If Monday's choice was being in the city or being at the beach, it was no contest.
Yea, yea, I know all about people who prefer mountains to coast, but I'm not one of them. And as the summer eases towards shorter days and cooler temperatures - as a friend put it, "hi summer, bye, summer" - I find myself thrilled with every chance to be waterside.
Today it was a road trip to Sandbridge, listening to the Walkmen's "Bows and Arrows" and the Bo Deans' "Inside Looking Out" at top volume, windows down.
After acknowledging the parking lot attendant's admonishments to stay hydrated, there was the sprint across a wide swath of burning sand (no exaggeration, I could feel the sand searing my flimsy flip-flops and ultimately the soles of my feet) so my fellow beach-lover and I could set up camp not far from the ocean's edge.
An ocean, just so you know, that was ridiculously warm and almost placid, with languid waves too worn out by the heat to bother crashing.
When I feel like that, I usually take a heat nap.
We were just finishing lunch when the lifeguards began blowing their alarm whistles "Jaws"-style for everyone to clear out of the water. As if that wasn't bad enough, then we were all ordered off the beach because of distant thunder. Lifeguards stood at the access points to turn brazen types and newcomers away.
Fortunately for water devotees, the Bay never closes down, so we just relocated our chairs and cooler to a Bay beach to revel in the rest of the afternoon.
When my piece of watermelon tragically dropped in the sand, I didn't hesitate to rinse it off in the Bay, never suspecting that it would taste as salty afterward as if I'd used a salt shaker on it, something my mother does to this day.
A guy came walking by, net and bucket in hand, and pulled out his ear buds to ask how my day was going. When I explained that we'd just moved from the ocean to the Bay, he nodded and smiled knowingly.
"The Bay is always easier," he advised. Well, it was certainly less crowded, really just us and a young couple with two cleverly-named dogs: Boris and Tuna. The wind was just right to send eau de wet dog wafting our way on a regular basis.
Besides salty, the water was also quite warm, although the friendly guy submerged up to his neck in it shared that it was only warm at the top and down lower, it was much more refreshingly cool, a fact I was able to confirm while also lowering my body temperature.
Because, after all, that is why we go to the water on hot days.
A trio walked along the water's edge, pulling crabs out of the bay and depositing them in their mesh baskets. Come to think of it, I'm overdue for a summer crab feast and I know just the person who'd want in on a little man versus crab action with me.
We coastal lovers have to stick together.
Sweaty or not, barely clad and soothed by the constancy of the water's movement, salt life beats city life on a scorcher like today...and mountains any day of the week.
Hang on, Summer, I'm not done with you yet.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Always With Intention
Despite the door guy ribbing me, I'd have gone to Gallery 5 even if they didn't have air-conditioning.
That they do was merely further incentive to leave my 95-degree apartment and go see a show I already wanted to see, coincidentally, one with women represented in all three bands.
Like my history, I prefer my music with breasts.
Not so the two guys on either side of me. One had been bored so he'd randomly picked a show, apparently a habit of his. "I like to choose shows with no intention." He looked at nothing but his phone until the band moved toward the stage, always returning to it when they stopped.
Pass.
Behind Door #2 was a guy who'd been a musician on the side for years and had come because he wanted to hear music and had liked Wildhoney's - the Baltimore headliner - sound with, according to him, direct-sounding ties to bands such as Cocteau Twins and the Sundays.
So right there, he got points. Scads more came when he admitted he doesn't watch TV.
But where he blew the lid off his score was in having been at the Malian quartet's Balliceaux show last week when I was, leading to a chat about how much the scene has changed since he arrived in 1996 from Rochester.
A kindred soul indeed, even if he does live in Forest Hill.
To him I showed off my new knowledge - in Virginia, you must have an ID if you're in any place serving alcohol - which I'd gleaned courtesy of the door guy, who'd also given me the line that if I removed my ID bracelet before the show ended, it would explode.
Please wait until you're outside, he's jokingly pleaded.
Twee trio Big Baby was up first and I immediately fell for their male and female vocals/harmonies combined with two guitars (channeling the Sundays and the Cure) and energetic drumming, although they're still working on their between-song banter, a skill set that takes time.
Announcing they were going to play "Dumb Guys," several women in the audience cheered and hooted.
"Christi is next and they're amazing," singer Ali announced, sounding for all the world like a fan girl. After a look from her band mate, she amended that. "After that is Wildhoney. They're amazing, too." It didn't resonate quite the same.
I knew she was right at least about the former because I've seen Christi's seamless pastiche of girl group sound and hardcore before watching them set up onstage tonight.
Whatever tonight's challenges were as the set progressed, vocalist/bassist/fanny pack-wearer Maggie had a philosophy: "We're just going to do our best," whether it was skipping a song, experiencing feedback or not being able to hear themselves in the monitors.
Announcing that they were going to play a really new song, she turned to vocalist/guitarist Emily and asked, "What's it called?" Climate Change, she told her.
"Okay, we're going to do our best!" she enthused, and they did, not that I've ever seen them not impress.
Forest and I resumed our conversation during the break, with me thanking him for putting in ear plugs at the start of Christi's set. Despite always having a pair or three in my bag, I almost always forget to put them in, except when the person I'm talking to does so.
Maybe I need more good role models.
Turns out that because he's a musician, he had a special pair made that really fit his ears and don't eliminate all the high end like the cheap ones do. We discovered a mutual acknowledgement of hearing loss due to years of show-going but agreed with a handshake that we wouldn't take it back.
Such are the pleasures of meeting fellow music-lovers at shows.
After sound checking, Wildhoney's singer Lauren, wearing her hair in an Audrey Hepburn up-do, a little black dress, gold brooch and combat-like boots, peered into the lights asking the sound guy, "Are we good?''
I think we were about to find that out, weren't we?
Atmospheric female vocals, check; swirling guitars, check; dream pop songs, check. It was my very favorite kind of sound - music from a cave - full of hooks, completely dance-y and made even better by an appropriately groovy light show.
Hello, Sunday night. Yes, they are good.
The fill-in bass player - also wearing a killer LBD with a criss-cross strap feature that replaced jewelry in front - was introduced and praised for having learned all the bass parts in a short time.
Because I liked their music so much, I found the set far too short, but the brevity may also have been tied to what Lauren said toward the end. "Thanks Big Baby, Christi and Gallery 5 and for that delicious beer that got me drunk with just one."
Some evenings are full of surprises like that. Life will teach you to make the most of what you get handed.
That they do was merely further incentive to leave my 95-degree apartment and go see a show I already wanted to see, coincidentally, one with women represented in all three bands.
Like my history, I prefer my music with breasts.
Not so the two guys on either side of me. One had been bored so he'd randomly picked a show, apparently a habit of his. "I like to choose shows with no intention." He looked at nothing but his phone until the band moved toward the stage, always returning to it when they stopped.
Pass.
Behind Door #2 was a guy who'd been a musician on the side for years and had come because he wanted to hear music and had liked Wildhoney's - the Baltimore headliner - sound with, according to him, direct-sounding ties to bands such as Cocteau Twins and the Sundays.
So right there, he got points. Scads more came when he admitted he doesn't watch TV.
But where he blew the lid off his score was in having been at the Malian quartet's Balliceaux show last week when I was, leading to a chat about how much the scene has changed since he arrived in 1996 from Rochester.
A kindred soul indeed, even if he does live in Forest Hill.
To him I showed off my new knowledge - in Virginia, you must have an ID if you're in any place serving alcohol - which I'd gleaned courtesy of the door guy, who'd also given me the line that if I removed my ID bracelet before the show ended, it would explode.
Please wait until you're outside, he's jokingly pleaded.
Twee trio Big Baby was up first and I immediately fell for their male and female vocals/harmonies combined with two guitars (channeling the Sundays and the Cure) and energetic drumming, although they're still working on their between-song banter, a skill set that takes time.
Announcing they were going to play "Dumb Guys," several women in the audience cheered and hooted.
"Christi is next and they're amazing," singer Ali announced, sounding for all the world like a fan girl. After a look from her band mate, she amended that. "After that is Wildhoney. They're amazing, too." It didn't resonate quite the same.
I knew she was right at least about the former because I've seen Christi's seamless pastiche of girl group sound and hardcore before watching them set up onstage tonight.
Whatever tonight's challenges were as the set progressed, vocalist/bassist/fanny pack-wearer Maggie had a philosophy: "We're just going to do our best," whether it was skipping a song, experiencing feedback or not being able to hear themselves in the monitors.
Announcing that they were going to play a really new song, she turned to vocalist/guitarist Emily and asked, "What's it called?" Climate Change, she told her.
"Okay, we're going to do our best!" she enthused, and they did, not that I've ever seen them not impress.
Forest and I resumed our conversation during the break, with me thanking him for putting in ear plugs at the start of Christi's set. Despite always having a pair or three in my bag, I almost always forget to put them in, except when the person I'm talking to does so.
Maybe I need more good role models.
Turns out that because he's a musician, he had a special pair made that really fit his ears and don't eliminate all the high end like the cheap ones do. We discovered a mutual acknowledgement of hearing loss due to years of show-going but agreed with a handshake that we wouldn't take it back.
Such are the pleasures of meeting fellow music-lovers at shows.
After sound checking, Wildhoney's singer Lauren, wearing her hair in an Audrey Hepburn up-do, a little black dress, gold brooch and combat-like boots, peered into the lights asking the sound guy, "Are we good?''
I think we were about to find that out, weren't we?
Atmospheric female vocals, check; swirling guitars, check; dream pop songs, check. It was my very favorite kind of sound - music from a cave - full of hooks, completely dance-y and made even better by an appropriately groovy light show.
Hello, Sunday night. Yes, they are good.
The fill-in bass player - also wearing a killer LBD with a criss-cross strap feature that replaced jewelry in front - was introduced and praised for having learned all the bass parts in a short time.
Because I liked their music so much, I found the set far too short, but the brevity may also have been tied to what Lauren said toward the end. "Thanks Big Baby, Christi and Gallery 5 and for that delicious beer that got me drunk with just one."
Some evenings are full of surprises like that. Life will teach you to make the most of what you get handed.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Who? This Guy, That's Who
Hope you're in the middle of a grand weekend!
Yes, I'm at the river today and very much enjoying the view.
BTW, I'm very jealous about that river thing.
The river thing is most excellent, I won't lie, but I'm heading back shortly for a friend's party, so your jealousy can be short-lived.
Well, from the river to a party - still not registering high on the sympathy scale with me!
The man had a point.
But tonight's Cocktails and Cards party was non-negotiable, so I took a leisurely outdoor shower before leaving and then stopped home just long enough to put on a summery-looking dress and head to Church Hill to socialize with eight other people.
Driving up the hill to my destination, I spotted a guy standing against a yellow brick wall on 28th or 29th Street, staring West into the brutal pre-sunset glare motionless. He and the entire block seemed suffused with sunshine.
I knew it would be the last lightness I saw before entering the dark world of Cards Against Humanity.
Food covered two tables in two rooms, guests came and went throughout the night, providing changing odds and varying dynamics between the cerebral and corny humor aficionados and it was the usual tough crowd, so everyone brought their "A" game.
Best-written card I never found a use for: Riding the struggle bus
Favorite quip from the man to my left: I already won in my own head
Prank worth trying: Telling people that the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary (Even better, the wife's comment that followed: "Both she and I fell for that.")
Favorite answer to the question, "Who's really to blame?": The person Mr. Rogers thought I could be.
Most surprising comment about appendages: Lady hands on a man make me want to throw up
Best reaction to an innocuous card about "taking it to the kitchen": Uh-oh, do we need to Urban Dictionary that?
Funniest comment about going on a job interview: You know you're going to have to buy pants first
Quickest assumption to "blue waffle" as the answer to the question "What exactly is up my ass?": That's got to be something sexual
Phrase worth remembering for future use: Heteroflexible
The cards, we all agreed, were written by guys smoking weed who then sent them though quality control with 13-year old boys. To wit: felching.
When word nerds drink, they can't resist researching. "I don't need to know," said the wise one, shaking her head.
Oh, but I do. Can we ratchet up the sympathy scale for that?
Yes, I'm at the river today and very much enjoying the view.
BTW, I'm very jealous about that river thing.
The river thing is most excellent, I won't lie, but I'm heading back shortly for a friend's party, so your jealousy can be short-lived.
Well, from the river to a party - still not registering high on the sympathy scale with me!
The man had a point.
But tonight's Cocktails and Cards party was non-negotiable, so I took a leisurely outdoor shower before leaving and then stopped home just long enough to put on a summery-looking dress and head to Church Hill to socialize with eight other people.
Driving up the hill to my destination, I spotted a guy standing against a yellow brick wall on 28th or 29th Street, staring West into the brutal pre-sunset glare motionless. He and the entire block seemed suffused with sunshine.
I knew it would be the last lightness I saw before entering the dark world of Cards Against Humanity.
Food covered two tables in two rooms, guests came and went throughout the night, providing changing odds and varying dynamics between the cerebral and corny humor aficionados and it was the usual tough crowd, so everyone brought their "A" game.
Best-written card I never found a use for: Riding the struggle bus
Favorite quip from the man to my left: I already won in my own head
Prank worth trying: Telling people that the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary (Even better, the wife's comment that followed: "Both she and I fell for that.")
Favorite answer to the question, "Who's really to blame?": The person Mr. Rogers thought I could be.
Most surprising comment about appendages: Lady hands on a man make me want to throw up
Best reaction to an innocuous card about "taking it to the kitchen": Uh-oh, do we need to Urban Dictionary that?
Funniest comment about going on a job interview: You know you're going to have to buy pants first
Quickest assumption to "blue waffle" as the answer to the question "What exactly is up my ass?": That's got to be something sexual
Phrase worth remembering for future use: Heteroflexible
The cards, we all agreed, were written by guys smoking weed who then sent them though quality control with 13-year old boys. To wit: felching.
When word nerds drink, they can't resist researching. "I don't need to know," said the wise one, shaking her head.
Oh, but I do. Can we ratchet up the sympathy scale for that?
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Waiting for a Star to Fall
Jake and I are spending the night alone together for the first time tonight.
Since I arrived, we've taken walks down to the marina, lounged on the deck (I read, he napped) and shared food. There's so much to like about his temperament - alert, energetic, fast, powerful, steady and stubborn - and personality, which is happy, loving, intelligent, cheerful and affectionate.
And don't get me started on how lean and in shape he is for a male his age.
Granted, these are also the characteristics of a Weimaraner, which Jake happens to be, but coincidentally, they're the same qualities of Jake's Dad, who is most definitely human.
And lest it sound like I'm lusting after Jake's Dad, I should make it clear that I first fell in love with Jake's Mom on a boat two summers ago.
Since then, I've become friends and devoted fans of both Jake's parents, resulting in visits to their river cottage, multiple trips to eat on the deck of the Crazy Crab and my first, second and third adventures in sailing.
Jake's Dad recently told me he finds me "easy to have around," a wonderful compliment considering I'm really just a fifth wheel to their two-part love story.
And a truly magnificent love story at that.
This is a couple who dated for years, then went their separate ways (a period he refers to as "the terrible awful") only to reunite three and a half years later, marry and live happily ever after.
No exaggeration.
I learned the basics of how they got from point A to point B early on in our friendship, mostly from the kind of deep conversations women have when they spend hours together at the water, but with occasional input from him when we were all three hanging out.
But it was only recently that I got to read it in his own words from an old email his wife brought up in conversation. I was blown away by his candor and reflection after reading it.
In a missive to a friend seeking marital advice, Jake's Dad laid bare his journey to winning back the woman he loved.
If you have any chance of being the love of her life, you will need to change. That can't happen in a few days. It takes time and a lot of soul searching. I went through something very similar with C. I didn't think we would ever get back together. We gave each other space and time. We dated other people. We stayed friends. Most of all, I grew to understand that I wasn't the guy that she needed.
Just from that much, I think Jake's Dad deserves some sort of man medal for self-awareness, but he took it even further.
My dog died. My mother died. My father developed Alzheimer's. Somehow, and I can't quite explain it, maybe I was humbled by life's experiences, but I came out of all that ready to love and adore C. in the ways that she needs. I'm that guy now.
Here's where he brings it all home with a fatal dose of humor and experience.
I hope your dog doesn't die. I hope you don't lose your Mom. I hope S. stays healthy. BUT, I hope you hear the beautiful, righteous sound that I heard that changed me forever.
That sound was the loud POP when my head came out of my ass. Good luck.
I ask you, does Jake have a brilliant and hilarious Dad or what? So when the happy couple headed out of town and needed a companion for Jake, I was more than happy to roost at the river with him.
Despite the return of this crazy heat everyone's whining about today, having a bright blue river off the back porch makes it completely tolerable. Better still, it hasn't stopped Jake from running or me from walking.
Dinner was eaten at the end of the dock, my legs hanging over water as smooth as glass and completely unlike the choppy whitecaps of our most recent sail. I sat there with the sun on my back and a half moon already visible in the sky while Jake investigated our environs and asked for bites.
Afterwards, we walked to Lover's Lane together, with Jake taking the lead, being the male that he is. Neighbors spotted us and pulled over in their truck to investigate the strange woman walking with the familiar dog. I assured Gail and Freddie that I was just a temporary substitute for Mom and Dad.
Besides Jake's abundant charms, part of the appeal of being down here, far from the city and its attendant light pollution, is the Perseid meteor showers, so I used the early part of the night to read on the porch before dousing the lights and setting up camp outside in hopes of seeing cosmic debris.
Because, where better?
So far, Jake seems content to keep me company out here under the stars for as long as it takes. It's almost like he knows what I want and he's giving it to me.
