Turns out I can date a house by its bathtub.
When Mac pointed to the unusually-sized square tub in the bathroom, she guessed its origins were the 1950s. Not so, I suggested, recognizing that size and style from a Northern Neck house I'd recently seen that had an identical tub. A house that had had bathrooms put in by its very rich new owner in 1932.
As a side note, I find it curious that I went a lifetime without ever seeing a square tub and I've now spotted two in three weeks.
Today's square tub was located in an International Style house (Richmond's first, it should be noted) in the Maymont neighborhood. Mac and I had walked by it many time (her especially because it's her 'hood) en route to Texas Beach, the difference being that this time we got to go in.
Thanks, Modern Richmond, for letting us be voyeurs.
As soon as we'd seen what house was being featured, we'd gotten tickets so we could ogle its interior. Like the master bedroom with two walls of windows looking out over the canal and river. And not just any windows, but the original casement windows that opened out.
All I'm saying is, if that was my bedroom, those windows would be open April through October and any 65+ degree day in between.
The house's current owners had combined a mix of old and new belongings. A vintage black telephone like the one in "Dial M for Murder" sat next to a computer screen. The sunny bedroom had a small, VCR TV much like the ones from the early '90s.
Mine was stolen the weekend I moved into my Floyd Avenue apartment, a convenient way to pull the plug.
Walking outside to the deck overlooking the river, Mac ran smack dab into the same stranger who'd been behind her in line at Lowe's in Short Pump last night. When the cashier's two pairs of scissors weren't able to cut the zip tie off the product, he'd offered to get pliers to help her remove it.
What are the chances their paths would cross again so soon? Or ever?
The former garage had been attached to the house and covered at some point, allowing for a raised dining room which could be seen through the windows near the kitchen. The flooring was the same as in NYC subway cars, so incredibly durable, although a pain-in-the-butt to install.The bathroom was drop dead gorgeous with a patterned red and black floor made of ruby glass and amethyst glass.
One of the owners who'd bought the house in 1987 and lived there for three decades gave a talk with lots of dirt about the house. It had been built in 1935-6 by Richmond architect George Edward Hoppe, Jr., an unfamiliar name I knew immediately I needed to go home and research.
So I'm a nerd and a voyeur.
Like how her husband had rented the house for $250 a month before he met her. How he'd finally convinced the owner to let him buy it for $52K in the late '80s - a gentleman's agreement with no actual documentation - only to have someone else offer the guy $92K. How the owner told the higher bidder he'd have to talk to her husband. Now, that's integrity.
During the ten-year renovation ("I now know how to use a Saws-all," she bragged), the couple knew one thing for sure: they were keeping the original windows, a wise move given how distinctive they are (that or the $30K cost to replace them all).
Also, they didn't need George Edward Hoppe, Jr. rolling around in his grave.
One of my favorite features was that while the roof was flat outside in keeping with the International Style, inside the roof was peaked, with beams visible. And although the house had originally been unpainted brick, it had long since been painted white, making for a striking contrast with all the foliage around it.
The couple who owns it now also spoke, gushing about how external feeling the house is during the day with all the un-curtained windows allowing in light and nature, but at night, it morphs into something internal feeling and cozy. Perched on a hill over the river, it was easy to imagine.
He pointed out that all the windows in the living room are at eye height to draw the eye outside. On the sun porch, the windows are at eye height when you're sitting down. Brilliant, George, that's all I can say.
"It's funny to live in a work of art," one of the owners admitted. "But that's what it feels like."
Walking out afterwards to my car, I spotted a friend coming down his walkway. From the screened porch above, his wife called out to me. It was the same couple I'd seen performing in their band last Wednesday at Capital Ale House. Their rock and roll aura was somewhat subdued. She was wearing yellow pants and filling a brand new yellow bird feeder and he was chatting with us about what we'd just seen.
But we couldn't chat for long because even though we'd already made a pit stop at 821 Cafe for a plate of my favorite black bean nachos, we had a movie to see at the Byrd.
Walking in, manager Todd announced, "There she is! Now we can start the movie," his kind of humor. Inside, buttered popcorn and Milk Duds procured, we settled in for 2011 film "Pariah" about a young black woman struggling to come out as a lesbian to herself and her family.
Tellingly, the woman who introduced the film. a familiar face from poetry and haiku readings, gave the most heartfelt of affirmations about it, saying, "Watching this film felt like the first time I saw myself on the big screen."
The movie had premiered at Sundance and won an award for its exquisite cinematography and we didn't have to get very far into it to see why. Add in the knockout performance of newcomer Adepero Oduye who played the woman and I was just sorry there weren't more people in attendance for the sensitively-acted and well-written story.
But then again, I can't worry about what others miss. It was enough to eat, ogle and watch with Mac and get her home at a reasonable hour since she'd been up since dawn. Maybe this is why people tell me they're exhausted being with me.
"This is the best Modern Richmond ever!" I heard a man tell someone on the deck of the Hoppe house. Later, during the talk, he repeated it to the entire room. Can't say that I agree and I've been to plenty.
But it was a fine introduction to a local architect and I'm living proof that that can be life-changing.
Oh, and I'll look up Hoppe, too.
Showing posts with label 821 cafe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 821 cafe. Show all posts
Thursday, March 14, 2019
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
Seeing Me, Seeing You
Les bon temps are rolling over here.
As is our tradition, Mac and I walked over to 821 Cafe for a heaping plate of pancakes, the better to celebrate Fat Tuesday with. This year, we even wore beads for good measure.
Now don't get me wrong, we're both heathens of the highest order, but a holiday that features pancakes for dinner is our kind of holiday.
Unlike past years, though, this year's Fat Tuesday falls during VCU's spring break, so my part of the city is deserted. You could throw a bowling ball down Clay Street without worry of hitting a thing. Walking down Laurel Street was like walking through a ghost town.
The scant crowd at 821 wasn't especially festive, although the father sitting behind us falsely narrating a Godzilla movie to his young son was pretty hilarious. Meanwhile, I did what I always do with a plate of pancakes: ate half with syrup and half with strawberry jam and finished them all.
Mac felt obligated to do the same once my plate was licked clean.
Walking back through Monroe Park, we detoured to check out Portals, the public art piece that looks like a shipping container in the middle of the park, never expecting it to be open. A man came out the door and invited us in. Walking into the portal meant facing a screen filled with the images of two families - a Dad, son and daughter and a Mom and daughter - at a school in Ipswich, Massachusetts and looking right into their eyes.
Hello, strangers, whatcha knowin?
Yes, of course I'd read about the year-long art installation, even heard that Richmonders had spoken with folks in Afghanistan and Sweden since it began. It turned out we were happening into a portal with people as near as New England, so the Portal didn't even have to translate for us.
It didn't feel terribly exotic - I mean, Massachusetts - but it was still a brilliant concept.
The portal really is an immersive experience as you look at the life-size people beaming in from the other end and have a conversation with them. It's a lot like real life, except from different zip codes.
After we explained that we'd just come from having Fat Tuesday pancakes and pulled out our beads as proof, the Dad shared that they'd just celebrated with red beans and rice with, wait for it, duck.
Seems he'd won half a cooked duck in some office pool (the questions I could have asked about that, but I was still figuring out the civilities here), so he thought it would be a fine addition to the traditional Mardi Gras beans and rice.
And as heathens who carb up and wear beads for no good reason, who were we to judge their choice of how to celebrate?
At the point that we walked in, the families, okay, mainly the kids, were waiting for the King cake to arrive, so they were having an even grander Fat Tuesday celebration than we'd had. But maybe they weren't heathens and I didn't ask.
But once the Dad started talking about how old a town Ipswich is and about all its maritime history, he had the audacity to brag about their 1632 roots. That was enough to get me going, as I pointed out that in our neck of the woods, we backdate to 1607.
His face fell. "Oh, yea, I guess that's right."
He pointed to the Mom and daughter, informing us that they lived in a 100-year old house. I didn't bother rubbing his face in it by pointing out that mine's 143 years old. I've long opined that Massachusetts has always had a better PR department than Virginia.
They told us the saga of Mr. Crane, the wealthy man whose company made porcelain for toilets, and his waterfront summer house in Ipswich which had 8 1/2 miles of private waterfront. Once a year, on Mr. Crane's birthday, he opened up his beach to school children and it was their only chance to go to the beach all year. Now he's dead but the kids, teachers and families still celebrate, even though that stretch of waterfront is now public so it's nowhere near the big deal it once was.
They also mentioned that there are exactly two weeks a year when the water is warm enough for humans to go in it and it's tough to get them out when it's like that. "We just stay down there and order pizza to be delivered at the beach," Dad says.
Mac's eyes widened and her mind immediately went to the possibilities of Outer Banks beachside pizza delivery. Hold your horses, girl and think of how badly that could go.
When we asked for more dish on Ipswich, the little boy pulled his chair forward and said very seriously, despite his missing teeth, "We're known for our clams here." Then his Dad tried to convince us that Ipswich invented fried clams but I wasn't convinced.
As the guy who'd invited us in marveled to the screen, "That's kind of a big claim, don't you think?" I do.
It was kind of fascinating to have this kind of conversation with complete strangers, although none of us had any trouble coming up with things to share. When they wanted to know what we were doing next, we explained that Spring break meant that a local restaurant did all tiki drinks, so we were toasting the start of Lent with rum drinks.
Even the kids looked impressed with our brilliance.
After saying farewell to the Ipswichians, we meandered over to Saison through deserted streets and sat down at a bar with only one other occupant and one long table of loud millennials talking about fear of scuba diving ("I'll do my own breathing, thanks"), house decorating ("Come over anytime and I'll show you what I've done") and not dating (by choice, natch).
My libation of choice came directly from the "strong and boozy" section of the menu. It was a spring break old fashioned made with Jamaican and Martinican rums, pineapple-hop syrup and tiki bitters, while Mac gravitated straight to the Hurricane, which arrived in a 10' glass, complete with enormous green straw and some kind of leaves speared together.
The bartender wanted to know what we'd been up to, so we explained how two heathens never failed to eat pancakes in celebration of a season they have nothing to do with. This required explaining Lent and Ash Wednesday to her, as if I'm some expert.
But she was even more taken with the Portal experience we'd had, asking for specifics so she could go do it, too. We made sure to tell her to get there in the next month or so before they move the Portal to another part of town.
When we declined a second round, she responded with great disappointment. "You're not much of heathens, are you, to have only one drink each?" This from the woman we'd had to explain Shrove Tuesday to when we walked in. How quickly they jump on board.
Besides, we'd worn our beads, devoured our pancakes, chatted with long distance celebrants and washed it all down with fancy rums. We didn't need to drink the entire tiki menu to prove ourselves.
Don't forget, missy, Richmond's been Mardi Gras ready since 1607.
As is our tradition, Mac and I walked over to 821 Cafe for a heaping plate of pancakes, the better to celebrate Fat Tuesday with. This year, we even wore beads for good measure.
Now don't get me wrong, we're both heathens of the highest order, but a holiday that features pancakes for dinner is our kind of holiday.
Unlike past years, though, this year's Fat Tuesday falls during VCU's spring break, so my part of the city is deserted. You could throw a bowling ball down Clay Street without worry of hitting a thing. Walking down Laurel Street was like walking through a ghost town.
The scant crowd at 821 wasn't especially festive, although the father sitting behind us falsely narrating a Godzilla movie to his young son was pretty hilarious. Meanwhile, I did what I always do with a plate of pancakes: ate half with syrup and half with strawberry jam and finished them all.
Mac felt obligated to do the same once my plate was licked clean.
Walking back through Monroe Park, we detoured to check out Portals, the public art piece that looks like a shipping container in the middle of the park, never expecting it to be open. A man came out the door and invited us in. Walking into the portal meant facing a screen filled with the images of two families - a Dad, son and daughter and a Mom and daughter - at a school in Ipswich, Massachusetts and looking right into their eyes.
Hello, strangers, whatcha knowin?
Yes, of course I'd read about the year-long art installation, even heard that Richmonders had spoken with folks in Afghanistan and Sweden since it began. It turned out we were happening into a portal with people as near as New England, so the Portal didn't even have to translate for us.
It didn't feel terribly exotic - I mean, Massachusetts - but it was still a brilliant concept.
The portal really is an immersive experience as you look at the life-size people beaming in from the other end and have a conversation with them. It's a lot like real life, except from different zip codes.
After we explained that we'd just come from having Fat Tuesday pancakes and pulled out our beads as proof, the Dad shared that they'd just celebrated with red beans and rice with, wait for it, duck.
Seems he'd won half a cooked duck in some office pool (the questions I could have asked about that, but I was still figuring out the civilities here), so he thought it would be a fine addition to the traditional Mardi Gras beans and rice.
And as heathens who carb up and wear beads for no good reason, who were we to judge their choice of how to celebrate?
At the point that we walked in, the families, okay, mainly the kids, were waiting for the King cake to arrive, so they were having an even grander Fat Tuesday celebration than we'd had. But maybe they weren't heathens and I didn't ask.
But once the Dad started talking about how old a town Ipswich is and about all its maritime history, he had the audacity to brag about their 1632 roots. That was enough to get me going, as I pointed out that in our neck of the woods, we backdate to 1607.
His face fell. "Oh, yea, I guess that's right."
He pointed to the Mom and daughter, informing us that they lived in a 100-year old house. I didn't bother rubbing his face in it by pointing out that mine's 143 years old. I've long opined that Massachusetts has always had a better PR department than Virginia.
They told us the saga of Mr. Crane, the wealthy man whose company made porcelain for toilets, and his waterfront summer house in Ipswich which had 8 1/2 miles of private waterfront. Once a year, on Mr. Crane's birthday, he opened up his beach to school children and it was their only chance to go to the beach all year. Now he's dead but the kids, teachers and families still celebrate, even though that stretch of waterfront is now public so it's nowhere near the big deal it once was.
They also mentioned that there are exactly two weeks a year when the water is warm enough for humans to go in it and it's tough to get them out when it's like that. "We just stay down there and order pizza to be delivered at the beach," Dad says.
Mac's eyes widened and her mind immediately went to the possibilities of Outer Banks beachside pizza delivery. Hold your horses, girl and think of how badly that could go.
When we asked for more dish on Ipswich, the little boy pulled his chair forward and said very seriously, despite his missing teeth, "We're known for our clams here." Then his Dad tried to convince us that Ipswich invented fried clams but I wasn't convinced.
As the guy who'd invited us in marveled to the screen, "That's kind of a big claim, don't you think?" I do.
It was kind of fascinating to have this kind of conversation with complete strangers, although none of us had any trouble coming up with things to share. When they wanted to know what we were doing next, we explained that Spring break meant that a local restaurant did all tiki drinks, so we were toasting the start of Lent with rum drinks.
Even the kids looked impressed with our brilliance.
After saying farewell to the Ipswichians, we meandered over to Saison through deserted streets and sat down at a bar with only one other occupant and one long table of loud millennials talking about fear of scuba diving ("I'll do my own breathing, thanks"), house decorating ("Come over anytime and I'll show you what I've done") and not dating (by choice, natch).
My libation of choice came directly from the "strong and boozy" section of the menu. It was a spring break old fashioned made with Jamaican and Martinican rums, pineapple-hop syrup and tiki bitters, while Mac gravitated straight to the Hurricane, which arrived in a 10' glass, complete with enormous green straw and some kind of leaves speared together.
The bartender wanted to know what we'd been up to, so we explained how two heathens never failed to eat pancakes in celebration of a season they have nothing to do with. This required explaining Lent and Ash Wednesday to her, as if I'm some expert.
But she was even more taken with the Portal experience we'd had, asking for specifics so she could go do it, too. We made sure to tell her to get there in the next month or so before they move the Portal to another part of town.
When we declined a second round, she responded with great disappointment. "You're not much of heathens, are you, to have only one drink each?" This from the woman we'd had to explain Shrove Tuesday to when we walked in. How quickly they jump on board.
Besides, we'd worn our beads, devoured our pancakes, chatted with long distance celebrants and washed it all down with fancy rums. We didn't need to drink the entire tiki menu to prove ourselves.
Don't forget, missy, Richmond's been Mardi Gras ready since 1607.
Thursday, September 13, 2018
Elementary, my Dear Freud
Leave it to Richmond to overreact before Flo even touches down.
Don't get me wrong, I'm as concerned about the potential damage of a Category 3 storm as much as anybody along this part of the east coast. Who wouldn't be terrified reading that they've measured 83' waves under the northeast quadrant of Hurricane Florence?
But did we really need to start canceling events tonight, before Florence even makes landfall? Mac and I had plans to stroll over to the ICA for "The Future is Afro-Femme: New Negress Film Society" to take in a variety of short indie films presented by the New York-based film collective, but VCU squelched that by closing down tight, effective tonight through Sunday.
Seriously, VCU?
The weather has been brooding all day. When I left for my walk, the top third of the Art Deco Central National Bank building was shrouded in fog, as was the crane looming over the Dominion HQ being built downtown (because, of course Virginia's shadow government needs to have the tallest building in the city). The canal was unusually high, with not a duck in it. Brown's Island felt like a pressure cooker it was so oppressive and the James was lapping over the pipeline.
Not one to be daunted by impending weather, Mac and I simply made other plans. No one's going to take away our evening if we can help it.
When she came to pick me up, she was frazzled, having had to run the gauntlet of crazed drivers headed to and from the grocery store in addition to the usual September problems brought on by students who can't walk, much less drive, impeding traffic at every turn and making her late. Put another way, Mac is an easygoing woman who showed up at my house frustrated by the short drive from Byrd park to J-Ward.
By the time we made it to 821 Café by the most circuitous route imaginable, she was saying she'd be needing a drink with dinner. For Mac, that's a major indicator.
My problem was that after a busy afternoon with no breaks to snack, I was all but monosyllabic. When I realized that, I apologized, saying that a wise man once told me that if I'm quiet, it means one of two things: I'm hungry or I'm tired.
I got nearly nine hours last night, so clearly my issue was food, a problem easily corrected with a half order of black bean nachos while Mac tried to forget about the legions of bad drivers with a BLT and a cocktail. By the end of the meal, we were both in happier moods.
And little did I know, but there was laughter in our future, too.
Walking down the aisle to find seats at the Byrd, we passed an older man sitting in one of the raggedy old seats. Since the theater was uncrowded, it seemed like an odd choice. Why have a spring poking at your butt when you can sit in a wide, comfy new seat? Apparently the man realized this and moved to a seat in front of us, despite the hundreds of free seats not near others. Once the lights went down, he slid down in his seat and promptly went to sleep, only occasionally rousing himself for a moment before dozing off again.
I can't explain 'em, I just observe 'em.
As for our reason for being there, I'd suggested seeing "The Seven-Per-Cent Solution," not because I'm a Sherlock Holmes fan but because it was a 1976 movie - a period of filmmaking I adore - and the cast was fabulous.
From Broadway star Nicol Williamson - whom I'd seen at the Kennedy Center in the '70s in "Rex" - to Vanessa Redgrave ("her head of flaming red hair was celebrated on four continents"), not to mention a dapper Alan Arkin in a handsome beard (as Sigmund Freud), a young Robert Duval as Watson, Joel Gray as a bad guy and even Sir Laurence Olivier as the real villain, it was a primo group of acting talent.
