lunch and dinner and having to talk to her before getting naked.

What's amazing if that JGL somehow makes a guy like this likable.

She holds out on him, saying, "I don't want to do anything until it means something," but even once they do start having sex, he's still on porn sites.

A lot. Like 46 times a day. Says the only time he can get lost in himself is with porn.

When she discovers this by looking at his computer's history, they're through.

He defends himself by saying, "Any guy who says he doesn't watch porn is lying."

Okay, guys, is that true? I'm really curious.

On the advice of a casual friend, an older woman in a class he takes, he tries to address his porn habit as an addiction by giving it up.

As it happens, he also starts talking to her about his issues and eventually he's comfortable looking her in the eye and getting lost in her when they're having sex, something he'd never been able to do before.

Once again, an older woman saves the day.

Plain or not, I like to think we're just more open-minded.

Strawberry Letter 23

You could say it's my week for funky legends.

An early morning offer of two free tickets to see Shuggie Otis at the National made for a great way to start the day.

It took exactly one e-mail to find a willing partner for dinner and a show, leaving me to ponder only how warmly to dress on what felt like a cold snap of an evening (so cool I came home to find neighbors with their fire pit burning briskly).

Walking up to the venue, it was easy to see what a diverse audience the 59-year old psychedelic soul pioneer had attracted.

The crowd ran the gamut from hipsters to those Shuggie's age, although I have to admit I didn't see any hands with an "X" so everyone was at least 21.

Opener John Murry's set had begun when we arrived and his songs came across as southern gothic Americana, which made it no surprise when I ran into a friend who works at the National who told me Murray had told him that he's William Faulkner's great-grandson.

He was a mumbler of the highest order, making it tough to hear song names, although I did hear him say, "Every record should have a song by somebody else on it" before doing a cover I didn't recognize.

After his set, he instructed the crowd to move closer, saying, "Mumble, mumble, see Shuggie, mumble, so you can experience his playing and get a soul, too."

Not content with being soulless, my companion and I moved to within six people of the stage for an excellent vantage point.

Suddenly, the band appeared and a booming announcer's voice called out their names before Shuggie himself took the stage, resplendent in a gray suit, white ascot, sunglasses  and white fedora.

He and his band - keyboards, drums, bass and a three-piece horn section- seemed to be having a blast the whole night as the played songs from Shuggie's '70s albums including the critically-acclaimed "Inspiration Information" (like the Sly Stone-inspired spelling in "Aht Uh Mi Hed") and blues tunes, punctuating them with shredding guitar work on his Les Paul guitar.

From the first notes, it was impossible to stand still for this funk master who's been making booties shake since 1969.

I thought the best part of his solos, besides his obvious guitar mastery, was the giant smile that came on his face, baring a set of perfect teeth every time he shredded for us.

The horn section was strong, playing everything from baritone sax to flute to ensure the brass required for good rhythm and blues, and killing it with extended solos. The pianist banged on his keys open-handed and the bass player slapped the strings for all he was worth.

Introducing "Trying to Get Close to You," Shuggie shared his wisdom, saying, "Cause the first thing you do when you meet someone good is try!"

That's just what we do.

He showed humor throughout the night with comments like, "I'm gonna say I love you. But I don't know if I mean it!"

Men.

Shuggie's voice wasn't the strongest, but with backing vocals and so much instrumentation, all that mattered was how much fun they all were having.

After the last song, the band left the stage and the crowd began to cheer. Nobody was ready to stop dancing.

The trumpet player came back out and yelled, "You want Shuggie back, you're going to have to do better than that!"

That set off a cacophony and before long, the legend returned to treat us to his best-known song, albeit not the version most people know.

"Strawberry Letter 23" was a much bigger hit for the Brothers Johnson than it was for Shuggie, but it's his song and he and the band made it their own with a solid rendition of a '70s classic.

I'm assuming the hipsters in the crowd knew it from being sampled so often.

They finished with a funky version of "Ice Cold Daydream," during which Shuggie ended up laying on the stage playing his guitar facing the ceiling.

The trumpet player ran over, grabbed the mic and yelled, "Ladies and gentlemen, the legend, Shuggie Otis!" and pointed at the floor.

As if anyone in the room didn't know where he was.

It was everything I could do to see Shuggie writhing on the stage, fedora still in place, because of the phalanx of people pointing cameras at him instead of just experiencing the moment.

But I digress.

By the time the band left the stage, Shuggie shouting, "That's how we do it!" we'd been ecstatically dancing for two straight hours to funk and blues done old-school style.

I'm gonna say I loved the show. And I do mean it.

Make Mine a Chartreuse Rinse

It is obscene the amount of food I have consumed this evening.

The plan was for a simple, early dinner with Pru at Magpie. We met, we established a beach head at the bar and that was all it was to be.

In a nod to the changing weather, I started with a glass of Emerson Pinot Noir tasting earthy with hints of cherry.

It was odd, the music was of this decade, a rarity for Magpie, but I didn't complain.

The place was hopping with customers and the staff was trying to catch up.

We started with root vegetable salad, a medley of sweet potato chips, sliced beets and radishes with house ranch dressing and goat cheese.

Bravo Fall, if this is what it tastes like.

I'm not sure if it was an iron deficiency or just a craving (we'd both had a lot of fish on recent dates), but our entree orders screamed blood.

Medium-rare smoked rib-eye came with crisp Yukon gold wedges, sauerkraut, toothsome kale and Gruyere custard.

Seared venison sat atop granola and polenta, braised Asian pear and chicory and led to a discussion of why we love game.

I referenced a recent Post article about how hot game restaurants and food carts are right now in London, making me wish I was headed back over the pond.

Mid-red meat feast, the music shifted from the past five years back to the '80s, the usual provenance of Magpie.

This is the soundtrack I am used to whilst eating game mere blocks from home. In fact, in Carver, game = '80s.

Hello, David Bowie.

During a discussion of our love lives, Pru had me doubled over with an observation about a recent date.

"He's great because he likes to try all kinds of food, but he has no sideburns." You can only imagine how this would concern a woman.