Around here, that usually occurs after a loud, righteous POP.
Since I arrived, we've taken walks down to the marina, lounged on the deck (I read, he napped) and shared food. There's so much to like about his temperament - alert, energetic, fast, powerful, steady and stubborn - and personality, which is happy, loving, intelligent, cheerful and affectionate.
And don't get me started on how lean and in shape he is for a male his age.
Granted, these are also the characteristics of a Weimaraner, which Jake happens to be, but coincidentally, they're the same qualities of Jake's Dad, who is most definitely human.
And lest it sound like I'm lusting after Jake's Dad, I should make it clear that I first fell in love with Jake's Mom on a boat two summers ago.
Since then, I've become friends and devoted fans of both Jake's parents, resulting in visits to their river cottage, multiple trips to eat on the deck of the Crazy Crab and my first, second and third adventures in sailing.
Jake's Dad recently told me he finds me "easy to have around," a wonderful compliment considering I'm really just a fifth wheel to their two-part love story.
And a truly magnificent love story at that.
This is a couple who dated for years, then went their separate ways (a period he refers to as "the terrible awful") only to reunite three and a half years later, marry and live happily ever after.
No exaggeration.
I learned the basics of how they got from point A to point B early on in our friendship, mostly from the kind of deep conversations women have when they spend hours together at the water, but with occasional input from him when we were all three hanging out.
But it was only recently that I got to read it in his own words from an old email his wife brought up in conversation. I was blown away by his candor and reflection after reading it.
In a missive to a friend seeking marital advice, Jake's Dad laid bare his journey to winning back the woman he loved.
If you have any chance of being the love of her life, you will need to change. That can't happen in a few days. It takes time and a lot of soul searching. I went through something very similar with C. I didn't think we would ever get back together. We gave each other space and time. We dated other people. We stayed friends. Most of all, I grew to understand that I wasn't the guy that she needed.
Just from that much, I think Jake's Dad deserves some sort of man medal for self-awareness, but he took it even further.
My dog died. My mother died. My father developed Alzheimer's. Somehow, and I can't quite explain it, maybe I was humbled by life's experiences, but I came out of all that ready to love and adore C. in the ways that she needs. I'm that guy now.
Here's where he brings it all home with a fatal dose of humor and experience.
I hope your dog doesn't die. I hope you don't lose your Mom. I hope S. stays healthy. BUT, I hope you hear the beautiful, righteous sound that I heard that changed me forever.
That sound was the loud POP when my head came out of my ass. Good luck.
I ask you, does Jake have a brilliant and hilarious Dad or what? So when the happy couple headed out of town and needed a companion for Jake, I was more than happy to roost at the river with him.
Despite the return of this crazy heat everyone's whining about today, having a bright blue river off the back porch makes it completely tolerable. Better still, it hasn't stopped Jake from running or me from walking.
Dinner was eaten at the end of the dock, my legs hanging over water as smooth as glass and completely unlike the choppy whitecaps of our most recent sail. I sat there with the sun on my back and a half moon already visible in the sky while Jake investigated our environs and asked for bites.
Afterwards, we walked to Lover's Lane together, with Jake taking the lead, being the male that he is. Neighbors spotted us and pulled over in their truck to investigate the strange woman walking with the familiar dog. I assured Gail and Freddie that I was just a temporary substitute for Mom and Dad.
Besides Jake's abundant charms, part of the appeal of being down here, far from the city and its attendant light pollution, is the Perseid meteor showers, so I used the early part of the night to read on the porch before dousing the lights and setting up camp outside in hopes of seeing cosmic debris.
Because, where better?
So far, Jake seems content to keep me company out here under the stars for as long as it takes. It's almost like he knows what I want and he's giving it to me.
Around here, that usually occurs after a loud, righteous POP.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Explosions in the Sky
Some people know how to use their down time better than others.
My partner in crime was off today and I'd cleared the decks so we could do whatever we wanted right up until bedtime. So I sent off my morning ping - Hey, I'm up and about - and 35 minutes later we're heading off on an epic walk.
Before we even got to the Empire Theater, we'd run into both the tall, handsome one with the aged beagle and strangers at a table in front of Lift with a young beagle with enormous feet sprawled on the pavement.
An auspicious start to any day, if ever there was one.
We hoofed it down to 13th Street to pick up the empty pipeline walkway, where we were greeted by an unusually brown and muddy river but also a view of short kayakers (meaning those with mad kayak skills) attempting to navigate rapids that repeatedly sent them in alternate directions.
From Brown's Island, we headed to Belle Isle to reward ourselves for traipsing through such heat and humidity right after breakfast, roosting on a rock next to an oblivious couple busy looking at their phones while I submerged my bottom half in the river.
There are far worse things (and few better ways to stay cool on the way home) than walking a couple miles home in wet shorts.
Back at home, we changed clothes and went to lunch at the kind of place where ladies lunch (they were, in fact, at the table next to us) and I froze to death due to the excessively chilly temperatures suburbanites seem to require.
Translation: not particularly my kind of place.
Going our separate ways temporarily after lunch, I used the next few hours to scratch things off my to-do list: editing, grocery-shopping, laundry and something so uncharacteristic I dare not speak its name.
Productive, yes. Thrilling? Hardly.
So imagine my surprise when we reconvene later at Amour for tonight's Languedoc-Roussillon wine tasting with small plates, an evening intended to be both informative and delicious. My favorite outdoor shower owner/wine rep greeted me, I kissed the birthday boy on both cheeks and turned to my friend.
I should've been suspicious when I arrived to find her already there - wait, I'm the punctual one - but it wasn't until I saw the grin, no, the smug look on her face, that I found out why.
Afternoon delight, pure and simple.
I can't say a word since I'm the one who talked her into dipping a toe back into the online dating pool, which has already yielded a wildly complimentary admirer who has commented favorably on her backside, the constellation-like grouping of freckles on her back and her in general.
But envious? Yea, I can be that without reservation. And was.
Fortunately, I had the wine tasting to get my mind out of the gutter and back into France. Owner Paul was his usual playful self, pouring two wines to sample for each course without sharing what they were. It was our job to figure that out based on the spiels offered by both him and he who showers under the stars.
We began with two Roses, one from Languedoc and the other from Provence - La Galope and Le Petit Rouviere - and a rumination about the difficulty years ago in convincing American drinkers that true Rose bore no resemblance to the white Zinfandel of the '80s.
No news there for true pink fans.
Paired with the two Roses was a bowl of summer flavors, namely ratatouille that tasted like it had still been in the garden this morning.
"The color of Rose is a fashion thing," Paul shared about the process that determines color, spurring one guest to suggest using red food color instead.
"Not in France!" Paul responded with disdain.
The next course was a surprise one, so not listed in our wine workbooks, contrasting two Chardonnays that paired oh-so nicely with local mushrooms and garlic and spurred a discussion of Chardonnay's rise and fall with the American public.
Recalling a 25-year old bumper sticker, the wine rep shared its message: "Let's take the oak out of the wine and put the fruit back in," it read. No doubt directed at California, not France.
When quizzed about which Chard was from Languedoc and which from Burgundy, all the attendees called it correctly, netting praise from the owner. I couldn't help pointing out that the more we drank, the smarter we were becoming.
"Can I get that on a t-shirt?" the guy at the end of the bar wondered. Rumor has it he also tried to shoot a deer out his sliding glass door in Bon Air, but I can't verify that one way or another.
Seated near us at the bar was a woman who'd come alone but who'd quickly joined our conversation, explaining her job at an IT firm as "herding cats." A former Museum District resident, she now lived in the West End, yet still sought more land around her.
Leaning over, my friend whispered, "It's a shame, she seems like a nice girl and yet she moved out of the city." We just can't figure out come people.
Our handsome wine rep got many laughs explaining the next set of wines - "Paul is such a great guy, but he's French" - notable because another guest observed, "Now we're in "real" wines," meaning, of course, red wine.
Both Languedoc's Laurent Miquel and Bergerac's Chateau Michel de Montaigne got high points from the group, especially when paired with duck rillettes and duck cracklins.
What was strange was that the woman next to us wasn't eating her food (nor drinking all her wine, not that there's anything wrong with that), making me think she was there more to de-stress than anything else. She had, after all, told us several times how stressful her job was.
She could have benefited from a little afternoon delight herself, although she seemed a bit tightly wound to realize that.
How can someone whose first concert was Jethro Tull and AC/DC at age 10 in Texas be so uptight?
Like us, though, she was thoroughly impressed with both the final Syrahs - Chateau Camplazens and the "nose wine," La Chapelle Saint Arnoux - paired with steak and shallot relish (also not eaten by our seatmate).
By the end of the evening, some of us were smarter about Languedoc's offerings, we'd sung Happy Birthday to Paul and watched him blow out a candle and discussed why dresses are superior to pants on women.
All in all, not a bad night's work.
But not content to finish the night out there, we stopped at the Hofheimer Building because who can resist an invitation reading, "Come be beautiful and feel the breeze while watching fireworks"?
Not me, apparently, but then I missed the usual Independence Day display because of being in France (I know, boo-hoo) but I also welcome opportunities to attempt beautiful, wherever they arise.
On the loft level, we took advantage of Tidewater Oysters' table, spending five bones a piece to scarf four York oysters each and marveling at how briny they were, surprisingly not far off the salinity of Old Saltes.
Ergo, absolutely delicious.
Crowds were entrenched on the roof, but we had no problem moving around the socializing and flirtation so my constant companion could get her first Hof rooftop views, which, incidentally, do not surpass Quirk's tree-covered bird's -eye view of Jackson Ward.
Listening to MJ's "Rock with You" and ogling the lights of RVA, we agreed that the breezes were fantastic up there.
As if on cue, the fireworks display at the Diamond began and we found places near the edge with fabulous views.
I'll admit, I was a bit surprised how many people ignored the fireworks entirely (or were oblivious to them), but part of the blame goes to the sheer noise level of conversation and music, which rendered moot the satisfying booms and pops of the fireworks.
In that regard, it was a bit unsatisfying.
Sort of like hearing how your friend used her down time while you were off being boring.
My partner in crime was off today and I'd cleared the decks so we could do whatever we wanted right up until bedtime. So I sent off my morning ping - Hey, I'm up and about - and 35 minutes later we're heading off on an epic walk.
Before we even got to the Empire Theater, we'd run into both the tall, handsome one with the aged beagle and strangers at a table in front of Lift with a young beagle with enormous feet sprawled on the pavement.
An auspicious start to any day, if ever there was one.
We hoofed it down to 13th Street to pick up the empty pipeline walkway, where we were greeted by an unusually brown and muddy river but also a view of short kayakers (meaning those with mad kayak skills) attempting to navigate rapids that repeatedly sent them in alternate directions.
From Brown's Island, we headed to Belle Isle to reward ourselves for traipsing through such heat and humidity right after breakfast, roosting on a rock next to an oblivious couple busy looking at their phones while I submerged my bottom half in the river.
There are far worse things (and few better ways to stay cool on the way home) than walking a couple miles home in wet shorts.
Back at home, we changed clothes and went to lunch at the kind of place where ladies lunch (they were, in fact, at the table next to us) and I froze to death due to the excessively chilly temperatures suburbanites seem to require.
Translation: not particularly my kind of place.
Going our separate ways temporarily after lunch, I used the next few hours to scratch things off my to-do list: editing, grocery-shopping, laundry and something so uncharacteristic I dare not speak its name.
Productive, yes. Thrilling? Hardly.
So imagine my surprise when we reconvene later at Amour for tonight's Languedoc-Roussillon wine tasting with small plates, an evening intended to be both informative and delicious. My favorite outdoor shower owner/wine rep greeted me, I kissed the birthday boy on both cheeks and turned to my friend.
I should've been suspicious when I arrived to find her already there - wait, I'm the punctual one - but it wasn't until I saw the grin, no, the smug look on her face, that I found out why.
Afternoon delight, pure and simple.
I can't say a word since I'm the one who talked her into dipping a toe back into the online dating pool, which has already yielded a wildly complimentary admirer who has commented favorably on her backside, the constellation-like grouping of freckles on her back and her in general.
But envious? Yea, I can be that without reservation. And was.
Fortunately, I had the wine tasting to get my mind out of the gutter and back into France. Owner Paul was his usual playful self, pouring two wines to sample for each course without sharing what they were. It was our job to figure that out based on the spiels offered by both him and he who showers under the stars.
We began with two Roses, one from Languedoc and the other from Provence - La Galope and Le Petit Rouviere - and a rumination about the difficulty years ago in convincing American drinkers that true Rose bore no resemblance to the white Zinfandel of the '80s.
No news there for true pink fans.
Paired with the two Roses was a bowl of summer flavors, namely ratatouille that tasted like it had still been in the garden this morning.
"The color of Rose is a fashion thing," Paul shared about the process that determines color, spurring one guest to suggest using red food color instead.
"Not in France!" Paul responded with disdain.
The next course was a surprise one, so not listed in our wine workbooks, contrasting two Chardonnays that paired oh-so nicely with local mushrooms and garlic and spurred a discussion of Chardonnay's rise and fall with the American public.
Recalling a 25-year old bumper sticker, the wine rep shared its message: "Let's take the oak out of the wine and put the fruit back in," it read. No doubt directed at California, not France.
When quizzed about which Chard was from Languedoc and which from Burgundy, all the attendees called it correctly, netting praise from the owner. I couldn't help pointing out that the more we drank, the smarter we were becoming.
"Can I get that on a t-shirt?" the guy at the end of the bar wondered. Rumor has it he also tried to shoot a deer out his sliding glass door in Bon Air, but I can't verify that one way or another.
Seated near us at the bar was a woman who'd come alone but who'd quickly joined our conversation, explaining her job at an IT firm as "herding cats." A former Museum District resident, she now lived in the West End, yet still sought more land around her.
Leaning over, my friend whispered, "It's a shame, she seems like a nice girl and yet she moved out of the city." We just can't figure out come people.
Our handsome wine rep got many laughs explaining the next set of wines - "Paul is such a great guy, but he's French" - notable because another guest observed, "Now we're in "real" wines," meaning, of course, red wine.
Both Languedoc's Laurent Miquel and Bergerac's Chateau Michel de Montaigne got high points from the group, especially when paired with duck rillettes and duck cracklins.
What was strange was that the woman next to us wasn't eating her food (nor drinking all her wine, not that there's anything wrong with that), making me think she was there more to de-stress than anything else. She had, after all, told us several times how stressful her job was.
She could have benefited from a little afternoon delight herself, although she seemed a bit tightly wound to realize that.
How can someone whose first concert was Jethro Tull and AC/DC at age 10 in Texas be so uptight?
Like us, though, she was thoroughly impressed with both the final Syrahs - Chateau Camplazens and the "nose wine," La Chapelle Saint Arnoux - paired with steak and shallot relish (also not eaten by our seatmate).
By the end of the evening, some of us were smarter about Languedoc's offerings, we'd sung Happy Birthday to Paul and watched him blow out a candle and discussed why dresses are superior to pants on women.
All in all, not a bad night's work.
But not content to finish the night out there, we stopped at the Hofheimer Building because who can resist an invitation reading, "Come be beautiful and feel the breeze while watching fireworks"?
Not me, apparently, but then I missed the usual Independence Day display because of being in France (I know, boo-hoo) but I also welcome opportunities to attempt beautiful, wherever they arise.
On the loft level, we took advantage of Tidewater Oysters' table, spending five bones a piece to scarf four York oysters each and marveling at how briny they were, surprisingly not far off the salinity of Old Saltes.
Ergo, absolutely delicious.
Crowds were entrenched on the roof, but we had no problem moving around the socializing and flirtation so my constant companion could get her first Hof rooftop views, which, incidentally, do not surpass Quirk's tree-covered bird's -eye view of Jackson Ward.
Listening to MJ's "Rock with You" and ogling the lights of RVA, we agreed that the breezes were fantastic up there.
As if on cue, the fireworks display at the Diamond began and we found places near the edge with fabulous views.
I'll admit, I was a bit surprised how many people ignored the fireworks entirely (or were oblivious to them), but part of the blame goes to the sheer noise level of conversation and music, which rendered moot the satisfying booms and pops of the fireworks.
In that regard, it was a bit unsatisfying.
Sort of like hearing how your friend used her down time while you were off being boring.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Buttermilk and Biscotti
You never know what you'll learn in the shade.
Rounding the corner on to Meyer from Leigh Street, I know I can rely on a shady stretch to cool down briefly, but not necessarily one offering local history and cultural commentary.
It was my response - "Hot" - when a man taking a break from weed-eating asked how I was that set us off.
"This ain't hot," he responds. "I don't even use air conditioning in my truck." Clearly he had no idea who he was talking to. I don't use it in my car or apartment, I informed him. Haven't since '93.
Checkmate.
Instead of looking gobsmacked, we jumped right into the decline of Western civilization due to over-use of air conditioning, lackadaisical parenting and general laziness.
We were soul mates, I tell you.
Like me, he was a come-here (albeit in 1963), who'd married here (1971) so, unlike me, had all kinds of memories of the city in the '70s. Cary near Harrison Streets was a hotbed of eating pleasures, he assured me, mentioning Johnson's Burger Bar, a barbecue joint and a diner where he could get all-you-can-eat string beans, mashed potatoes and chopped hamburger steak.
For sixty cents.
Discussing summer weather and the need for hydration, he slid into the conversation that he only drank two things: water and buttermilk. I happen to know that my Richmond grandmother drank only water, buttermilk and (unsweetened) iced tea, so apparently there was a time when this was a thing.