So while I'd chosen it for the era and the actors, the movie ended up being downright hilarious, which I hadn't expected at all. Because I don't know the Sherlock Holmes canon, I have no clue whether or not Holmes is always played as an understated and droll wit with encyclopedic knowledge and a magnifying glass.
Even the credits made us laugh. "The story is true...only the facts have been made up."
As I anticipated, the movie melded the Victorian period squarely with the '70s, as evidenced by the décor, costumes and especially the women's hairstyles. Watson's drawing room looked like a cross between an antique store and a fern-filled college dorm circa 1972. Dated lines like, "The ladies do seem to cause trouble, don't they?" reeked of SOP male chauvinism.
Even the story about Holmes being addicted to cocaine seemed straight out of the Studio 54 era, as did his reason for taking it up: "to relieve the ennui." The struggle is real.
But the visuals were wonderful, from a sword fight atop a steam engine train to a library with a two-story bookshelf to a scene of Lipizzaner stallions attempting to trample our heroes inside a large building. Can't say I recall the last time I saw horses used as killing machines.
Best of all, the film ended with Holmes cured of his cocaine addiction and persecution complex by Freud. He then takes off alone on a cruise, where he just happens to find himself on a deck chair next to Vanessa Redgrave's character, Lola Devereaux.
Lola: Journeys alone are always so tedious, don't you find? Specially when they are long.
Holmes: Will this be a long journey?
Lola: That all depends. But I do think it will seem shorter if there are two of us, don't you?
Holmes: I hope it will not seem too short.
I have it on the best authority that the best journeys are neither short nor solo. As for relieving ennui, everyone knows only boring people get bored.
Don't get me wrong, I'm as concerned about the potential damage of a Category 3 storm as much as anybody along this part of the east coast. Who wouldn't be terrified reading that they've measured 83' waves under the northeast quadrant of Hurricane Florence?
But did we really need to start canceling events tonight, before Florence even makes landfall? Mac and I had plans to stroll over to the ICA for "The Future is Afro-Femme: New Negress Film Society" to take in a variety of short indie films presented by the New York-based film collective, but VCU squelched that by closing down tight, effective tonight through Sunday.
Seriously, VCU?
The weather has been brooding all day. When I left for my walk, the top third of the Art Deco Central National Bank building was shrouded in fog, as was the crane looming over the Dominion HQ being built downtown (because, of course Virginia's shadow government needs to have the tallest building in the city). The canal was unusually high, with not a duck in it. Brown's Island felt like a pressure cooker it was so oppressive and the James was lapping over the pipeline.
Not one to be daunted by impending weather, Mac and I simply made other plans. No one's going to take away our evening if we can help it.
When she came to pick me up, she was frazzled, having had to run the gauntlet of crazed drivers headed to and from the grocery store in addition to the usual September problems brought on by students who can't walk, much less drive, impeding traffic at every turn and making her late. Put another way, Mac is an easygoing woman who showed up at my house frustrated by the short drive from Byrd park to J-Ward.
By the time we made it to 821 Café by the most circuitous route imaginable, she was saying she'd be needing a drink with dinner. For Mac, that's a major indicator.
My problem was that after a busy afternoon with no breaks to snack, I was all but monosyllabic. When I realized that, I apologized, saying that a wise man once told me that if I'm quiet, it means one of two things: I'm hungry or I'm tired.
I got nearly nine hours last night, so clearly my issue was food, a problem easily corrected with a half order of black bean nachos while Mac tried to forget about the legions of bad drivers with a BLT and a cocktail. By the end of the meal, we were both in happier moods.
And little did I know, but there was laughter in our future, too.
Walking down the aisle to find seats at the Byrd, we passed an older man sitting in one of the raggedy old seats. Since the theater was uncrowded, it seemed like an odd choice. Why have a spring poking at your butt when you can sit in a wide, comfy new seat? Apparently the man realized this and moved to a seat in front of us, despite the hundreds of free seats not near others. Once the lights went down, he slid down in his seat and promptly went to sleep, only occasionally rousing himself for a moment before dozing off again.
I can't explain 'em, I just observe 'em.
As for our reason for being there, I'd suggested seeing "The Seven-Per-Cent Solution," not because I'm a Sherlock Holmes fan but because it was a 1976 movie - a period of filmmaking I adore - and the cast was fabulous.
From Broadway star Nicol Williamson - whom I'd seen at the Kennedy Center in the '70s in "Rex" - to Vanessa Redgrave ("her head of flaming red hair was celebrated on four continents"), not to mention a dapper Alan Arkin in a handsome beard (as Sigmund Freud), a young Robert Duval as Watson, Joel Gray as a bad guy and even Sir Laurence Olivier as the real villain, it was a primo group of acting talent.
So while I'd chosen it for the era and the actors, the movie ended up being downright hilarious, which I hadn't expected at all. Because I don't know the Sherlock Holmes canon, I have no clue whether or not Holmes is always played as an understated and droll wit with encyclopedic knowledge and a magnifying glass.
Even the credits made us laugh. "The story is true...only the facts have been made up."
As I anticipated, the movie melded the Victorian period squarely with the '70s, as evidenced by the décor, costumes and especially the women's hairstyles. Watson's drawing room looked like a cross between an antique store and a fern-filled college dorm circa 1972. Dated lines like, "The ladies do seem to cause trouble, don't they?" reeked of SOP male chauvinism.
Even the story about Holmes being addicted to cocaine seemed straight out of the Studio 54 era, as did his reason for taking it up: "to relieve the ennui." The struggle is real.
But the visuals were wonderful, from a sword fight atop a steam engine train to a library with a two-story bookshelf to a scene of Lipizzaner stallions attempting to trample our heroes inside a large building. Can't say I recall the last time I saw horses used as killing machines.
Best of all, the film ended with Holmes cured of his cocaine addiction and persecution complex by Freud. He then takes off alone on a cruise, where he just happens to find himself on a deck chair next to Vanessa Redgrave's character, Lola Devereaux.
Lola: Journeys alone are always so tedious, don't you find? Specially when they are long.
Holmes: Will this be a long journey?
Lola: That all depends. But I do think it will seem shorter if there are two of us, don't you?
Holmes: I hope it will not seem too short.
I have it on the best authority that the best journeys are neither short nor solo. As for relieving ennui, everyone knows only boring people get bored.
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Obligated to Be Among the First
If a tone was being set tonight, it was an admirable one.
The Institute for Contemporary Art was hosting its inaugural Cinema Series and first up was Afrikana International Film Festival with a program simply entitled, "Richmond Speaks: A Short Film Showcase."
Mac was at my house by 5:30 and we strolled over to the ICA, dodging the speeding and ineptly-driven cars carrying crazed relatives of soon-to-be high school graduates. These days, both the Seigel Center and the Altria Theater are churning out multiple graduating classes a day, meaning it's a congested mess to go anywhere from Jackson Ward. That includes going to Lowe's - I know because I tried it this afternoon - barely 3/4 of a mile away.
First up was walking the entire perimeter of the block that houses the ICA so we could see it from every angle, including looking east from Grace Street against the traffic. Once we got inside for the films, it was only to be stopped cold and red-faced because we were those idiots who hadn't reserved tickets and now they were all gone.
I don't know who was more surprised at the oversight, Mac or me. Generally, we're pros at these kind of events.
Since it was sold out, there was nothing to do but put our name on a waiting list and browse the galleries until they determined who didn't show up. Failing that, the plan was to stream it live in the lobby and we'd try to snag a seat on one of the couches. Either way, we'd get to see the films and the post-film discussion, so we were happy.
Things worked out well for us because of the people who'd gotten tickets and then been no-shows, so we nabbed seats in the second row just before Afrikana founder Enjoli Moon greeted the audience with some heartfelt gratitude and a bit of a preview of what was to come. One point she repeatedly stressed was that as tonight's first audience for the series, we were witnessing the start of something important, something with the potential to encourage Richmond's much-needed race conversation.
Then to bring it to a close with full southern charm, she announced, "Without any further ado, I will hush my mouth," and the Richmond-made films began.
"May It Be So" showcased the grassroots effort of one woman to ensure that the city memorializes its black ancestors and their burial grounds, insisting that, "We have the right to take care of our own ancestors." Her one-woman campaign to keep pushing for a truthful acknowledgment of Richmond's past, including the uncomfortable parts, proves the power of every voice.
Part of a larger social justice series, "Adrian's Story" focused on a man who'd been in trouble with the law since he was 15 and served time and probation repeatedly. Finally, he became a barber's apprentice and began to see another way of life. Seeing him cut the hair of street people who can't afford haircuts almost has Mac and I in tears
I'd already seen the third film, "Don't Touch My Hair RVA," a fascinating look at what Richmond women consider "going natural," interspersed with shots of every type of black hair imaginable: braids, Afro, straightened, corn rows, even a black albino woman with natural platinum blond hair. That it had been made by a VCU ph.D student who'd never made a film (or even held a camera) before only made it more compelling and fun.
During a panel discussion with the filmmakers, the young couple who'd made "Adrian" were asked about their choice of subject matter. "If we can use our white privilege to undermine white privilege, we believe we're obligated to do so," as clear a point as could be made if any racial progress is to be made.
The last talking point of the evening revolved around what the ICA's role in the community needs to be now that it's open, state-supported and smack dab in the middle of the city. Enjoli probably said it best, hoping that the ICA embraces its role as needing to be responsive to the entire community, not just the traditional audience (not to be confused with the inaugural audience) with wide-ranging programming.
As an inaugural audience member, I'm not sure the ICA could have had a stronger kickoff to their new film series, even if more than one wine glass was heard shattering when everyone stood up after the final applause. We put our money on glass being banned in the auditorium from here on out, but maybe it's just a learning curve.
Mac and I did our own post-film discussion at the counter of 821 Cafe over a massive platter of black bean nachos we couldn't finish, while the restaurant filled up behind us. Next to us, a couple of guys discussed alcoholism in the workplace and asked about the taco special, which had already sold out.
You snooze, you lose. Just like those idiots who'd gotten tickets for tonight's screening and then not come, who'll never be able to say they were there when the ICA was brand new and you could still score a last-minute seat in the auditorium to hear Richmond speak.
How fitting that the ICA gives us a place to hush our mouths and listen.
The Institute for Contemporary Art was hosting its inaugural Cinema Series and first up was Afrikana International Film Festival with a program simply entitled, "Richmond Speaks: A Short Film Showcase."
Mac was at my house by 5:30 and we strolled over to the ICA, dodging the speeding and ineptly-driven cars carrying crazed relatives of soon-to-be high school graduates. These days, both the Seigel Center and the Altria Theater are churning out multiple graduating classes a day, meaning it's a congested mess to go anywhere from Jackson Ward. That includes going to Lowe's - I know because I tried it this afternoon - barely 3/4 of a mile away.
First up was walking the entire perimeter of the block that houses the ICA so we could see it from every angle, including looking east from Grace Street against the traffic. Once we got inside for the films, it was only to be stopped cold and red-faced because we were those idiots who hadn't reserved tickets and now they were all gone.
I don't know who was more surprised at the oversight, Mac or me. Generally, we're pros at these kind of events.
Since it was sold out, there was nothing to do but put our name on a waiting list and browse the galleries until they determined who didn't show up. Failing that, the plan was to stream it live in the lobby and we'd try to snag a seat on one of the couches. Either way, we'd get to see the films and the post-film discussion, so we were happy.
Things worked out well for us because of the people who'd gotten tickets and then been no-shows, so we nabbed seats in the second row just before Afrikana founder Enjoli Moon greeted the audience with some heartfelt gratitude and a bit of a preview of what was to come. One point she repeatedly stressed was that as tonight's first audience for the series, we were witnessing the start of something important, something with the potential to encourage Richmond's much-needed race conversation.
Then to bring it to a close with full southern charm, she announced, "Without any further ado, I will hush my mouth," and the Richmond-made films began.
"May It Be So" showcased the grassroots effort of one woman to ensure that the city memorializes its black ancestors and their burial grounds, insisting that, "We have the right to take care of our own ancestors." Her one-woman campaign to keep pushing for a truthful acknowledgment of Richmond's past, including the uncomfortable parts, proves the power of every voice.
Part of a larger social justice series, "Adrian's Story" focused on a man who'd been in trouble with the law since he was 15 and served time and probation repeatedly. Finally, he became a barber's apprentice and began to see another way of life. Seeing him cut the hair of street people who can't afford haircuts almost has Mac and I in tears
I'd already seen the third film, "Don't Touch My Hair RVA," a fascinating look at what Richmond women consider "going natural," interspersed with shots of every type of black hair imaginable: braids, Afro, straightened, corn rows, even a black albino woman with natural platinum blond hair. That it had been made by a VCU ph.D student who'd never made a film (or even held a camera) before only made it more compelling and fun.
During a panel discussion with the filmmakers, the young couple who'd made "Adrian" were asked about their choice of subject matter. "If we can use our white privilege to undermine white privilege, we believe we're obligated to do so," as clear a point as could be made if any racial progress is to be made.
The last talking point of the evening revolved around what the ICA's role in the community needs to be now that it's open, state-supported and smack dab in the middle of the city. Enjoli probably said it best, hoping that the ICA embraces its role as needing to be responsive to the entire community, not just the traditional audience (not to be confused with the inaugural audience) with wide-ranging programming.
As an inaugural audience member, I'm not sure the ICA could have had a stronger kickoff to their new film series, even if more than one wine glass was heard shattering when everyone stood up after the final applause. We put our money on glass being banned in the auditorium from here on out, but maybe it's just a learning curve.
Mac and I did our own post-film discussion at the counter of 821 Cafe over a massive platter of black bean nachos we couldn't finish, while the restaurant filled up behind us. Next to us, a couple of guys discussed alcoholism in the workplace and asked about the taco special, which had already sold out.
You snooze, you lose. Just like those idiots who'd gotten tickets for tonight's screening and then not come, who'll never be able to say they were there when the ICA was brand new and you could still score a last-minute seat in the auditorium to hear Richmond speak.
How fitting that the ICA gives us a place to hush our mouths and listen.
Thursday, April 5, 2018
Doll, Not Guy
First it was a boxing fan at my side, then it was tonight's star.
When I took the only available stool at 821 Cafe, I had no clue I'd be sidling up to a girl eating a vegan crabcake sandwich (wtf?) and a guy sipping beer and shooting whiskey while extolling the fighting skills of Joseph Parker and Anthony Joshua and lamenting the pitfalls of bare knuckle boxing.
Somewhere in there, my black bean nachos arrived, except that instead of the half order I'd requested, I was staring at a full platter o' nachos without the faintest hope of finishing them. My server apologized for mis-hearing my order, even offering to box up the alarmingly large amount remaining, but we all know nachos don't reheat.
By the time I was leaving, the boxing fan was deep in discussion with another server about Muay Thai and I knew I needed more from any conversation I was going to eavesdrop on than that
Settling in at the Firehouse Theater, I was directly in front of three women disgusted with the widespread use of "you guys" when directed at a mixed or, even worse, all female audience. "How can they look at me and say "this guy here"?" one woman demanded to know. Truthfully, I feel the same way when "dude" is directed at me.
I stopped paying attention to them when a large man sat down next to me and it turned out he was the guest actor in tonight's two-man show, "An Oak Tree." Aaron Anderson explained that he'd just arrived an hour ago, only to have had some basic information relayed to him and an ear mic taped to the back of his neck.
What followed was a play about a hypnotist, played with dimples by Landon Nagel, with Aaron portraying Andy, the father of a young girl accidentally killed by the hypnotist's car. The hook was that while Landon knew his lines, all of Aaron's were either read from a script Landon handed him or repeated after Landon told him what to say or whispered them into Aaron's ear mic. He even told him when to sit, lay down and stand.
Translation: Aaron had no more idea what was going to happen than we did. He'd been expressly told not to research the play and he hadn't, but you don't get to be associate chair of VCU's department of theater without having considerable acting chops even without rehearsal.
His real life cred was also the source of a major laugh when Aaron's character asks the hypnotist what he was and is told, "You're a teacher."
He particularly excelled in a scene where he was hypnotized and told he was naked and that he'd just had diarrhea all over himself. Needless to say, there was a bit of improv involved as he sought to wipe the mess onto Landon.
In one sense, the play was about dealing with grief, with Aaron's character having convinced himself that his daughter was now an oak tree near where he went to sit and think of her. In another sense, it was about the illusion Landon creates, playing the hypnotist, effectively directing the action onstage and even instructing the audience on how we should react.
So we were being manipulated just like Aaron/Andy was.
At one point, Landon asks of Aaron about the action, "Don't you think it's a bit contrived?" and Aaron responds, "Hard to tell from here." While that got a big laugh, it was also an excellent talking point post-play.
Martial arts and faulty gender pronouns aside, the only thing I like as much as a good talking point is a worthy conversation partner. And then there's Pru's rule: don't bring up a topic unless you can go deep.
I wouldn't think of it. Where's the pleasure in that?
When I took the only available stool at 821 Cafe, I had no clue I'd be sidling up to a girl eating a vegan crabcake sandwich (wtf?) and a guy sipping beer and shooting whiskey while extolling the fighting skills of Joseph Parker and Anthony Joshua and lamenting the pitfalls of bare knuckle boxing.
Somewhere in there, my black bean nachos arrived, except that instead of the half order I'd requested, I was staring at a full platter o' nachos without the faintest hope of finishing them. My server apologized for mis-hearing my order, even offering to box up the alarmingly large amount remaining, but we all know nachos don't reheat.
By the time I was leaving, the boxing fan was deep in discussion with another server about Muay Thai and I knew I needed more from any conversation I was going to eavesdrop on than that
Settling in at the Firehouse Theater, I was directly in front of three women disgusted with the widespread use of "you guys" when directed at a mixed or, even worse, all female audience. "How can they look at me and say "this guy here"?" one woman demanded to know. Truthfully, I feel the same way when "dude" is directed at me.
I stopped paying attention to them when a large man sat down next to me and it turned out he was the guest actor in tonight's two-man show, "An Oak Tree." Aaron Anderson explained that he'd just arrived an hour ago, only to have had some basic information relayed to him and an ear mic taped to the back of his neck.
What followed was a play about a hypnotist, played with dimples by Landon Nagel, with Aaron portraying Andy, the father of a young girl accidentally killed by the hypnotist's car. The hook was that while Landon knew his lines, all of Aaron's were either read from a script Landon handed him or repeated after Landon told him what to say or whispered them into Aaron's ear mic. He even told him when to sit, lay down and stand.
Translation: Aaron had no more idea what was going to happen than we did. He'd been expressly told not to research the play and he hadn't, but you don't get to be associate chair of VCU's department of theater without having considerable acting chops even without rehearsal.
His real life cred was also the source of a major laugh when Aaron's character asks the hypnotist what he was and is told, "You're a teacher."
He particularly excelled in a scene where he was hypnotized and told he was naked and that he'd just had diarrhea all over himself. Needless to say, there was a bit of improv involved as he sought to wipe the mess onto Landon.
In one sense, the play was about dealing with grief, with Aaron's character having convinced himself that his daughter was now an oak tree near where he went to sit and think of her. In another sense, it was about the illusion Landon creates, playing the hypnotist, effectively directing the action onstage and even instructing the audience on how we should react.
So we were being manipulated just like Aaron/Andy was.
At one point, Landon asks of Aaron about the action, "Don't you think it's a bit contrived?" and Aaron responds, "Hard to tell from here." While that got a big laugh, it was also an excellent talking point post-play.
