Livin' Large

After a dozen or so years, I've got the hang of the Down Home Family Reunion.

Truthfully, it couldn't be simpler. The festival takes place two blocks away and all it requires is carrying a chair and a beverage.

I got there just as the organizer was chiding the crowd about their fixation on the headliner, which she saw as a lack of respect for all the other performers. Okay, fair enough.

Next to me, a woman with a Wells Fargo fan began complaining about the humidity and lack of breeze. "I want to go home and take a shower and sit in the air conditioning," she whined.

Rather than listening to live music? Clearly we have nothing in common, friend.

Instead she hung around for comedian Micah "Bam Bam" White, although she was unimpressed, observing, "He's not very funny, is he?"

Actually, his humor about the difference in how historically black colleges hold a football game versus white colleges was pretty hilarious to me. He did an imitation of a half time show and mocked how black vocalists, unlike white ones, never just sing the words on the page. According to him, they testify, they bend notes, they stretch things out.

Yep, and that's what we like about it.

Next up was Full Power Blues, a D.C. blues band led by a woman named Mama Moon, who welcomed the crowd, saying, "Welcome to full moon music!"

And, just as Bam Bam had noted, she and the band testified, they bent notes, they stretched things out.

After they finished, a lone singer named Shep (who will apparently be performing at the Folk Fest this fall) came out to do "A Change is Gonna Come," making for one of the more moving parts of the evening.

In between sets, a DJ played music that defined the demographic of the crowd: "One Nation Under a Groove," "Super Freaky" and "Higher Ground." I know because I sit squarely in that demographic.

A guy came over and sat down near me, striking up a conversation by asking if I was having a good time. Sure was. While the Elegba Folklore Society's performance group played, sang and danced (its leader proclaiming, "If you can walk, you can dance!"), he went on to explain African drumming to me as each drum beat meaning a different word.

When I said I did know that much, he changed tactics. "Do you smoke weed?' he asked blithely despite the cops a few feet away. I guess since I already knew about African drumming, he just assumed I was cool that way, too.

Or maybe it was that I was still wearing sunglasses after dark. I'd tried taking them off, but the park was lit too brightly and the whole scene looked less tawdry with shades on.

What I'm saying is, no one needs to see a fryer lit up. "Someone left their phone at the funnel cake booth," Bam Bam announced between sets. "If you left your phone, go get it now!"

It wasn't me, so I headed down to the row of Porta-Johns, where I found an entirely different party going on. A row of motorcycles, many strung with LED lights, was holding court near the outdoor bathrooms and Prince was blaring from a boombox.

Clearly they didn't need any stinkin' live music.

As the stage was being prepped for DC go-go/funk band EU (Experience Unlimited for the uninitiated), Bam Bam came out and announced that activist Dick Gregory had "transitioned." I've never understood using euphemisms for death. The man died, so just say died.

A collective groan went up from the crowd.

The members of EU showed up onstage wearing all white and ready to party. Leader Sugar Bear began exhorting the crowd immediately. "Get up, Richmond! Y'all got to get up!" We did.

Weaving in classics such as "Family Affair," "Shake It Like a White Girl" and "It's Your Thing," the 7-piece band showed off their smooth choreography, still strong voices and vintage showmanship. Even better, they looked to be having a ball doing it.

When they got to their set closer and biggest hit, "Da Butt," you better believe we - young and old - were following Sugar Bear's directive to, "Shake what your Mama gave you!"

No regular at the Down Home Family Reunion has to be told that twice.

Agony and the Blown Mind

Sartre was right. Hell is other people and I've concluded that those other people are incoming freshmen.

Somehow I must have missed the dire warnings that the Class of 2019 has been moving in over the past two days, discovering it only when I tried to get to Shoryuken Ramen to meet my dinner date and found Franklin Street closed to cars while over-sized suburban SUVs delivered spawn to dorms.

Another crop of Northern Virginia teenagers who've never lived in a city before have descended en masse to make our life more complicated while they learn to cross streets and parallel park.

I waited an eternity today behind a kid who sat in front of a flashing red light assuming it would eventually turn green. It didn't. And it won't ever.