"Buttermilk's good for you," he said in that same tone my grandmother used to. Look, if you have to convince yourself, maybe it's time to reconsider what you're drinking.
Although I bet it makes a helluva fine milk mustache.
But he also said with some pride that he'd never been in a club - "You don't mix people with guns and drinking" - and if you don't do that and only drink water and buttermilk, where exactly are you getting your pleasure?
No, seriously, I'm asking.
We talked for a good 15 minutes before I resumed walking so he could get back to work. He did not approve of the men he's seen sitting near Lowe's, as he put it, "drinking right out in public instead of working."
I bet my grandmother would have felt the same way. Shiftless, I can just hear her saying it now.
Curious about these restaurants and that area, I had no choice but to consult my native Richmond authorities when we met up for dinner.
Holmes immediately flashed back to first hearing about the ultra-fab JB cheeseburger at Johnson's from a friend's letter while he and his family were vacationing in London. Not to question his recall or anything, but who remembers their first mention of a new burger joint?
Anyone?
Our drive to Nota Bene took us right by the long-gone eateries. conjuring up for the natives other restaurant and club ghosts of their youth where now looms VCU's Life Sciences building.
The restaurant was nearly full except for the bar, which was empty, and while the diners were making a racket, the music at the bar - Holmes dismissed it as "whiny white boy music" and said the bands sounded like Dylan-wannabes, but it was right up my "music from a cave" alley - soared right along side it, providing us a musical soundtrack undoubtedly absent where the table-dwellers sat.
An unusually large party of wine people had already depleted the specials board, but we nabbed the last of the crusty potato and leek focaccia alongside ricotta and blistered grape tomatoes, a dish almost as memorable visually as on the tongue.
Unable to resist the siren song of the roasted cauliflower or the sugar toads, the historians duplicated our order last visit, but then, some things are just too good to pass up, even if I did have to remind Holmes the easiest way to eat toads.
The peppery assertiveness of the arugula in my salad was ably met with chickpeas, pickled onion and oil-packed tuna all dressed in lemon and olive oil, a simple and satisfying summer supper for someone like me.
And someone like me, according to Holmes anyway, is someone who all but requires chocolate at the end of a meal - not true, but who can stop the slander? - a fact he shared with the owner, who recommended the latest addition to the dessert menu.
What's not to like about housemade chocolate almond biscotti drizzled with vermouth ("Because of who we are," she admitted with a shrug) served with a little Mason jar of sweetened ricotta made obscene with orange and lemon zest, almonds and bits of chocolate?
Not terribly sweet, with contrasting textures and supremely complementary flavors, the dessert opened with the kick of vermouth and finished with a breath of orange while laying on the charm of the cheese and chocolate.
I need not require something to take great pleasure in it. I'm beginning to think it's better if I don't.
Rounding the corner on to Meyer from Leigh Street, I know I can rely on a shady stretch to cool down briefly, but not necessarily one offering local history and cultural commentary.
It was my response - "Hot" - when a man taking a break from weed-eating asked how I was that set us off.
"This ain't hot," he responds. "I don't even use air conditioning in my truck." Clearly he had no idea who he was talking to. I don't use it in my car or apartment, I informed him. Haven't since '93.
Checkmate.
Instead of looking gobsmacked, we jumped right into the decline of Western civilization due to over-use of air conditioning, lackadaisical parenting and general laziness.
We were soul mates, I tell you.
Like me, he was a come-here (albeit in 1963), who'd married here (1971) so, unlike me, had all kinds of memories of the city in the '70s. Cary near Harrison Streets was a hotbed of eating pleasures, he assured me, mentioning Johnson's Burger Bar, a barbecue joint and a diner where he could get all-you-can-eat string beans, mashed potatoes and chopped hamburger steak.
For sixty cents.
Discussing summer weather and the need for hydration, he slid into the conversation that he only drank two things: water and buttermilk. I happen to know that my Richmond grandmother drank only water, buttermilk and (unsweetened) iced tea, so apparently there was a time when this was a thing.
"Buttermilk's good for you," he said in that same tone my grandmother used to. Look, if you have to convince yourself, maybe it's time to reconsider what you're drinking.
Although I bet it makes a helluva fine milk mustache.
But he also said with some pride that he'd never been in a club - "You don't mix people with guns and drinking" - and if you don't do that and only drink water and buttermilk, where exactly are you getting your pleasure?
No, seriously, I'm asking.
We talked for a good 15 minutes before I resumed walking so he could get back to work. He did not approve of the men he's seen sitting near Lowe's, as he put it, "drinking right out in public instead of working."
I bet my grandmother would have felt the same way. Shiftless, I can just hear her saying it now.
Curious about these restaurants and that area, I had no choice but to consult my native Richmond authorities when we met up for dinner.
Holmes immediately flashed back to first hearing about the ultra-fab JB cheeseburger at Johnson's from a friend's letter while he and his family were vacationing in London. Not to question his recall or anything, but who remembers their first mention of a new burger joint?
Anyone?
Our drive to Nota Bene took us right by the long-gone eateries. conjuring up for the natives other restaurant and club ghosts of their youth where now looms VCU's Life Sciences building.
The restaurant was nearly full except for the bar, which was empty, and while the diners were making a racket, the music at the bar - Holmes dismissed it as "whiny white boy music" and said the bands sounded like Dylan-wannabes, but it was right up my "music from a cave" alley - soared right along side it, providing us a musical soundtrack undoubtedly absent where the table-dwellers sat.
An unusually large party of wine people had already depleted the specials board, but we nabbed the last of the crusty potato and leek focaccia alongside ricotta and blistered grape tomatoes, a dish almost as memorable visually as on the tongue.
Unable to resist the siren song of the roasted cauliflower or the sugar toads, the historians duplicated our order last visit, but then, some things are just too good to pass up, even if I did have to remind Holmes the easiest way to eat toads.
The peppery assertiveness of the arugula in my salad was ably met with chickpeas, pickled onion and oil-packed tuna all dressed in lemon and olive oil, a simple and satisfying summer supper for someone like me.
And someone like me, according to Holmes anyway, is someone who all but requires chocolate at the end of a meal - not true, but who can stop the slander? - a fact he shared with the owner, who recommended the latest addition to the dessert menu.
What's not to like about housemade chocolate almond biscotti drizzled with vermouth ("Because of who we are," she admitted with a shrug) served with a little Mason jar of sweetened ricotta made obscene with orange and lemon zest, almonds and bits of chocolate?
Not terribly sweet, with contrasting textures and supremely complementary flavors, the dessert opened with the kick of vermouth and finished with a breath of orange while laying on the charm of the cheese and chocolate.
I need not require something to take great pleasure in it. I'm beginning to think it's better if I don't.
Monday, August 8, 2016
The Hard Part
I'm going to call it like I see it. Gordon trumps Kehinde, hands down.
Friends were in from out of town, so we met up to see VMFA's summer blockbuster, "Kehinde Wiley: A New Republic," joining an unusually diverse crowd doing the same on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.
And by diverse, I mean a trio of black women eagerly looking for more information in the exhibition catalog as they discussed several pieces and a couple of white women who blandly observed, "I love the background of these things."
Don't get me wrong, I completely appreciate what Wiley is going for by inserting people of color - all gorgeous individuals with not a blemish among them - into compositions from traditional European (read: white) paintings and adding densely patterned overlays and backgrounds to them.
Not to mention the frames which were as much works of art as the paintings.
Without a doubt, the bronze busts were my favorite part of the show, particularly the one of a man in a dashiki with a pick in his hair, a monumental sculpture of black power and beauty.
Like a dutiful museum guest, I read about Wiley's process and was intrigued. He recruited everyday people off the street to model, then asked them to choose a painting from an art history book for him to recreate using their face and modern day clothes.
The randomly-chosen models made fascinating choices in some cases, choosing to be depicted as religious men, as part of biblical scenes, even as a white slave. One of the most interesting facets was the gender play throughout, men depicted as women and vice versa.
But there was also a soul-less quality to the work, a fact undoubtedly due to Wiley's large workshop crews who help bring the paintings to fruition. The figures had a photo-realistic quality that may have been the result of Wiley working from photographs of his models, but also made them feel more like copies than originals.
Where were the brushstrokes, the painterly qualities that give dimension to a painting? Granted, black skin tones were beautifully represented in shades from purple-hued to golden brown, but the overall effect came across like a highly decorative airbrushed picture.
The art historian in the group was disappointed that the information cards next to the paintings revealed little more than the title, year and painting's owner. Why was there no contextualization, explanation, inside scoop about the subject, source or method?
Shallow and disappointingly vapid, that's how the whole thing felt, like a Twitter feed trying to replace an actual book when what you seek is meaningful information.
Give me Gordon Parks' iconic black and white (occasionally color) photographs documenting his high school class revisited and there's some meat to chew on. The exhibition's information cards provide a satisfying backstory and update for every Fort Scott face looking out at you.
Since VMFA re-opened, they've been reminding us regularly that it's our art, a technicality which I embrace whole-heartedly.
But like anything I consider mine - books, clothes, music, friends - there are some that give me more pleasure than others. Those I choose to revisit repeatedly.
Life's too short to waste on the rest.
Friends were in from out of town, so we met up to see VMFA's summer blockbuster, "Kehinde Wiley: A New Republic," joining an unusually diverse crowd doing the same on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.
And by diverse, I mean a trio of black women eagerly looking for more information in the exhibition catalog as they discussed several pieces and a couple of white women who blandly observed, "I love the background of these things."
Don't get me wrong, I completely appreciate what Wiley is going for by inserting people of color - all gorgeous individuals with not a blemish among them - into compositions from traditional European (read: white) paintings and adding densely patterned overlays and backgrounds to them.
Not to mention the frames which were as much works of art as the paintings.
Without a doubt, the bronze busts were my favorite part of the show, particularly the one of a man in a dashiki with a pick in his hair, a monumental sculpture of black power and beauty.
Like a dutiful museum guest, I read about Wiley's process and was intrigued. He recruited everyday people off the street to model, then asked them to choose a painting from an art history book for him to recreate using their face and modern day clothes.
The randomly-chosen models made fascinating choices in some cases, choosing to be depicted as religious men, as part of biblical scenes, even as a white slave. One of the most interesting facets was the gender play throughout, men depicted as women and vice versa.
But there was also a soul-less quality to the work, a fact undoubtedly due to Wiley's large workshop crews who help bring the paintings to fruition. The figures had a photo-realistic quality that may have been the result of Wiley working from photographs of his models, but also made them feel more like copies than originals.
Where were the brushstrokes, the painterly qualities that give dimension to a painting? Granted, black skin tones were beautifully represented in shades from purple-hued to golden brown, but the overall effect came across like a highly decorative airbrushed picture.
The art historian in the group was disappointed that the information cards next to the paintings revealed little more than the title, year and painting's owner. Why was there no contextualization, explanation, inside scoop about the subject, source or method?
Shallow and disappointingly vapid, that's how the whole thing felt, like a Twitter feed trying to replace an actual book when what you seek is meaningful information.
Give me Gordon Parks' iconic black and white (occasionally color) photographs documenting his high school class revisited and there's some meat to chew on. The exhibition's information cards provide a satisfying backstory and update for every Fort Scott face looking out at you.
Since VMFA re-opened, they've been reminding us regularly that it's our art, a technicality which I embrace whole-heartedly.
But like anything I consider mine - books, clothes, music, friends - there are some that give me more pleasure than others. Those I choose to revisit repeatedly.
Life's too short to waste on the rest.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
So Happy
By the second primal-sounding song, just about everyone in the room was moving, if not dancing.
The Malian Blues Quartet, dressed in traditional, bright-colored garb, attracted a crowd that ranged from old hippies to jazz musicians and fans to a young guy dancing enthusiastically in a presumably ironic black t-shirt with big white letters that read "Hall and Oates."
Familiar faces and conversation came from the jazz critic (who shared a hilarious story about Hitler), the DJ, the sax and clarinet player, the woman who works on film costuming/make-up, the banjo player. A guy with a white buzz cut did the Mr. Roboto dance non-stop.
By the fourth song, the room had gone from cool to warm with no signs of changing direction.
Although the band spoke almost entirely in French, after most songs, the band's leader would smile broadly and say, "Thank you very much. So happy!" He didn't appear to be making that up.
By the time we got to the shank of the show, the band would start playing another song with unusual and shifting time signatures and the crowd would struggle to find a beat to dance to while the group's singer played guitar and gazed out at us with a beatific smile that seemed to say, "Don't sweat it. Let your body go anywhere it wants to."
Kudos to the band for taking what has to be the shortest break on record before returning us to our trance-like dancing to Malian music.
During intermission, while others danced to a DJ playing "Groove is in the Heart," a world music fan and Balliceaux regular I'd met a few years back found me to discuss the set.
"It's the first time I've heard the sound of Celtic music come through in African music," he said. "If you listen, that guitar could be a fiddle and it would be Celtic!"
Of course, once he pointed that out, I could hear nothing but how much of Celtic music had a direct link to the music we were hearing.
It was after intermission that late arrivals - like the guy in a deep blue v-neck t-shirt with a gold chain worn without irony or the guy in the Richmond football jersey almost to his knees - began showing up, making just another post-midnight stop on their Saturday night rounds.
More than a few of that type walked in, made a loop and decided a closed-eye crowd trance dancing was apparently not their thing. It was ours.
By 1 a.m., the four members of the Malian super-group were dancing off the stage one by one to end the show to wild applause.
Walking up Lombardy, the world music lover caught up to talk about how excellent the show had been, how they'd played a lot of songs by a noted African composer. "You should look him up," he tells me. "You should know about him."
I shared that after his intermission observation, I'd been unable to listen without hearing what Celtic music had pulled from what we were hearing tonight. We paused at the street corner to go different ways.
"When you come down to it, all music is African music," he reminded me before smiling, waving farewell and walking off.
When you come down to it, all summer nights spent dancing, much less to Malian music, are excellent nights.
The Malian Blues Quartet, dressed in traditional, bright-colored garb, attracted a crowd that ranged from old hippies to jazz musicians and fans to a young guy dancing enthusiastically in a presumably ironic black t-shirt with big white letters that read "Hall and Oates."
Familiar faces and conversation came from the jazz critic (who shared a hilarious story about Hitler), the DJ, the sax and clarinet player, the woman who works on film costuming/make-up, the banjo player. A guy with a white buzz cut did the Mr. Roboto dance non-stop.
By the fourth song, the room had gone from cool to warm with no signs of changing direction.
Although the band spoke almost entirely in French, after most songs, the band's leader would smile broadly and say, "Thank you very much. So happy!" He didn't appear to be making that up.
By the time we got to the shank of the show, the band would start playing another song with unusual and shifting time signatures and the crowd would struggle to find a beat to dance to while the group's singer played guitar and gazed out at us with a beatific smile that seemed to say, "Don't sweat it. Let your body go anywhere it wants to."
Kudos to the band for taking what has to be the shortest break on record before returning us to our trance-like dancing to Malian music.
During intermission, while others danced to a DJ playing "Groove is in the Heart," a world music fan and Balliceaux regular I'd met a few years back found me to discuss the set.
"It's the first time I've heard the sound of Celtic music come through in African music," he said. "If you listen, that guitar could be a fiddle and it would be Celtic!"
Of course, once he pointed that out, I could hear nothing but how much of Celtic music had a direct link to the music we were hearing.
It was after intermission that late arrivals - like the guy in a deep blue v-neck t-shirt with a gold chain worn without irony or the guy in the Richmond football jersey almost to his knees - began showing up, making just another post-midnight stop on their Saturday night rounds.
More than a few of that type walked in, made a loop and decided a closed-eye crowd trance dancing was apparently not their thing. It was ours.
By 1 a.m., the four members of the Malian super-group were dancing off the stage one by one to end the show to wild applause.
Walking up Lombardy, the world music lover caught up to talk about how excellent the show had been, how they'd played a lot of songs by a noted African composer. "You should look him up," he tells me. "You should know about him."
I shared that after his intermission observation, I'd been unable to listen without hearing what Celtic music had pulled from what we were hearing tonight. We paused at the street corner to go different ways.
"When you come down to it, all music is African music," he reminded me before smiling, waving farewell and walking off.
When you come down to it, all summer nights spent dancing, much less to Malian music, are excellent nights.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Unsafe at Any Speed
If I have to be trapped in a room with 14 millennials for 8 hours, I want to pick the millennials.
It's not like I have a categorical disdain for that generation, because I have plenty of friends who fall into the age group. If you look at some of the best music, books and art ever created, it was done by people in their 20s, so I'd never make a gross generalization about an entire generation.
Never, except after spending an entire day at traffic school with only three other adults and the rest of the participants millennials.
As my father would put it: ye gods!
My heart began to sink when I walked in the classroom at the Hampton Inn to find not one, but two screens on to entertain the room through registration and waiting for the tardy until class began. One was showing the testosterone-fueled '80s gem "Top Gun" and the other the Olympics.
Arriving when I did was young Emily whose Mom dropped her off with an over-protective look and wave, as if she were abandoning her baby at a lion's den.
So imagine my surprise when we had to go around the room and share why we were there and young Em admitted that she'd been caught in New Hampshire driving 103 miles an hour. Her excuse? She was driving a friend's "really old Cadillac and the speedometer was broken so I didn't know how fast I was going."
Which was all well and even pitiable until the instructor, an overly tolerant former New Yorker, informed us that the main problem with new cars is that, unlike older vehicles, they're so quiet and smooth that you get no real sense of what speed you're going without looking.
Sorry, Em, but you probably did know you were speeding. Teacher's response? "You've got a lawyer, right?"