Martial arts and faulty gender pronouns aside, the only thing I like as much as a good talking point is a worthy conversation partner. And then there's Pru's rule: don't bring up a topic unless you can go deep.
I wouldn't think of it. Where's the pleasure in that?
Monday, October 23, 2017
A World of Liberated Feelings
A sense of reality is a matter of talent. Most people lack that talent and maybe it's just as well.
No, I'd never seen an Ingmar Bergman film, so, yes, I finally corrected that tonight so I can hold my head up in shared film geek conversations.
One of the few things I did know about the Swedish director's films was that they were known for a sense of claustrophobia. So naturally, I saw "Autumn Sonata" in a claustrophobic room at the Westover Hills Library.
There can be no forgiveness.
It was my first time at the International Film Fest the library is sponsoring, but not so the other attendees, all of whom had been there last week for "Tangerines" and been impressed enough to return this week, eager to experience Bergman's late career masterpiece.
It's disgraceful how lazy I've been of life.
The librarian who introduced the film explained that the library hadn't had any Bergman movies to show, so he'd used library funds to purchase some from the one approved source they had. So, if any of us wanted to check out Bergman with our library card, all we needed to do was let him know.
Frankly, if "Autumn Sonata" is any indication, I don't think they're the kind of films you need to watch at home by yourself, if you know what I mean.
You talk of my hatred. Your hatred was no less.
After the film ended with no clear resolution, the woman sitting at the end of my row agreed with me that it was also not the kind of film you'd invite a male friend to join you for - not even a non-alpha male - unless he was a committed film buff, because of the movie's focus on the mother/daughter relationship and all the fraught baggage that goes with that.
You managed to injure me for life, just as you are injured.
Luckily, my relationship with my Mom is a lot more solid than that of the Swedes I was watching. And since the film was made in 1978, they were Swedes wearing a lot of wool (polyester made one appearance in a red maxi dress) while smoking unfiltered cigarettes. And in the kind of place where a person arrives after an extended drive, her back aching, and announces, "Let's go for a nice, long walk." Sturdy, outdoor people.
Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I wonder whether I've lived at all. Is it the same for everybody? Do some people have a greater talent for living than others, or do some people never live, but just exist?
When the movie ended, there was the sense of a collective exhale after all of us having sat through such painful, personal, up-close scenes of two women sharing everything that was wrong with their lives in desolate Norway.
I did the only logical thing: drove directly to 821 Cafe and downed a plate of black bean nachos while thanking my lucky stars that my lot in life doesn't in any way resemble an Ingmar Bergman movie.
One must learn to live. I practice every day.
Now there's a universal truth. Beats the hell out of existing, not that I needed the mighty Bergman to tell me that.
No, I'd never seen an Ingmar Bergman film, so, yes, I finally corrected that tonight so I can hold my head up in shared film geek conversations.
One of the few things I did know about the Swedish director's films was that they were known for a sense of claustrophobia. So naturally, I saw "Autumn Sonata" in a claustrophobic room at the Westover Hills Library.
There can be no forgiveness.
It was my first time at the International Film Fest the library is sponsoring, but not so the other attendees, all of whom had been there last week for "Tangerines" and been impressed enough to return this week, eager to experience Bergman's late career masterpiece.
It's disgraceful how lazy I've been of life.
The librarian who introduced the film explained that the library hadn't had any Bergman movies to show, so he'd used library funds to purchase some from the one approved source they had. So, if any of us wanted to check out Bergman with our library card, all we needed to do was let him know.
Frankly, if "Autumn Sonata" is any indication, I don't think they're the kind of films you need to watch at home by yourself, if you know what I mean.
You talk of my hatred. Your hatred was no less.
After the film ended with no clear resolution, the woman sitting at the end of my row agreed with me that it was also not the kind of film you'd invite a male friend to join you for - not even a non-alpha male - unless he was a committed film buff, because of the movie's focus on the mother/daughter relationship and all the fraught baggage that goes with that.
You managed to injure me for life, just as you are injured.
Luckily, my relationship with my Mom is a lot more solid than that of the Swedes I was watching. And since the film was made in 1978, they were Swedes wearing a lot of wool (polyester made one appearance in a red maxi dress) while smoking unfiltered cigarettes. And in the kind of place where a person arrives after an extended drive, her back aching, and announces, "Let's go for a nice, long walk." Sturdy, outdoor people.
Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I wonder whether I've lived at all. Is it the same for everybody? Do some people have a greater talent for living than others, or do some people never live, but just exist?
When the movie ended, there was the sense of a collective exhale after all of us having sat through such painful, personal, up-close scenes of two women sharing everything that was wrong with their lives in desolate Norway.
I did the only logical thing: drove directly to 821 Cafe and downed a plate of black bean nachos while thanking my lucky stars that my lot in life doesn't in any way resemble an Ingmar Bergman movie.
One must learn to live. I practice every day.
Now there's a universal truth. Beats the hell out of existing, not that I needed the mighty Bergman to tell me that.
Monday, October 2, 2017
Autumn Nocturne
Stop already with the non-stop praise for how glorious autumn is.
After three days of low humidity, highs in the 70s and lows in the 50s (tonight 46!) Richmond is acting like it's deep November.
I overheard a mailman yesterday talking on his phone as he worked his route and he was incredulous. "You wouldn't believe it here! It's sunny and 65 and they're walking around in hoodies and jackets," he told someone, implying that it was time to stop the madness.
Meanwhile, I'm still wearing a t-shirt and shorts and slathering on sunscreen before my daily walk. And I'm certainly still hot and sweaty when I finish, something that won't be the case come January (insert small sob for the fact that January is coming).
All the windows in my apartment have been lowered to quarter mast at night - depriving me of the sounds and breezes of the city - although I'm still able to raise them fully during the shank of the afternoon.
By late afternoon I was driving country roads to a farm for an interview, but also taking in the bucolic views as if I were just out joyriding in the sticks. All I needed was a piece of straw to chew on.
Yep, it's looking like fall out here alright.
Most interesting part of the farm was the horse cemetery, now over-planted with corn. I found it touching that farm animals have their own plot when it's time to go to that great barn beyond.
It was going on sunset by the time I returned to the city, a bit dustier but with lungs filled with county air. That meant that the temperature was also dropping quickly in that annoying way fall has. It's only October first and I'm already wearing leggings and a jean jacket, for crying out loud.
Dr. Faustus didn't sell his soul to the devil for knowledge, friends. Au contraire, he wanted endless summer.
Yes, yes, I know it's all relative. When I mentioned to my interviewee that summer should get a speeding ticket, she looked at me like I'd grown two heads. "Summer lasted forever!" she claimed. "I thought it would never end!"
If only it didn't have to. Now we're looking at heating bills and long nights and more clothing. Remind me again what's appealing about that?
With limited time before music, dinner needed to be quick and 821 Cafe not only fit the bill but cheered me up with my favorite black bean nachos at the same time. The place was quiet, in fact quieter than I've seen it in years and the TV screen was off, making for a relaxed yet cozy Sunday night vibe.
I'm devoted to 821 anyway, but I rarely get to experience it in such a low key atmosphere.
Classical Incarnations was at the Hof and already in progress when I found a seat in a room heavy on the middle age crowd and lighter on the millennials, the latter no doubt the target demo for classical music in a bar setting.
I've been going to Classical Incarnations since it began nearly 5 years ago, not every month, but often enough to appreciate small groups of classical musicians playing whatever the hell they choose to.
Like the magnificent Sonata for Flute and Piano by Otar Taktakishvili that drew spirited applause for its uniqueness and beauty. Or the rousing polka played by a brass quintet, the kind of thing suited for a German beer hall. The musicians invited the crowd to dance, but no one took them up on it.
On my way to the back at intermission, I was grabbed by a favorite couple I hadn't noticed was there. They claimed I was trying to avoid them (never!) when really I hadn't bothered looking around very hard while the music was playing.
They were just bringing me up to date when the Man About Town appeared and joined the conversation. Next thing you know, he's showing off his Ben Franklin profile and talking about why it's not worth working as a movie extra for a mere $50 a day.
A fellow Psychedelic Furs fan who'd spotted me last night (though I never laid eyes on him) made the point that they're always worth seeing, no matter the frequency. Clearly we both like frequency.
I heard about my friend's trip to the hospital after becoming dehydrated playing soccer and how his doctor had told him he was borderline obese. His wife seemed to think that he over-estimates his good health and was finally learning that he had no choice - no beer, no bread - but to start paying attention to it.
Translation: what a drag it is getting old.
But I tell you, it's not half the drag that is fall rolling in every year and harshing summer's mellow. Said no one ever, except for yours truly.
Fortunately, summer is a state of mind. Mine.
After three days of low humidity, highs in the 70s and lows in the 50s (tonight 46!) Richmond is acting like it's deep November.
I overheard a mailman yesterday talking on his phone as he worked his route and he was incredulous. "You wouldn't believe it here! It's sunny and 65 and they're walking around in hoodies and jackets," he told someone, implying that it was time to stop the madness.
Meanwhile, I'm still wearing a t-shirt and shorts and slathering on sunscreen before my daily walk. And I'm certainly still hot and sweaty when I finish, something that won't be the case come January (insert small sob for the fact that January is coming).
All the windows in my apartment have been lowered to quarter mast at night - depriving me of the sounds and breezes of the city - although I'm still able to raise them fully during the shank of the afternoon.
By late afternoon I was driving country roads to a farm for an interview, but also taking in the bucolic views as if I were just out joyriding in the sticks. All I needed was a piece of straw to chew on.
Yep, it's looking like fall out here alright.
Most interesting part of the farm was the horse cemetery, now over-planted with corn. I found it touching that farm animals have their own plot when it's time to go to that great barn beyond.
It was going on sunset by the time I returned to the city, a bit dustier but with lungs filled with county air. That meant that the temperature was also dropping quickly in that annoying way fall has. It's only October first and I'm already wearing leggings and a jean jacket, for crying out loud.
Dr. Faustus didn't sell his soul to the devil for knowledge, friends. Au contraire, he wanted endless summer.
Yes, yes, I know it's all relative. When I mentioned to my interviewee that summer should get a speeding ticket, she looked at me like I'd grown two heads. "Summer lasted forever!" she claimed. "I thought it would never end!"
If only it didn't have to. Now we're looking at heating bills and long nights and more clothing. Remind me again what's appealing about that?
With limited time before music, dinner needed to be quick and 821 Cafe not only fit the bill but cheered me up with my favorite black bean nachos at the same time. The place was quiet, in fact quieter than I've seen it in years and the TV screen was off, making for a relaxed yet cozy Sunday night vibe.
I'm devoted to 821 anyway, but I rarely get to experience it in such a low key atmosphere.
Classical Incarnations was at the Hof and already in progress when I found a seat in a room heavy on the middle age crowd and lighter on the millennials, the latter no doubt the target demo for classical music in a bar setting.
I've been going to Classical Incarnations since it began nearly 5 years ago, not every month, but often enough to appreciate small groups of classical musicians playing whatever the hell they choose to.
Like the magnificent Sonata for Flute and Piano by Otar Taktakishvili that drew spirited applause for its uniqueness and beauty. Or the rousing polka played by a brass quintet, the kind of thing suited for a German beer hall. The musicians invited the crowd to dance, but no one took them up on it.
On my way to the back at intermission, I was grabbed by a favorite couple I hadn't noticed was there. They claimed I was trying to avoid them (never!) when really I hadn't bothered looking around very hard while the music was playing.
They were just bringing me up to date when the Man About Town appeared and joined the conversation. Next thing you know, he's showing off his Ben Franklin profile and talking about why it's not worth working as a movie extra for a mere $50 a day.
A fellow Psychedelic Furs fan who'd spotted me last night (though I never laid eyes on him) made the point that they're always worth seeing, no matter the frequency. Clearly we both like frequency.
I heard about my friend's trip to the hospital after becoming dehydrated playing soccer and how his doctor had told him he was borderline obese. His wife seemed to think that he over-estimates his good health and was finally learning that he had no choice - no beer, no bread - but to start paying attention to it.
Translation: what a drag it is getting old.
But I tell you, it's not half the drag that is fall rolling in every year and harshing summer's mellow. Said no one ever, except for yours truly.
Fortunately, summer is a state of mind. Mine.
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Midnight Love and Cheap Cigarettes
And other tales from 36 hours with a Kiwi.
One minute I'm at a wine dinner with "my" people and next thing I know, I'm having breakfast for the second day in a row with someone I didn't know a day and a half ago.
Camden's wine dinner Thursday night featured the bounty of Hawke's Bay, New Zealand courtesy of Supernatural Wines and the invitation carried a clear warning, "These are pricey, high acid wines with as much character as the man who runs the company (the ladies will love him! the men will envy him!)."
It didn't take much to round up four wine-lovingsots friends to join me for the wine and wisdom of a stylish and soft spoken Kiwi.
His small production wines made for wonderful pairings from a chef who excels at playing food and wine matchmaker.
The "Supernatural" organic and bio-dynamic Sauvignion Blanc sang with oysters and pear slaw, "Spook Light, a skin-fermented Pinot Gris, made for a killer pairing with housemade Merguez, Kielbasa, Point Reye's Bleu and Manchego and finally, "Green Glow" skin-fermented Sauvignon Blanc was swoon-worthy with grilled swordfish over red wheatberry salad with dill butter sauce.
By the time the dinner was finished, I'd learned that our visitor had spent the day being ferried around by wine reps and was hoping to experience Richmond a tad more fully. Enter yours truly, with offers to show him some of the good stuff in his free time.
Turns out the appeal of a sunny tour guide negates any loose plans he might have been entertaining about getting right to work in the morning. For me, here's my chance to make a visitor love Richmond in record time.
My main challenge is that New Zealanders are unaccustomed to humidity and soon every square inch of his face and arms are covered in beads of sweat. I assure him he'll adjust but the crescent shaped sweat stains on the front of his shirt reappear periodically.
Two topics dominate our walk: architecture and trees. He's agog at the former because so much of New Zealand's is modern and not architect-designed and charmed by the second's lush feel.
We start at Perly's - but not too early because of how late the post-wine dinner salon had gone - because I sense he'll need a sturdy breakfast to overcome last night and stand up to what I have planned.
He immediately orders the Schnorrer, a platter laden with poached eggs, roast beef, his first potato latkes and rye toast, which I suggested he order since we were in a Jewish deli. I don't think I'm exaggerating to say he found the meal life-giving.
From there we walked to a nearby market so he could score cigarettes at which point, sated and with nicotine coursing through his veins, he decided to blow off work entirely. I led him directly to Steady Sounds where we both found some gems in a batch of used records recently arrived while he also picked up the new "Twin Peaks" soundtrack.
It was when I took my records to the counter to pay that I saw the familiar face of the owner as he was busy pricing even more fresh used arrivals. Glancing at my purchases - Janet Jackson, The Persuasions, Marvin Gaye - he inquires, "Karen, need any "Midnight Love?"
If my mind didn't live in the gutter, I might have responded with anything other than "always," but what he meant was Marvin's final studio album from 1982 and, yes, I needed it for $4.
By this point, the visitor had proven his mettle and quite happily accompanied me all over town.
After dropping off our purchases, I led him to the river through the gauntlet of RiverRock preparations, so he could experience the pipeline walkway, to the point that he was even game when I suggested we remove our shoes and wade through the last stretch still underwater.
Don't try this yourselves, kids, I am a pro.
Because other, lesser guides (aka wine reps) had raved about the T Pot Bridge to him, we lapped that, too, but I didn't sense he liked it better than the pipeline. Who would?
By the time I'd walked his Kiwi butt off, he was crying uncle for a seat inside and a glass of wine. I ensured both by landing at Saison Market where we indulged in New Zealand wine, (albeit not his, which was being stocked on the shelf as we watched), sipping glasses of Cambridge Road Vineyard's orange wine, the appealingly funky Cloud Walker.
And speaking of, the sky suddenly darkened and rain poured down on the hot streets out front for exactly two minutes while we drank, and then it was back to being a sunny day.
We slurped Wicomico oysters and a cheese plate at Camden's while discoursing on literature and indie book stores with the she-woman happy hour chef fan club. Then it was on to music and cocktails at Savory Grain, where Mikrowaves' horn section kept the vibe soulful and lead singer Eddie welcomed all the visitors from other countries in the audience (I may have mentioned my companion's provenance to him) with a smirk.
Of course there had to be another late night cigarette run, then GWARbar, which was his idea because he'd been taken there Wednesday night at 1:57 a.m. and wanted a fuller experience.
Leave it to me to make sure he had it with Espolon and warm pork rinds.
To the delight of both of us, one of the kitchen guys decided there had been quite enough metal playing at GWARbar for one Saturday evening and proceeded to go pop on us and I mean pop: Whitney Houston, Cyndi Lauper, Starship, Toto.
Kiwi even requested a classic - America's "Horse With No Name" - and was obliged within three songs. Claims he likes the beat, surely a rare compliment for such a mellow '70s band.
Naturally a former denizen of London is a fan of electronica and dance music.
Eating breakfast at the counter of 821 Cafe this morning to thrash music ("Not exactly your normal cafe music, hmm?" he observes drolly), I pointed out that we'd eaten an awful lot of meals together lately for people who'd been complete strangers as recently as Thursday afternoon.
"When are you coming to visit New Zealand?" he asks in between sips of a Bloody Mary made with Texas Beach Bloody mix, a reference I have to explain since I hadn't included Texas Beach on our stroll. Instagram photos naturally ensued.
Like the rye toast yesterday, the biscuit on his plate was completely my idea since he was unfamiliar with them and needed a lesson on southern eating. "It's kind of big, isn't it?" he wonders before I suggest adding butter.
A tour guide's work is never finished.
At least it doesn't end officially until you've walked your guest to get cigarettes yet again ("They're so cheap!" he marvels, always followed by an earnest, "I'm going to quit very soon")) and waited with him for his train to arrive - mind you, over an hour late - enjoying possibly the last conversation you may have with this person.
Neither love nor envy were on the table, but the 11th hour dynamic certainly made for compelling trackside diversion. How unlikely and ultimately enjoyable to spend such focused time with someone you're unlikely to see again.
It was a pleasure, in other words.
Let's just call it a fabulously accented kick-off to my impending birthday. Character reigned supreme.
One minute I'm at a wine dinner with "my" people and next thing I know, I'm having breakfast for the second day in a row with someone I didn't know a day and a half ago.
Camden's wine dinner Thursday night featured the bounty of Hawke's Bay, New Zealand courtesy of Supernatural Wines and the invitation carried a clear warning, "These are pricey, high acid wines with as much character as the man who runs the company (the ladies will love him! the men will envy him!)."
It didn't take much to round up four wine-loving
His small production wines made for wonderful pairings from a chef who excels at playing food and wine matchmaker.
The "Supernatural" organic and bio-dynamic Sauvignion Blanc sang with oysters and pear slaw, "Spook Light, a skin-fermented Pinot Gris, made for a killer pairing with housemade Merguez, Kielbasa, Point Reye's Bleu and Manchego and finally, "Green Glow" skin-fermented Sauvignon Blanc was swoon-worthy with grilled swordfish over red wheatberry salad with dill butter sauce.