We eschewed dessert, too full to consider more, about the time Pru got a text from an admirer, necessitating an amendment to our evening.

Our company was being requested, so we paid the bill and headed to Church Hill to Dutch & Co.

I was amazed to find a close parking space, at least until I realized it was because a huge wire had come down from a pole during the earlier monsoon and was draped across the space.

Ignoring obvious safety issues, I parked the car and gingerly walked around the wire, hoping it would not spontaneously combust while I was in the restaurant.

Dutch & Co. was relatively sedate (they chalked it up to football) and I took a seat at the bar awaiting Pru and company, who soon arrived.

I recognized all the staff- former Aziza's, Black Sheep and Acacia servers- making for a comfy evening with on-point service and chatter about the Folk Fest, the Silent Music Revival and Charlottesville dining.

We started our conversational potpourri with a bottle of Puzelat Bonhomme "Le Telquel," a lovely Gamay with nice acidity, dark fruit and a wiener dog on the label.

I'm partial to beagles myself.

Despite the abundance of red meat Pru and I had already consumed, we joined our starving friend in tasting through Dutch's menu.

You can't go wrong with Anderson's Neck oysters or with salmon ceviche, a revelation with Marcona almonds and persimmon.

You'd expect two women stuffed on red meat to stop there, but we rose to every culinary challenge our friend ordered.

Maple duck ham with Parisienne gnocchi, kale and sweet potato puree with walnuts knocked our socks off.

Chilled shrimp with avocado, sweet peppers and ginger vinaigrette was killer because of the distinctive turnip greens.

And speaking of killer, the music naturally caught my ear.

For a while, it was vintage Neil Young straight out of the '70s, necessitating me asking the source of the music.

Turns out some talented music lover at Acacia programs their playlist.

Our bartender told us a funny story about how one night while a Michael Jackson song was playing, a customer called her over and reminded her that MJ was dead.

Apparently, that meant that they were offended to hear him playing. They switched to Four Tops and she was no better with that.

You just can't please some people.

Tonight Neil Young's "Harvest" eventually gave way to Dionne Warwick's "Say a Little Prayer" and then full-on Aretha, so we had no complaints.

With the perfect eating music in place, we moved on to an earthy mushroom soup with roasted beech and chantarelles, crispy barley and lemon curd, every spoonful of which tasted like a sip of the woods.

We finished off with floral-cured pork belly rillette with (oh.my.god) pig skin cornbread with padron pepper romesco and honey.

I feel certain that in heaven they must serve pig skin cornbread, but that may be my half-southern roots talking.

It was about that time that the chef walked by, a large pig part resting on a tray carried over his head, and we acknowledged his mastery with meat.

One in our group had been to the Carytown food and wine festival this weekend so we heard about the crowd who'd attended.

He'd overheard a kid tell his Mom he wanted a crepe but Mom had told him they were looking for "real food."

Overhearing that bon mot, our bartender shared a story, beginning with, "I know this will surprise you, but don't get crepes at the Atlanta airport."

It was 7 a.m., she and her boyfriend were starving and rather than settle for Popeye's chicken, she insisted on crepes.

Bad, bad idea, at least the way we heard it.

By this time, we were getting down to the wire because Dutch & Co, closes fairly early, so we ordered dessert, something we surely had no room for.

A chocolate parfait was made of chocolate panna cotta, chocolate mousse, malted barley almond horchatta, shaved chocolate and mint pearls with, wait for it, a chartreuse rinse.

A sturdy glass of all things chocolate was set down before us with three spoons.

The beauty of this sweet, besides the obvious allure of multiple chocolate flavors, was the hint of herbs from the Chartruese, evident only as a delicate finish to every bite.

To accompany it, we had Pineau des Charones Vieux, a lovely gold-colored apperitif, part fresh grape juice and part Cognac, and a sturdy 17%.

It was a glorious complement to our chocolate ending, something I would know better than my companions who took only a couple of bites and left the heavy lifting up to me.

I'm happy to report I was more than up to the task.

Midway through dessert, another server asked ours about what to recommend to her table to accompany their honey pot.

My friend was quick to suggest exactly what we were drinking, the Pineau des Charones, and once their glasses arrived, we found ourselves toasting them with identical beverages.

Sante and all that jazz.

As long as they were sipping, we decided to have another and sip along as we wound down our conversation and the unexpected evening together.

The funny part is, we have plans to get together this weekend, too. "Maybe we should all just move in together," my friend suggested.

Say a little prayer for me.

I don't think I have a stomach big enough to handle many evenings like this, pleasurable as it was.

And if I do, I probably don't need to find that out.

Geese Before Pearls

Resolve and execute, I expected. Sacrifice, not so much.

Once the calendar turned from Summer to Fall, I decided to make a point to vary my daily walk route at least once a week.

One weekday last week, I'd gone down to Belle Isle on one of those surprisingly summer-like October days and enjoyed a couple of loops around the island, passing a surprising number of joggers, mountain bikers and weekday tourists on the rocks.

I'd run into a park employee and asked for the story on the missing quarry pond deck.

According to him it had begun to decay and separate, so they'd taken it down. Happily, he assured me a new one was in the island's future.

Crossing back over the pedestrian bridge, I'd passed a woman in pearls returning from the island.

It struck me as so odd that I told her she was the first pearl-wearer I'd ever seen returning from the rocks and she laughed at the accolade.

All in all, it had been a delightful change from my usual urban walk.

When I woke up today, it was to a much grayer day, but no less appealing for heading to Belle Isle.

As a friend put it, there was a bit of oppressiveness in the air, no doubt the impending effects of Karen.

Once I arrived at the island's parking lot, I was especially glad I'd come today since Folk Fest preparations included a sign saying that starting tomorrow, those who parked in the lot would be towed.

Last chance access.

Not surprisingly, the island had far fewer visitors today, although a higher percentage of Moms with strollers than last week.

On my first loop by the water, I saw a flock of geese standing in the shallows, some on rocks and others with their feet submerged.

There was an occasional honk, but not much more out of them.

After a couple of turns around the island, I walked out on the rocks by the first rapids to enjoy the gusty breezes and cool down.