The class was primarily made up of speeders - 72 in a 35, 58 in a 40 - all of whom claimed that they'd had no idea they were going so fast when they were stopped and apparently none of whom had the sense to look at the speedometer to find out at any point.
Teacher said the record, at least for the classes he's taught, was a group of five motorcyclists caught doing 160 mph on Route 288. In a show of solidarity, all five came to class together.
Needless to say, much of the eight hours was devoted to the hazards of distracted driving, no doubt because people like young Melissa (69 in a 50 in Botetourt County) said things like, "I forget to pay attention when I'm driving. I just get so distracted!"
There was a great deal of commiseration going on among the millennials, mainly about being caught and inconvenienced by having to waste a Saturday at school. Unbelievably, three of them had two tickets in less than a month.
To no avail, I'm sure, Teacher spent a huge amount of time on the dangers of cell phone usage, whether talking or texting, suggesting that people put their phones in the glove box or trunk before getting behind the wheel.
Yea, as if.
The class voted to take only a 20-minute lunch so that we could hopefully finish earlier than scheduled, a plan I was fine with.
As I left the overly-cold meeting room to seek warmth outside while eating my lunch, young Em pulled out a Ziplock bag of Cheerios, much like a Mom might bring along for a toddler. I didn't ask because it's better if I don't know why she's eating dry cereal for lunch.
Odd eating habits and obliviousness aside, what drove me craziest was the traffic school behavior of the under 30 set.
The two guys in the back row talked to each other almost constantly, whether we were watching an instructional video or the teacher was going over salient points. I was grateful when he told them to keep it down and downright amazed when a woman later said the same thing less politely.
But they were far from the only talkers. A group of about seven of them made comments, shared personal anecdotes, cracked jokes and generally just did not stop talking the entire day. Even when we were doing a group exercise - a quiz, sort of - involving watching a screen showing traffic incidents so we could then identify the mistakes, they blathered on.
Everything is a group discussion for these people.
Ignoring them as much as I could, I did learn all kinds of new things today. Like how side mirrors are supposed to be positioned, which is nothing like what I was taught back in the dark ages. That American horns beep in the key of "F." That drivers kill more deer than hunters.
But easily the most depressing fact shared today is one that seemed to register not at all with the class. The average American spends 8 hours and 20 minutes a day on their cell phone. That's also, by the way, more time than the average American sleeps.
So, at zero cell phone time and nine hours sleep daily, I can't help but qualify for the odd American out.
The good news is, we finished class an hour early (Teacher and his wife were having an engagement party for their son tonight so he was highly motivated), were awarded the certificates that will expunge our driving records and I could escape confinement with the clueless.
Aware of my old lady driving habits, when I told friends I'd gotten a traffic ticket, two of them had the identical incredulous response. "Surely not for speeding?"
Surely not. I haven't had a ticket of any kind in at least three decades.
No, it was all because a VCU cop had nothing better to do on a rainy Thursday night at an empty intersection than ticket me when the yellow light turned to red as I passed under it. There's a reason people mock VCU cops.
My debt to society paid with the cruelest of sentences - an excruciating confinement with millennials - I can go forward again with an unsullied record, my head held high and only one lingering question.
How the hell can you not know you're going 103?
It's not like I have a categorical disdain for that generation, because I have plenty of friends who fall into the age group. If you look at some of the best music, books and art ever created, it was done by people in their 20s, so I'd never make a gross generalization about an entire generation.
Never, except after spending an entire day at traffic school with only three other adults and the rest of the participants millennials.
As my father would put it: ye gods!
My heart began to sink when I walked in the classroom at the Hampton Inn to find not one, but two screens on to entertain the room through registration and waiting for the tardy until class began. One was showing the testosterone-fueled '80s gem "Top Gun" and the other the Olympics.
Arriving when I did was young Emily whose Mom dropped her off with an over-protective look and wave, as if she were abandoning her baby at a lion's den.
So imagine my surprise when we had to go around the room and share why we were there and young Em admitted that she'd been caught in New Hampshire driving 103 miles an hour. Her excuse? She was driving a friend's "really old Cadillac and the speedometer was broken so I didn't know how fast I was going."
Which was all well and even pitiable until the instructor, an overly tolerant former New Yorker, informed us that the main problem with new cars is that, unlike older vehicles, they're so quiet and smooth that you get no real sense of what speed you're going without looking.
Sorry, Em, but you probably did know you were speeding. Teacher's response? "You've got a lawyer, right?"
The class was primarily made up of speeders - 72 in a 35, 58 in a 40 - all of whom claimed that they'd had no idea they were going so fast when they were stopped and apparently none of whom had the sense to look at the speedometer to find out at any point.
Teacher said the record, at least for the classes he's taught, was a group of five motorcyclists caught doing 160 mph on Route 288. In a show of solidarity, all five came to class together.
Needless to say, much of the eight hours was devoted to the hazards of distracted driving, no doubt because people like young Melissa (69 in a 50 in Botetourt County) said things like, "I forget to pay attention when I'm driving. I just get so distracted!"
There was a great deal of commiseration going on among the millennials, mainly about being caught and inconvenienced by having to waste a Saturday at school. Unbelievably, three of them had two tickets in less than a month.
To no avail, I'm sure, Teacher spent a huge amount of time on the dangers of cell phone usage, whether talking or texting, suggesting that people put their phones in the glove box or trunk before getting behind the wheel.
Yea, as if.
The class voted to take only a 20-minute lunch so that we could hopefully finish earlier than scheduled, a plan I was fine with.
As I left the overly-cold meeting room to seek warmth outside while eating my lunch, young Em pulled out a Ziplock bag of Cheerios, much like a Mom might bring along for a toddler. I didn't ask because it's better if I don't know why she's eating dry cereal for lunch.
Odd eating habits and obliviousness aside, what drove me craziest was the traffic school behavior of the under 30 set.
The two guys in the back row talked to each other almost constantly, whether we were watching an instructional video or the teacher was going over salient points. I was grateful when he told them to keep it down and downright amazed when a woman later said the same thing less politely.
But they were far from the only talkers. A group of about seven of them made comments, shared personal anecdotes, cracked jokes and generally just did not stop talking the entire day. Even when we were doing a group exercise - a quiz, sort of - involving watching a screen showing traffic incidents so we could then identify the mistakes, they blathered on.
Everything is a group discussion for these people.
Ignoring them as much as I could, I did learn all kinds of new things today. Like how side mirrors are supposed to be positioned, which is nothing like what I was taught back in the dark ages. That American horns beep in the key of "F." That drivers kill more deer than hunters.
But easily the most depressing fact shared today is one that seemed to register not at all with the class. The average American spends 8 hours and 20 minutes a day on their cell phone. That's also, by the way, more time than the average American sleeps.
So, at zero cell phone time and nine hours sleep daily, I can't help but qualify for the odd American out.
The good news is, we finished class an hour early (Teacher and his wife were having an engagement party for their son tonight so he was highly motivated), were awarded the certificates that will expunge our driving records and I could escape confinement with the clueless.
Aware of my old lady driving habits, when I told friends I'd gotten a traffic ticket, two of them had the identical incredulous response. "Surely not for speeding?"
Surely not. I haven't had a ticket of any kind in at least three decades.
No, it was all because a VCU cop had nothing better to do on a rainy Thursday night at an empty intersection than ticket me when the yellow light turned to red as I passed under it. There's a reason people mock VCU cops.
My debt to society paid with the cruelest of sentences - an excruciating confinement with millennials - I can go forward again with an unsullied record, my head held high and only one lingering question.
How the hell can you not know you're going 103?
Friday, August 5, 2016
The Best Medicine
A favorite compliment came in letter form and said I always seemed to add laughter to a room. Tonight I got thanked for that.
When a friend messaged me about my Friday night plans, I thought sure he'd want to join me once I shared that I was going to a benefit staged reading of the TV show M*A*S*H* at Richmond Triangle Players. But no.
"Nah, saw an ad for that a while back. It didn't really trip my trigger."
Well, it did mine. Even with a life-long disdain for TV, there were, in my youth, a few shows I regularly watched and M*A*S*H* was one of them.
And not prime time, but reruns and eventually - gasp! - on VHS and even when I knew the plots, I still laughed at the writing and delivery. Both appeared effortless, which of course means executed by terribly talented people.
Tonight I needed a good laugh. I'd had a late lunch with a friend, but we'd focused on heavy topics. Then afterward, during an interview discussing furniture, the interviewee managed to take a tangent from chairs to the unfairness of Hillary not being prosecuted for crimes against humanity, I kid you not.
Whoa, there, buckaroo, I didn't give up a cozy porch guest bed and come back from the river to listen to your political rantings.
So when I set out, just my trigger and me, I knew I'd spend the evening not just laughing, but doing good because the performance was a benefit for the Mighty Pen Project, which offers university level writing classes for veterans so their service memories can be archived.
This I can get behind.
The project was founded by local author David L. Robbins (who also directed tonight's readings) but it was the Mutt and Jeff team of Vietnam and writing class vets Glen and Richard who did the explaining about how much easier it is for vets to write their memories rather than speaking them.
They encouraged all of us to tell any vets we know about the project, because, as Richard said, "The writing class changed me." Translation: cool and worthwhile project, both historically and in humanitarian terms.
Tonight's production began with Dean McKnight as Radar playing guitar and singing the theme song, "Suicide is Painless" as the audience sang along, before he and the eleven others in the cast took us through the pilot episode, along with other first season gems such as "Love Story" and "Germ Warfare."
Great casting was the key to the pleasure of the reading with tightly-wound Dean Knight as Frank Burns, Harry Kollatz in fishing hat complete with lures as the oblivious Colonel Henry Blake and the blond and ever-indignant Wendy Carter as Hot Lips.
Like those standouts, the dream team of Landon Nagel (Hawkeye) and David Janosik (Trapper) seemed to have done their homework, ably imitating the cadence and offhand delivery of the original actors to great effect. A fair amount of staging added to the visual pleasure as "documents" were signed or a syringe was administered to the backside.
What I'd forgotten (or blocked out) was the political incorrectness of the '70s, what with the sole black character played by Thomas Nowlin called Spearchucker and the priest played by Chip Lauterbach, a former Marine and graduate of the Mighty Pen Project, nicknamed Dago Red.
Awkward. Not so much these days.
But, man, I laughed a lot. The constant commentary and patter of Hawkeye and Trapper is timeless and the repeated interactions between the prescient Radar and the ditsy Henry Blake ("Radar, will you stop saying what I'm thinking?" "Well, one of us has to, sir.") still hilarious after all these years.
When the narrators would describe vignettes between the talking scenes, I could almost see the TV episode playing in my head and it has to be (what?) 30-some years since I last saw an episode of M*A*S*H*.
Each 25-minute episode was over in a flash and after the last one, the cast took a bow. I was sorry to see the well-executed reading come to an end.
From behind me, the director unexpectedly leaned over and said, "Thanks for all your loud laughter" like he really meant it.
No problem. When my trigger is fully tripped, it's loud.
When a friend messaged me about my Friday night plans, I thought sure he'd want to join me once I shared that I was going to a benefit staged reading of the TV show M*A*S*H* at Richmond Triangle Players. But no.
"Nah, saw an ad for that a while back. It didn't really trip my trigger."
Well, it did mine. Even with a life-long disdain for TV, there were, in my youth, a few shows I regularly watched and M*A*S*H* was one of them.
And not prime time, but reruns and eventually - gasp! - on VHS and even when I knew the plots, I still laughed at the writing and delivery. Both appeared effortless, which of course means executed by terribly talented people.
Tonight I needed a good laugh. I'd had a late lunch with a friend, but we'd focused on heavy topics. Then afterward, during an interview discussing furniture, the interviewee managed to take a tangent from chairs to the unfairness of Hillary not being prosecuted for crimes against humanity, I kid you not.
Whoa, there, buckaroo, I didn't give up a cozy porch guest bed and come back from the river to listen to your political rantings.
So when I set out, just my trigger and me, I knew I'd spend the evening not just laughing, but doing good because the performance was a benefit for the Mighty Pen Project, which offers university level writing classes for veterans so their service memories can be archived.
This I can get behind.
The project was founded by local author David L. Robbins (who also directed tonight's readings) but it was the Mutt and Jeff team of Vietnam and writing class vets Glen and Richard who did the explaining about how much easier it is for vets to write their memories rather than speaking them.
They encouraged all of us to tell any vets we know about the project, because, as Richard said, "The writing class changed me." Translation: cool and worthwhile project, both historically and in humanitarian terms.
Tonight's production began with Dean McKnight as Radar playing guitar and singing the theme song, "Suicide is Painless" as the audience sang along, before he and the eleven others in the cast took us through the pilot episode, along with other first season gems such as "Love Story" and "Germ Warfare."
Great casting was the key to the pleasure of the reading with tightly-wound Dean Knight as Frank Burns, Harry Kollatz in fishing hat complete with lures as the oblivious Colonel Henry Blake and the blond and ever-indignant Wendy Carter as Hot Lips.
Like those standouts, the dream team of Landon Nagel (Hawkeye) and David Janosik (Trapper) seemed to have done their homework, ably imitating the cadence and offhand delivery of the original actors to great effect. A fair amount of staging added to the visual pleasure as "documents" were signed or a syringe was administered to the backside.
What I'd forgotten (or blocked out) was the political incorrectness of the '70s, what with the sole black character played by Thomas Nowlin called Spearchucker and the priest played by Chip Lauterbach, a former Marine and graduate of the Mighty Pen Project, nicknamed Dago Red.
Awkward. Not so much these days.
But, man, I laughed a lot. The constant commentary and patter of Hawkeye and Trapper is timeless and the repeated interactions between the prescient Radar and the ditsy Henry Blake ("Radar, will you stop saying what I'm thinking?" "Well, one of us has to, sir.") still hilarious after all these years.
When the narrators would describe vignettes between the talking scenes, I could almost see the TV episode playing in my head and it has to be (what?) 30-some years since I last saw an episode of M*A*S*H*.
Each 25-minute episode was over in a flash and after the last one, the cast took a bow. I was sorry to see the well-executed reading come to an end.
From behind me, the director unexpectedly leaned over and said, "Thanks for all your loud laughter" like he really meant it.
No problem. When my trigger is fully tripped, it's loud.
Be-Winched
Because yesterday was practically perfect start to finish, we had no choice but to try to outdo ourselves today.
Awaking on the screened-in porch of the guesthouse - incidentally, the most exquisite guest room ever conceived - only because my hostess came over to rouse me, I saw we had another day of glorious weather ahead of us.
There was a morning walk down a tiny road that took us to an old oyster shack and accompanying out buildings, tucked around the point with a view of the bridge. Even closer to home but decidedly less charming was a chained, snarling pit bull lunging at us, fortunately from across a yard with a Confederate flag planted firmly in it.
Our big plan had been to take the power boat through the bridge and to Merroir for lunch, but the choppiness of the river ruled that out.
Not a group easily bummed, Plan B had us taking the Mini to the riverside restaurant, but only after we stopped by Kilmarnock to admire the quaint country-style carnival complete with revolving teacups, Ferris wheel, carousel and shooting booths.
You could almost sense that someone would get their heart broken there tonight.
Happily, Merroir wasn't crowded. Situated under an umbrella with a view of six kayakers paddling out and clouds scuttling along the mouth of the Bay, we spent several pleasurable hours scarfing food and drink.
An oyster sampler with Tangiers in the middle position, angels on horseback with Edwards ham, spiced shrimp, crabcake and catfish tacos accompanied by Vinho Verde (me) and multiple Pacificos (them, along with an explanation of where they'd picked up the habit and why it was a superior summer brew) preceded grilled pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream and a Samoa doughnut.
By the time we were ready to leave, everyone who'd arrived after us was long gone. Such is this group's staying power, at least until we reached the car and my hostess announced how "relaxed" she was, foreshadowing that a rest period was in our future.
The trip home wound up being a treat because first we took a more scenic, less-traveled route (new to me, natch), then stopped by a marina in Kilmarnock to ogle pricey boats and finally because we decided to take a chance on the Ottoman Ferry to cross the river after seeing that the sign said it was operational today.
My friends were doubting Thomases despite the sign ("Yea, that's what it says,"), but, sure enough, VDOT surprised us and it was open during normal business hours.
The little ferry was already chugging across its cable when we arrived and in no time, we were on it, behind a truck, out of the car and inhaling watery breezes despite signs suggesting we stay in the car. Personally, I think there are too few ferry rides in life to relegate oneself to a car when enjoying one.
Naps of varying length and satisfaction level ensued, leaving us with the evening hours for our big adventure. Given our limited time, it seemed wisest to go out in the power boat, so the host went out to lower the boat into the water.
My friend and I kvetched about the choppiness of the river and decided that the sailboat was the only way to go tonight. Just then, my genial host returned, looking somewhat abashed. Clearly, he brought bad news.
"Sorry, but I think if we're going to go out, it would have to be in the sail..." he began, before we assured him that we'd already come to the same conclusion. We wanted to go sailing.
He appeared gob-smacked.
"Why are you looking at me like I have no brain?" his lovely wife inquired of him.
"Correction, I'm looking at you like you have two heads," he said, obviously amazed that we were up for a sailing adventure this late in the day So it was already 6:30, why shouldn't the two of us be more than willing to take the boat out, knowing we'd be out past sunset?
In record time, we gathered supplies, motored to the nearby marina and set off, passing Chief sucking on a cig and floating along on his pocket kayak. As we came abreast of him, I stood up and called down to tease him about finding him doing the exact thing he'd been doing yesterday about this time.