By the time the dinner was finished, I'd learned that our visitor had spent the day being ferried around by wine reps and was hoping to experience Richmond a tad more fully. Enter yours truly, with offers to show him some of the good stuff in his free time.
Turns out the appeal of a sunny tour guide negates any loose plans he might have been entertaining about getting right to work in the morning. For me, here's my chance to make a visitor love Richmond in record time.
My main challenge is that New Zealanders are unaccustomed to humidity and soon every square inch of his face and arms are covered in beads of sweat. I assure him he'll adjust but the crescent shaped sweat stains on the front of his shirt reappear periodically.
Two topics dominate our walk: architecture and trees. He's agog at the former because so much of New Zealand's is modern and not architect-designed and charmed by the second's lush feel.
We start at Perly's - but not too early because of how late the post-wine dinner salon had gone - because I sense he'll need a sturdy breakfast to overcome last night and stand up to what I have planned.
He immediately orders the Schnorrer, a platter laden with poached eggs, roast beef, his first potato latkes and rye toast, which I suggested he order since we were in a Jewish deli. I don't think I'm exaggerating to say he found the meal life-giving.
From there we walked to a nearby market so he could score cigarettes at which point, sated and with nicotine coursing through his veins, he decided to blow off work entirely. I led him directly to Steady Sounds where we both found some gems in a batch of used records recently arrived while he also picked up the new "Twin Peaks" soundtrack.
It was when I took my records to the counter to pay that I saw the familiar face of the owner as he was busy pricing even more fresh used arrivals. Glancing at my purchases - Janet Jackson, The Persuasions, Marvin Gaye - he inquires, "Karen, need any "Midnight Love?"
If my mind didn't live in the gutter, I might have responded with anything other than "always," but what he meant was Marvin's final studio album from 1982 and, yes, I needed it for $4.
By this point, the visitor had proven his mettle and quite happily accompanied me all over town.
After dropping off our purchases, I led him to the river through the gauntlet of RiverRock preparations, so he could experience the pipeline walkway, to the point that he was even game when I suggested we remove our shoes and wade through the last stretch still underwater.
Don't try this yourselves, kids, I am a pro.
Because other, lesser guides (aka wine reps) had raved about the T Pot Bridge to him, we lapped that, too, but I didn't sense he liked it better than the pipeline. Who would?
By the time I'd walked his Kiwi butt off, he was crying uncle for a seat inside and a glass of wine. I ensured both by landing at Saison Market where we indulged in New Zealand wine, (albeit not his, which was being stocked on the shelf as we watched), sipping glasses of Cambridge Road Vineyard's orange wine, the appealingly funky Cloud Walker.
And speaking of, the sky suddenly darkened and rain poured down on the hot streets out front for exactly two minutes while we drank, and then it was back to being a sunny day.
We slurped Wicomico oysters and a cheese plate at Camden's while discoursing on literature and indie book stores with the she-woman happy hour chef fan club. Then it was on to music and cocktails at Savory Grain, where Mikrowaves' horn section kept the vibe soulful and lead singer Eddie welcomed all the visitors from other countries in the audience (I may have mentioned my companion's provenance to him) with a smirk.
Of course there had to be another late night cigarette run, then GWARbar, which was his idea because he'd been taken there Wednesday night at 1:57 a.m. and wanted a fuller experience.
Leave it to me to make sure he had it with Espolon and warm pork rinds.
To the delight of both of us, one of the kitchen guys decided there had been quite enough metal playing at GWARbar for one Saturday evening and proceeded to go pop on us and I mean pop: Whitney Houston, Cyndi Lauper, Starship, Toto.
Kiwi even requested a classic - America's "Horse With No Name" - and was obliged within three songs. Claims he likes the beat, surely a rare compliment for such a mellow '70s band.
Naturally a former denizen of London is a fan of electronica and dance music.
Eating breakfast at the counter of 821 Cafe this morning to thrash music ("Not exactly your normal cafe music, hmm?" he observes drolly), I pointed out that we'd eaten an awful lot of meals together lately for people who'd been complete strangers as recently as Thursday afternoon.
"When are you coming to visit New Zealand?" he asks in between sips of a Bloody Mary made with Texas Beach Bloody mix, a reference I have to explain since I hadn't included Texas Beach on our stroll. Instagram photos naturally ensued.
Like the rye toast yesterday, the biscuit on his plate was completely my idea since he was unfamiliar with them and needed a lesson on southern eating. "It's kind of big, isn't it?" he wonders before I suggest adding butter.
A tour guide's work is never finished.
At least it doesn't end officially until you've walked your guest to get cigarettes yet again ("They're so cheap!" he marvels, always followed by an earnest, "I'm going to quit very soon")) and waited with him for his train to arrive - mind you, over an hour late - enjoying possibly the last conversation you may have with this person.
Neither love nor envy were on the table, but the 11th hour dynamic certainly made for compelling trackside diversion. How unlikely and ultimately enjoyable to spend such focused time with someone you're unlikely to see again.
It was a pleasure, in other words.
Let's just call it a fabulously accented kick-off to my impending birthday. Character reigned supreme.
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
You're Hopeful or You're the Problem
Mainly I went to the Siegel Center because hope is power.
Tonight, as part of VCU's Common Book program, "Just Mercy" author Bryan Stevenson of the Equal Justice Initiative was in the house talking about increasing justice in our country. Mac and I walked over to join the hundreds of others who wanted to hear this lawyer who works with death row inmates talk about how we can possibly hope to create a post-race world.
This is a man who has made his life's work beating the drum of justice.
Along with scores of students, some busier looking at their phones and laptops than paying attention to Stevenson, there were plenty of adults like us interested in hearing from this man who's dedicated his life to working with marginalized populations.
The middle-aged woman sitting next to me could barely contain her excitement at hearing him speak. "He's like a rock star, a real rock star to me!" she gushed. I only wish the students - whom he characterized as "more woke" than our generation, although I have my doubts - who began drifting out midway through his talk had realized that.
Mac and I had picked up his book when we'd seen the film "Thirteenth" about that amendment and the subsequent institutionalization of mass incarceration - which included Stevenson as one of the savviest talking heads - and decided then that we needed to hear this man speak.
A big part of his appeal is that he's not all doom and gloom despite a vast knowledge of all the disturbing history that would justify such a stance so rather than focus on that history, he instead offered solutions the country and especially young people could use going forward.
He talked about the power of proximity and how necessary it is for white people to position themselves near communities and people in crisis. With passion he explained the need for changing narratives that sustain oppression, things like the existing narratives of death row, of childhood, of race.
Referring to the U.S. as a post-genocide society, he showed how our forefathers denigrated those they wanted to control, calling Native Americans "savages" (while keeping Indian names for rivers and settlements) and using the misplaced notion of white supremacy to justify slavery.
Pointing out that our culture has gotten "too celebratory about the Civil Rights movement," he spoke truth to power to the audience. "You shouldn't live in Richmond and not know where the slave auction sites were." I admit, I only know a couple, but I intend to change that.
Stay hopeful, he told us, because you can't change the world if you lose hope. Pessimists and pragmatists, take note. It's particularly important in a world where trucks still proudly wave the Confederate flag and it's still possible to see a bumper sticker - as Stevenson did - that reads, "If I'd known it was going to turn out like this, I'd have picked my own cotton."
His final advice was to be willing to do uncomfortable or inconvenient things, which is just another way of saying, "Lean in when it gets uncomfortable," advice far too many white people are unwilling to take because, as a species, we are instinctively attracted to what's comfortable and easy.
Race relations are neither.
After the Q & A, we picked up the Equal Justice Initiative's 2017 calendar, as much for its iconic photographs (both vintage and modern) as for its 365 days of racial injustice history dates, every single one of which is positively heartbreaking.
On my birthday, for example, in 1796, President George Washington offered a $10 reward for the return of Oney Judge, an enslaved black woman who fled after learning that Martha planned to give her away as a wedding present.
That's right, a First Lady using human beings as gifts. Lest people think that things got better with time, how about June 16, 1944 when a 90-pound 14-year old black boy is wrongly accused of rape and murder and electrocuted in South Carolina, becoming the youngest person executed in the 20th century? Our country's history is strewn with such mortifying facts.
Calendars in arms, we walked over to 821 Cafe, to discuss what we'd heard and share an order of black bean nachos. When our affable server spotted our calendars with their haunting black and white photographs, he wanted to know where we'd been and from whence the calendars had come, afterward acknowledging that he had some important reading and film-watching to do.
When he came back to clear the table and found the platter all but licked clean, he was suitably impressed. "Not too many people can finish the whole thing," he said with awe. Hell, Mac and her main squeeze had tried recently and hadn't been able to. "Good job!"
Technically, the "good job" accolades go to VCU for assigning a compelling common book and bringing the rock star author to Richmond to share his vision of a better future with Mac, me and the masses.
With racial inequity as with most other things, the two of us have no intention of being part of the problem.
Tonight, as part of VCU's Common Book program, "Just Mercy" author Bryan Stevenson of the Equal Justice Initiative was in the house talking about increasing justice in our country. Mac and I walked over to join the hundreds of others who wanted to hear this lawyer who works with death row inmates talk about how we can possibly hope to create a post-race world.
This is a man who has made his life's work beating the drum of justice.
Along with scores of students, some busier looking at their phones and laptops than paying attention to Stevenson, there were plenty of adults like us interested in hearing from this man who's dedicated his life to working with marginalized populations.
The middle-aged woman sitting next to me could barely contain her excitement at hearing him speak. "He's like a rock star, a real rock star to me!" she gushed. I only wish the students - whom he characterized as "more woke" than our generation, although I have my doubts - who began drifting out midway through his talk had realized that.
Mac and I had picked up his book when we'd seen the film "Thirteenth" about that amendment and the subsequent institutionalization of mass incarceration - which included Stevenson as one of the savviest talking heads - and decided then that we needed to hear this man speak.
A big part of his appeal is that he's not all doom and gloom despite a vast knowledge of all the disturbing history that would justify such a stance so rather than focus on that history, he instead offered solutions the country and especially young people could use going forward.
He talked about the power of proximity and how necessary it is for white people to position themselves near communities and people in crisis. With passion he explained the need for changing narratives that sustain oppression, things like the existing narratives of death row, of childhood, of race.
Referring to the U.S. as a post-genocide society, he showed how our forefathers denigrated those they wanted to control, calling Native Americans "savages" (while keeping Indian names for rivers and settlements) and using the misplaced notion of white supremacy to justify slavery.
Pointing out that our culture has gotten "too celebratory about the Civil Rights movement," he spoke truth to power to the audience. "You shouldn't live in Richmond and not know where the slave auction sites were." I admit, I only know a couple, but I intend to change that.
Stay hopeful, he told us, because you can't change the world if you lose hope. Pessimists and pragmatists, take note. It's particularly important in a world where trucks still proudly wave the Confederate flag and it's still possible to see a bumper sticker - as Stevenson did - that reads, "If I'd known it was going to turn out like this, I'd have picked my own cotton."
His final advice was to be willing to do uncomfortable or inconvenient things, which is just another way of saying, "Lean in when it gets uncomfortable," advice far too many white people are unwilling to take because, as a species, we are instinctively attracted to what's comfortable and easy.
Race relations are neither.
After the Q & A, we picked up the Equal Justice Initiative's 2017 calendar, as much for its iconic photographs (both vintage and modern) as for its 365 days of racial injustice history dates, every single one of which is positively heartbreaking.
On my birthday, for example, in 1796, President George Washington offered a $10 reward for the return of Oney Judge, an enslaved black woman who fled after learning that Martha planned to give her away as a wedding present.
That's right, a First Lady using human beings as gifts. Lest people think that things got better with time, how about June 16, 1944 when a 90-pound 14-year old black boy is wrongly accused of rape and murder and electrocuted in South Carolina, becoming the youngest person executed in the 20th century? Our country's history is strewn with such mortifying facts.
Calendars in arms, we walked over to 821 Cafe, to discuss what we'd heard and share an order of black bean nachos. When our affable server spotted our calendars with their haunting black and white photographs, he wanted to know where we'd been and from whence the calendars had come, afterward acknowledging that he had some important reading and film-watching to do.
When he came back to clear the table and found the platter all but licked clean, he was suitably impressed. "Not too many people can finish the whole thing," he said with awe. Hell, Mac and her main squeeze had tried recently and hadn't been able to. "Good job!"
Technically, the "good job" accolades go to VCU for assigning a compelling common book and bringing the rock star author to Richmond to share his vision of a better future with Mac, me and the masses.
With racial inequity as with most other things, the two of us have no intention of being part of the problem.
Friday, March 10, 2017
Feed Your Head, Warm Your Hands
It requires a friend of at least 7 years to know my hot buttons.
Perhaps that's how long it takes to know which compliments are going to resonate most with me. Refer to my lifestyle as bohemian? Thank you for noticing. Speak well of long, graceful fingers? I'm gobsmacked. Mention the dimples? Bonus points.
But walk into my living room - not for the first time - and declare that it looks like a salon, well, now I'm eating out of your hand. The fact that he's part of a group holding salon-like events only adds to my pleasure in the comment.
Among stacks of books written by and about women that I've pulled out for rearranging, he points to a copy of "Truevine," asking how I liked it and making a case for how it might have been better accomplished as a work of fiction (agreed).
Seems he went to school with the author back when neither was certain they'd write the books they wanted to. Now they both know better.
Because it was such a beautiful evening, we began with a walk over to 821 Cafe for the sole purpose of introducing him to my favorite black bean nachos and catching up after nearly a month. With the students away for spring break, it was like walking through a ghost town and even 821 seemed like a shadow of its normal state with so few tables and stools occupied.
An ideal place, in other words, to linger over a platter of well-layered nachos and talk about the novelty of simple food, community building through restaurants and the really big news that there's been interest in his book.
Rapid and enthusiastic interest, possibly the best kind.
Stuffed and in need of a walk, we made it as far as Saison Market's patio, understandably hopping with today's warmth tempered by Sunday's forecast of snow, where I amused my visitor with stories of dumb things his people have said to me.
It was somewhere after a story about the western hemisphere that he decided what we needed was some steps to sit on, the better to enjoy the Richmond air and notable citywide quiet.
Conveniently, my house has some and we took up residence there, first on the wide wooden steps of the house and then on the narrower brick steps leading to my door. Every time even a hint of breeze would lift a stem of the rose bush, the scent of hyacinths wafted up to perfume the air.
It's for that reason alone that I plant them.
People walked down the sidewalk a few feet away without even noticing us sitting in the shadows. Mainly, it was only my laughter that gave us away (my grandmother used to remind me that people could hear me a mile away) and got us a wave or two.
The shame was that he had to drive back tonight - the bohemian was not able to convince the smart mouth to stay for an LSD experience - so we called it quits after five hours of constant conversation, comparing memories and all around fast processing, just the way we like it.
With no one to talk to, I need something to talk about, so I made my way to the Bijou for the late screening of "Sunshine Makers," a documentary about two chemists making 750 million doses of "orange sunshine" LSD in the '60s as part of their plan to turn the world on with acid and raise everyone's consciousness.
Turn on, tune in and drop out, preferably rapidly and enthusiastically.
No one could say they didn't have lofty goals trying to change the world through psychedelics. Check that, Ronald Reagan was shown circa the late '60s excoriating LSD makers and users, but what else is new?
What was even more surprising was that these guys had an established distribution network in the form of a commune-turned-hippie-mafia called the Brotherhood of Eternal Love. The footage shown looked like every happy, hippie commune I've ever seen, full of long hairs, granny dresses and barely-clad children. Not a bra in sight.
Equally fascinating were the interviews with the women who not only dropped acid with them but assisted with their drug-making operations. To a person, they rhapsodized about the mind-expanding qualities of the LSD experience and the noble goals of trying to make LSD therapy available to the masses.
Now in old age, one of the women is again the girlfriend of one of the sunshine makers, although she makes it clear that, "We're partners and lovers, but not under the same roof."
Proof positive that LSD doesn't fry your brain. Speaking of, seems to met a little space doesn't hurt a good friendship much at all.
Perhaps that's how long it takes to know which compliments are going to resonate most with me. Refer to my lifestyle as bohemian? Thank you for noticing. Speak well of long, graceful fingers? I'm gobsmacked. Mention the dimples? Bonus points.
But walk into my living room - not for the first time - and declare that it looks like a salon, well, now I'm eating out of your hand. The fact that he's part of a group holding salon-like events only adds to my pleasure in the comment.
Among stacks of books written by and about women that I've pulled out for rearranging, he points to a copy of "Truevine," asking how I liked it and making a case for how it might have been better accomplished as a work of fiction (agreed).
Seems he went to school with the author back when neither was certain they'd write the books they wanted to. Now they both know better.
Because it was such a beautiful evening, we began with a walk over to 821 Cafe for the sole purpose of introducing him to my favorite black bean nachos and catching up after nearly a month. With the students away for spring break, it was like walking through a ghost town and even 821 seemed like a shadow of its normal state with so few tables and stools occupied.
An ideal place, in other words, to linger over a platter of well-layered nachos and talk about the novelty of simple food, community building through restaurants and the really big news that there's been interest in his book.
Rapid and enthusiastic interest, possibly the best kind.
Stuffed and in need of a walk, we made it as far as Saison Market's patio, understandably hopping with today's warmth tempered by Sunday's forecast of snow, where I amused my visitor with stories of dumb things his people have said to me.
It was somewhere after a story about the western hemisphere that he decided what we needed was some steps to sit on, the better to enjoy the Richmond air and notable citywide quiet.
Conveniently, my house has some and we took up residence there, first on the wide wooden steps of the house and then on the narrower brick steps leading to my door. Every time even a hint of breeze would lift a stem of the rose bush, the scent of hyacinths wafted up to perfume the air.
It's for that reason alone that I plant them.
People walked down the sidewalk a few feet away without even noticing us sitting in the shadows. Mainly, it was only my laughter that gave us away (my grandmother used to remind me that people could hear me a mile away) and got us a wave or two.
The shame was that he had to drive back tonight - the bohemian was not able to convince the smart mouth to stay for an LSD experience - so we called it quits after five hours of constant conversation, comparing memories and all around fast processing, just the way we like it.
With no one to talk to, I need something to talk about, so I made my way to the Bijou for the late screening of "Sunshine Makers," a documentary about two chemists making 750 million doses of "orange sunshine" LSD in the '60s as part of their plan to turn the world on with acid and raise everyone's consciousness.
Turn on, tune in and drop out, preferably rapidly and enthusiastically.
No one could say they didn't have lofty goals trying to change the world through psychedelics. Check that, Ronald Reagan was shown circa the late '60s excoriating LSD makers and users, but what else is new?
What was even more surprising was that these guys had an established distribution network in the form of a commune-turned-hippie-mafia called the Brotherhood of Eternal Love. The footage shown looked like every happy, hippie commune I've ever seen, full of long hairs, granny dresses and barely-clad children. Not a bra in sight.
Equally fascinating were the interviews with the women who not only dropped acid with them but assisted with their drug-making operations. To a person, they rhapsodized about the mind-expanding qualities of the LSD experience and the noble goals of trying to make LSD therapy available to the masses.
Now in old age, one of the women is again the girlfriend of one of the sunshine makers, although she makes it clear that, "We're partners and lovers, but not under the same roof."
Proof positive that LSD doesn't fry your brain. Speaking of, seems to met a little space doesn't hurt a good friendship much at all.