Before long, I decided to go for it, taking off my shoes and socks, only to catch sight of something white flying by me.

Sure enough, one sock had taken flight and landed in the river well out of reach.

The wind and water were moving so quickly that all I could do was watch it float outward and eventually downward.

Oh, well. I went ahead and put my legs in the water as I'd intended to and admired the geese facing into the wind just as I was.

The way I figure it, the sock was just a sacrifice to the weather goddess.

Walking back across the bridge, it didn't start raining until I stepped off the bridge.

I'm not sure if I had impeccable timing or if goddess Karen was just looking out for her own.

Either way, I'm liking this new walking ritual. Even when it requires a sacrifice.

I am Listening, I am All Ears

What a difference a day makes, or 24 little hours of music all over the map.

Yesterday at 5:30, it was funksters Morris Day and the Time at the 2 Street Festival and today at 5:30, it was garage band Jacuzzi Boys at Steady Sounds.

Both were mere blocks away, making them irresistibly convenient ways to start my evenings.

Today, 30 or so of us gathered at my neighborhood record store to hear the Florida group bang through a half dozen songs as a prelude to tonight's show at Strange Matter.

One attendee spent the entire show with his fingers in his ears, but most people just rocked in place to the most basic of songs on a sunny late October afternoon.

Walking home, I could hear music still coming from the 2 Street Festival a few blocks down, so I took today's Washington Post out to my balcony to enjoy to the final strains of music on Clay Street.

Once it got fully dark, I came inside and made the simplest of suppers - an omelet from eggs I'd gathered at a farm recently - before getting ready to go out for more music and dessert.

Tonight was Live at Ipanema with Psalmships and Valdosta, singer/songwriter David Shultz's new project.

I found the front door to the restaurant propped open and a cute friend already warming up her bar stool when I arrived.

That was my cue to begin contemplating the dessert choices, eventually choosing blueberry pie a la mode.

About then, another friend came in and joined me, posing today's Southern Foodways Alliance topic for discussion: cake or pie?

"Team cobbler!" cute friend piped up cleverly before I could say a word.

After careful consideration, I stated for the record that if I could only have one or the other for the rest of my life, I'd have to pick cake.

I then proceeded to share my pie with the cute one until the show started.

Psalmships is Joshua from Philly and I'd seen him before at the Listening Room and at Sponge HQ.

What I recalled was his distinctive four-string guitar playing and raw, emotive voice and, like the prior times, his band had not made the trip with him.

What was annoying tonight was a gaggle of people at the end of the bar talking and laughing throughout his set, insulting the man's efforts to be heard.

Friend and I considered shushing them and settled for sending them withering looks which they were too busy talking to notice.

Excuse me, children, but this performance is being recorded and no one will want to hear your hyena laughs on the recording.

After a set of keening songs, Josh joked, "This will be my last song. I hope I brought you guys up."

He hadn't but that isn't really what Psalmships is about, rather it's that life can be cruel and you deal with it and move on.

After the break during which a lot more people arrived, David Shultz's new project settled into the tiny performing space.

Photographer PJ was kind enough to adjust one of the stage lights so it wasn't blinding me and we were ready to start.

Valdosta, the trio of David on guitar and vocals, Michael on bass and Willis on drums, was notable for how very un-Richmond-like they looked.

Despite how ingrained the three of them are in the RVA music scene, there was nary a beard to be seen.

It was clear from the first song that this new configuration has spent considerable time practicing together.

David's vocals, always a pleasure to hear, were easy and natural and it took him only until he sang "Bug Spray" to remove his glasses and set them aside.

This was about sound, not seeing.

"This is an old song called "The Room," David said. "It's from my very first album I ever made, back when I used to be David Shultz."

Ah, I remember those days.

I've long been a fan of Willis' stellar drumming and percussion skills and he and Michael provided strong support for David's song stories.

It was amazing how tight they sounded given that this was their first show out.

"The best thing that could happen when you have a new band is that all these people show up to hear it," David said. "Thank you."

Truly, the thanks should have been directed at the band and at the Live at Ipanema crew who keep delivering superb musical evenings to us.

In fact, I predict that as this project grows and if they add in more people, those of us lucky enough to have heard them tonight as a trio will always have the best of memories of what a special moment it was hearing them on an unseasonably warm Fall night.

You know, after hearing a band last night and another this afternoon, some people would have blown off yet another show tonight.

I can understand that, but they would have missed hearing the start of something extraordinary.

And blueberry pie.

Jungle Love and Liquor

Today, I was a headline: Karen Closes in on Land.

My landing got noticed first thing on my walk when a man in a suit leaving his house said, "That's a nice pair of legs you have there."

I was grateful he didn't compliment just one of them.

Further along on Hancock Street, one of a trio of guys talking on the sidewalk smiled and asked, "How you doing, long legs?"

Pretty good for a named storm, I'd say.

Back in Jackson Ward, I could already hear the music of the 2 Street Festival a few blocks down.

Traffic and parking headaches aside, it's one of my favorite weekends in the Ward with sharp-dressed men, fried fish and, inevitably, plenty of people I know.

And this year, it was finally time to right the great "Purple Rain" wrong.

I've seen Prince twice but never seen Morris Day live. Time to "Oak Tree."

On the way, I caught the second half of All 4 One's set and stopped to use a Porta-Potty, where I appropriately found an empty flask of Wild Irish Rose (still in the brown paper bag) resting in the urinal.

At the Crawley stage, i found a front position only four people back behind the rows of seated Morris fans who'd probably been there an hour already to score their front row seats.

A guy walked by in an "I love Hawaii t-shirt" and the guy next to me asked of him if he'd been there. T-shirt guy nodded and the man says, "Why are you back?"

"I gotta play it out," Mr. Hawaii said, which says it all as far as I'm concerned.

After a tedious speech by the mayor, who got his fair share of boos, the Time came onstage, dressed to the nines.

Drummer Jellybean was wearing a black and white striped suit with a gray top hat. Jerome's suit was cream and green striped. Everyone wore hats except Morris.