The look of pleasure on his face was apparent, although I couldn't say if it was due to seeing familiar faces or just satisfaction with his life.
It turned out to be an exhilarating sail because of the water's roughness, but also a gorgeous sunset cruise given the far-reaching pink and lavender sky that resulted from today's uncharacteristic August weather as well as the storm systems that moved all around us, but gave us only two minutes of mid-afternoon sprinkles before moving on.
Completely different than the marathon six-hour sunshine sail yesterday, tonight's was wetter, wilder and with far more subdued lighting, but no less exciting for the mental and physical work involved.
Luff, keel and lee entered my lexicon today, but only after detailed explanations. Trimming the sails, on the other hand, I grasped without explanation.
And while my position on board is far less valuable than the skipper and helms woman, I've found my niche already doing grunt work.
We arrived back at the marina just as the mosquitoes came out to eat, hastening our departure back to the house. Mid-cruise, the hostess had decided that BLTs with enormous, fat Hanover tomatoes and Cabernet Sauvignon would be the ideal post-sail meal and once home, made it so.
I've learned everything I know - admittedly not much yet - about sailing over the past two days, so I don't even know yet all the things I don't know, but one thing I'm very clear on is the pleasures of rehashing an outing on the water once you're sharing a post-sail meal or drinks.
Showering outside under a clear, starry sky afterwards, I'm considering my friends' invitation to come back sooner rather than later for more adventures in sailing and summer living. At their insistence, I've already stayed longer than I'd planned to.
But unless I have no brain, why would I not rush back for more of this?
Awaking on the screened-in porch of the guesthouse - incidentally, the most exquisite guest room ever conceived - only because my hostess came over to rouse me, I saw we had another day of glorious weather ahead of us.
There was a morning walk down a tiny road that took us to an old oyster shack and accompanying out buildings, tucked around the point with a view of the bridge. Even closer to home but decidedly less charming was a chained, snarling pit bull lunging at us, fortunately from across a yard with a Confederate flag planted firmly in it.
Our big plan had been to take the power boat through the bridge and to Merroir for lunch, but the choppiness of the river ruled that out.
Not a group easily bummed, Plan B had us taking the Mini to the riverside restaurant, but only after we stopped by Kilmarnock to admire the quaint country-style carnival complete with revolving teacups, Ferris wheel, carousel and shooting booths.
You could almost sense that someone would get their heart broken there tonight.
Happily, Merroir wasn't crowded. Situated under an umbrella with a view of six kayakers paddling out and clouds scuttling along the mouth of the Bay, we spent several pleasurable hours scarfing food and drink.
An oyster sampler with Tangiers in the middle position, angels on horseback with Edwards ham, spiced shrimp, crabcake and catfish tacos accompanied by Vinho Verde (me) and multiple Pacificos (them, along with an explanation of where they'd picked up the habit and why it was a superior summer brew) preceded grilled pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream and a Samoa doughnut.
By the time we were ready to leave, everyone who'd arrived after us was long gone. Such is this group's staying power, at least until we reached the car and my hostess announced how "relaxed" she was, foreshadowing that a rest period was in our future.
The trip home wound up being a treat because first we took a more scenic, less-traveled route (new to me, natch), then stopped by a marina in Kilmarnock to ogle pricey boats and finally because we decided to take a chance on the Ottoman Ferry to cross the river after seeing that the sign said it was operational today.
My friends were doubting Thomases despite the sign ("Yea, that's what it says,"), but, sure enough, VDOT surprised us and it was open during normal business hours.
The little ferry was already chugging across its cable when we arrived and in no time, we were on it, behind a truck, out of the car and inhaling watery breezes despite signs suggesting we stay in the car. Personally, I think there are too few ferry rides in life to relegate oneself to a car when enjoying one.
Naps of varying length and satisfaction level ensued, leaving us with the evening hours for our big adventure. Given our limited time, it seemed wisest to go out in the power boat, so the host went out to lower the boat into the water.
My friend and I kvetched about the choppiness of the river and decided that the sailboat was the only way to go tonight. Just then, my genial host returned, looking somewhat abashed. Clearly, he brought bad news.
"Sorry, but I think if we're going to go out, it would have to be in the sail..." he began, before we assured him that we'd already come to the same conclusion. We wanted to go sailing.
He appeared gob-smacked.
"Why are you looking at me like I have no brain?" his lovely wife inquired of him.
"Correction, I'm looking at you like you have two heads," he said, obviously amazed that we were up for a sailing adventure this late in the day So it was already 6:30, why shouldn't the two of us be more than willing to take the boat out, knowing we'd be out past sunset?
In record time, we gathered supplies, motored to the nearby marina and set off, passing Chief sucking on a cig and floating along on his pocket kayak. As we came abreast of him, I stood up and called down to tease him about finding him doing the exact thing he'd been doing yesterday about this time.
The look of pleasure on his face was apparent, although I couldn't say if it was due to seeing familiar faces or just satisfaction with his life.
It turned out to be an exhilarating sail because of the water's roughness, but also a gorgeous sunset cruise given the far-reaching pink and lavender sky that resulted from today's uncharacteristic August weather as well as the storm systems that moved all around us, but gave us only two minutes of mid-afternoon sprinkles before moving on.
Completely different than the marathon six-hour sunshine sail yesterday, tonight's was wetter, wilder and with far more subdued lighting, but no less exciting for the mental and physical work involved.
Luff, keel and lee entered my lexicon today, but only after detailed explanations. Trimming the sails, on the other hand, I grasped without explanation.
And while my position on board is far less valuable than the skipper and helms woman, I've found my niche already doing grunt work.
We arrived back at the marina just as the mosquitoes came out to eat, hastening our departure back to the house. Mid-cruise, the hostess had decided that BLTs with enormous, fat Hanover tomatoes and Cabernet Sauvignon would be the ideal post-sail meal and once home, made it so.
I've learned everything I know - admittedly not much yet - about sailing over the past two days, so I don't even know yet all the things I don't know, but one thing I'm very clear on is the pleasures of rehashing an outing on the water once you're sharing a post-sail meal or drinks.
Showering outside under a clear, starry sky afterwards, I'm considering my friends' invitation to come back sooner rather than later for more adventures in sailing and summer living. At their insistence, I've already stayed longer than I'd planned to.
But unless I have no brain, why would I not rush back for more of this?
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Adjusting My Sails
Of course my adventure began with a trip to the head before we even left the dock.
My first perch was primarily aft, although there was that deep conversation on the bow starboard side on the way back. The wheel is sensitive because the rudder is large and no, that's not a metaphor. We moved leeward and windward, tacking and jibing.
I had never been sailing before today, but two of my favorite people changed all that with a nearly six-hour sail that had to be one of the most unexpectedly pleasurable ways possible to spend a gloriously breezy day at the river.
Unloading the car at the marina, a wizened-looking man with his long white hair in two pigtails came over to greet us after my friend called out to him, "Hi, chief!"
Naturally, I had to question that "chief" business.
Of Native American ancestry, he was quick to explain to me that his name was Hal or Harold, depending on the situation, and that the "chief" moniker came from years spent working to rehab a sailboat, resulting in marina regulars dubbing him Chief Wanna Sail.
All of which was news to my friend who lives two miles away and docks his boat there. You never know unless you ask, I always say.
"He's never come over to talk to us before," my friend shared. "It's because you're here." That's what they all say.
After chatting with a man from Roanoke who docks his boat in Hampton but was currently standing next to our boat slip, we left the marina under engine power at high tide.
So far, nothing I hadn't experienced before.
But then the mainsail went up and before long the jib, so that the engine became a thing of the past. With steady breezes and occasional thrilling gusts, I watched in awe as the poetry of sailing unfolded around me.
That it was such a beautiful day may have partially accounted for my baptism by sailing being such a success, but even without the blue skies and picaresque clouds, there was the intoxicating scent of the water, the sometimes precarious angle of the boat and the constant change of speed as the wind determined our rate of movement.
When we weren't dodging crab pots, we were observing white caps. Ospreys glared at us from nests on channel markers. We ogled from afar the princely yachts moored at the Tides Inn.
A barge carrying grain to storage silos in Tappahannock shared passage under the highest arch of the Whitestone bridge with us, its massive rectangular front displacing a wake of sizable proportions for us to navigate,
My friends impressed me with the yin and yang of their sailing skills, working perfectly in tandem to wrangle this vessel to their whims, agreeing that sailing has brought them closer together.
Well, that and true love.
Passing other sailboats, especially those larger than the 30-footer we were on, I regarded them with a slightly more knowing eye now, looking to see how much of their jib was furled, how their mast size compared to ours.
When we sailed under the bridge, we all peered up, curious about how much clearance we had, although it was presumably not the best time to make that determination.
By the time we returned to the marina, it was evening and Chief was floating by in an inflatable yellow kayak, unlit cigarette in his mouth. He'd briefly considered going sailing today, he claimed, but decided it was too much work.
After dazzling us with the kayak's compactness - it folds to a 17" square four inches thick - he reckoned he'd resume his paddle and was gone in the blink of an eye.
Coming from the wonder of my first expedition harnessing nature to sail into, in front of and beside the wind, I could only marvel at Chief Wanna Sail settling for such docile time on the water. The skipper said today was the best day of sailing they've had since they got the boat.
Only the best of friends show you the seductive power of sailing and let you go first in the outdoor shower. Is it any wonder I'm hooked?
My first perch was primarily aft, although there was that deep conversation on the bow starboard side on the way back. The wheel is sensitive because the rudder is large and no, that's not a metaphor. We moved leeward and windward, tacking and jibing.
I had never been sailing before today, but two of my favorite people changed all that with a nearly six-hour sail that had to be one of the most unexpectedly pleasurable ways possible to spend a gloriously breezy day at the river.
Unloading the car at the marina, a wizened-looking man with his long white hair in two pigtails came over to greet us after my friend called out to him, "Hi, chief!"
Naturally, I had to question that "chief" business.
Of Native American ancestry, he was quick to explain to me that his name was Hal or Harold, depending on the situation, and that the "chief" moniker came from years spent working to rehab a sailboat, resulting in marina regulars dubbing him Chief Wanna Sail.
All of which was news to my friend who lives two miles away and docks his boat there. You never know unless you ask, I always say.
"He's never come over to talk to us before," my friend shared. "It's because you're here." That's what they all say.
After chatting with a man from Roanoke who docks his boat in Hampton but was currently standing next to our boat slip, we left the marina under engine power at high tide.
So far, nothing I hadn't experienced before.
But then the mainsail went up and before long the jib, so that the engine became a thing of the past. With steady breezes and occasional thrilling gusts, I watched in awe as the poetry of sailing unfolded around me.
That it was such a beautiful day may have partially accounted for my baptism by sailing being such a success, but even without the blue skies and picaresque clouds, there was the intoxicating scent of the water, the sometimes precarious angle of the boat and the constant change of speed as the wind determined our rate of movement.
When we weren't dodging crab pots, we were observing white caps. Ospreys glared at us from nests on channel markers. We ogled from afar the princely yachts moored at the Tides Inn.
A barge carrying grain to storage silos in Tappahannock shared passage under the highest arch of the Whitestone bridge with us, its massive rectangular front displacing a wake of sizable proportions for us to navigate,
My friends impressed me with the yin and yang of their sailing skills, working perfectly in tandem to wrangle this vessel to their whims, agreeing that sailing has brought them closer together.
Well, that and true love.
Passing other sailboats, especially those larger than the 30-footer we were on, I regarded them with a slightly more knowing eye now, looking to see how much of their jib was furled, how their mast size compared to ours.
When we sailed under the bridge, we all peered up, curious about how much clearance we had, although it was presumably not the best time to make that determination.
By the time we returned to the marina, it was evening and Chief was floating by in an inflatable yellow kayak, unlit cigarette in his mouth. He'd briefly considered going sailing today, he claimed, but decided it was too much work.
After dazzling us with the kayak's compactness - it folds to a 17" square four inches thick - he reckoned he'd resume his paddle and was gone in the blink of an eye.
Coming from the wonder of my first expedition harnessing nature to sail into, in front of and beside the wind, I could only marvel at Chief Wanna Sail settling for such docile time on the water. The skipper said today was the best day of sailing they've had since they got the boat.
Only the best of friends show you the seductive power of sailing and let you go first in the outdoor shower. Is it any wonder I'm hooked?
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
If I Could Reach the Stars
I may officially be old. Today I joined the ranks of people who yell at policemen.
Walking on Leigh Street the past week and a half involves weaving in and out of scads of burgundy and gold-clad visitors hell bent on getting to Redskins Park, which is fine. I can cut around them and not break stride.
Except today a cop positioned on the southwest corner was not happy when I stepped off the corner before spotting traffic and retreating to the sidewalk. Instructions to stay were shouted at me.
But it was when I crossed without the light as far as the median strip that he started fuming, despite my clear sight line with not a single vehicle in the lane as far as Broad Street.
"Ma'am, I told you to stay on the corner!" he roared. Sir, I walk six miles every day, so I know when it's safe to cross the street, I yelled back.
"I could have you arrested for jay-walking! Wait for the crossing signal!" I did, but we had no further eye contact so I can't say how he reacted to my civil obedience. A look of superiority, perhaps?
As it turned out, today I also joined the ranks of people who know who Kristen Stewart is.
I managed to get all the way through Woody Allen's new film, "Cafe Society," with no clue who the actress playing the lead was. Not that it mattered, because I'd have had no greater appreciation for her minimal acting chops and vacant stare had I known she was part of the "Twilight" dysfunction.
In other disappointments, given the setting - Hollywood and New York City in the '30s - a person could be forgiven for expecting a reasonable facsimile of those two places to resemble old movies of that era, but a person would be sorely mistaken.
Yes, yes, I get it that Allen wanted every California scene bathed in a warm, glowing light to symbolize Hollywood's golden era, but, Woody, can we talk about those costumes? Those hairstyles? The wardrobe color palette? That make-up?
No woman in the '30s had Stewart's smoky eye make-up and au naturel lip color, much less that loose, unstructured hair style. Everywhere you looked, scene to scene, were women wearing the colors of the '70s (avocado green, burnt orange, harvest gold), hairstyles of the aughts and fabrics that did not exist for Depression-era women.
Hell, rayon wasn't even a thing until the '40s, Woody.
For anyone who's a student of fashion history, it was almost constantly jarring to see how few costumes actually recalled the '30s. Just as bad, the formidable undergarments that women of that time would have worn under everything were noticeably absent.
I can appreciate that as a filmmaker, the man always strives to come in on time and under budget, but don't do a period piece and have actresses wearing Brigitte Bardot up-sweeps and loose waves of hair like a Yardley model circa 1967.
On the other hand, the movie began with a jazz piece featuring clarinet and black and white titles, so from the first moments of the film, you entered Woody's world, a place I have willingly visited since the '70s. Many of the same old tropes remain steadfast - Jewish stereotypes, lots of talking about romance and relationships, a sense of place - while others get more grating with each new film.
Must he continue to cast pretty young things when they can't act or emote to save their lives?
Compensation for a so-so Woody Allen film came in the form of buttered popcorn and Milk Duds for dinner, and as Pru said about our choice to forgo the four main food groups for the snack group, "Is that bad?"
Daily, yes, occasionally, no.
Leaving the Criterion, she serenaded me with a surprisingly good imitation of Cher doing "If I Could Turn Back Time" and flipping her hair appropriately, something I couldn't have done in a million years.
Apparently it's only the missing six inches of height that keeps Pru from going into the Cher impersonator business and making a quick killing. When I suggest sawed-off stilts under an evening gown, she marvels, "Then my hair could be as long as me."
So tonight I was the Sonny to her Cher and we took the act to Quirk's rooftop bar, her first visit, conspiring with the elevator strategist who insisted on carding us before allowing us upstairs. Next time, he suggested sotto voice, come at the same time but on a night when the Diamond has fireworks.
"We've got a fantastic view!" he assured us.
This I already knew from my last visit - after all, who wouldn't want to admire Jackson Ward from above? - but it was Pru's first and it left her decidedly underwhelmed.
"I think it's cute that you like it so much," she teased after I pointed out the minarets of the Altria, the Belgian Friendship building from the World's Fair, the way it looked like Broad Street went right under the WTVR tower flashing barely two miles away.
Even though it was a repeat visit for me, I felt no more charmed by the scene than my first time, despite glasses of the lovely Raffault Chinon Rose.
Besides the unbearable heat around the bar, the crowd comes across as completely vapid and inane. A lot of straightened hair, a lot of gigantic purses. I overheard discussions of breathalyzers on two different levels of the lofty space.
We adjusted by taking a table facing West on the penthouse level to drink our Rose and dissect what will no doubt go down as a minor, late work of the master. An aging master.
I bet he's been yelling at policemen for years.
Walking on Leigh Street the past week and a half involves weaving in and out of scads of burgundy and gold-clad visitors hell bent on getting to Redskins Park, which is fine. I can cut around them and not break stride.
Except today a cop positioned on the southwest corner was not happy when I stepped off the corner before spotting traffic and retreating to the sidewalk. Instructions to stay were shouted at me.
But it was when I crossed without the light as far as the median strip that he started fuming, despite my clear sight line with not a single vehicle in the lane as far as Broad Street.
"Ma'am, I told you to stay on the corner!" he roared. Sir, I walk six miles every day, so I know when it's safe to cross the street, I yelled back.
"I could have you arrested for jay-walking! Wait for the crossing signal!" I did, but we had no further eye contact so I can't say how he reacted to my civil obedience. A look of superiority, perhaps?
As it turned out, today I also joined the ranks of people who know who Kristen Stewart is.