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Taking Some Air
My reputation as a heathen precedes me.
After inviting Mac to join me for some Fat Tuesday revelry, she mentioned her plans to her Mom on the phone, being sure to tell her that it was the most religious inclination she'd seen in me in our nearly two years of friendship.
My Catholic upbringing has nothing to do with it. It's all about dressing gaudy by layering on pattern, purple, green and orange (tonight while blasting Sergio Mendez and Brazil '66), eating pancakes and hearing a brass band.
We walked over to 821 Cafe for brinner (their word, not mine) and our adorable server - cut-offs, midriff and enormous red plaid flannel shirt - thanked us for reminding her it was Fat Tuesday since she'd forgotten.
Debating whether or not to share an order of buttermilk pancakes, when pressed, I had to admit that I could eat way more than half an order.
So it was that we shared an order of bacon, I got basic buttermilk pancakes, dousing half in syrup and half in strawberry jam as is my family's habit, and Mac got Union cakes, essentially the same pancakes except hers were mounded with berries, bananas and chocolate chips.
Deciding that it was an ideal evening for Espolon with pancakes, I ordered some, only to hear that they were out and that it was our server's favorite tequila, too. Seems it's what she always orders when she gets off her shift, which makes me suspect it was her fault they were out.
And I was right about the pancakes, I could devour far more than half a plate, yet I was still the recipient of pancake shaming. Mac ate exactly half her order and asked for a box, while I worked my plate down to nearly gone, yet guess who got the comments?
"Really, you can't finish that?" the server asked incredulously. "That's like four bites!" The problem was I'd been too full to eat the previous four bites, so I certainly didn't need anymore now. Convinced I'd want them later, she insisted on bringing me a box, too.
Leftovers in hand, we walked to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque which was tonight showing "Black Girl" from 1966, the first film made by a black director on the African continent and focusing on colonialism (the French in Senegal), religion, education and a host of social activism-motivated themes.
The professor giving the pre-film talk prattled on about depictions of women and race, but also casually slid into her rambling that the main character commits suicide, a fact we were both furious to be told in advance. I don't even read movie summaries because I want the story to unfold for me with no prior information.
We'll call her a spoilsport.
Because it had sub-titles, we had to put up with simplistic translations like, "I'm going for a walk" when the character actually said, "I'm going to take some air," a far more lyrical way to say the same thing. But overall, the film was a fascinating look at an unfairly tilted colonial situation, replete with mid-century modern furniture, frosted lipstick and entitled white people.
It was while we were watching the film that the skies opened up and we heard rain beating so hard on the theater's roof that it competed with the soundtrack. No dummies, we'd both brought umbrellas for just such an eventuality.
The rain had lessened but not stopped when "Black Girl" ended, so we stayed for the Q & A despite wanting to tell the prof she'd spoiled the movie for us. Stepping outside, puddles were everywhere but nothing was officially falling.
We got as far as Broad Street when a guy asked for money for food and Mac inquired if he liked pancakes. When I turned around to check, he was devouring hers as we rounded the corner to Belvidere. That's a good egg, giving up her leftover breakfast like that.
She was also stoked about heading out for a brass band, saying, "You always know how to show a girl a good time!" I pride myself on it, actually.
Our final stop was the Gypsy Room because Illegal States was playing, albeit not for another hour. We made ourselves at home at the bar next to some of the musicians getting their dinner on beforehand, several wearing Mardi Gras beads.
When the bartender asked what we'd like, I told him to slide the absinthe drip our way because tonight was going to be Mac's first absinthe drip. She'd told me recently that she wanted to try the green fairy and there's no time like the present, especially on a night devoted to one last indulgence before sacrifice season sets in tomorrow.
It's not like I don't know this stuff, it's just I have no use for practicing any of it, well, except tonight.
Once our drips were cloudy and the green fairy in attendance, we turned our attentions to nearby strangers. Her first score was a Puerto Rican drummer playing with the band tonight, while mine was a Belgian woman who just last week sold the Fan house she'd owned for decades and moved to a cottage in Goochland.
One guy arrived with a sequined silver mask on. Another had on an '80s sweater worthy of (dare I?) Cliff Huxtable. A lawyer came in and asked for a tall bourbon and ginger. "Tall or double?" the barkeep inquired. "Tall, but that's a good question to ask, especially on Fat Tuesday!" True that.
A bearded guy showed up bemoaning the abundance of what he called neo-Christian teenagers lined up next door at the National (not exactly how I'd have described them given the number of girls in fishnets and booty shorts), only to be told it was an Excision show - dubstep, in other words.
"You mean dumbstep?" he cracked. "No, thanks."
Turns out the Belgian was the mother of one of the band's drummers and she told me that her son had no idea she was coming tonight. When a young man walked up, he didn't look surprised in the least to see his Maman, and she couldn't figure out how he knew she'd be there.
"Call it a hunch," he grinned. Leaning into the bar, he said he wanted a Hurricane. "Hey, it's Fat Tuesday," he shrugged. The bartender had already told me he'd stopped by Lady N'Awlins on his way to work in order to score a Hurricane and some of the crawfish boil they were serving up.
The drummer Mac had been talking to had warned us that the Belgian's son's drumming was going to make things loud and when I shared that with him, he looked pleased as punch. "Wait, was he saying that was a good or bad thing?" he wondered aloud.
"No, that's cool," he concluded.
One of the band's trumpet player's came over to order a drink and I couldn't resist commenting on his magnificent sweater of white elephants on a black background, curious about where one acquires such a unique garment.
"Actually, Forever 21's men's section," he admitted softly, as if it were a secret. "They have some hidden gems there."
Finally, it seemed, the 10-piece Illegal Sates - 2 trombones, sax, 2 trumpets, tuba and 4 drummers/percussionists - got started and the sound of horns and rhythm filled the low-ceilinged room in an appropriately Mardi Gras manner.
The Belgian's son had his cowbell clipped to the side of the drum hanging from a strap around his neck. These guys weren't fooling around and girls were soon dancing with abandon in front of the band, while some of us kept our dancing on our bar stools.
"I like the WASP-y guy with his eyes closed," Mac whispered about a guy standing near us and so totally grooving to the music that he seemed oblivious to the rest of us.
When the band paused between songs, the Belgian looked at me and said, "We need a samba!" Considering she had an in with the band, I told her to tell them, not me.
It was easy to get lost in the band's energetic sound and never more so than when the horns stood to the side and let the drummers and percussionists steal the show playing off each other for an extended period.
Things got so heated that one guy called out from the crowd, "Is my girlfriend on fire?"
We didn't see any girls in flames, but she could have been radiating a heat others couldn't see. No question about it, these guys were tight on a night devoted to getting loose.
That's cool. And may Lent begin now that good times have put another Fat Tuesday in the bead-bedecked rear-view mirror.
After inviting Mac to join me for some Fat Tuesday revelry, she mentioned her plans to her Mom on the phone, being sure to tell her that it was the most religious inclination she'd seen in me in our nearly two years of friendship.
My Catholic upbringing has nothing to do with it. It's all about dressing gaudy by layering on pattern, purple, green and orange (tonight while blasting Sergio Mendez and Brazil '66), eating pancakes and hearing a brass band.
We walked over to 821 Cafe for brinner (their word, not mine) and our adorable server - cut-offs, midriff and enormous red plaid flannel shirt - thanked us for reminding her it was Fat Tuesday since she'd forgotten.
Debating whether or not to share an order of buttermilk pancakes, when pressed, I had to admit that I could eat way more than half an order.
So it was that we shared an order of bacon, I got basic buttermilk pancakes, dousing half in syrup and half in strawberry jam as is my family's habit, and Mac got Union cakes, essentially the same pancakes except hers were mounded with berries, bananas and chocolate chips.
Deciding that it was an ideal evening for Espolon with pancakes, I ordered some, only to hear that they were out and that it was our server's favorite tequila, too. Seems it's what she always orders when she gets off her shift, which makes me suspect it was her fault they were out.
And I was right about the pancakes, I could devour far more than half a plate, yet I was still the recipient of pancake shaming. Mac ate exactly half her order and asked for a box, while I worked my plate down to nearly gone, yet guess who got the comments?
"Really, you can't finish that?" the server asked incredulously. "That's like four bites!" The problem was I'd been too full to eat the previous four bites, so I certainly didn't need anymore now. Convinced I'd want them later, she insisted on bringing me a box, too.
Leftovers in hand, we walked to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque which was tonight showing "Black Girl" from 1966, the first film made by a black director on the African continent and focusing on colonialism (the French in Senegal), religion, education and a host of social activism-motivated themes.
The professor giving the pre-film talk prattled on about depictions of women and race, but also casually slid into her rambling that the main character commits suicide, a fact we were both furious to be told in advance. I don't even read movie summaries because I want the story to unfold for me with no prior information.
We'll call her a spoilsport.
Because it had sub-titles, we had to put up with simplistic translations like, "I'm going for a walk" when the character actually said, "I'm going to take some air," a far more lyrical way to say the same thing. But overall, the film was a fascinating look at an unfairly tilted colonial situation, replete with mid-century modern furniture, frosted lipstick and entitled white people.
It was while we were watching the film that the skies opened up and we heard rain beating so hard on the theater's roof that it competed with the soundtrack. No dummies, we'd both brought umbrellas for just such an eventuality.
The rain had lessened but not stopped when "Black Girl" ended, so we stayed for the Q & A despite wanting to tell the prof she'd spoiled the movie for us. Stepping outside, puddles were everywhere but nothing was officially falling.
We got as far as Broad Street when a guy asked for money for food and Mac inquired if he liked pancakes. When I turned around to check, he was devouring hers as we rounded the corner to Belvidere. That's a good egg, giving up her leftover breakfast like that.
She was also stoked about heading out for a brass band, saying, "You always know how to show a girl a good time!" I pride myself on it, actually.
Our final stop was the Gypsy Room because Illegal States was playing, albeit not for another hour. We made ourselves at home at the bar next to some of the musicians getting their dinner on beforehand, several wearing Mardi Gras beads.
When the bartender asked what we'd like, I told him to slide the absinthe drip our way because tonight was going to be Mac's first absinthe drip. She'd told me recently that she wanted to try the green fairy and there's no time like the present, especially on a night devoted to one last indulgence before sacrifice season sets in tomorrow.
It's not like I don't know this stuff, it's just I have no use for practicing any of it, well, except tonight.
Once our drips were cloudy and the green fairy in attendance, we turned our attentions to nearby strangers. Her first score was a Puerto Rican drummer playing with the band tonight, while mine was a Belgian woman who just last week sold the Fan house she'd owned for decades and moved to a cottage in Goochland.
One guy arrived with a sequined silver mask on. Another had on an '80s sweater worthy of (dare I?) Cliff Huxtable. A lawyer came in and asked for a tall bourbon and ginger. "Tall or double?" the barkeep inquired. "Tall, but that's a good question to ask, especially on Fat Tuesday!" True that.
A bearded guy showed up bemoaning the abundance of what he called neo-Christian teenagers lined up next door at the National (not exactly how I'd have described them given the number of girls in fishnets and booty shorts), only to be told it was an Excision show - dubstep, in other words.
"You mean dumbstep?" he cracked. "No, thanks."
Turns out the Belgian was the mother of one of the band's drummers and she told me that her son had no idea she was coming tonight. When a young man walked up, he didn't look surprised in the least to see his Maman, and she couldn't figure out how he knew she'd be there.
"Call it a hunch," he grinned. Leaning into the bar, he said he wanted a Hurricane. "Hey, it's Fat Tuesday," he shrugged. The bartender had already told me he'd stopped by Lady N'Awlins on his way to work in order to score a Hurricane and some of the crawfish boil they were serving up.
The drummer Mac had been talking to had warned us that the Belgian's son's drumming was going to make things loud and when I shared that with him, he looked pleased as punch. "Wait, was he saying that was a good or bad thing?" he wondered aloud.
"No, that's cool," he concluded.
One of the band's trumpet player's came over to order a drink and I couldn't resist commenting on his magnificent sweater of white elephants on a black background, curious about where one acquires such a unique garment.
"Actually, Forever 21's men's section," he admitted softly, as if it were a secret. "They have some hidden gems there."
Finally, it seemed, the 10-piece Illegal Sates - 2 trombones, sax, 2 trumpets, tuba and 4 drummers/percussionists - got started and the sound of horns and rhythm filled the low-ceilinged room in an appropriately Mardi Gras manner.
The Belgian's son had his cowbell clipped to the side of the drum hanging from a strap around his neck. These guys weren't fooling around and girls were soon dancing with abandon in front of the band, while some of us kept our dancing on our bar stools.
"I like the WASP-y guy with his eyes closed," Mac whispered about a guy standing near us and so totally grooving to the music that he seemed oblivious to the rest of us.
When the band paused between songs, the Belgian looked at me and said, "We need a samba!" Considering she had an in with the band, I told her to tell them, not me.
It was easy to get lost in the band's energetic sound and never more so than when the horns stood to the side and let the drummers and percussionists steal the show playing off each other for an extended period.
Things got so heated that one guy called out from the crowd, "Is my girlfriend on fire?"
We didn't see any girls in flames, but she could have been radiating a heat others couldn't see. No question about it, these guys were tight on a night devoted to getting loose.
That's cool. And may Lent begin now that good times have put another Fat Tuesday in the bead-bedecked rear-view mirror.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
A Bright, Guilty World
I'm just documenting my reality for posterity. Think Anne Frank's middle-aged diary.
I. Work
A. Rode shotgun in a Subaru with a broken seatbelt alongside a peddler of intoxicants as he earned a living.
1. Repeated tastings of Bold Rock citrus cider
2. Too much lunch at Joe's Inn
3. Lots of music talk, mainly around new versus old
4. Pegged for a non-beer drinker by a complete stranger
II. Movement
A. After a day in cars and bars, a 68-degree afternoon beckoned and I followed the sun to the river
B. Coming back from the T Pot, met two guys with a drone, excitedly setting out to take their first river photos.
1. In the churning river, they saw a muddy mess. I saw a roiling root beer float
2. So much more debris, even than yesterday, being tossed around in the water
III. Culture
A. Cinema for Cinephiles screening of Orson Welles' "The Lady from Shanghai" at the Byrd
1. First time seeing it since actually being in San Francisco
2. Unlike studio heads, loved Rita Hayworth's hair cut short and dyed platinum. So. Euro-looking
B. Welles' well-written humor throughout
1. "Personally, I don't like a girlfriend to have a husband."
2. Her: "Now he knows about us." Him: "I wish I did."
3. "The only way to stay out of trouble is to grow old, so I guess I'll concentrate on that."
IV. Sustenance
A. Became the final two customers at 821 Cafe on $3 margarita night for post-film discussion
1. Black bean nachos, espresso chocolate cake
2. Conclusion: Welles wasn't fond of women and racial stereotyping is SOP
3. Music the typical 821 thrash, but skewing slightly sludge metal
B. Made another convert to my favorite black bean nachos
C. Musical conclusion: Babs beat Madge to the reinvention/control freak punch
V. Processing the new normal aka reading the daily news
A. Rogue accounts created by concerned employees to prevent dissemination of alternative facts by this madman-in-chief
1. National Park Service
2. NASA
B. The Powers That Lie sign an executive order aimed at reviving the Dakota pipeline
The only way to stay sane is to tell the truth about what's happening, so I guess I'll concentrate on that.
I. Work
A. Rode shotgun in a Subaru with a broken seatbelt alongside a peddler of intoxicants as he earned a living.
1. Repeated tastings of Bold Rock citrus cider
2. Too much lunch at Joe's Inn
3. Lots of music talk, mainly around new versus old
4. Pegged for a non-beer drinker by a complete stranger
II. Movement
A. After a day in cars and bars, a 68-degree afternoon beckoned and I followed the sun to the river
B. Coming back from the T Pot, met two guys with a drone, excitedly setting out to take their first river photos.
1. In the churning river, they saw a muddy mess. I saw a roiling root beer float
2. So much more debris, even than yesterday, being tossed around in the water
III. Culture
A. Cinema for Cinephiles screening of Orson Welles' "The Lady from Shanghai" at the Byrd
1. First time seeing it since actually being in San Francisco
2. Unlike studio heads, loved Rita Hayworth's hair cut short and dyed platinum. So. Euro-looking
B. Welles' well-written humor throughout
1. "Personally, I don't like a girlfriend to have a husband."
2. Her: "Now he knows about us." Him: "I wish I did."
3. "The only way to stay out of trouble is to grow old, so I guess I'll concentrate on that."
IV. Sustenance
A. Became the final two customers at 821 Cafe on $3 margarita night for post-film discussion
1. Black bean nachos, espresso chocolate cake
2. Conclusion: Welles wasn't fond of women and racial stereotyping is SOP
3. Music the typical 821 thrash, but skewing slightly sludge metal
B. Made another convert to my favorite black bean nachos
C. Musical conclusion: Babs beat Madge to the reinvention/control freak punch
V. Processing the new normal aka reading the daily news
A. Rogue accounts created by concerned employees to prevent dissemination of alternative facts by this madman-in-chief
1. National Park Service
2. NASA
B. The Powers That Lie sign an executive order aimed at reviving the Dakota pipeline
The only way to stay sane is to tell the truth about what's happening, so I guess I'll concentrate on that.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
Scarf-less and Stubborn
When I no longer thrill to the first snow of the season, I'll know I'm growing old. ~ Lady Bird Johnson
Amen, Lady Bird, nowhere near there yet.
Just last evening, Mac and I had agreed that there's nothing quite like a snow forecast that brings on the sleepy excitement of waking up in the middle of the night to peer outside and see the white stuff coming down steadily, knowing you'll wake up to a winter wonderland.
Taking my anticipation to heart, I woke up twice during the night and went directly to the living room window - the one that overlooks a street light, the better to gauge how thickly the snow was falling - before padding back to bed for an 11-hour night.
What? Snow is also the ideal time to catch up on sleep.
Good morning. It's beautiful outside and the conditions are challenging, but I'm up for a walk if you'd like to get out.
Would I! After yesterday's paltry two miles, I'd have certainly gotten out by myself, but here was conversational company offered up by the weather gods. Count me in.
First, though, I had to call Mr. Cosby with whom I'd scheduled an interview at his house today for a story. He sounded relieved when I canceled.
"Ever since they started talking about this snow, I was worried about you driving over here," the elderly man said. "They're telling people to stay in and don't drive, young lady!"
Well, that was easy.
Walking along Broad Street, I got behind a woman walking a massive St. Bernard and the words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. "Shouldn't that dog have a wooden cask around his neck in this weather?"
When she turned around laughing, we realized we knew each other. Turns out she is fostering the 160-pound dog whose owner moved away and couldn't take him. "He loves this weather," she gushed. "He's going to want to stay out all day in this!"
Which, I would think, is exactly the reason that she should consider having a cask - we discussed whether it should be bourbon or brandy, although we know each other from a wine bar - so that she's got motivation to stay out as long as the well-insulated dog wants to.
Or maybe that's just me.
Going down the hill on Fifth Street toward the river, I asked of the sole walker coming up how difficult the incline had been to navigate. "I'm not gonna lie, it was hard!" he tells me and the color of his face attests to it.
Even going down had its challenges since the angle encouraged a far faster rate of movement than the slick and uneven surface warranted.