He wore a thigh-length dove gray suit jacket with rhinestone-encrusted cuffs, lapels and pockets, came out and combed his hair and tossed the comb to the adoring crowd to sing "Get It Up."

From there, it was all song and dance and fortunately, by the third song, the sun that had been beating down on the eager crowd slid behind a cloud and then the treeline.

Considering all the layers of clothing the band had on, I know they were as glad as we were to see the sun go.

All the synchronized dance steps the Time were known for were still there, all the more impressive for the heat. And their age.

Morris frequently pulled his pocket square out either to flourish during his smooth dance moves or to sop the sweat off his face.

Although he doesn't have the thick head of curls he did in the '80s, he still looks remarkably the same considering it's been 30 years.

They did all the hits - "777-9311," "Fishnet," "The Bird," "Oak Tree," "Chocolate."

"Do we sound good?" Morris called out to the crowd singing along to every word. Screams.

"Do we look good?" he teased and the crowd went even crazier.

Morris left the stage and the band proceeded to play some slow songs until Morris' vocal appeared from backstage.

"Sorry for singing off stage, Richmond" Morris apologized, "but I'm currently half naked getting ready for the next song."

It was worth it when he came back out with a fine-looking belted white coat draped across his shoulders and sang the classic, "Gigolos Get Lonely, Too."

Ain't it the truth?

In a nod to the heat, Morris explained that the water running off his face was not sweat and likened himself to a chilled bottle of champagne that when taken from the refrigerator, begins to bead up.

"When you are cool inside and get put outside, you condensate," he explained, delicately wiping his face. "I am condensating."

He asked for sexy women to volunteer to come onstage and Jerome went out and rounded them up for a couple of songs with the women directed to get "sexy and nasty" for "Ice Cream Castles."

An old guy near me was dancing in place, waving his cane in the air rhythmically, a testament to the power of the Time's grooves.

Of course they closed with "Jungle Love" and the crowd about lost it, knowing we were seeing the last of Morris Day and the Time for the foreseeable future.

It was the festival's 25th anniversary this year and they really couldn't have nailed a better band to celebrate a quarter of a century of music on 2 Street.

Since they were the last act of the day, food vendors were closing down, so I took my appetite across the river to Manchester to Camden's Dogtown Market for dinner.

I was the only person at the bar with my back to the tables of diners and a view of "Libeled Lady," a 1936 Myrna Loy-William Powell movie I'd never seen before.

My position on screens in restaurants is well-known, although if there's going to be one, better it shows old black and white movies (or old Julia Child cooking shows like at Blue Talon Bistro) than anything else.

My server was schooled in film so was great company for discussing movies old and new as she poured me a glass of Le Petit Rouviere Rose, a dry and aromatic pink perfect after a couple of long, hot hours dancing to the Time.

Starting with fried oysters with remoulade and micro-greens, I watched the screwball comedy unfold with the female characters wearing fabulously inappropriate gowns during the height of the Depression.

I followed with one of tonight's specials, a crab-stuffed flounder that was as artful-looking as it was delicious, over greens and rice with more Rose.

Since the sound wasn't on for the movie, it was like watching a foreign film reading subtitles, not as satisfying as hearing the rapid-fire dialogue between two pros like Loy and Powell, but good enough to make me laugh frequently.

My favorite line came when the couple went to a justice of the peace to get married and he calls his wife down as a witness.

She asks if the intended couple are sober and the Justice says, "Well, I, I think so."

Bride-to-be Loy quips, "This is love, not liquor."

And even if some liquor was involved, say some Wild Irish Rose, you gotta play it out.

It's the only sure way to find out what happens when Karen touches down.

I'm Only Me

It wasn't your typical First Friday.

For starters, I left the arts district to meet a friend for dinner and never made it back in time for art.

We'd both gotten the memo to wear black and talk about love and violins.

Our meal was abbreviated by the need to be at a mutual friend's show at 7:30 at the Michaux House, where the Listening Room used to be held.

That alone was noteworthy and person after person mentioned how excited they were to be back where it all began.

The first person I saw inside was the reason for the evening, new Dad Jonathan Vassar, particularly striking tonight because his hair was showing.

When I asked about this rarity, he explained that he'd stopped wearing his summer baseball cap ("And once I stop, I never go back") but at 86 degrees today, it had been just too warm for one of his knit caps.

Hence, a fine-looking but rarely seen head of hair showing.

Elizabeth Whitmire opened with her friend Karen singing backup, announcing, "I'm going to play some whiny folk songs."

It put me in mind of an old boyfriend who used to say his favorite music was made by whiny white women.

Accompanied by guitar and mandolin, they played depressing songs ("Depressing songs always have the worst rhymes"), a spiteful song, the first song Elizabeth ever wrote, and a fine cover choice ("This is a Magnetic Fields' song we can't play").

If I was the Grand Canyon 
I'd echo everything you say 
but I'm just me, I'm only me 
and you used to love me that way 
so you know how to love me that way

The closing song hilariously came from personal experience. "This song is about the girl my boyfriend dated after me. She had long hair and a private jet."

Whoa, it's hard to compete with those two things.

Philly's Chris Kasper, a last minute addition to the show, played second accompanied by violinist Kiley.

He did a short set, singing songs about Carolina, about when you first move in with a lover and have no furniture and about seeing an ex on the street after you've broken up and pretending not to.

Tonight's main event was Jonathan Vassar's CD release, "Mercy for the Undeserving," a two-disc set, one of unreleased songs from ten years ago and another of new material.

Sixteen songs, two sister albums ten years apart. Kind of like twin sons of different mothers, a reference that dates me for sure.

Before he began singing, the lovely Anousheh turned around from her front row seat and warned us all that she always cries at Jonathan's shows.

Sad lyrics, spare arrangements, it's really a recipe for emotion.

An artist in the audience called out that Jonathan had on a cardigan, saying he'd gotten one, too, when he'd become a Dad.

It was immediately dubbed a "dadigan."

"I just learned tonight what hash tags are," Jonathan said by way of introduction. "I don't understand it, though, because that's a pound sign. Shouldn't it be a pound tag?"