I managed to get all the way through Woody Allen's new film, "Cafe Society," with no clue who the actress playing the lead was. Not that it mattered, because I'd have had no greater appreciation for her minimal acting chops and vacant stare had I known she was part of the "Twilight" dysfunction.
In other disappointments, given the setting - Hollywood and New York City in the '30s - a person could be forgiven for expecting a reasonable facsimile of those two places to resemble old movies of that era, but a person would be sorely mistaken.
Yes, yes, I get it that Allen wanted every California scene bathed in a warm, glowing light to symbolize Hollywood's golden era, but, Woody, can we talk about those costumes? Those hairstyles? The wardrobe color palette? That make-up?
No woman in the '30s had Stewart's smoky eye make-up and au naturel lip color, much less that loose, unstructured hair style. Everywhere you looked, scene to scene, were women wearing the colors of the '70s (avocado green, burnt orange, harvest gold), hairstyles of the aughts and fabrics that did not exist for Depression-era women.
Hell, rayon wasn't even a thing until the '40s, Woody.
For anyone who's a student of fashion history, it was almost constantly jarring to see how few costumes actually recalled the '30s. Just as bad, the formidable undergarments that women of that time would have worn under everything were noticeably absent.
I can appreciate that as a filmmaker, the man always strives to come in on time and under budget, but don't do a period piece and have actresses wearing Brigitte Bardot up-sweeps and loose waves of hair like a Yardley model circa 1967.
On the other hand, the movie began with a jazz piece featuring clarinet and black and white titles, so from the first moments of the film, you entered Woody's world, a place I have willingly visited since the '70s. Many of the same old tropes remain steadfast - Jewish stereotypes, lots of talking about romance and relationships, a sense of place - while others get more grating with each new film.
Must he continue to cast pretty young things when they can't act or emote to save their lives?
Compensation for a so-so Woody Allen film came in the form of buttered popcorn and Milk Duds for dinner, and as Pru said about our choice to forgo the four main food groups for the snack group, "Is that bad?"
Daily, yes, occasionally, no.
Leaving the Criterion, she serenaded me with a surprisingly good imitation of Cher doing "If I Could Turn Back Time" and flipping her hair appropriately, something I couldn't have done in a million years.
Apparently it's only the missing six inches of height that keeps Pru from going into the Cher impersonator business and making a quick killing. When I suggest sawed-off stilts under an evening gown, she marvels, "Then my hair could be as long as me."
So tonight I was the Sonny to her Cher and we took the act to Quirk's rooftop bar, her first visit, conspiring with the elevator strategist who insisted on carding us before allowing us upstairs. Next time, he suggested sotto voice, come at the same time but on a night when the Diamond has fireworks.
"We've got a fantastic view!" he assured us.
This I already knew from my last visit - after all, who wouldn't want to admire Jackson Ward from above? - but it was Pru's first and it left her decidedly underwhelmed.
"I think it's cute that you like it so much," she teased after I pointed out the minarets of the Altria, the Belgian Friendship building from the World's Fair, the way it looked like Broad Street went right under the WTVR tower flashing barely two miles away.
Even though it was a repeat visit for me, I felt no more charmed by the scene than my first time, despite glasses of the lovely Raffault Chinon Rose.
Besides the unbearable heat around the bar, the crowd comes across as completely vapid and inane. A lot of straightened hair, a lot of gigantic purses. I overheard discussions of breathalyzers on two different levels of the lofty space.
We adjusted by taking a table facing West on the penthouse level to drink our Rose and dissect what will no doubt go down as a minor, late work of the master. An aging master.
I bet he's been yelling at policemen for years.
Monday, August 1, 2016
Better Still, Change It to Karen
I went from zero to cocky in the space of a doctor's appointment.
Since it had been a few years since I'd had blood work done, I was in for that and a prescription refill, but my doctor had come to praise: my blood pressure, my activity level, my weight, my water intake and especially my sleep sufficiency. Profusely.
So much so that he asked if he could use me as an example to other patients - of course, using only my first name and age, he assured me - of good habits paying off despite advancing age.
Use away, doc, but people will hate to hear it.
Just so you know, here's what a mature woman with good habits does when a nurse tells her she's lost five pounds and a doctor asks to make an example of her: immediately seeks out a way to celebrate with food. Duh.
Conveniently, the Jackdaw pop-up was setting up residence at Millie's tonight (its first outing since abandoning the brief go as Antler & Fin) and while Facebook nattered about whether to make reservations or not, I did the smart thing and just showed up shortly after they opened, claiming the least popular bar stool at Millie's (at least during summer).
Sitting diagonally across from the stove of an open kitchen while air conditioning runs is only a sacrifice for those accustomed to A/C.
Fact: my perch stove-side was not only cooler but less humid than my apartment.
After hearing my reply about what order I'd like my food to arrive (any), the server not only accepted me but complimented my dress for its summery turquoise color, then shared that it had been a no-brainer to work tonight's pop-up so she could taste one of everything.
I was not quite that ambitious.
An observation of mine led us off on a discussion about changing server/bartender roles since cell phones have become the new normal.
"When I see everyone at a table has taken out their cell phone, it's either because the food just arrived and they all need to take pictures or they're done eating and I can collect plates," she explains.
No slacker this one, she cited studies about the changes in restaurant ordering habits and how it now takes 17 minutes longer once people sit down to get food because of customer delays in ordering due to cell phone priority.
I know it's useless to rail, but will we ever, as a people, climb out of this uncivilized hole we've dug ourselves into since the advent of devices?
Starting with golden crispy eggrolls, er, lumpia of camerones al pastor with a sweet and sour sauce, I moved on to Border Springs tea-soaked lamb ribs with spicy potato salad (guy at bar: "best potato salad I ever had") and pickled peaches (I limited myself to two slices so my tongue wouldn't swell), but it was the nutty, salty soy, texture-rich fried farro with vegetables that hit the most pleasure points for me.
The couple nearby told me to help myself to a taste of anything they ordered that I didn't, but the sad truth was that I couldn't even finish all I'd ordered, not that I didn't break habit and get it boxed up to go.
Plain and simple, it'll be fine leftovers like any good Chinese food is.
Stop number two had been on my to-do list for some time now.
Given the often relative paucity of Monday night happenings, I'd been intending to get over to the Camel for Motown Mondays (Spinning all your favorite Motown classics, covers, close relatives and remixes) to see how Mad Skillz and DJ Lonnie B interpreted Motown to a 2016 crowd, as it turned out, with a 40-year age range.
Well, they did it by playing Barry White's "You're the First, My Last, My Everything" for a couple celebrating an anniversary, a white couple who got up and danced every note of the song (without completely embarrassing white people everywhere), matching each other step for step as they've undoubtedly been doing since disco-dating in the '70s.
The couple didn't request it, but the DJ followed that with "Let's Get It On," a selection that got cheers.
A young trio formed in front of the stage to watch the DJ spin and scratch, but they also danced in place and filmed not the dancers but the DJ.
One of the group looked like nothing so much as a character on an '80s sitcom (at least, a non-TV watcher's notion of an '80s sitcom character) with a fabulous high fade and big nerdy-looking glasses.
I listened through snippets of classic songs like "Ain't That Peculiar?" and "Eve of Destruction," impressed with both the music and the crowd it had attracted, both less typical than the usual Camel fare.
Yea, I could do this again.
Proximity made my next stop effortless. A few doors down, Firehouse Fringe was hosting Cabaret: A Night of Contemporary Musical Theater sung by some of the younger members of the Richmond theater community.
My interest was doubly piqued, partly for the exposure to newer music from plays I hadn't yet seen or heard and partly because I'd been so impressed with the young theater collective who'd recently staged "Seven Brides" there and blown my socks off with their youthful exuberance and creativity, that I was curious how much more of that energy and talent was out there.
It wasn't hard to get a glimpse of the musicals that have captured young millennial drama kids' hearts - "Waitress," "Edges," recent Tony winner "Funhome" - but just as engaging were their choices of some "older" material from "The Full Monty" (complete with pelvic thrusts and hip swiveling), the Disney-sounding "Finding Neverland" and perhaps most surprisingly, "Pippin," a veritable dinosaur to these kids
Songs choices were clearly based on youthful angst issues, meaning lots of tunes about first-time experiences, loving yourself before you can love others, the drawn-out pain of heartbreak, yada yada.
Charlemagne was even touched on, but probably my favorite was "Changing My Major to Joan" from "Funhome."
I'm changing my major to sex with Joan
With a minor in kissing Joan
Foreign studies to Joan's inner thighs
A seminar on Joan's ass in her Levis
Besides exposure to new material, there was lots of talent, too, including several people I recognized from Firehouse's current production of Green Day's "American Idiot," like Denver and Kelsey, but all of them satisfying their musical comedy jones by emoting madly through each of their songs.
"I love how comedy is making its way back into musical theater instead of just songs as patter," is how one actor put it.
I love how I can have no plans at 4:00 - Holmes turned me down after a "rough" weekend out of fear for his own weaknesses - yet manage to find a one-day only menu and two very different kinds of music by 5.
Now that's why I should be an example to other patients.
Since it had been a few years since I'd had blood work done, I was in for that and a prescription refill, but my doctor had come to praise: my blood pressure, my activity level, my weight, my water intake and especially my sleep sufficiency. Profusely.
So much so that he asked if he could use me as an example to other patients - of course, using only my first name and age, he assured me - of good habits paying off despite advancing age.
Use away, doc, but people will hate to hear it.
Just so you know, here's what a mature woman with good habits does when a nurse tells her she's lost five pounds and a doctor asks to make an example of her: immediately seeks out a way to celebrate with food. Duh.
Conveniently, the Jackdaw pop-up was setting up residence at Millie's tonight (its first outing since abandoning the brief go as Antler & Fin) and while Facebook nattered about whether to make reservations or not, I did the smart thing and just showed up shortly after they opened, claiming the least popular bar stool at Millie's (at least during summer).
Sitting diagonally across from the stove of an open kitchen while air conditioning runs is only a sacrifice for those accustomed to A/C.
Fact: my perch stove-side was not only cooler but less humid than my apartment.
After hearing my reply about what order I'd like my food to arrive (any), the server not only accepted me but complimented my dress for its summery turquoise color, then shared that it had been a no-brainer to work tonight's pop-up so she could taste one of everything.
I was not quite that ambitious.
An observation of mine led us off on a discussion about changing server/bartender roles since cell phones have become the new normal.
"When I see everyone at a table has taken out their cell phone, it's either because the food just arrived and they all need to take pictures or they're done eating and I can collect plates," she explains.
No slacker this one, she cited studies about the changes in restaurant ordering habits and how it now takes 17 minutes longer once people sit down to get food because of customer delays in ordering due to cell phone priority.
I know it's useless to rail, but will we ever, as a people, climb out of this uncivilized hole we've dug ourselves into since the advent of devices?
Starting with golden crispy eggrolls, er, lumpia of camerones al pastor with a sweet and sour sauce, I moved on to Border Springs tea-soaked lamb ribs with spicy potato salad (guy at bar: "best potato salad I ever had") and pickled peaches (I limited myself to two slices so my tongue wouldn't swell), but it was the nutty, salty soy, texture-rich fried farro with vegetables that hit the most pleasure points for me.
The couple nearby told me to help myself to a taste of anything they ordered that I didn't, but the sad truth was that I couldn't even finish all I'd ordered, not that I didn't break habit and get it boxed up to go.
Plain and simple, it'll be fine leftovers like any good Chinese food is.
Stop number two had been on my to-do list for some time now.
Given the often relative paucity of Monday night happenings, I'd been intending to get over to the Camel for Motown Mondays (Spinning all your favorite Motown classics, covers, close relatives and remixes) to see how Mad Skillz and DJ Lonnie B interpreted Motown to a 2016 crowd, as it turned out, with a 40-year age range.
Well, they did it by playing Barry White's "You're the First, My Last, My Everything" for a couple celebrating an anniversary, a white couple who got up and danced every note of the song (without completely embarrassing white people everywhere), matching each other step for step as they've undoubtedly been doing since disco-dating in the '70s.
The couple didn't request it, but the DJ followed that with "Let's Get It On," a selection that got cheers.
A young trio formed in front of the stage to watch the DJ spin and scratch, but they also danced in place and filmed not the dancers but the DJ.
One of the group looked like nothing so much as a character on an '80s sitcom (at least, a non-TV watcher's notion of an '80s sitcom character) with a fabulous high fade and big nerdy-looking glasses.
I listened through snippets of classic songs like "Ain't That Peculiar?" and "Eve of Destruction," impressed with both the music and the crowd it had attracted, both less typical than the usual Camel fare.
Yea, I could do this again.
Proximity made my next stop effortless. A few doors down, Firehouse Fringe was hosting Cabaret: A Night of Contemporary Musical Theater sung by some of the younger members of the Richmond theater community.
My interest was doubly piqued, partly for the exposure to newer music from plays I hadn't yet seen or heard and partly because I'd been so impressed with the young theater collective who'd recently staged "Seven Brides" there and blown my socks off with their youthful exuberance and creativity, that I was curious how much more of that energy and talent was out there.
It wasn't hard to get a glimpse of the musicals that have captured young millennial drama kids' hearts - "Waitress," "Edges," recent Tony winner "Funhome" - but just as engaging were their choices of some "older" material from "The Full Monty" (complete with pelvic thrusts and hip swiveling), the Disney-sounding "Finding Neverland" and perhaps most surprisingly, "Pippin," a veritable dinosaur to these kids
Songs choices were clearly based on youthful angst issues, meaning lots of tunes about first-time experiences, loving yourself before you can love others, the drawn-out pain of heartbreak, yada yada.
Charlemagne was even touched on, but probably my favorite was "Changing My Major to Joan" from "Funhome."
I'm changing my major to sex with Joan
With a minor in kissing Joan
Foreign studies to Joan's inner thighs
A seminar on Joan's ass in her Levis
Besides exposure to new material, there was lots of talent, too, including several people I recognized from Firehouse's current production of Green Day's "American Idiot," like Denver and Kelsey, but all of them satisfying their musical comedy jones by emoting madly through each of their songs.
"I love how comedy is making its way back into musical theater instead of just songs as patter," is how one actor put it.
I love how I can have no plans at 4:00 - Holmes turned me down after a "rough" weekend out of fear for his own weaknesses - yet manage to find a one-day only menu and two very different kinds of music by 5.
Now that's why I should be an example to other patients.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Someday We'll Be Together
Would anyone really want to read yet another sad saga about my attempt to see a play being thwarted by summer weather behaving badly?
That's what I thought.
Better instead I share my walk up a deserted - it was prime church time - Chamberlayne Avenue where the clerk at Walgreens told me he'd driven through heavy fog to get to work this morning. That fog had become pea soup and I'd sweated my way through it to get there.
Walking home, I crossed the bridge over the paddock where two mounted police horses were casually grazing in a mostly dirt field, the one gnawing on some higher branches out of necessity. I remember the first time I'd spotted the horses there and the feeling of amazement that horses lived a quarter of a mile from me.
When I passed Perly's a bit later, the line waiting for seats was almost to the corner. People who wouldn't consider eating outside were willing to stand out there indefinitely in hopes of some beef bacon.
No, you explain it to me.
The shank of the afternoon was spent on lunch and then the matinee of "Dreamgirls" at the November Theatre, which, it must be noted, was completely full and satisfyingly diverse.
I understand that blue hair lives matter, but it was nice to see a matinee crowd who didn't all qualify for Social Security for a change.
With the usual gaping holes in my pop cultural literacy, I'd never seen "Dreamgirls," not the play, not the movie. To my credit, I'm enough of a Supremes fan to have held on to half a dozen pieces of their vinyl all these years, and I've certainly read plenty about their backstory.
So I knew the essence of the play's plot before the razzle-dazzle production kicked off with a parade of '60s and '70s fashions, falls and wigs to designate the passage of time, songs that were well-executed but never truly grabbed me and a lot of choreography I very much enjoyed.
As I did conversation with the charming man who'd moved to Hampton in 1960 and his lovely "friend" ("My wife died 15 years ago," he explained after calling her "friend") next to him, both avid theater buffs who happily discussed venues there and restaurants here for post-theater dining.
To be helpful, I provided a list.
Because it felt like a two-musical day, the later plan was to meet a friend at Dogwood Dell for a performance of "Spamalot," except it was up to me to go and stake out territory until she got off work.
When I got there, the orchestra was chatting among themselves, rows were gradually filling up with a mixture of beach chairs, tall chairs, blankets and, among the young, grass-sitters. It was like being out of town because I didn't see a soul I knew.
Which was only slightly problematic since I was meeting a friend. Later, she calls to tell me she hung with strangers when she couldn't find me, ran into the restaurateur I recently introduced her to and then proceeds to give me the "man dish," at least right up until he calls.
An announcement was made from the stage that there was to be no ball or Frisbee throwing in the seating area, as if civilized people wouldn't presume this. The "no alcohol or glass" announcement was met with no reaction, undoubtedly due to the number of people imbibing.
A few drops of rain, a little heat lightening and the performance was delayed 20 minutes. Lightening got bolder and we were sent away.
Believe me, I know the drill.
Waiting in the bottleneck to leave the Dell, I saw a guy ask about the year on a shiny blue Mustang ('67, classic stuff) and a couple of guys tossing a Frisbee between trees in the parking lot. Making lemonade, folks, that's all they're doing.
Cruising home, listening to the radio sing, "I got a picture of you over the hazard light," and silently giving thanks that young men still write such things, I was caught unaware when, yet again, the Weather Service started warning that Richmond and a lot of nearby places were about to get slammed.