Still, I like to think that I am somewhat of a walking pro, or, at the very least, I've had enough experience to be out when the talking heads are warning humankind to hunker down and stay in. The best part was I had a willing partner in crime to do it with, so we set out from Brown's Island to explore.
Using my experience rationale (and knowing we couldn't access it from Brown's Island because the river was so high), I led him down the canal walk with the explicit intention of introducing him to the pipeline walkway.
On the snow-covered sign explaining the pipeline, someone had drawn a smiley face to greet us. It was obvious that others had preceded us earlier on the steps down, but sufficiently long ago that the footprints had already been covered over.
Still, it was pioneer enough for me.
As many times as I've walked the pipeline in every season and every weather condition, I'd never seen it look quite as charming. Lines of snow at each seam in the walkway made it look like a white railroad track going off into the horizon, while drifts covered all the little islands and land masses on either side.
I'd just been on the pipeline Thursday, but the river was even fiercer today, rushing especially high on either side as we navigated the normally uneven and now snow-covered and uneven pipeline itself. I already knew we wouldn't be able to make it to the end, but even so I was taken by how far along the pipeline the river had risen since Thursday - probably another six or eight feet.
It wasn't the first time I walked the pipeline only to turn around and retrace my steps and I doubt it'll be the last, but for the pipeline virgin, he really couldn't have asked for a more splendid introduction to my favorite walk.
From there, we meandered towards the Low Line before making a U-turn and heading west on Cary Street with a clear goal: interior warmth. Someone (I'm not going to mention any names) had neglected to wear a scarf and his face was freezing off.
Meanwhile, Little Miss 2 tanks tops, 2 long sleeved shirts, wool pullover, fleece tights and jeans, 2 scarves and gloves was just fine for a change.
Trudging uphill, he commented on the incongruity of footprint-covered sidewalks despite infrequent sightings of other walkers. By far, the highest concentration was a clutch coming out of Triple Crossing Brewing en masse, although for all we know, it was because they were closing early.
Dramatic enough to spark discussion, every detail of the landscape had a beauty worth noting (and completely photograph-worthy), whether it was polka dots of snow captured at the base of a fluted black column or snow-covered branches set against brick walls.
Walking into horizontally-blowing snow, we both knew we could get to 821 Cafe only to find it closed, so we kept Lift in mind for a fallback since they'd been open when I walked by earlier. I'll admit I was thrilled when we got to 821 to find them not only open but almost completely full.
But not for long, so we'd inadvertently managed to time it perfectly. I was even enamored by today's musical bag, which skewed heavily '70s - dare I say disco-like?- instead of the usual harder-edged thrash.
In the spirit of a snow day, they were going through a lot of Texas Beach Bloody Mary mix today.
My favorite long-time server came over to greet us and I couldn't resist asking if she hated people like us who felt the need to venture out in a blizzard, thus ensuring she had to work in this mess.
"A little bit, yea," she said wincing, but grinning. "No, no, you're fine, but we're closing the kitchen in an hour. Besides, I already know your order." Half order, black bean nachos, Boom.
Some would feel shame about being so predictable, but I'm not one of them. The problem was, my friend was new to 821 and hadn't a clue what he wanted off the large, laminated menu.
To buy time, I asked for Espolon on ice, causing her to smile ruefully and share some of her own memories from the old Sprout days that involved drinking Espolon from the bottle in the back room while playing baseball with a band's new record that she and her fellow workers deemed dreadful.
As many times as I ate or heard music at Sprout, I can't say I saw any ball games there. But the funny part was when she asked about my friend's drink order, inquiring if he was "going down the same path" as me. Oh, the innuendo.
Negative. His need was for hot tea, the better to compensate for his scarf-less state and resulting frigid hands. I can honestly say that for the first time in memory, my hands registered as warmer than my companion's and I'm talking male or female.
It was a mighty proud moment for me.
Things warmed up when he said that he was happy to share a full order of nachos with me, 'though when she dropped them off, he observed dryly, "We probably could have shared the half order."
We tucked into them as the dining room began to empty out and the kitchen started closing down. Wiping down a table nearby, our server looked over and nodded approvingly, saying, "It's really nice you finally found a nachos partner."
Tell me about it. Black bean nacho-eating conversational walkers aren't exactly a dime a dozen, you know.
Needles to say, we polished off every last bean of that full order (puh-leeze!) while he battled with himself about whether to drive in this weather to keep his plans tonight or whether to cancel and hunker down to enjoy the snow from a cozy perch at home.
Unlike me, he didn't have a Mr. Cosby to wag a metaphorical finger at him and tell him not to drive.
Only once we were the sole occupants of 821 did we suit up and head out into the horizontal blizzard, or at least for a half a mile or so before we parted ways so he could go his way and I could go mine.
I know, I know, that sounds like a classic R & B lyric (see: Billy Paul's stellar "Me and Mrs. Jones"), which may have to do with how I decided to spend my house confinement since getting back. Right now, it's the dulcet tones of Teddy Pendergrass of Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes.
Next up, the Chi-Lites "You Got Me Walkin."
It was beautiful outside, the conditions were challenging yet I don't know that I could have enjoyed 6+ miles on a snowy afternoon more.
I'm not gonna lie, it was easy.
Amen, Lady Bird, nowhere near there yet.
Just last evening, Mac and I had agreed that there's nothing quite like a snow forecast that brings on the sleepy excitement of waking up in the middle of the night to peer outside and see the white stuff coming down steadily, knowing you'll wake up to a winter wonderland.
Taking my anticipation to heart, I woke up twice during the night and went directly to the living room window - the one that overlooks a street light, the better to gauge how thickly the snow was falling - before padding back to bed for an 11-hour night.
What? Snow is also the ideal time to catch up on sleep.
Good morning. It's beautiful outside and the conditions are challenging, but I'm up for a walk if you'd like to get out.
Would I! After yesterday's paltry two miles, I'd have certainly gotten out by myself, but here was conversational company offered up by the weather gods. Count me in.
First, though, I had to call Mr. Cosby with whom I'd scheduled an interview at his house today for a story. He sounded relieved when I canceled.
"Ever since they started talking about this snow, I was worried about you driving over here," the elderly man said. "They're telling people to stay in and don't drive, young lady!"
Well, that was easy.
Walking along Broad Street, I got behind a woman walking a massive St. Bernard and the words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. "Shouldn't that dog have a wooden cask around his neck in this weather?"
When she turned around laughing, we realized we knew each other. Turns out she is fostering the 160-pound dog whose owner moved away and couldn't take him. "He loves this weather," she gushed. "He's going to want to stay out all day in this!"
Which, I would think, is exactly the reason that she should consider having a cask - we discussed whether it should be bourbon or brandy, although we know each other from a wine bar - so that she's got motivation to stay out as long as the well-insulated dog wants to.
Or maybe that's just me.
Going down the hill on Fifth Street toward the river, I asked of the sole walker coming up how difficult the incline had been to navigate. "I'm not gonna lie, it was hard!" he tells me and the color of his face attests to it.
Even going down had its challenges since the angle encouraged a far faster rate of movement than the slick and uneven surface warranted.
Still, I like to think that I am somewhat of a walking pro, or, at the very least, I've had enough experience to be out when the talking heads are warning humankind to hunker down and stay in. The best part was I had a willing partner in crime to do it with, so we set out from Brown's Island to explore.
Using my experience rationale (and knowing we couldn't access it from Brown's Island because the river was so high), I led him down the canal walk with the explicit intention of introducing him to the pipeline walkway.
On the snow-covered sign explaining the pipeline, someone had drawn a smiley face to greet us. It was obvious that others had preceded us earlier on the steps down, but sufficiently long ago that the footprints had already been covered over.
Still, it was pioneer enough for me.
As many times as I've walked the pipeline in every season and every weather condition, I'd never seen it look quite as charming. Lines of snow at each seam in the walkway made it look like a white railroad track going off into the horizon, while drifts covered all the little islands and land masses on either side.
I'd just been on the pipeline Thursday, but the river was even fiercer today, rushing especially high on either side as we navigated the normally uneven and now snow-covered and uneven pipeline itself. I already knew we wouldn't be able to make it to the end, but even so I was taken by how far along the pipeline the river had risen since Thursday - probably another six or eight feet.
It wasn't the first time I walked the pipeline only to turn around and retrace my steps and I doubt it'll be the last, but for the pipeline virgin, he really couldn't have asked for a more splendid introduction to my favorite walk.
From there, we meandered towards the Low Line before making a U-turn and heading west on Cary Street with a clear goal: interior warmth. Someone (I'm not going to mention any names) had neglected to wear a scarf and his face was freezing off.
Meanwhile, Little Miss 2 tanks tops, 2 long sleeved shirts, wool pullover, fleece tights and jeans, 2 scarves and gloves was just fine for a change.
Trudging uphill, he commented on the incongruity of footprint-covered sidewalks despite infrequent sightings of other walkers. By far, the highest concentration was a clutch coming out of Triple Crossing Brewing en masse, although for all we know, it was because they were closing early.
Dramatic enough to spark discussion, every detail of the landscape had a beauty worth noting (and completely photograph-worthy), whether it was polka dots of snow captured at the base of a fluted black column or snow-covered branches set against brick walls.
Walking into horizontally-blowing snow, we both knew we could get to 821 Cafe only to find it closed, so we kept Lift in mind for a fallback since they'd been open when I walked by earlier. I'll admit I was thrilled when we got to 821 to find them not only open but almost completely full.
But not for long, so we'd inadvertently managed to time it perfectly. I was even enamored by today's musical bag, which skewed heavily '70s - dare I say disco-like?- instead of the usual harder-edged thrash.
In the spirit of a snow day, they were going through a lot of Texas Beach Bloody Mary mix today.
My favorite long-time server came over to greet us and I couldn't resist asking if she hated people like us who felt the need to venture out in a blizzard, thus ensuring she had to work in this mess.
"A little bit, yea," she said wincing, but grinning. "No, no, you're fine, but we're closing the kitchen in an hour. Besides, I already know your order." Half order, black bean nachos, Boom.
Some would feel shame about being so predictable, but I'm not one of them. The problem was, my friend was new to 821 and hadn't a clue what he wanted off the large, laminated menu.
To buy time, I asked for Espolon on ice, causing her to smile ruefully and share some of her own memories from the old Sprout days that involved drinking Espolon from the bottle in the back room while playing baseball with a band's new record that she and her fellow workers deemed dreadful.
As many times as I ate or heard music at Sprout, I can't say I saw any ball games there. But the funny part was when she asked about my friend's drink order, inquiring if he was "going down the same path" as me. Oh, the innuendo.
Negative. His need was for hot tea, the better to compensate for his scarf-less state and resulting frigid hands. I can honestly say that for the first time in memory, my hands registered as warmer than my companion's and I'm talking male or female.
It was a mighty proud moment for me.
Things warmed up when he said that he was happy to share a full order of nachos with me, 'though when she dropped them off, he observed dryly, "We probably could have shared the half order."
We tucked into them as the dining room began to empty out and the kitchen started closing down. Wiping down a table nearby, our server looked over and nodded approvingly, saying, "It's really nice you finally found a nachos partner."
Tell me about it. Black bean nacho-eating conversational walkers aren't exactly a dime a dozen, you know.
Needles to say, we polished off every last bean of that full order (puh-leeze!) while he battled with himself about whether to drive in this weather to keep his plans tonight or whether to cancel and hunker down to enjoy the snow from a cozy perch at home.
Unlike me, he didn't have a Mr. Cosby to wag a metaphorical finger at him and tell him not to drive.
Only once we were the sole occupants of 821 did we suit up and head out into the horizontal blizzard, or at least for a half a mile or so before we parted ways so he could go his way and I could go mine.
I know, I know, that sounds like a classic R & B lyric (see: Billy Paul's stellar "Me and Mrs. Jones"), which may have to do with how I decided to spend my house confinement since getting back. Right now, it's the dulcet tones of Teddy Pendergrass of Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes.
Next up, the Chi-Lites "You Got Me Walkin."
It was beautiful outside, the conditions were challenging yet I don't know that I could have enjoyed 6+ miles on a snowy afternoon more.
I'm not gonna lie, it was easy.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
Trouble Finds Me
It's seasonal change time for new people in my life.
Ye gads, I don't mean I switch out friends when Fall inches toward Winter, I mean that people - those new in my life who've yet to know me through cold weather - haven't yet learned to be prepared.
Translation: always dress appropriately for possible hoofing. My date had proper layers on, but decided against bringing his scarf, a move he later regretted on leg three of our evening.
They live and learn or fall by the wayside. I believe that's called survival of the fittest.
After dealing with especially dense traffic traversing the city from Carytown to chez moi (I could empathize after a recent 23-minute trip from Chop Suey home at rush hour), he was more than happy to put foot to pavement en route to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque.
Along the way, he was providing an impromptu history lesson about the area, from clubs I'd never heard of to Grace Place, which I had, as well as a hilarious explanation of why he hadn't frequented the Lee Art Theatre for its porn programming.
It's always a lighter than usual crowd at VCU's screening before Thanksgiving and tonight was no different for the 76-minute "River of Grass," director Kelly Reichardt's first film and recently restored to its glorious 1994 brilliance.
Who knew films needed shoring up after only two decades?
The reigning visiting Prof introduced the movie by reading what would have been a fairly compelling paper on Reichardt and the development of her films, but came across as flat yet inquisitive when read aloud because each sentence ended with his voice going up so it sounded like a question.
It's a film that deals with later wave feminist issues?
It's far from a perfect film?
This is a getaway film in the style of Bonnie and Clyde?
Well, it is or it isn't? For god's sake, man, mean what you say and stop sounding so damn tentative.
Two unhappy people - the kind of young mother who puts Coke in her baby's bottle and a n'er-do-well who's finally kicked out of Grandma's house at age 30 - meet in Florida, think they killed someone and take off in his car.
Looking very much like an old school movie, it also delivered a smack upside the head about the role of Fate in our lives, but always with a wink and a sly nod.
There was narration that didn't always match the action ("He told me to stay home while he was on his crime spree," as he goes through his grandmother's underwear drawer). Languid pacing that appealed to seasoned audience members but only a millennial film student could stand. Jazz music and a character who practices that kind of drumming throughout the story.
It's love on the run seen through a post-Coen brothers lens, not to mention wearing its '90s indie heart on its sleeve. Dreadful things happen that seem very funny in the moment. Lotsa deadpan reactions.
Not to be missed is the marvel of watching our lovers smoke a joint by passing it to each other using only their toes. I would doubt this scenario more if I hadn't once been able to open a man's wallet and remove a credit card from it using only my toes.
But enough of that...
After a thoroughly satisfying 76 minutes of sun-drenched Florida seediness, characters born to hopelessness and an ending emphasizing the inevitability of Life, some bracing cold air was just what we needed.
That we had to walk a half a mile to eat may have resulted in a tad more bracing than He Who Shuns Scarves required, but so be it. Inside 821 Cafe, there was a heater practically with my name on it positioned right next to the booth in the front window, so the decision was made.
Our server was new to me, so she was unaware of my standing order, but when the bearded guy delivered my black bean nachos, he nodded, saying, "Oh, of course" when he recognized me. The 821 virgin called his choice of a grilled cheese with turkey and a side of chili a "sick day lunch," but he didn't wolf it down like he was ailing, if you know what I mean.
Besides, sick days always involved ginger ale at my house.
Walking back, I teased him that he'd shown up at my door with a record so I'd invite him up to show off my new (old) turntable again, but he insisted his motives were purer than that. Did I mention his decided sense of humor?
Still, he didn't hesitate to accept my invitation upstairs for a listening party that included his gift: a double album, the National's 2013 "Trouble Will Find Me," and my first vinyl of theirs. Even four sides in, Matt Berninger's voice never sounded so warm.
Just the thing on a cold night involving traipsing all over with a fair weather friend who seems motivated to get the hang of Winter with a walker.
And who, like me, is already counting the days to Winter Solstice. In the meantime, there will be scarves.
Ye gads, I don't mean I switch out friends when Fall inches toward Winter, I mean that people - those new in my life who've yet to know me through cold weather - haven't yet learned to be prepared.
Translation: always dress appropriately for possible hoofing. My date had proper layers on, but decided against bringing his scarf, a move he later regretted on leg three of our evening.
They live and learn or fall by the wayside. I believe that's called survival of the fittest.
After dealing with especially dense traffic traversing the city from Carytown to chez moi (I could empathize after a recent 23-minute trip from Chop Suey home at rush hour), he was more than happy to put foot to pavement en route to the Grace Street Theater for VCU Cinematheque.
Along the way, he was providing an impromptu history lesson about the area, from clubs I'd never heard of to Grace Place, which I had, as well as a hilarious explanation of why he hadn't frequented the Lee Art Theatre for its porn programming.
It's always a lighter than usual crowd at VCU's screening before Thanksgiving and tonight was no different for the 76-minute "River of Grass," director Kelly Reichardt's first film and recently restored to its glorious 1994 brilliance.
Who knew films needed shoring up after only two decades?
The reigning visiting Prof introduced the movie by reading what would have been a fairly compelling paper on Reichardt and the development of her films, but came across as flat yet inquisitive when read aloud because each sentence ended with his voice going up so it sounded like a question.
It's a film that deals with later wave feminist issues?
It's far from a perfect film?
This is a getaway film in the style of Bonnie and Clyde?
Well, it is or it isn't? For god's sake, man, mean what you say and stop sounding so damn tentative.
Two unhappy people - the kind of young mother who puts Coke in her baby's bottle and a n'er-do-well who's finally kicked out of Grandma's house at age 30 - meet in Florida, think they killed someone and take off in his car.
Looking very much like an old school movie, it also delivered a smack upside the head about the role of Fate in our lives, but always with a wink and a sly nod.
There was narration that didn't always match the action ("He told me to stay home while he was on his crime spree," as he goes through his grandmother's underwear drawer). Languid pacing that appealed to seasoned audience members but only a millennial film student could stand. Jazz music and a character who practices that kind of drumming throughout the story.
It's love on the run seen through a post-Coen brothers lens, not to mention wearing its '90s indie heart on its sleeve. Dreadful things happen that seem very funny in the moment. Lotsa deadpan reactions.
Not to be missed is the marvel of watching our lovers smoke a joint by passing it to each other using only their toes. I would doubt this scenario more if I hadn't once been able to open a man's wallet and remove a credit card from it using only my toes.
But enough of that...
After a thoroughly satisfying 76 minutes of sun-drenched Florida seediness, characters born to hopelessness and an ending emphasizing the inevitability of Life, some bracing cold air was just what we needed.
That we had to walk a half a mile to eat may have resulted in a tad more bracing than He Who Shuns Scarves required, but so be it. Inside 821 Cafe, there was a heater practically with my name on it positioned right next to the booth in the front window, so the decision was made.
Our server was new to me, so she was unaware of my standing order, but when the bearded guy delivered my black bean nachos, he nodded, saying, "Oh, of course" when he recognized me. The 821 virgin called his choice of a grilled cheese with turkey and a side of chili a "sick day lunch," but he didn't wolf it down like he was ailing, if you know what I mean.
Besides, sick days always involved ginger ale at my house.
Walking back, I teased him that he'd shown up at my door with a record so I'd invite him up to show off my new (old) turntable again, but he insisted his motives were purer than that. Did I mention his decided sense of humor?