The man raises a good point.

He dedicated "Houston Gone Again" to Elizabeth and commented that tonight felt like a Listening Room reunion being back in the old space "for all you Listening Room regulars and there's a lot of you here tonight."

I was sitting between two of them, one with his hands full of cookies and the other lost in thought about why men do the things they do.

After singing "Long Drive Home," Jonathan cracked wise, saying, "Hash tag thanks."

He called friend and fellow former Ophelia member Grant onstage to join him for a few songs and Grant's voice and mandolin add immeasurably to the evocative songs new and old.

Getting his harmonica into its holder, Jonathan shared, "I saw Kris Kristofferson this summer and he didn't become a full-fledged singer/songwriter until he was 34. And by full-fledged, I mean famous. So I figure I've got about two days."

Grant established his old man bragging rights by sharing that he hadn't known what hash tags were either, assuming that the pound sign meant that the writer felt strongly enough to pound on the table to make his point.

Who said musicians don't have a sense of humor?

After a touching "My Life is Not My Own," Jonathan asked for requests and Will, seated next to the teary Anousheh, asked for "Last Chance."

You can always count on Jonathan for beautifully heartfelt music done right and tonight it was even better given the nostalgic setting.

Church basement, low ceiling, twinkly lights, lots of familiar faces.

Toto, it's wonderful to be back at the Michaux house hearing music for the undeserving.

When I got home, I found a message from an out-of-town friend saying she was at Belmont Food Shop and to hurry over.

There I found three friends, the artist I'd seen twice already this week, and the bartender who greeted me by asking if I wanted the cook's plate.

Sadly, no, I'd already eaten. But it's nice to know that's my standing order.

But I joined in tasting some desserts - mint chocolate chip mousse and apple walnut crisp- and sipping Prosecco while '20s music played in the background.

Eventually the chef came out and when I refused the offer of a chocolate jalapeno, he told me to follow him.

Through the kitchen, past my favorite wooden walk-in to the backyard garden he took me, the better to show off his herbs and veggies.

Last time I'd been in his backyard, Belmont was only open for lunch and it was crowded with piles of stuff, some junk, some worthwhile.

Since then, inlaid terraces had been put down, a stone-encircled compost pile put in and an array of spot gardens added.

We talked about espaliered fig trees, aromatic lemon balm and the abundance of lettuces he'd grown and used this summer.

Talking about our recent stellar weather of warm days and cool nights ("Like desert weather," according to him), we eventually made our way back into the dining room and my waiting friend.

Some might think me rude to abandon them at the bar, but she knows me well enough to know that I am a sucker for a walk in a good garden, especially on a balmy October evening.

Hash tag good life.

Put a Blue Ribbon on My Brain

Paul started it, by choosing Robert Ellsworth Pollard, Jr.

Then Christina jumped in, choosing the Beach Boys.

"Make other people do it!" Paul instructed her.

I always copy Christina, so I was next.

My choice was The National and my answers were as follows:

Choose a singer/band/group, answer using ONLY titles of songs by that singer/band/group

1. Are you male or female? "Brainy"

2. Describe yourself: “Karen”

3. How do people feel when they're around you? “Friend of Mine”

4. How would you describe your previous relationship? “Apartment Story”

5. Describe your current relationship: “Baby, We'll Be Fine"

6. Where would you want to be now? “Lemonworld”

7. How do you feel about love? “Lit Up”

8. What's your life like? "All the Wine"

9.What would you ask for if you had only one wish? “Sea of Love”

10. Say something wise: “Don't Swallow the Cap”

Christina said describing myself as Karen was a cop-out, although I love the fact that The National has a song named "Karen."

But she's not taking Karen for an answer.

"I looked up their songs to find a better name for you. "Heavenfaced," she suggests

Too generous, I know.

That was about the time Paul suggested we get a room, Christina and I.

11. Why Paul? Did you want a "Slow Show"?

No Fear Multi-Layered Reality

My favorite wine geek painter had an opening tonight.

Josh George, whom I'd just seen last weekend at an Austrian wine tasting at J. Emerson (my favorite being the Steininger Gruner Veltliner Sekt 2010, but the Steindorfer Blaufrankisch Alte Reben 2011 wasn't far behind), was opening his new show, "Micropolis," at Ghostprint Gallery tonight.

After getting cleaned up from my day at the river, I strolled the four blocks over to the gallery, garnering a compliment on the corner of Madison and Broad.

I'll never get tired of a stranger telling me I look beautiful, but deep down I know it's the dress, not me.

Coincidentally, a friend had posted on Facebook today, "A total stranger just complimented me on my dress! Awesome!"

Such is the power of the dress. I know not to take it for anything more.

Inside the gallery, I found a crowded room and Josh's latest series of mixed media works. He's the only artist I know who supplies the wine for his shows so that he can be sure it's up to his standards.

And for that, I like him all the more.

Combining things like paint, wine labels, wallpaper scraps, old maps and cut-up pictures, he layers everything to create his own reality.

I like to think I do the same, just with fewer artistic materials.

The 24 works varied in size but most dealt with NYC, Josh's former residence, with skyscrapers set in Manhattan valleys.

"A Mission Like No Other" showed two scenesters walking down the street, the likes of which probably walk down Broad Street every day.

If buying art was as easy as layaway and I could make a nominal payment a month until I owned  a Josh George painting, it is "Fear of an Urban Experience" I would covet.

The small but beautiful work boasted an array of light colored buildings with flags mounted on them flying in the breeze and a pink sky behind it all.

I was drawn to the wealth of detail in "Post-Harvest Handling," a painting depicting a woman taking things from the refrigerator.

Pattern was everywhere, on her top, her pants, her skin, even the interior walls of the refrigerator, which was stuffed with wine (natch), gourmet items and food of all kinds.

Everything wasn't about NYC, though, and RVA got its due in three small works depicting winsome bats after Josh had been amazed to see them at Byrd Park.

His story reminded me of a picnic at Byrd Park a few years ago with a friend and a Brooklyn transplant who had been transfixed when the bats began appearing at dusk.