ETA in Jackson Ward: 9:10, which you know means I was determinedly driving east trying to take shelter before any bad weather hit. Why take them so seriously, you ask? Last time they provided a strong warning and time, devastation touched down within two minutes of their prediction.
Seems they are right on the money sometimes.
After deciding not to take out my contacts so as to avoid a near-sighted, impressionistic view of the storm, I took up a completely unsafe position on my balcony, watching as lightening lit up the sky. Never bolts, just enormous flashes and far-off thunder.
Then suddenly, the wind whipped up trees two stories taller than the houses beneath them in a way that said nothing good could come out of such fierceness and a steady rain began to fall.
Two minutes later, the frenetic trees are completely still and the air is palpable. I hate a damp cold, but I relish a damp pre-storm heat.
Before long, a gentle rain began blowing toward my legs and face as I sat sprawled in an Adirondack chair facing the alley. Rain caught on the tendrils of moonflowers twining through the balcony railing, dripping onto my legs.
Sure, I was getting wet, but not soggy wet like yesterday when I decided to walk three miles to drop off rent. I got almost two miles in - I was right in front of Redskin Park with all the weekend fans watching the teamgrunt practice - when rain started and didn't let up, so I slogged on to my landlord's house, at that point, mainly to borrow an umbrella.
He graciously gave me one and I got two blocks up the street toward home when the rain stopped and the muggy sun returned to start drying out my clothes as I walked home.
By the way, carrying a cumbersome walking umbrella all the way. Grateful/not grateful.
No, tonight's rain was less direct so more enjoyable, even as the lightening and thunder got more and more distant, the temperature seemed to drop and sirens began wailing from a couple different directions.
Inside, without the waning visuals, the storm amounts to no more than the steady patter of rain broken up by the sound of cars on wet pavement and the relentless drip of gutters. It stops as suddenly as it began, kind of like the man dishing.
I may aspire to eat ham and jam and Spam a lot, but clearly there's no double dipping on musicals in one day. Mother Nature says no.
That's what I thought.
Better instead I share my walk up a deserted - it was prime church time - Chamberlayne Avenue where the clerk at Walgreens told me he'd driven through heavy fog to get to work this morning. That fog had become pea soup and I'd sweated my way through it to get there.
Walking home, I crossed the bridge over the paddock where two mounted police horses were casually grazing in a mostly dirt field, the one gnawing on some higher branches out of necessity. I remember the first time I'd spotted the horses there and the feeling of amazement that horses lived a quarter of a mile from me.
When I passed Perly's a bit later, the line waiting for seats was almost to the corner. People who wouldn't consider eating outside were willing to stand out there indefinitely in hopes of some beef bacon.
No, you explain it to me.
The shank of the afternoon was spent on lunch and then the matinee of "Dreamgirls" at the November Theatre, which, it must be noted, was completely full and satisfyingly diverse.
I understand that blue hair lives matter, but it was nice to see a matinee crowd who didn't all qualify for Social Security for a change.
With the usual gaping holes in my pop cultural literacy, I'd never seen "Dreamgirls," not the play, not the movie. To my credit, I'm enough of a Supremes fan to have held on to half a dozen pieces of their vinyl all these years, and I've certainly read plenty about their backstory.
So I knew the essence of the play's plot before the razzle-dazzle production kicked off with a parade of '60s and '70s fashions, falls and wigs to designate the passage of time, songs that were well-executed but never truly grabbed me and a lot of choreography I very much enjoyed.
As I did conversation with the charming man who'd moved to Hampton in 1960 and his lovely "friend" ("My wife died 15 years ago," he explained after calling her "friend") next to him, both avid theater buffs who happily discussed venues there and restaurants here for post-theater dining.
To be helpful, I provided a list.
Because it felt like a two-musical day, the later plan was to meet a friend at Dogwood Dell for a performance of "Spamalot," except it was up to me to go and stake out territory until she got off work.
When I got there, the orchestra was chatting among themselves, rows were gradually filling up with a mixture of beach chairs, tall chairs, blankets and, among the young, grass-sitters. It was like being out of town because I didn't see a soul I knew.
Which was only slightly problematic since I was meeting a friend. Later, she calls to tell me she hung with strangers when she couldn't find me, ran into the restaurateur I recently introduced her to and then proceeds to give me the "man dish," at least right up until he calls.
An announcement was made from the stage that there was to be no ball or Frisbee throwing in the seating area, as if civilized people wouldn't presume this. The "no alcohol or glass" announcement was met with no reaction, undoubtedly due to the number of people imbibing.
A few drops of rain, a little heat lightening and the performance was delayed 20 minutes. Lightening got bolder and we were sent away.
Believe me, I know the drill.
Waiting in the bottleneck to leave the Dell, I saw a guy ask about the year on a shiny blue Mustang ('67, classic stuff) and a couple of guys tossing a Frisbee between trees in the parking lot. Making lemonade, folks, that's all they're doing.
Cruising home, listening to the radio sing, "I got a picture of you over the hazard light," and silently giving thanks that young men still write such things, I was caught unaware when, yet again, the Weather Service started warning that Richmond and a lot of nearby places were about to get slammed.
ETA in Jackson Ward: 9:10, which you know means I was determinedly driving east trying to take shelter before any bad weather hit. Why take them so seriously, you ask? Last time they provided a strong warning and time, devastation touched down within two minutes of their prediction.
Seems they are right on the money sometimes.
After deciding not to take out my contacts so as to avoid a near-sighted, impressionistic view of the storm, I took up a completely unsafe position on my balcony, watching as lightening lit up the sky. Never bolts, just enormous flashes and far-off thunder.
Then suddenly, the wind whipped up trees two stories taller than the houses beneath them in a way that said nothing good could come out of such fierceness and a steady rain began to fall.
Two minutes later, the frenetic trees are completely still and the air is palpable. I hate a damp cold, but I relish a damp pre-storm heat.
Before long, a gentle rain began blowing toward my legs and face as I sat sprawled in an Adirondack chair facing the alley. Rain caught on the tendrils of moonflowers twining through the balcony railing, dripping onto my legs.
Sure, I was getting wet, but not soggy wet like yesterday when I decided to walk three miles to drop off rent. I got almost two miles in - I was right in front of Redskin Park with all the weekend fans watching the team
He graciously gave me one and I got two blocks up the street toward home when the rain stopped and the muggy sun returned to start drying out my clothes as I walked home.
By the way, carrying a cumbersome walking umbrella all the way. Grateful/not grateful.
No, tonight's rain was less direct so more enjoyable, even as the lightening and thunder got more and more distant, the temperature seemed to drop and sirens began wailing from a couple different directions.
Inside, without the waning visuals, the storm amounts to no more than the steady patter of rain broken up by the sound of cars on wet pavement and the relentless drip of gutters. It stops as suddenly as it began, kind of like the man dishing.
I may aspire to eat ham and jam and Spam a lot, but clearly there's no double dipping on musicals in one day. Mother Nature says no.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
You Can't Fix Stupid but You Can Vote It Out
Hostesses need not worry about small talk at parties these days with such an historically significant election at hand.
Even when the guest list is all kinds of diverse, pulling from friends, family, work connections and associated tangents, you can bet the farm that once mingling begins, straight talk about our next President is going to come up.
I drove to Church Hill listening to a dire weather warning about impending torrential rain - complete with buzzing - to reach a friend's surprise birthday party. Some friends you'd drive through torrents for, in this case, for the kind of introverted person who became a friend practically from the first time we began a conversation six years ago.
Every time I met someone new tonight who asked about my connection to the birthday celebrant, I had an array of anecdotes about our relationship to share. My favorite, of course, is about how I helped him get the girl, the girl.
Despite my early sagacious advice, he's the one who's been thoughtful and romantic enough to keep her.
That the party had been planned as a potluck ensured obscene amounts of food, including what one friend had warned us would be "mediocre wings," when actually it was wings from Bonchon Chicken that made fans of nearly everyone.
But not for us any nibbling until we'd donned party hats (blue, worn at a jaunty angle), grabbed noisemakers (green, required I was told) and scared the birthday boy half to death when he unlocked the front door, expecting to walk into a romantic birthday dinner chez his main squeeze and instead finding the most eclectic group of people he knows ever assembled.
I can't attest to where the conversation went in other nooks and crannies of the house, but there was some fiery rhetoric going on in the narrowest part of the kitchen near the refrigerator where I found myself.
Not going to lie, it brings up many feelings to hear people talk about being part of the groundswell that wants to commit to each changing just one person's mind about voting for Trump. Didn't childhood literature teach us that slow and steady wins the race?
"If each of us convinced just one Trump-supporter to change his vote, it would make a difference in the election," said one of the two men who'd gotten the "wear peach shirt" memo. His passion was palpable, even if his clothing choice was matchy-matchy.
Truthfully, I can only mock so much because I was one of three women who wore a summer outfit with a cut-out back, so apparently there were different memos for each sex, fortunate for me since I look dreadful in peach.
More than one person admitted that they would begin at the source by trying to change their parents' minds about Trump.
"We need to start by asking these people what they like about him," a friend insisted. "We have to understand where they're coming from to address their misconceptions."
And sometimes, you can't even try. One guy shared that after trying to talk rationally with Trump types, he'd complained to a friend that people like that were hopeless causes. "Don't talk to me about Trump supporters," the friend told him. "I'm behind enemy lines."
He lives in Colonial Heights.
It's satisfying to see how engaged people are in this election cycle, comparing speeches, giving massive props to Biden's, trying to figure out how 2020-related Romney's was, praising Obama's (about whose speech my own Dad had written "[it] exceeded anything sine William Jennings Bryan"), allowing for the significance of Bloomburg's and most definitely still over the moon about Michelle's, all of us convinced that she'd clean up should she run in 2020.
People are scared at the possibility of a Trump presidency and a birthday party of familiar faces seems to be a good place to admit that you're already preparing yourself for the worst possible eventuality.
One woman said she'd recently been part of a bachelorette party that made a stop at Trump Winery, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Her mother insisted she keep her feelings to herself and all she could think about was, why throw hard-earned cash at the business of a man whose platform terrifies you?
I feel completely comfortable invoking MLK at this point: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." Ahem, the foreseeable future matters hugely, even to a well-aged vintage such as myself.
When the discussion veered to lighter topics, it was far funnier, as when a woman shared her experience visiting a European market that used a remarkable customer reward system.
She and her husband had ordered, and while she was hoovering hers, he was less impressed with his, basically pushing the food around on his plate.
The owner's wife took note, praising her and chiding him, and then delivering 3 or 4 desserts for her with explicit instructions not to share with him.
Odd as that sounds, it gets odder.
After setting down the desserts, the owner's wife moved behind her and - wait for it - began massaging the woman's shoulders while her husband nibbled on the verboten desserts. I'm not sure how it could have gotten much weirder unless they'd initiated a threesome right there on the table.
"I'm telling you about it so maybe you'll want to go check it out for yourself and write about it," she tells me at the conclusion of her story. Are you kidding? Who wouldn't want free desserts and a back rub from a stranger?
A service industry friend chimes in. "Gee, I wish I'd known to try that move before I left my last position."
I heard from another friend who's been training to be a yogi about the challenges of closing down her busy mind to meditate. "I didn't know how to turn off the 17 voices in my head and just be present in the moment," she explained about her first attempt at meditation.
Next thing you know, we're discussing science and why people react to the power of thunderstorms in the same manner they react to being near the ocean or running water: positive ions are released with all three and humans can't help but react to them.
But ultimately, the chatter always returned to the journey from now 'till November, with one young voter admitting that, "Part of me believes that we can really make change this time and the other half says, nah, they're just trying to pull one over on us again."
We can not risk being cynical, kids.
Another admitted he hadn't voted in the last couple of elections and while all I did was gasp in surprise, another friend extended his hand to democracy's non-participant, saying, "Nice knowing you."
Although he's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, his point was simply that when you don't vote, it's not rebellion, it's surrender.
It's good to know that I count as friends so many people who refuse to just roll over. Sometimes it takes a birthday party to remind you that we're as great as the people who participate.
Even when the guest list is all kinds of diverse, pulling from friends, family, work connections and associated tangents, you can bet the farm that once mingling begins, straight talk about our next President is going to come up.
I drove to Church Hill listening to a dire weather warning about impending torrential rain - complete with buzzing - to reach a friend's surprise birthday party. Some friends you'd drive through torrents for, in this case, for the kind of introverted person who became a friend practically from the first time we began a conversation six years ago.
Every time I met someone new tonight who asked about my connection to the birthday celebrant, I had an array of anecdotes about our relationship to share. My favorite, of course, is about how I helped him get the girl, the girl.
Despite my early sagacious advice, he's the one who's been thoughtful and romantic enough to keep her.
That the party had been planned as a potluck ensured obscene amounts of food, including what one friend had warned us would be "mediocre wings," when actually it was wings from Bonchon Chicken that made fans of nearly everyone.
But not for us any nibbling until we'd donned party hats (blue, worn at a jaunty angle), grabbed noisemakers (green, required I was told) and scared the birthday boy half to death when he unlocked the front door, expecting to walk into a romantic birthday dinner chez his main squeeze and instead finding the most eclectic group of people he knows ever assembled.
I can't attest to where the conversation went in other nooks and crannies of the house, but there was some fiery rhetoric going on in the narrowest part of the kitchen near the refrigerator where I found myself.
Not going to lie, it brings up many feelings to hear people talk about being part of the groundswell that wants to commit to each changing just one person's mind about voting for Trump. Didn't childhood literature teach us that slow and steady wins the race?
"If each of us convinced just one Trump-supporter to change his vote, it would make a difference in the election," said one of the two men who'd gotten the "wear peach shirt" memo. His passion was palpable, even if his clothing choice was matchy-matchy.
Truthfully, I can only mock so much because I was one of three women who wore a summer outfit with a cut-out back, so apparently there were different memos for each sex, fortunate for me since I look dreadful in peach.
More than one person admitted that they would begin at the source by trying to change their parents' minds about Trump.
"We need to start by asking these people what they like about him," a friend insisted. "We have to understand where they're coming from to address their misconceptions."
And sometimes, you can't even try. One guy shared that after trying to talk rationally with Trump types, he'd complained to a friend that people like that were hopeless causes. "Don't talk to me about Trump supporters," the friend told him. "I'm behind enemy lines."
He lives in Colonial Heights.
It's satisfying to see how engaged people are in this election cycle, comparing speeches, giving massive props to Biden's, trying to figure out how 2020-related Romney's was, praising Obama's (about whose speech my own Dad had written "[it] exceeded anything sine William Jennings Bryan"), allowing for the significance of Bloomburg's and most definitely still over the moon about Michelle's, all of us convinced that she'd clean up should she run in 2020.
People are scared at the possibility of a Trump presidency and a birthday party of familiar faces seems to be a good place to admit that you're already preparing yourself for the worst possible eventuality.
One woman said she'd recently been part of a bachelorette party that made a stop at Trump Winery, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Her mother insisted she keep her feelings to herself and all she could think about was, why throw hard-earned cash at the business of a man whose platform terrifies you?
I feel completely comfortable invoking MLK at this point: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." Ahem, the foreseeable future matters hugely, even to a well-aged vintage such as myself.
When the discussion veered to lighter topics, it was far funnier, as when a woman shared her experience visiting a European market that used a remarkable customer reward system.
She and her husband had ordered, and while she was hoovering hers, he was less impressed with his, basically pushing the food around on his plate.
The owner's wife took note, praising her and chiding him, and then delivering 3 or 4 desserts for her with explicit instructions not to share with him.
Odd as that sounds, it gets odder.
After setting down the desserts, the owner's wife moved behind her and - wait for it - began massaging the woman's shoulders while her husband nibbled on the verboten desserts. I'm not sure how it could have gotten much weirder unless they'd initiated a threesome right there on the table.
"I'm telling you about it so maybe you'll want to go check it out for yourself and write about it," she tells me at the conclusion of her story. Are you kidding? Who wouldn't want free desserts and a back rub from a stranger?
A service industry friend chimes in. "Gee, I wish I'd known to try that move before I left my last position."
I heard from another friend who's been training to be a yogi about the challenges of closing down her busy mind to meditate. "I didn't know how to turn off the 17 voices in my head and just be present in the moment," she explained about her first attempt at meditation.
Next thing you know, we're discussing science and why people react to the power of thunderstorms in the same manner they react to being near the ocean or running water: positive ions are released with all three and humans can't help but react to them.
But ultimately, the chatter always returned to the journey from now 'till November, with one young voter admitting that, "Part of me believes that we can really make change this time and the other half says, nah, they're just trying to pull one over on us again."
We can not risk being cynical, kids.
Another admitted he hadn't voted in the last couple of elections and while all I did was gasp in surprise, another friend extended his hand to democracy's non-participant, saying, "Nice knowing you."
Although he's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, his point was simply that when you don't vote, it's not rebellion, it's surrender.
It's good to know that I count as friends so many people who refuse to just roll over. Sometimes it takes a birthday party to remind you that we're as great as the people who participate.
Friday Night is Killing Me
Sometimes life is about choices. Of the random things that went on in my world today, let's see, I could write about...
~meeting a Georgetown University sports management major and talking about RFK Stadium
~the extended lunchtime discussion of race and politics at Croaker's Spot
~an unexpectedly teary at dinner
~a casual friend sharing that she was married for 42 days. "The first 30 were cool."
~the old rocker (his self-description when we met) greeting me by saying I smelled like I'd just showered
...it seems to me that the likeliest topic for my post should be semi-famous old rocker Tommy Stinson.