Still, he didn't hesitate to accept my invitation upstairs for a listening party that included his gift: a double album, the National's 2013 "Trouble Will Find Me," and my first vinyl of theirs. Even four sides in, Matt Berninger's voice never sounded so warm.
Just the thing on a cold night involving traipsing all over with a fair weather friend who seems motivated to get the hang of Winter with a walker.
And who, like me, is already counting the days to Winter Solstice. In the meantime, there will be scarves.
Sunday, October 2, 2016
The Camera Loves You
Maybe it's just me, but the day after a 10-hour party, an early evening is in order.
That it was also bittersweet, musical and full of friends was icing on the cake.
After a solo dinner at 821 Cafe eating black beans nachos and listening to thrash, I landed at Balliceaux in time to nab a front row seat for the screening of the new documentary, "Goodbye Garbers."
My expectation was that I'd see lots of familiar faces, which I did, including more than a few who also showed up in the film, making for lively conversations about punk glasses, post-punk, the seedy Safeway on Grace Street and the value of cover bands in the overall musical scheme of things.
Just promise me there'll never be a Dexy's Midnight Runners cover band, please.
And, oh, did we digress. What is up with millennials who, when asked what music they're listening to currently, always seem to respond in the distant past (shoegaze? Pink Floyd? Stones? what the hell?) instead of with bands who are their contemporaries?
Inquiring minds want to know.
Introducing the documentary was musician and first-time filmmaker Allison Apperson, who'd backed into the project when musician friend Kelly Queener suggested they make a video about the closing of the Garbers building in the Bottom, the premiere practice space for scores of local bands over several decades.
Allison was the logical choice since she not only had editing experience, but had even named her band after the renowned practice space. Only problem was, Kelly had said "video" and Allison heard "documentary" and the latter was what we were about to see.
For me, what was cool about the film was seeing footage of bands playing in the practice spaces subdivided into the 65,000 square foot Garbers Garage Door Company building. Kelly had begun as a painter there and only later picked up a guitar as an alternate means of creative self-expression.
A woman named Colleen actually lived there, making art and expressing gratitude to owner Carl Otto for allowing her residency (as well as props to anyone born in 1957 like she was).
Carl appeared onscreen several times, explaining how he'd inherited the space from his father-in-law and saw no reason not to rent out the unused parts of the building to musicians, calling it "the best security system" to have people coming and going from the building night and day.
Because of course bands are not going to practice much during the staid 9-5 worker bee time frame.
While I knew that Garber's was a practice space, before tonight, I'd had no idea of just how many bands had made music there.
The first had been Fat Elvis starting in 1986 - the year I came to Richmond - plus a long-time residency by salsa kings Bio Ritmo and lots more, including White Laces, Manzara, the Ar-Kaics, Diamond Center, Hot Dolphin and Snowy Owls.
All bands I'd seen more than once. Even the documentary's musical talking heads were people I knew. Several said the same thing, that you could hear the evolution of other bands' albums there. That musicians fed off the energy of each other. How terrific the sound was in the building.
Best of all, Carl referred to his young tenants as making an enjoyable noise, at least right up until the end of June when he closed the building in anticipation of selling it. To be fair, the man is going on 80.
Everyone I talked to afterwards was gobsmacked at what a fabulous job Allison had done on the film, which in no way came across as a first effort. Clearly, the Garbers building attracted people of multiple talents.
Even better, her sense of humor resulted in a caption labeling guitarist, DJ and all-around music geek Paul Ivey as "angry musician," a joke he didn't even notice during tonight's screening, while some of us howled.
Perhaps his new Brian Wilson tour t-shirt had him in a blissfully zen state where he didn't notice such silliness.
After the screening, Kelly's band, Peace Beast, took the stage to deliver the kind of live music that used to percolate at the Garbers building. Their brand of dreamy psych pop with two female vocalists was the ideal way to feel the magic of the Garbers scene that is no more.
From here on out, it'll just be the stuff of legend, although the documentary probably ought to be required viewing for up and coming young Richmond musicians looking for inspiration.
Even the so-called angry ones.
That it was also bittersweet, musical and full of friends was icing on the cake.
After a solo dinner at 821 Cafe eating black beans nachos and listening to thrash, I landed at Balliceaux in time to nab a front row seat for the screening of the new documentary, "Goodbye Garbers."
My expectation was that I'd see lots of familiar faces, which I did, including more than a few who also showed up in the film, making for lively conversations about punk glasses, post-punk, the seedy Safeway on Grace Street and the value of cover bands in the overall musical scheme of things.
Just promise me there'll never be a Dexy's Midnight Runners cover band, please.
And, oh, did we digress. What is up with millennials who, when asked what music they're listening to currently, always seem to respond in the distant past (shoegaze? Pink Floyd? Stones? what the hell?) instead of with bands who are their contemporaries?
Inquiring minds want to know.
Introducing the documentary was musician and first-time filmmaker Allison Apperson, who'd backed into the project when musician friend Kelly Queener suggested they make a video about the closing of the Garbers building in the Bottom, the premiere practice space for scores of local bands over several decades.
Allison was the logical choice since she not only had editing experience, but had even named her band after the renowned practice space. Only problem was, Kelly had said "video" and Allison heard "documentary" and the latter was what we were about to see.
For me, what was cool about the film was seeing footage of bands playing in the practice spaces subdivided into the 65,000 square foot Garbers Garage Door Company building. Kelly had begun as a painter there and only later picked up a guitar as an alternate means of creative self-expression.
A woman named Colleen actually lived there, making art and expressing gratitude to owner Carl Otto for allowing her residency (as well as props to anyone born in 1957 like she was).
Carl appeared onscreen several times, explaining how he'd inherited the space from his father-in-law and saw no reason not to rent out the unused parts of the building to musicians, calling it "the best security system" to have people coming and going from the building night and day.
Because of course bands are not going to practice much during the staid 9-5 worker bee time frame.
While I knew that Garber's was a practice space, before tonight, I'd had no idea of just how many bands had made music there.
The first had been Fat Elvis starting in 1986 - the year I came to Richmond - plus a long-time residency by salsa kings Bio Ritmo and lots more, including White Laces, Manzara, the Ar-Kaics, Diamond Center, Hot Dolphin and Snowy Owls.
All bands I'd seen more than once. Even the documentary's musical talking heads were people I knew. Several said the same thing, that you could hear the evolution of other bands' albums there. That musicians fed off the energy of each other. How terrific the sound was in the building.
Best of all, Carl referred to his young tenants as making an enjoyable noise, at least right up until the end of June when he closed the building in anticipation of selling it. To be fair, the man is going on 80.
Everyone I talked to afterwards was gobsmacked at what a fabulous job Allison had done on the film, which in no way came across as a first effort. Clearly, the Garbers building attracted people of multiple talents.
Even better, her sense of humor resulted in a caption labeling guitarist, DJ and all-around music geek Paul Ivey as "angry musician," a joke he didn't even notice during tonight's screening, while some of us howled.
Perhaps his new Brian Wilson tour t-shirt had him in a blissfully zen state where he didn't notice such silliness.
After the screening, Kelly's band, Peace Beast, took the stage to deliver the kind of live music that used to percolate at the Garbers building. Their brand of dreamy psych pop with two female vocalists was the ideal way to feel the magic of the Garbers scene that is no more.
From here on out, it'll just be the stuff of legend, although the documentary probably ought to be required viewing for up and coming young Richmond musicians looking for inspiration.
Even the so-called angry ones.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Up on the Roof
Okay, so I dipped my toe back into the birthday pond.
But in my own defense, it was way back on April 28 that the three of us had made these plans: celebrate my birthday by checking out Quirk's new rooftop bar.
We couldn't have known then that it would rain for the next four weeks and once the sun reappeared, there'd be a mass rush to the roof, resulting in a line to get in.
Waiting did give us the opportunity to catch up, which had been the original starting point for this evening anyway, while also doing a preliminary check of the people in line.
Is it wrong of me to say that the crowd looked like they were there for the selfies? How about they looked like they didn't live in the city and couldn't parallel park?
So, yes, there was some judging going on, but my friends hadn't even been to the inside bar much less the long-delayed rooftop dazzler, so we were committed to the experience.
Upstairs, we somehow scored three bar stools at the pastel-striped bar, mostly under the canopy, in record time.
Now, getting a drink was a different story. That took every bit of 20 minutes (water took closer to 30) and that's probably being kind. When a woman behind me finally got the bartender's attention, she ordered a double rather than risk another marathon wait.
Just so you know, she was ordering a vodka and Red Bull. 'Nuff said.
I was just glad our stool backs protected us from the encroaching newcomers desperate to get a cocktail (we marveled at the sheer size of the bottle of bitters) or glass of Rose (bottles of which Quirk must empty in record time) now that they'd made it to the promised land.
While I could talk about the crowd (dubbed "douchey" more than once, but noticeably more diverse than many bars) and overheard inanities (tardy orthodontist visits for the kid and essential chiropractor appointments for Mom), it was really the view that made it worthwhile to have made it up there.
Someone had told me that the building was one of the tallest in the area, a fact which was apparent as we moved around the crowded spaces to ogle landmarks and the neighborhood's fairly dense tree cover. The minarets of the Altria (nee Mosque), the Belgian Building at VUU and Ebenezer Baptist Church were all readily apparent but my house was completely invisible beneath the intense green canopy of trees.
Broad Street never looked so good, unfurling between stretches of treetops like a soft black ribbon, looking unhurried, almost empty and extending as far as the eye could see.
It was strange to look down on the Emrick Flats' roof patio (because I'd been on it) but also a kick to be almost eye level with the towers of the nearby Renaissance Building. And the timing of seeing a brilliant red sunset sinking into a building we couldn't identify made it feel like we'd intentionally come for the sky show.
The three of us continued to marvel at not knowing a single person (in the words of Butch Cassidy, "Who are those guys?") while checking out the herb gardens planted in metal washtubs, the lower, less-crowded deck and the non-stop hustle of the enormous staff in flowered shirts.
Given Quirk's proximity to my house, I'll look forward to the day that it's not the top new destination in the city and the "in" crowd moves on to the latest and greatest while I continue to admire the 'hood from above.
But eventually the girls and I need sustenance, resulting in a visit to a surprisingly hopping 821 Cafe where I walk in, a server hugs me and guesses that I'm there for black bean nachos. There are benefits to being a creature of habit, I suppose.
She directs us to the bar for fastest seating ("And you can look at how cute Garth is!") and once we've ordered (two usuals, one surprise), we begin the nit-picking process of choosing which roof photos taken by the youngest in our trio are acceptable to all.
Translation: which have posting potential.
Laugh if you want, but I know this process well. With five sisters, we know to take a minimum of three dozen photos of the six of us to have any hope of producing one that flatters us all.
Far easier tonight when we only need to placate three women's egos and two of them are under 40.
For the record, there were at least half a dozen that captured us splendidly and plenty more that I'd have been fine with, but I also know that one advantage of age is acceptance.
That was apparent when we touched on the subject of plastic surgery (Blythe Danner's excellent face work launched the conversation), with both of them saying that when the time comes, they won't hesitate to have it done if they can afford it.
That's one palliative I haven't been able to get on board with, but really, how surprising is that given my other eccentricities?
If I'm going to earn each of these birthdays with daily experiences and marathon celebrations, I should have the happy face to prove it, right?
"At least you're still hot," my friend opines when I crack wise about my age.
Girlfriends, the best sort of free therapy.
But in my own defense, it was way back on April 28 that the three of us had made these plans: celebrate my birthday by checking out Quirk's new rooftop bar.
We couldn't have known then that it would rain for the next four weeks and once the sun reappeared, there'd be a mass rush to the roof, resulting in a line to get in.
Waiting did give us the opportunity to catch up, which had been the original starting point for this evening anyway, while also doing a preliminary check of the people in line.
Is it wrong of me to say that the crowd looked like they were there for the selfies? How about they looked like they didn't live in the city and couldn't parallel park?
So, yes, there was some judging going on, but my friends hadn't even been to the inside bar much less the long-delayed rooftop dazzler, so we were committed to the experience.
Upstairs, we somehow scored three bar stools at the pastel-striped bar, mostly under the canopy, in record time.
Now, getting a drink was a different story. That took every bit of 20 minutes (water took closer to 30) and that's probably being kind. When a woman behind me finally got the bartender's attention, she ordered a double rather than risk another marathon wait.
Just so you know, she was ordering a vodka and Red Bull. 'Nuff said.
I was just glad our stool backs protected us from the encroaching newcomers desperate to get a cocktail (we marveled at the sheer size of the bottle of bitters) or glass of Rose (bottles of which Quirk must empty in record time) now that they'd made it to the promised land.
While I could talk about the crowd (dubbed "douchey" more than once, but noticeably more diverse than many bars) and overheard inanities (tardy orthodontist visits for the kid and essential chiropractor appointments for Mom), it was really the view that made it worthwhile to have made it up there.
Someone had told me that the building was one of the tallest in the area, a fact which was apparent as we moved around the crowded spaces to ogle landmarks and the neighborhood's fairly dense tree cover. The minarets of the Altria (nee Mosque), the Belgian Building at VUU and Ebenezer Baptist Church were all readily apparent but my house was completely invisible beneath the intense green canopy of trees.
Broad Street never looked so good, unfurling between stretches of treetops like a soft black ribbon, looking unhurried, almost empty and extending as far as the eye could see.
It was strange to look down on the Emrick Flats' roof patio (because I'd been on it) but also a kick to be almost eye level with the towers of the nearby Renaissance Building. And the timing of seeing a brilliant red sunset sinking into a building we couldn't identify made it feel like we'd intentionally come for the sky show.
The three of us continued to marvel at not knowing a single person (in the words of Butch Cassidy, "Who are those guys?") while checking out the herb gardens planted in metal washtubs, the lower, less-crowded deck and the non-stop hustle of the enormous staff in flowered shirts.
Given Quirk's proximity to my house, I'll look forward to the day that it's not the top new destination in the city and the "in" crowd moves on to the latest and greatest while I continue to admire the 'hood from above.
But eventually the girls and I need sustenance, resulting in a visit to a surprisingly hopping 821 Cafe where I walk in, a server hugs me and guesses that I'm there for black bean nachos. There are benefits to being a creature of habit, I suppose.
She directs us to the bar for fastest seating ("And you can look at how cute Garth is!") and once we've ordered (two usuals, one surprise), we begin the nit-picking process of choosing which roof photos taken by the youngest in our trio are acceptable to all.
Translation: which have posting potential.
Laugh if you want, but I know this process well. With five sisters, we know to take a minimum of three dozen photos of the six of us to have any hope of producing one that flatters us all.
Far easier tonight when we only need to placate three women's egos and two of them are under 40.
For the record, there were at least half a dozen that captured us splendidly and plenty more that I'd have been fine with, but I also know that one advantage of age is acceptance.
That was apparent when we touched on the subject of plastic surgery (Blythe Danner's excellent face work launched the conversation), with both of them saying that when the time comes, they won't hesitate to have it done if they can afford it.
That's one palliative I haven't been able to get on board with, but really, how surprising is that given my other eccentricities?
If I'm going to earn each of these birthdays with daily experiences and marathon celebrations, I should have the happy face to prove it, right?
"At least you're still hot," my friend opines when I crack wise about my age.
Girlfriends, the best sort of free therapy.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
To Dote or Not to Dote, That is the Question
Dote (verb): to bestow or express excessive love or fondness habitually
Only in my family could we spend a good chunk of a pre-Mother's Day luncheon discussing who dotes and who doesn't, not to mention what constitutes doting.
The subject arose because Sister #5 doesn't care for her daughter's beau, openly stating such despite the fact that he dotes on her.
When Dad tells us that we should all be so lucky as to have a man who dotes on us the way he dotes on Mom, it opens the door to doting discussion.
"So whose husband does dote?" Sister #2 asks of the table.
Sister #6 quickly clarifies that her husband does not and has never doted, despite a long and successful marriage. We all agree that Sister #3's husband dotes unabashedly, but even Sister #4 herself isn't entirely certain if her husband qualifies.
Someone cracks that neither Sister #2 nor Sister #5's husbands dote, but both take issue with this, bringing up meal-making and housecleaning as examples of doting.
Wait, aren't those just examples of shared responsibilities?
Discussion is tabled when housemade ice cream - limoncello, peach, chocolate - arrives, but then Sister #6 remembers a critical point.
"None of us has ever doted," she reminds us. It's true and whether that's a failing or not is up for debate, as is practically everything in this family.
Fortunately, the day ends with a friend who not only wants to hear all about the sister round table, but is willing to knead the family-inflicted tension out of my shoulders after I share it at 821 Cafe over black bean nachos.
I reward him with an evening at Firehouse Theatre seeing "Maple and Vine," a play about an overly stressed couple who abandon focaccia, cell phones and Google for life in a gated community that recreates life in 1955.
Women are pretty and persuasive but men wear the pants in the family, crab puffs and charades constitute a party with neighbors and wives attend Authenticity Committee meetings to ensure they are living properly buttoned up and politically incorrect Eisenhower-era lives.
Their lives are no longer information-saturated, over-scheduled or diverse, so they are more present in their own lives now, even if their roles in it are more strictly circumscribed. But are they happier?
What it comes down to, of course, is how each person defines happy.
Happy (adjective): feeling pleasure and enjoyment because of your life or situation
Now there's another concept ripe for discussion.
Only in my family could we spend a good chunk of a pre-Mother's Day luncheon discussing who dotes and who doesn't, not to mention what constitutes doting.
The subject arose because Sister #5 doesn't care for her daughter's beau, openly stating such despite the fact that he dotes on her.
When Dad tells us that we should all be so lucky as to have a man who dotes on us the way he dotes on Mom, it opens the door to doting discussion.
"So whose husband does dote?" Sister #2 asks of the table.
Sister #6 quickly clarifies that her husband does not and has never doted, despite a long and successful marriage. We all agree that Sister #3's husband dotes unabashedly, but even Sister #4 herself isn't entirely certain if her husband qualifies.
Someone cracks that neither Sister #2 nor Sister #5's husbands dote, but both take issue with this, bringing up meal-making and housecleaning as examples of doting.
Wait, aren't those just examples of shared responsibilities?
Discussion is tabled when housemade ice cream - limoncello, peach, chocolate - arrives, but then Sister #6 remembers a critical point.
"None of us has ever doted," she reminds us. It's true and whether that's a failing or not is up for debate, as is practically everything in this family.
Fortunately, the day ends with a friend who not only wants to hear all about the sister round table, but is willing to knead the family-inflicted tension out of my shoulders after I share it at 821 Cafe over black bean nachos.
I reward him with an evening at Firehouse Theatre seeing "Maple and Vine," a play about an overly stressed couple who abandon focaccia, cell phones and Google for life in a gated community that recreates life in 1955.
Women are pretty and persuasive but men wear the pants in the family, crab puffs and charades constitute a party with neighbors and wives attend Authenticity Committee meetings to ensure they are living properly buttoned up and politically incorrect Eisenhower-era lives.
Their lives are no longer information-saturated, over-scheduled or diverse, so they are more present in their own lives now, even if their roles in it are more strictly circumscribed. But are they happier?
What it comes down to, of course, is how each person defines happy.
Happy (adjective): feeling pleasure and enjoyment because of your life or situation
Now there's another concept ripe for discussion.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Painting the Town
I excel at being the extra woman.