We may be blase about our local bats, but apparently they're a big deal to New Yorkers.

I mentioned this to a tattoo artist at the opening and she said she and her husband had put up a bat house, hoping to attract bats to their yard.

When none materialized, her beloved had the brilliant idea to paint a female bat on the bat house, hoping to lure lusty bats in.

So far, nothing.

One of the bets moments came when I was looking at Josh's painting, "Everyone Should Strive to Have a Breakfast Nook," a small painting of a barely-awake-looking woman at a table with a cup of coffee and a window behind her with a fly on it.

Marveling at the detail of the fly, I soon realized it was an actual fly and sent it on its way.

Fly gone, I realized that if I couldn't afford the other painting, I'd be just as happy with this little beauty.

Someday I will own a Josh George, I hope.

I debated my options on my walk home and decided that the VMFA would suit me just fine.

It seemed like an ideal evening to sit on the deck while it's still warm and lovely and listen to whomever was playing at the Jazz Cafe.

That turned out to be Flo King, a singer with a big voice and a crack backing band of trombone, sax, keys, bass and drum.

When I arrived, it was to a slow song and lots of people were dancing, or at the very least, swaying and necking.

The next song she sung in Spanish and a guy near me said it was called "Kiss Me," although I don't know that for sure.

I was impressed she was singing in Spanish and said so to another guy, who said she'd also sung in French earlier. Apparently the band's thing was romantic jazz standards.

No doubt that explained why there was a roomful of couples and me.

During the break, I ordered a glass of Primal Roots Red, a simple blend, to go with a dish of Homestead Creamery espresso chocolate chip.

The other women in the room had dates, I had ice cream, the best I could do tonight.

I took it out on the deck to enjoy in the soft evening air and within minutes a museum friend sat down and provided company for me, asking if I'd be at the 2 Street Festival this weekend (duh, of course) until the band restarted with a vengeance.

An instrumental version of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" brought Flo back up on the bandstand and she crooned "Am I Blue?"

But it was a bossa nova, "The Wave," that drew dancers back, and good dancers, too.

You can't deny, don't try to fight the rising sea
Don't fight the moon, the stars above and don't fight me

"What a Difference a Day Makes" was another clarion call to the slow dancers.

The band saved the swinging songs for last, and all of a sudden even I was getting asked to dance.

Politely declining, I watched a guy in a three-piece suit with pocket square and white bucks tear up the dance floor with his girl during "Route 66."

By then, it was long past closing time for the museum and the overhead lights came on to tell us to get out.

Many in the crowd, me included, headed out to the sculpture garden to continue conversations and the evening.

A young couple came up to me, I'm guessing because I was by myself, and asked me to take their picture by the water steps.

After shooting one, I asked if they wanted me to take another but they said they'd wait and see how it came out first.

What the what? Turns out I'd just used a 21st century Polaroid camera, an Instax mini, they said.

We watched the credit card-sized photo develop before our eyes, with them enthusing about the "awesome big Polaroids your generation used."

Yep, they really said that to me.

Am I blue about it? Pshaw.

Everyone should strive to have as much ice cream and slow dancing as I do.

Skivvies Optional

Today's road trip was steeped in nostalgia.

I hadn't been to the river to see my parents in a couple of months, and as the oldest (and the closest, distance-wise), I was overdue.

It was a picture-perfect day for the drive with the Rappahannock a silvery blue mirror when I crossed it about 10 a.m, not so much as a wisp of a breeze to be seen or felt.

Arriving at the house, my Dad was just about to depart for the barber shop In Kilmarnock, 30 minutes away.

Inquiring if I needed anything, I asked only for some good dirt from the boys at the shop and he set off, leaving us womenfolk alone.

I did some chores for Mom, mostly the kind of stuff I don't do at home.

Changing linens on all four beds from summer to fall (meaning lightweight flannel sheets). Baking a cake. Hemming a new skirt of hers. Laying some shelf paper in the pantry.

Being female, we chatted non-stop the whole time, with her asking about the goings-on in my love life ("I'm just glad you're happy") and telling me about a friend's husband (bitten by a crab and almost lost his arm).

During a tangent about ironing, something neither of us do much, she told me my #3 sister used to iron her hair as a teenager.

I didn't know that.

Odd as that procedure sounds, it's even more so when you know that all six of us have stick-straight hair.

On a related note, she gave me a 5 x 7 copy of a photograph of her and my Dad in bathing suits in Ocean City just after my #3 sister was born.

For lunch, she had a surprise.

When we were kids, we were the hot spot of the neighborhood because my Mom had a round grilled cheese maker and no one else did.

The pleasures of a round grilled cheese - that soft puffy center with the circle of buttery crust all around- were even extolled by my childhood best friend, Cindy Smith, who when given an assignment in school to write about a favorite thing, wrote about her best friend Karen's Mom's round grilled cheeses.

Of course, I didn't remember that story, but Mom did and shared it as she made our sandwiches on her brand-new round grilled cheese maker, recently acquired from Amazon after years without because sister #2 had "borrowed" it in the '90s and never returned it.

When Dad finally got back from the barber shop, it was with a story.

Seems the boys had been discussing the dearth of two-dollar bills in these parts in recent years when someone said he knew why they'd originally been so popular in the area.

Two bucks was what it cost a man at the Kilmarnock brothel, so they used to see a lot of the bills.

Not so much anymore.

When I went out to get the mail, the postal truck arrived and the woman handed me two packages.

Back on the porch, Dad opened one to find the coastal blue shorts he'd ordered from J. Crewe.

Mom insisted he try them on despite him insisting he's been the same size since the Clinton administration (a frequent reference point for my screaming liberal parents), and he barely stepped inside the house and dropped trou.

Returning to show us how well the shorts fit, he asked if I'd cut the tag inside off for him.

When I agreed, he dropped trou, this time right in front of Mom and me on the porch and handed me the shorts.

I gave her the look and she tells me laughingly that sometimes he goes out to raise the flag in the yard in his skivvies, much to her mortification but not to her surprise.