Approaching Gallery 5, my mind wandered to my life circa 1992, the year aforementioned semi-famous old rocker put out his first solo record post-Replacements breakup the year before.
His then-band name - Bash and Pop - said it all and I'd revisited it via my 24-year old CD as I drove around today, remembering how I'd used "Tiny Pieces" on several mix tapes I'd made for myself back in that other lifetime.
Why would I not come hear him live four blocks from home all these years later?
All the formerly young dudes were there, a fact which wouldn't have surprised me if I'd bothered to consider the thought. Women of a certain age showed in smaller numbers, like the suburban Mom (of a 19-year who only listens to Slipknot and Marilyn Manson...hmmm) standing next to me who admitted to being a Replacements fan, even once owning drummer Chris Mars' solo album.
P.S. She also left early looking bored. Pity.
Fittingly given what was to come, the opening band was "a less intimidating version of Long Arms," according to lead singer James when he introduced his fine band, meaning electrified acoustic guitars and less drumming.
The funny part is that sometimes James is just another history nerd I see at the noon lectures at the Virginia Historical Society and other times, like tonight, he's a rock god.
That is, when he's not grilling his band mates on the term for castrating chickens, which no one knew. Answer so you know for future Long Arms shows? Caponize. Put that in your crossword puzzle and finish it.
Not long after, James sighed dramatically. "We're going to singk about our feelings. Strap yourself in, kids," he warned, calling the band's sound tonight "castrated."
That's where James and I differed.
Of all the times I've seen and appreciated the talent of Long Arms, never have I enjoyed a performance so completely. Why? Because I could actually hear James' earnest and literate lyrics and comments referencing Kerouac, Country Joe and the Fish and, yes, his feelings. The band's energy, excellent guitar licks and dance-ability was still there, just not as ear-splitting (aka caponzing).
He didn't see it that way, yet this is a man who already knew what play Lincoln was watching at Ford's Theater and when I share that I saw most of it (until storming began), asks, "Before or after the line where he was shot?" Impressive, right?
"The next song is called "Party Girl" and it's for me," he said from the stage. No doubt.
Complete. Nerd. Slash. Rock. God.
No one wants their favorite Long Arms set to end on a Friday night, but sadly it did, freeing up James to mingle, wherein I could razz him about the show starting late. Would he want a history lecture to begin late? I think not.
The tardiness he casually explained away as due to the eating and drinking he, Tommy Stinson and cohorts had been doing at Comfort before the show, such an enjoyable exercise that the semi-famous old rocker had suggested moving his set time back to 10:15 to prolong it.
As you might imagine, no one was going to hold this man to a set starting time. Let's not forget "Never Aim to Please" was the first song on his first album.
When Tommy finally shambled up on stage alone with his guitar, it was with the same spiky blond hair and earring look he'd sported on that first Bash and Pop record. That it was just his acoustic and voice brought back the MTV Unplugged era in spades.
It wasn't the most organized set - "Hmm, what do I play now?" he mused more than once - but he's seasoned enough to effortlessly knock back a handful of new songs before telling a story about mistakenly leaving his Maker's Mark at the bar before coming onstage. The bartender had kindly brought it to him.
"If someone would be so kind as to order me another one, that'd be great," he announced to a roomful of fans. When it shortly arrived, he thanked the guy in the red shirt who'd delivered it and commented on how nice it would be to have a line of Maker Marks stretching to the speaker.
Even semi-famous old rockers can't drink all night without acquiring a little attitude, as evidenced when he sang, mid-song, "But I'll sing for all you mother-f*ckers here," and let out a rueful chuckle.
After the simplicity of the unplugged set, he invited his electric guitarist friend Chip Roberts, the other half of Cowboys in the Campfire (apparently the successor to Bash and Pop) to join him onstage for songs such as "On the Rocks" where Chip could show off his fantastic guitar chops.
It wasn't long before it became clear that these two have spent way too much time together on this tour with Tommy rolling his eyes when he noticed Chip still had his reading glasses stuck in his shirt and complaining, "Every f*cking day," likening their relationship to an uncle or a marriage (what?).
"No, no, I love him."
He should, considering all that Chip's pedal steel playing added to the song, "Match Made in Hell," a song he exhorted the crowd to join him on the chorus. "Match made in hell," yea, we got this.
This tour means Tommy's talking to lots of journalists and he's already tired of being asked "almost every day" about all the new books being written about Big Star, another band whose musical importance, like that of the Replacements, never translated to commercial success.
"I still listen to Big Star's music, but what's with all these books being written about them at the same time?" he grumbled before launching into a Big Star cover. Contrarian.
A set list was finally located but Tommy couldn't read it without glasses and he ignored Chip's offers of using his. The duo were clearly part Oscar and Felix.
Naturally, a semi-famous old rocker has to leave the stage so he can come back for an encore, thrilling the once young dudes and dudettes with the title song off that long-ago album, "Friday Night is Killing Me."
It hasn't so far, but I also just showered. Give it time.
~meeting a Georgetown University sports management major and talking about RFK Stadium
~the extended lunchtime discussion of race and politics at Croaker's Spot
~an unexpectedly teary at dinner
~a casual friend sharing that she was married for 42 days. "The first 30 were cool."
~the old rocker (his self-description when we met) greeting me by saying I smelled like I'd just showered
...it seems to me that the likeliest topic for my post should be semi-famous old rocker Tommy Stinson.
Approaching Gallery 5, my mind wandered to my life circa 1992, the year aforementioned semi-famous old rocker put out his first solo record post-Replacements breakup the year before.
His then-band name - Bash and Pop - said it all and I'd revisited it via my 24-year old CD as I drove around today, remembering how I'd used "Tiny Pieces" on several mix tapes I'd made for myself back in that other lifetime.
Why would I not come hear him live four blocks from home all these years later?
All the formerly young dudes were there, a fact which wouldn't have surprised me if I'd bothered to consider the thought. Women of a certain age showed in smaller numbers, like the suburban Mom (of a 19-year who only listens to Slipknot and Marilyn Manson...hmmm) standing next to me who admitted to being a Replacements fan, even once owning drummer Chris Mars' solo album.
P.S. She also left early looking bored. Pity.
Fittingly given what was to come, the opening band was "a less intimidating version of Long Arms," according to lead singer James when he introduced his fine band, meaning electrified acoustic guitars and less drumming.
The funny part is that sometimes James is just another history nerd I see at the noon lectures at the Virginia Historical Society and other times, like tonight, he's a rock god.
That is, when he's not grilling his band mates on the term for castrating chickens, which no one knew. Answer so you know for future Long Arms shows? Caponize. Put that in your crossword puzzle and finish it.
Not long after, James sighed dramatically. "We're going to singk about our feelings. Strap yourself in, kids," he warned, calling the band's sound tonight "castrated."
That's where James and I differed.
Of all the times I've seen and appreciated the talent of Long Arms, never have I enjoyed a performance so completely. Why? Because I could actually hear James' earnest and literate lyrics and comments referencing Kerouac, Country Joe and the Fish and, yes, his feelings. The band's energy, excellent guitar licks and dance-ability was still there, just not as ear-splitting (aka caponzing).
He didn't see it that way, yet this is a man who already knew what play Lincoln was watching at Ford's Theater and when I share that I saw most of it (until storming began), asks, "Before or after the line where he was shot?" Impressive, right?
"The next song is called "Party Girl" and it's for me," he said from the stage. No doubt.
Complete. Nerd. Slash. Rock. God.
No one wants their favorite Long Arms set to end on a Friday night, but sadly it did, freeing up James to mingle, wherein I could razz him about the show starting late. Would he want a history lecture to begin late? I think not.
The tardiness he casually explained away as due to the eating and drinking he, Tommy Stinson and cohorts had been doing at Comfort before the show, such an enjoyable exercise that the semi-famous old rocker had suggested moving his set time back to 10:15 to prolong it.
As you might imagine, no one was going to hold this man to a set starting time. Let's not forget "Never Aim to Please" was the first song on his first album.
When Tommy finally shambled up on stage alone with his guitar, it was with the same spiky blond hair and earring look he'd sported on that first Bash and Pop record. That it was just his acoustic and voice brought back the MTV Unplugged era in spades.
It wasn't the most organized set - "Hmm, what do I play now?" he mused more than once - but he's seasoned enough to effortlessly knock back a handful of new songs before telling a story about mistakenly leaving his Maker's Mark at the bar before coming onstage. The bartender had kindly brought it to him.
"If someone would be so kind as to order me another one, that'd be great," he announced to a roomful of fans. When it shortly arrived, he thanked the guy in the red shirt who'd delivered it and commented on how nice it would be to have a line of Maker Marks stretching to the speaker.
Even semi-famous old rockers can't drink all night without acquiring a little attitude, as evidenced when he sang, mid-song, "But I'll sing for all you mother-f*ckers here," and let out a rueful chuckle.
After the simplicity of the unplugged set, he invited his electric guitarist friend Chip Roberts, the other half of Cowboys in the Campfire (apparently the successor to Bash and Pop) to join him onstage for songs such as "On the Rocks" where Chip could show off his fantastic guitar chops.
It wasn't long before it became clear that these two have spent way too much time together on this tour with Tommy rolling his eyes when he noticed Chip still had his reading glasses stuck in his shirt and complaining, "Every f*cking day," likening their relationship to an uncle or a marriage (what?).
"No, no, I love him."
He should, considering all that Chip's pedal steel playing added to the song, "Match Made in Hell," a song he exhorted the crowd to join him on the chorus. "Match made in hell," yea, we got this.
This tour means Tommy's talking to lots of journalists and he's already tired of being asked "almost every day" about all the new books being written about Big Star, another band whose musical importance, like that of the Replacements, never translated to commercial success.
"I still listen to Big Star's music, but what's with all these books being written about them at the same time?" he grumbled before launching into a Big Star cover. Contrarian.
A set list was finally located but Tommy couldn't read it without glasses and he ignored Chip's offers of using his. The duo were clearly part Oscar and Felix.
Naturally, a semi-famous old rocker has to leave the stage so he can come back for an encore, thrilling the once young dudes and dudettes with the title song off that long-ago album, "Friday Night is Killing Me."
It hasn't so far, but I also just showered. Give it time.
Friday, July 29, 2016
All That Glitters is Not Gold, It's Heat
You know what the problem with tonight was? No eunuchs.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Same As It Ever Was
You think you know a place, and you realize you don't even how it was named.
Next month, it'll be a decade since I abandoned the staid Museum District for the wide open frontiers of Jackson Ward, almost immediately falling in love with the far more historic and quirky nature of a neighborhood "in transition," whatever that means.
Yet it took a visit to the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design today to see the new exhibit "Drawing on History: Infill Design Competition" with a favorite photographer to finally learn how my beloved 'hood got its name.
Short answer: a saloon!
No kidding, it was James Jackson's beer garden at Second and Leigh that Jackson Ward was named after, a fact that gives me no end of delight to discover. I was almost as tickled to read that it's also the least altered residential neighborhood in all of Richmond.
And if you really want me to brag, let's get as hyper-local as my own street. Clay Street specifically is considered to have one of the finest collections of architectural cast iron in the entire U.S.
Shucks, this old ironwork? Why do you think I had the bushes taken down and planted a complementary garden using it as a fanciful backdrop?
After a fabulous lunch, I suggested a visit to the Branch, knowing that, despite my friend's current Southside address, his years in Church Hill and J-Ward would make him curious about an exhibit showing the possibilities of infill building.
For icing on the cake, I told him I'd walked by the Branch yesterday only to discover that block of Davis Street closed because three enormous old trees had come down, completely altering the look of the block and didn't he want to see that?
Arriving to find the trees now removed, his attention went at once to one of the remaining cars that had born the brunt of a fallen tree and he made a beeline for it.
"Ooh, destruction!" he said with glee. Only a guy would want to inspect a car with its roof crushed to the console, full of shattered glass, branches and debris, with rain and broken glass in the cup holders.
Inside, discussing the new look of Davis Street, one of the staffers said his Mazda had also been crushed, but he also looked pretty happy at the prospect of a brand-new car.
Moving on to the gallery, we got an eyeful looking at the design submissions for the many empty lots in two neighborhoods that deserve attention: Union Hill and Jackson Ward.
It wasn't hard to see why the grand prize winner had been chosen. The three-story house design for Union Hill had it all: the same proportions as the surrounding houses and exactly the same feel. And unlike so many more modern house designs, it had eleven (eleven!) windows on the sides of the house and that counts as one window those that were actually three-part windows.
This is a really big deal to me (and should be to more people) because of the past 50 years of building houses with no thought to cross-ventilation, which is completely unlike the houses around it built in the 19th century, pre-A/C.
But the winning design also had an appropriate front porch and two levels of back porch, an essential design element for the neighborhood, even if the reason for back porches - for the "help" to do chores on out of sight of people on the street - speaks to our entitled past.
Let's never lose sight of the first rule of community-building, kids: good porches make good neighbors. That may be an old chestnut, but I find it impossible to get behind houses in 19th century neighborhoods that don't have front porches for sitting and visiting on.
What I could get behind was suggestions by architects for the proposed designs to use re-purposed materials from nearby dilapidated residential buildings in the construction of the new. Brilliant.
Not all the entries were houses and some of the commercial buildings we saw offered fresh ideas on how to integrate innovative spaces into older neighborhoods.
One three-story building had a ground level space for an herbarium, shop or market, with a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor, a rooftop garden and a three-level public greenhouse behind it. How cool an addition to Union Hill would that be?
Another design had an artists' loft that put artists in full view of passersby, with the goal being creating spaces for artists in gentrifying neighborhoods.
Leaving the exhibit, FotoBoy and I marveled at the variety of ways these architects and architectural students had envisioned houses and buildings that not only transformed vacant lots, but would also become part of the fabric of the area.
Lunch and an exhibition, a practically perfect way to wile away a hot July mid-day. Someone needed more, though, once again ogling the smooshed car. What, again?
An appetite for destruction is apparently written on the Y chromosome. Happily, his X is also strong.
Next month, it'll be a decade since I abandoned the staid Museum District for the wide open frontiers of Jackson Ward, almost immediately falling in love with the far more historic and quirky nature of a neighborhood "in transition," whatever that means.
Yet it took a visit to the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design today to see the new exhibit "Drawing on History: Infill Design Competition" with a favorite photographer to finally learn how my beloved 'hood got its name.
Short answer: a saloon!
No kidding, it was James Jackson's beer garden at Second and Leigh that Jackson Ward was named after, a fact that gives me no end of delight to discover. I was almost as tickled to read that it's also the least altered residential neighborhood in all of Richmond.
And if you really want me to brag, let's get as hyper-local as my own street. Clay Street specifically is considered to have one of the finest collections of architectural cast iron in the entire U.S.
Shucks, this old ironwork? Why do you think I had the bushes taken down and planted a complementary garden using it as a fanciful backdrop?
After a fabulous lunch, I suggested a visit to the Branch, knowing that, despite my friend's current Southside address, his years in Church Hill and J-Ward would make him curious about an exhibit showing the possibilities of infill building.
For icing on the cake, I told him I'd walked by the Branch yesterday only to discover that block of Davis Street closed because three enormous old trees had come down, completely altering the look of the block and didn't he want to see that?
Arriving to find the trees now removed, his attention went at once to one of the remaining cars that had born the brunt of a fallen tree and he made a beeline for it.
"Ooh, destruction!" he said with glee. Only a guy would want to inspect a car with its roof crushed to the console, full of shattered glass, branches and debris, with rain and broken glass in the cup holders.
Inside, discussing the new look of Davis Street, one of the staffers said his Mazda had also been crushed, but he also looked pretty happy at the prospect of a brand-new car.
Moving on to the gallery, we got an eyeful looking at the design submissions for the many empty lots in two neighborhoods that deserve attention: Union Hill and Jackson Ward.
It wasn't hard to see why the grand prize winner had been chosen. The three-story house design for Union Hill had it all: the same proportions as the surrounding houses and exactly the same feel. And unlike so many more modern house designs, it had eleven (eleven!) windows on the sides of the house and that counts as one window those that were actually three-part windows.
This is a really big deal to me (and should be to more people) because of the past 50 years of building houses with no thought to cross-ventilation, which is completely unlike the houses around it built in the 19th century, pre-A/C.
But the winning design also had an appropriate front porch and two levels of back porch, an essential design element for the neighborhood, even if the reason for back porches - for the "help" to do chores on out of sight of people on the street - speaks to our entitled past.
Let's never lose sight of the first rule of community-building, kids: good porches make good neighbors. That may be an old chestnut, but I find it impossible to get behind houses in 19th century neighborhoods that don't have front porches for sitting and visiting on.
What I could get behind was suggestions by architects for the proposed designs to use re-purposed materials from nearby dilapidated residential buildings in the construction of the new. Brilliant.
Not all the entries were houses and some of the commercial buildings we saw offered fresh ideas on how to integrate innovative spaces into older neighborhoods.
One three-story building had a ground level space for an herbarium, shop or market, with a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor, a rooftop garden and a three-level public greenhouse behind it. How cool an addition to Union Hill would that be?
Another design had an artists' loft that put artists in full view of passersby, with the goal being creating spaces for artists in gentrifying neighborhoods.
Leaving the exhibit, FotoBoy and I marveled at the variety of ways these architects and architectural students had envisioned houses and buildings that not only transformed vacant lots, but would also become part of the fabric of the area.
Lunch and an exhibition, a practically perfect way to wile away a hot July mid-day. Someone needed more, though, once again ogling the smooshed car. What, again?
An appetite for destruction is apparently written on the Y chromosome. Happily, his X is also strong.
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