When friends need an extra body (whether warm or hot) or some estrogen to balance out a dinner party's numbers, I'm that person who gets invited to fill the role and it's one I dispatch with great enthusiasm.
Get to know strangers? Entertain visitors? I got this. Years ago, when I was trying to right the capsizing ship that was my life, a friend (seriously) suggested that I offer just such a service to visitors, showing them places to eat, hear music and do fun things they might not otherwise uncover.
Because selling my time sounded just short of selling my body, I didn't pursue it, although I saw the wisdom of her idea. Now I happily accept invitations to share me.
This time, it was Pru and Beau doing the inviting and the occasion was two male house guests, a seasoned one from Phoenix and a young one one from Fredericksburg, and the destination was Can Can.
I got assigned to the male car, meaning three men called for me (complete with a glass of Miraval Rose - a stellar "car wine," I have to say - awaiting me in the back seat) while the other two womenfolk took another car. My kind of odds.
Beau scored heavily in the parking lot when he complimented my ensemble as "adorable," precisely the vibe I'd been going for with the Berlin tights and a more subdued palette than usual.
Brasseries are noisy places and Can Can is no exception, making for a lot of leaning in and repeated remarks while sipping Cotes de Provence Rose "Terra Amatta" and nibbling zucchini fritters and a cheese/charcuterie plate. A Languedoc Rose showed up with dinner - mine a demi plateau of oysters, clams, shrimp and mussels and a forest of greens mounded into a salad - along with an opportunity for the Phoenix visitor to be more vocal.
When Pru, presuming naturally, asked what I'd planned to do after dinner wound down, I copped to plans to go to Balliceaux to hear K-Pop and the visitor immediately let it be known that he loves to dance. I couldn't ask the young visitor to join because he was a month shy of being legal, so my contribution to his RVA experience was introducing him to some new cheeses during our first course.
So the male car dropped Phoenix and I off at my house so I could swap cute shoes for dancing shoes before heading to Balliceaux. I tried but failed to convince my guest that we should walk, but despite being a native Philly boy, a biking enthusiast and in shape, he resisted.
Next time.
The back room was pretty crowded on arrival and only grew more so with each new wave of K-Pop devotees who wandered in throughout the night. He was struck by their solitary dancing habits, their group movements rather than couple movements, but I'd seen it too many times for it to even register.
Last time I'd gone to a K-Pop night, I'd fallen hard for the Asian take on pop music from the '60s and '70s, but tonight's selections drew from the '90s and hip-hop, filtered through a Korean sensibility, sure, but less compelling to ears that remember music before Auto-Tune.
I was barely a couple sips into my Espolon before he was nodding toward the dance floor and why would I say no? Unlike some of the crowd, we couldn't sing along to any of the songs, but we found enough we could dance to to join the throngs in a room that continued to feel hotter, more crowded, more like Friday night.
On the way out, he admitted that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been dancing, never mind that it was his first exposure to K-Pop. See, this is why some people need to meet me.
Dropping him back at his hostess' house an hour after I'd promised to get him home, we solidified morning plans. He'd seen some night life, he'd claimed to be a fan of walking, so the plan was to show him some of my daytime Richmond.
This is where I get good. I wowed him with notable architecture, historic locations, and river views. I led him along the Pipeline Trail, over to Southern States for the Street Art RVA Festival, up to Tricycle Gardens' urban farm and back across the Lee bridge to admire Belle Isle and the river from a bird's eye view.
Lagging slightly behind me coming up Belvidere, he informed me that this was the longest walk he'd been on in ages. Someone needs to get out of the house more or maybe just out of Phoenix more.
As a thank you for the outstanding walkabout and tour, he offered to take me to lunch, so we detoured to 821 Cafe, found two stools at the bar ("You can't sit there!" a male voice growled at me, but it was only the handsome bass player/server razzing me) and let a soundtrack of '80s music (Hall and Oates-based) wash over us while sharing life stories.
"Are you the marrying kind?" he asked me. "Why did you get married?" I asked him. How hard is it to find your passion and follow it? It's fascinating what you can discuss with someone you didn't know 24 hours ago.
The extra woman tells all, but never judges. Also, she has a ball doing it.
When friends need an extra body (whether warm or hot) or some estrogen to balance out a dinner party's numbers, I'm that person who gets invited to fill the role and it's one I dispatch with great enthusiasm.
Get to know strangers? Entertain visitors? I got this. Years ago, when I was trying to right the capsizing ship that was my life, a friend (seriously) suggested that I offer just such a service to visitors, showing them places to eat, hear music and do fun things they might not otherwise uncover.
Because selling my time sounded just short of selling my body, I didn't pursue it, although I saw the wisdom of her idea. Now I happily accept invitations to share me.
This time, it was Pru and Beau doing the inviting and the occasion was two male house guests, a seasoned one from Phoenix and a young one one from Fredericksburg, and the destination was Can Can.
I got assigned to the male car, meaning three men called for me (complete with a glass of Miraval Rose - a stellar "car wine," I have to say - awaiting me in the back seat) while the other two womenfolk took another car. My kind of odds.
Beau scored heavily in the parking lot when he complimented my ensemble as "adorable," precisely the vibe I'd been going for with the Berlin tights and a more subdued palette than usual.
Brasseries are noisy places and Can Can is no exception, making for a lot of leaning in and repeated remarks while sipping Cotes de Provence Rose "Terra Amatta" and nibbling zucchini fritters and a cheese/charcuterie plate. A Languedoc Rose showed up with dinner - mine a demi plateau of oysters, clams, shrimp and mussels and a forest of greens mounded into a salad - along with an opportunity for the Phoenix visitor to be more vocal.
When Pru, presuming naturally, asked what I'd planned to do after dinner wound down, I copped to plans to go to Balliceaux to hear K-Pop and the visitor immediately let it be known that he loves to dance. I couldn't ask the young visitor to join because he was a month shy of being legal, so my contribution to his RVA experience was introducing him to some new cheeses during our first course.
So the male car dropped Phoenix and I off at my house so I could swap cute shoes for dancing shoes before heading to Balliceaux. I tried but failed to convince my guest that we should walk, but despite being a native Philly boy, a biking enthusiast and in shape, he resisted.
Next time.
The back room was pretty crowded on arrival and only grew more so with each new wave of K-Pop devotees who wandered in throughout the night. He was struck by their solitary dancing habits, their group movements rather than couple movements, but I'd seen it too many times for it to even register.
Last time I'd gone to a K-Pop night, I'd fallen hard for the Asian take on pop music from the '60s and '70s, but tonight's selections drew from the '90s and hip-hop, filtered through a Korean sensibility, sure, but less compelling to ears that remember music before Auto-Tune.
I was barely a couple sips into my Espolon before he was nodding toward the dance floor and why would I say no? Unlike some of the crowd, we couldn't sing along to any of the songs, but we found enough we could dance to to join the throngs in a room that continued to feel hotter, more crowded, more like Friday night.
On the way out, he admitted that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been dancing, never mind that it was his first exposure to K-Pop. See, this is why some people need to meet me.
Dropping him back at his hostess' house an hour after I'd promised to get him home, we solidified morning plans. He'd seen some night life, he'd claimed to be a fan of walking, so the plan was to show him some of my daytime Richmond.
This is where I get good. I wowed him with notable architecture, historic locations, and river views. I led him along the Pipeline Trail, over to Southern States for the Street Art RVA Festival, up to Tricycle Gardens' urban farm and back across the Lee bridge to admire Belle Isle and the river from a bird's eye view.
Lagging slightly behind me coming up Belvidere, he informed me that this was the longest walk he'd been on in ages. Someone needs to get out of the house more or maybe just out of Phoenix more.
As a thank you for the outstanding walkabout and tour, he offered to take me to lunch, so we detoured to 821 Cafe, found two stools at the bar ("You can't sit there!" a male voice growled at me, but it was only the handsome bass player/server razzing me) and let a soundtrack of '80s music (Hall and Oates-based) wash over us while sharing life stories.
"Are you the marrying kind?" he asked me. "Why did you get married?" I asked him. How hard is it to find your passion and follow it? It's fascinating what you can discuss with someone you didn't know 24 hours ago.
The extra woman tells all, but never judges. Also, she has a ball doing it.
Friday, February 19, 2016
Longhorns and Trust Falls
Don't bother taking the first man that's offered to you in the morning.
Walking down Grace Street at the ungodly hour of 9:15, a woman heads toward me with an obvious gray cloud over her head.
"You want a boyfriend?" she asks, clearly seething. "You can have mine!" I'm inclined to say no but that fact is confirmed when I see a guy walking down the middle of the street in her direction.
"How can you hit a tree?" she hollers just before spotting her car. "Thomas!"
"What?" he asks innocently. "I didn't see the tree!"
"How can you not see a tree? Thomaaaaaas!" she wails.
I walk faster in the opposite direction, passing a guy who says, "Good morning, pretty girl!" and making me forget all about the drama behind me.
Arriving at the Virginia Historical Society for the preview of "The Art of Seating: 200 Years of American Design," I mingle, check out the colonial flag collection and eat a mini-doughnut before following the president into the galleries to see the show.
You might be surprised at how well 43 chairs can chronicle the evolution of American taste, but you wouldn't be if you saw this exhibit.
From the simplicity of a Shaker rocking chair with a lovely blue and tan checkerboard seat to an elaborate throne-like chair on casters designed in 1854 for representatives to sit in inside the House of Representatives grand, formal hall, these chairs all tell a story.
And like architecture, they can reflect the styles - Gothic Revival, Egyptian Revival, Colonial Revival - popular at the time or the image of the place they were created. An 1890 chair from Texas incorporates both longhorns, ivory and Tiffany ball casters in a strikingly "Western" style chair, while a Southern Appalachian chair is evocatively made of willow branches.
Even office chairs dazzled, such as the Frank Lloyd wright chair designed for the Johnson Wax Company that echoes the rest of the building's design and color scheme.
Things got groovy in the back gallery once we got to the post-WW I era, with chairs in Lucite, plywood and patterned fiberglass. Eero Saarinen's Grasshopper American chair was beautifully sculptural and, unlike so many earlier chairs, actually looked quite comfortable.
I couldn't have been more surprised to see Frank Gehry's compressed cardboard high stool, mainly because I remember seeing all his cardboard furniture for sale at Bloomingdale's back in the '80s. What a fool I was not to buy one.
You could almost feel the good vibrations from Jon Brooks' 1970 solid elm ball chair carved from a massive piece of elm, complete with cracks and highly polished surface. It looked like the kind of thing created at a commune while listening to Jefferson Airplane's "Volunteers" album and smoking pot with a couple of hippie chicks breastfeeding their babies on a blanket.
That's what I mean about the exhibit coming across like a cultural history lesson (only way more enjoyable). As society eased up on rules, even chairs morphed into something more comfortable, more colorful and more likely to show up in the everyday person's home and not just the well-off.
Richmond, we keep getting cooler. This is just the kind of show that people from D.C. are going to drive down to see because of its uniqueness and hip factor. These are some amazingly cool chairs.
When I left the Historical Society, I took a meandering walk, part of which took me down Broad Street and past Assado, where their sign read, "Taco fact #1: Tacos are healthier than crystal meth."
Certain that would bring in lots of business, I was equally impressed with Rumors Boutique's sign, reading, "How do snakes know who their real friends are if they can't do trust falls?"
That's a one-two punch of sign wisdom you don't see just every day.
My walk eventually deposited me at the handsome new VCU Cabell Library where a friend who works there had offered me a tour. Having only been inside the auditorium, why wouldn't I want to see what years of construction had wrought?
Holy, moley, Batman, this is a library like none you've ever seen before.
The now-shuttered Anderson Gallery's collection lives here now and piece by piece, some of it is being installed on the walls. A couple of sublime Theresa Pollaks here, a six-panel Gerry Donato there, it's a who's who of the talent that taught at VCU.
Views like you can't imagine (unless, perhaps, you lived in the Prestwould) provide a bird's eye view of the top of the Cathedral, the rooftop garden and wind turbine on top of the Pollak Building and the sweep of the Compass (sadly, Bad Hackysack Guy was nowhere to be seen).
A terrace on the third floor seemed like the ultimate library destination until I saw the reading porch full of rockers with - wait for it - windows that open and sun streaming in them. Be still, my heart.
White boards were everywhere, even on that porch, because apparently today's students use them like we used to use notebooks and scrap paper. "We can't have enough white boards," my library friend shared.
Everywhere we went, students were sprawled out, some asleep, many checking their phones, some companionably studying in small groups but not interacting (this is called "parallel play" when you're talking about toddlers), and, another favorite, the silent floor, where it truly sounded like the libraries of my youth.
For me, the Innovative Media Center might as well have been from a sci-fi movie, with laser printers where my friend informed me a med student could create a replica of a human heart while an art student made a shirt sleeve out of LED lights.
There were sewing machines, record players so students could digitize their vinyl collection and, yes, even a gaming room. Most adorable was a curio cabinet of things known only to students' parents and fans of history: slide carousels, film projectors, ViewMasters. All the stuff the AV geeks used to live for, now locked up in a museum-like display.
But that's because this library is geared to a different generation, one that had to get the hang of revolving doors on the new entrance and liked being asked to test out various chair styles and vote on their favorite before final decisions were made. One that is the reason why the library Starbucks is in the top four in the entire country.
And to think we used to go to the library solely to look for books. How hopelessly old-fashioned.
Afterwards, we strolled over to 821 Cafe for lunch - I had black bean nachos because they're healthier than crystal meth while she chose the most fattening sandwich she could conceive of, according to her - and some non-library conversation, finishing out for me a full but fabulous Friday around the city.
You know, just checking out the excellent new chair exhibit and VCU's impressive LEED-certified library, no big deal.
And, no, I don't want Thomas or any man who can't see a tree, or even the forest for it. Thanks, anyway.
Walking down Grace Street at the ungodly hour of 9:15, a woman heads toward me with an obvious gray cloud over her head.
"You want a boyfriend?" she asks, clearly seething. "You can have mine!" I'm inclined to say no but that fact is confirmed when I see a guy walking down the middle of the street in her direction.
"How can you hit a tree?" she hollers just before spotting her car. "Thomas!"
"What?" he asks innocently. "I didn't see the tree!"
"How can you not see a tree? Thomaaaaaas!" she wails.
I walk faster in the opposite direction, passing a guy who says, "Good morning, pretty girl!" and making me forget all about the drama behind me.
Arriving at the Virginia Historical Society for the preview of "The Art of Seating: 200 Years of American Design," I mingle, check out the colonial flag collection and eat a mini-doughnut before following the president into the galleries to see the show.
You might be surprised at how well 43 chairs can chronicle the evolution of American taste, but you wouldn't be if you saw this exhibit.
From the simplicity of a Shaker rocking chair with a lovely blue and tan checkerboard seat to an elaborate throne-like chair on casters designed in 1854 for representatives to sit in inside the House of Representatives grand, formal hall, these chairs all tell a story.
And like architecture, they can reflect the styles - Gothic Revival, Egyptian Revival, Colonial Revival - popular at the time or the image of the place they were created. An 1890 chair from Texas incorporates both longhorns, ivory and Tiffany ball casters in a strikingly "Western" style chair, while a Southern Appalachian chair is evocatively made of willow branches.
Even office chairs dazzled, such as the Frank Lloyd wright chair designed for the Johnson Wax Company that echoes the rest of the building's design and color scheme.
Things got groovy in the back gallery once we got to the post-WW I era, with chairs in Lucite, plywood and patterned fiberglass. Eero Saarinen's Grasshopper American chair was beautifully sculptural and, unlike so many earlier chairs, actually looked quite comfortable.
I couldn't have been more surprised to see Frank Gehry's compressed cardboard high stool, mainly because I remember seeing all his cardboard furniture for sale at Bloomingdale's back in the '80s. What a fool I was not to buy one.
You could almost feel the good vibrations from Jon Brooks' 1970 solid elm ball chair carved from a massive piece of elm, complete with cracks and highly polished surface. It looked like the kind of thing created at a commune while listening to Jefferson Airplane's "Volunteers" album and smoking pot with a couple of hippie chicks breastfeeding their babies on a blanket.
That's what I mean about the exhibit coming across like a cultural history lesson (only way more enjoyable). As society eased up on rules, even chairs morphed into something more comfortable, more colorful and more likely to show up in the everyday person's home and not just the well-off.
Richmond, we keep getting cooler. This is just the kind of show that people from D.C. are going to drive down to see because of its uniqueness and hip factor. These are some amazingly cool chairs.
When I left the Historical Society, I took a meandering walk, part of which took me down Broad Street and past Assado, where their sign read, "Taco fact #1: Tacos are healthier than crystal meth."
Certain that would bring in lots of business, I was equally impressed with Rumors Boutique's sign, reading, "How do snakes know who their real friends are if they can't do trust falls?"
That's a one-two punch of sign wisdom you don't see just every day.
My walk eventually deposited me at the handsome new VCU Cabell Library where a friend who works there had offered me a tour. Having only been inside the auditorium, why wouldn't I want to see what years of construction had wrought?
Holy, moley, Batman, this is a library like none you've ever seen before.
The now-shuttered Anderson Gallery's collection lives here now and piece by piece, some of it is being installed on the walls. A couple of sublime Theresa Pollaks here, a six-panel Gerry Donato there, it's a who's who of the talent that taught at VCU.
Views like you can't imagine (unless, perhaps, you lived in the Prestwould) provide a bird's eye view of the top of the Cathedral, the rooftop garden and wind turbine on top of the Pollak Building and the sweep of the Compass (sadly, Bad Hackysack Guy was nowhere to be seen).
A terrace on the third floor seemed like the ultimate library destination until I saw the reading porch full of rockers with - wait for it - windows that open and sun streaming in them. Be still, my heart.
White boards were everywhere, even on that porch, because apparently today's students use them like we used to use notebooks and scrap paper. "We can't have enough white boards," my library friend shared.
Everywhere we went, students were sprawled out, some asleep, many checking their phones, some companionably studying in small groups but not interacting (this is called "parallel play" when you're talking about toddlers), and, another favorite, the silent floor, where it truly sounded like the libraries of my youth.
For me, the Innovative Media Center might as well have been from a sci-fi movie, with laser printers where my friend informed me a med student could create a replica of a human heart while an art student made a shirt sleeve out of LED lights.
There were sewing machines, record players so students could digitize their vinyl collection and, yes, even a gaming room. Most adorable was a curio cabinet of things known only to students' parents and fans of history: slide carousels, film projectors, ViewMasters. All the stuff the AV geeks used to live for, now locked up in a museum-like display.
But that's because this library is geared to a different generation, one that had to get the hang of revolving doors on the new entrance and liked being asked to test out various chair styles and vote on their favorite before final decisions were made. One that is the reason why the library Starbucks is in the top four in the entire country.
And to think we used to go to the library solely to look for books. How hopelessly old-fashioned.
Afterwards, we strolled over to 821 Cafe for lunch - I had black bean nachos because they're healthier than crystal meth while she chose the most fattening sandwich she could conceive of, according to her - and some non-library conversation, finishing out for me a full but fabulous Friday around the city.
You know, just checking out the excellent new chair exhibit and VCU's impressive LEED-certified library, no big deal.
And, no, I don't want Thomas or any man who can't see a tree, or even the forest for it. Thanks, anyway.
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