Sweet jesus. I may be eccentric as hell, but clearly I come by it honestly.

I only hope I'm as happy as these two when I'm their age.

A Man of a Certain Age

I'd been craving some adult romance.

And since adult romantic comedies don't come down the pike nearly often enough, I was all about seeing "Enough Said" at the Criterion tonight.

I'd not only never seen anything by the director, Nicole Holocener, but I hadn't seen James Gandolfini in anything since the '90s.

The story of two middle-aged, lonely people (Gandolfini and Julia Louis-Dreyfus) who meet at a party and start dating was pithy, poignant and full of realistic details that any person who's been dating at this age knows well.

Instead of zinging one-liners at each other on their first dinner date, they talk, really talk, and relate as people of a certain age.

"Our middle-agedness is comforting and sexy," Eva tells Albert and I knew exactly what she meant.

Gandolfini blew me away from the first time he appears in the movie, bearded and big but utterly charming and with obvious depth and wit.

The ideal man, in other words.

As they continue seeing each other, learning the quirks of another fully-formed adult, both are struck by how comfortable they feel together.

There's a lot to be said for comfort, especially when it comes with someone who's not only a good kisser, but funny, as Eva soon realizes.

Albert's totally believable deadpan humor, whether telling her he weaves in the garage ("Really?" she asks incredulously. "No, do I look like I weave?" he laughs) or that he finally got night stands for his bedroom (he hadn't) sounds like just the kind of smart-ass humor a thinking woman would appreciate.

It was a treat to watch two middle-aged people as their relationship unfolds and Gandolfini came across as hopelessly romantic at heart and not afraid to show it.

Sitting in bed, talking, he looks at her and says, "I kind of adore you already."

Be still my middle-aged heart.

Could there be a more wonderful thing to hear as you take the plunge into the uncertainty of mid-life romance?

Just to make sure I was no more than a puddle in my deluxe movie seat by the end, the movie finishes with an Eels song.

I like your toothy smile
It never fails to beguile
Whichever way the wind is blowing
I like the way this is going

I like the color of your hair
I think we make a handsome pair
I can only see my love growing
I like the way this is going

I don't care about the past
None of it was made to last
It's not who you've known
But who you're knowing

I like the way this is going

No surprise, I kind of adore that kind of romance.

A Little Sugar in my Bowl

I woke up happy this morning.

You have to love a morning when a guy asks, "Will you marry me today?"

Granted, I didn't know him and I was walking down the street when he said, it, but I take my proposals where ever they come from.

Tonight I took my evening right here in Jackson Ward at the Hippodrome Theater.

The founders of the Firehouse Theater Project were presenting a celebration of (almost) 20 years of provocative Richmond theater and as a long-time Firehouse supporter and theater lover, how better to spend a Tuesday night?

Pru joined me for what turned out to be a big, old party interspersed with songs and scenes from former FTP productions.

The bar was mobbed when we arrived, so we patiently waited our turn before heading to the food table for spicy crabcakes, meatballs and, my favorite, mini-chicken and waffles.

A guy in the buffet line told me he'd never heard of the classic sweet and salty shift meal, so I gave him a brief history as we scooped up food.

I saw lots of familiar faces - the beer and theater loving couple, the Listening Room alum as excited as I am about the upcoming show at the Michaux House, even said hi to Carol Piersol herself, the reason for tonight's celebration.

We took seats in the second row, behind the all-important founders who were in the front row and did our mingling from there.

The show began with host Eva asking for those who'd performed at FTP to clap (lots of applause). Then for those who'd attended an FTP production to clap (even more applause).

Then she asked those who've gone in to Lowe's to use the bathroom to clap and that got the largest applause of all.

Appropriately, the first performer was Scott Wichmann, doing a song from "Bat Boy," the first musical FTP ever did, and setting the bar very high.

We saw a very funny scene from Harry the Hat's "Persistence of Memory," about one of the Reynolds' execs trying to get Salvador Dali (complete with lobster phone) to create a statue out of aluminum for Monument Avenue back in the '60s.

True story.

A scene from David Mamet's "Businessmen" seemed an especially good choice given that tonight's show was a benefit for Carol Piersol's upcoming production of Mamet's "Race."

Desiree Roots killed it during a rendition of  "I Need a Little Sugar in My Bowl," from "The Death of Bessie Smith," one of two Edward Albee shows we saw tonight.

Tired of bein' lonely, tired of bein' blue
Wished I had some good man to tell my troubles to

The audience was testifying right along with her.

More Mamet came courtesy of the classic "Glengarry Glen Ross" with d.l. Hopkins effortlessly tossing off lines like, "This place gets robbed, they'll come looking for me. Why? Because I probably did it."

Jacob Pennington broke my heart with a scene from "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead," about his beagle Snoopy being put to sleep after killing Woodstock.

I can handle many things, but not dead beagle scenes. For me, it'll always be too soon for that.

Matt Shofner brought everybody back up, though with an hysterical and well done version of "Suppertime" ("the very best time of the day," he sang. Amen to that) from "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

Man, can that boy sing, as if I didn't already know that from the Ghost Light afterparty.

Sam Shepard's "Curse of the Starving Class" was typical Shepard-like bleak, involving jail, a lamb and an actor in his boxers.

In a related note, host Eva then came out in a nude body stocking, complete with an abundant pubic hair wig. aimlessly twirling strands of hair around her finger as she said, "The Firehouse has never shied away from nudity onstage."

Harry "The Hat" Kollatz spoke next, brilliantly telling the saga of a 1998 FTP production.

Recalling executive director Carol calling him for help, he admitted to wondering why.

"I am the Chauncey Gardiner of this outfit. I have no practical skills," he said, cracking up the entire room.

His story ended up being about how the 100+-year firehouse had been purchased through the generosity of unexpected benefactors.

Katrinah Carol Lewis did "Out Tonight" from "Rent," a show Harry had said could have run forever it was so well-received.

Let's go out tonight
I have to go out tonight
You wanna play?
Let's run away
We won't be back before it's New Year's Day
Take me out tonight

The scene from "Four Dogs and a Bone" had an actress coming on to a writer, resulting in lines like, "I used to be romantic before I joined the writers' guild."

John Patrick Shanley's play was full of stellar lines. "I can't even tell you're drunk except by what you say.

Even better, "I hope I remember this conversation in the morning, not the gist of it, but the details."

Scott came back to do a song he'd planned to do at FTP's 2008 cabaret but which had not made the cut.

"Entering Marion" was ostensibly a travel song except he kept entering towns with girls' names, eventually becoming the kind of trampy traveler who entered places like Lawrence and Lowell before regretting it later at the motel.

His performance was terrifically nuanced, right down to hand gestures of shifting gears in the car.

Watching "Eurydice," it was striking how spot on the cast was.

The guy next to me leaned in and observed, "It's amazing, they're doing these roles years after they originally did and not overacting a bit. That's quite an accomplishment."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

Desiree Roots' medley from "Dessa Rose" was so big-voiced and moving that I saw a few people wiping tears away by the end of it.

I recall seeing the second Albee play of the evening, "The Goat, Or Who is Sylvia?" but you never really forget a play about a man having an affair with a goat, do you?

The show ended with the inimitable Matt coming back out, this time with a long, blond wig, full face makeup and open-toed pumps on.

As soon as I saw him, I remembered the other night at the Ghost Light, host Maggie had come onstage with a bulging bag, saying to Matt, "Here, you said to bring your wigs."

Now I knew why.

With scene-stealing know-how, he sang "Midnight Radio" from "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," prancing around the stage, his big voice reaching to the rafters.

By the time he got to the chorus ending of "Lift up your hands, lift up your hands," people in the crowd led by a glowing Carol, were doing just that and a procession began of people dancing toward the stage, all arms in the air.

You know you're doing alright
So hold on to each other
You gotta hold on tonight

Watching a roomful of theater performers and theater lovers gather together to celebrate a company that changed the Richmond theater scene for the better was mighty impressive.

I hope I remember this performance, not just in the morning, but years from now, and not the gist of it, but the details.

Truly, it was a lovely thing to behold.

Grape and Thrash

Of all the ways to enjoy two of my favorite worlds - food and wine - tonight's may have been the most unlikely segue yet.

Beginning with legislators in bowties at the Library of Virginia for the 25th anniversary of October Virginia wine month soiree, I had a chance to taste wine from 32 Virginia wineries, although even I didn't come close to tasting them all.

Several (Akida Ridge, Rosemont, RdV, Rockbridge) I'd already tasted off of the Roosevelt's all-Virginia wine list and several I'd visited in the past year (Stinson, Keswick, Barboursville).

One, Chatham, had come up in conversation just the other day as a date and I had tried to figure out where they were.

Turns out they're on the eastern shore on the other side of the bay and yet, somehow, not part of the Chesapeake Bay wine trail. Go figure.

I had a fun conversation with a winery rep who told me she used to live in Richmond and work at the Tobacco Co.

When she asked what it was like now, I gave her the unvarnished truth and we got off on a tangent about how they used to have cigarette girls and shooter girls.

Whoa. I hadn't thought about those shot-slinging babes with belts since the '90s.

Moving around the room through political wonks and occasional restaurant people, I particularly enjoyed the display cases set up to showcase the history of winemaking in the Commonwealth.

There were books on grape-growing recommendations dating back to the 19th century and large-format photographs of vineyards, including one of a man in a white shirt, trousers and a bowtie cutting grape clusters off the vines.

Ah, the good old days, when men looked sharp to work the fields.

We listened to remarks by former governor Gerald Baliles, who'd started Virginia wine month, but the real humor came when I talked to his son, my former neighbor and now city councilman.

Praising his father for his forward-thinking wine savvy, Jon laughed and said all he remembered was a lot of really bad Virginia wine they had to drink back in 1988.

Baby steps, my friend.

After absorbing as much viticulture as possible (meaning once the tasting floor closed), it was on to the food portion of the evening.

That's right, Food Fight 2 at Strange Matter.

I'd had a blast at last year's, here, so there wasn't much chance I was going to miss another opportunity to support GirlsRock RVA and hear local restaurant staffs make music.

While they got set up, my date and I ordered cheeseburgers and fries to offset the wine that we'd had and lay a base for the show.

Last year's had featured nine bands and tonight's was only five, making for a more organized evening than I remembered.

We'd been fortunate enough to score bar stools from which to enjoy the bands,my Espolon and his beer, making for a far more civilized experience than last time.

First up was 525 at the Berry Burke, easily the most unlikely of all the restaurants represented, with a singer in a short, cute blue dress and not much else.

Black Sheep was next and like 2012, they were all wearing chef coats.

They'd been a highlight last year, with their written-for-the-occasion songs, and brought it again with gems like "Kitchen Blues," "Letter to My Mother," written from the point of view of a cat fish and "Fuck You," a tribute to Yelp and customers who want special orders.

Lamplighter's group was huge with multiple guitarists, a rapper and a spotlight hog of a singer/guitarist making for as much sound as Lamplighter itself on a Saturday morning.

Proper Pie's quartet was all thrash with two drummers and demonstrated the kind of energy restaurant people only have at the beginning, never the end, of a shift.

Franklin Inn closed the show with a singer with a terrific voice and a red satin top.

Less than a minute into their set, one of the musicians who'd already played leaned in to us and said, "We have a winner."

Proof positive came when they launched into Concrete Blonde's "Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)," not a song just anyone can pull off. And yet she totally did.

Somewhere, Johnette Napolitano was smiling.

After that, it was up to the judges to tabulate their results and pass them on to us.

Not exactly pros at this, there was a lot of confusion as they spit out the rankings: 525, Franklin Inn, Lamplighter, Black Sheep and top honors went to the bash and pop of Proper Pie.

My date and I were a tad incredulous at the rankings and more than a few people seemed genuinely surprised that Franklin Inn hadn't won it all, but that's the way the music biz rolls.

At least it is on Food Fight night.

What really mattered was that they'd raised $500 for GirlsRock RVA and Yelpers had been taken to task.

Simple pleasures on a Monday night.