My dinner companion and I weren't sure whether to expect Shoryuken to be empty or mobbed given the blockades, so we were pleasantly surprised at how uninhabited it was. That said, within half an hour every seat was filled and an awful lot of them looked like parents and or/parents and freshmen.

Translation: none of them looked like Richmonders.

Eating my Hiyashi Chucka - cold ramen in soy-tahini vinaigrette with corn, pulled chicken, scallions, pickled mushrooms, egg and bamboo - facing a window over Franklin Street, I marveled at a student toting a vacuum cleaner (probably his mother's idea) into his new abode. Surely he's not planning on using that thing.

Meanwhile my classic ramen-eating companion told me great stories about a mutual friend who now works at the Ignatius Hat Company in Petersburg. Of course I know someone who works in the hat business.

Replete, we headed to the Firehouse Theater to see Jean Paul Sartre's "No Exit," a play I'd never even read, unlike the guy behind me who boasted that he'd read Sartre in philosophy class. Even so, he was the worst kind of person to sit in front of, constantly fidgeting, folding and unfolding his program and moving in his seat non-stop.

I want to choose my own hell.

I was fascinated to learn that the play had been formatted as a one-act play so French audiences could get home before the German-imposed curfew. There was no curfew, but I definitely had plans to get my mind blown afterwards, so I appreciated the brevity tonight.

You can always tell what a man really wants by his actions.

Because it's the Firehouse Theater, no performance would be complete without a fire truck screeching by mid-play. It's nice to know that there are constants in life.

You are your life and nothing else.

It's even better to know that a provocative play cast with three solid leads can take an audience into hell for a night. Of course the lately-ubiquitous McLean Jesse nails the shallow socialite and  DL Hopkins inhabits the cowardly journalist but it's Bianca Bryan's all encompassing portrayal of the lesbian secretary that's most electrifying. Foot tapping, eyes piercing, legs open when sitting, she's a fiercely cruel combatant.

But surely all of us would be miserable in a windowless room with no need to sleep and two people we can't stand our only company for eternity.

Outside on the sidewalk afterwards, we were surprised by fireworks exploding over the Diamond and paused to opine about what we'd just seen while we watched the explosions. "We could talk about the play all night, but you have places to be," he reminded me after 20 minutes of discussion.

As if nubile freshmen weren't enough of a hazard, tonight was also the Down Home Family Reunion in Abner Clay Park, so the streets of Jackson Ward were alive with cars cruising for parking spaces and people lugging chairs to the park.

Clearly Hell was all around me today.

I lugged my own chair to a prime spot and was soon joined by Charlie, a sweet man who has worked at the Pepsi Cola bottling plant in Mechanicsville for 25 years. In fact, he'd come straight from work, intending to stay 20 minutes and go home.

By the time we met, he'd been there five hours. But like me (and probably most of the crowd), he was looking forward to seeing the Delphonics. I give him credit; he knew the words to practically every song and the man could sing.

I've been to enough Down Home Family Reunions to know that by the time the headliner comes on, the show is running seriously behind. Tonight, the Delphonics came on at 10:43 instead of the 9:30 start time listed on the schedule. Not a problem for me, but plenty of people packed up and gave up.

There was a teachable moment tonight when I learned that Major Harris had been a Delphonic back in the '70s (what?), with the band covering Harris' big solo hit, "Love Won't Let Me Wait." The shocker was that Harris was a Richmond boy (Charlie tells me, "I met him in Petersburg a good while back. Nice guy"), news to me.

Maybe because the Delphonics didn't have loads of big hits, their set included a few classics from groups like the Temptations - "My Girl" got the dancing started followed by "Just My Imagination" - and in their shiny red suits, they pulled it off.

Some of the high notes were still there ("I ain't lost nothin'!" the lead singer said after a particularly silvery one), a very good things when they got to the biggies: "La-la Means I Love You" and "Didn't I Blow Your Mind This Time" which got not only broken down, but an extended jam. The entire crowd sang along in fine voice, plenty swaying in place.

Walking home, mind blown, a guy in a giant truck looks at me and asks if he has enough room to pull out of his parking space. Are you kidding, buddy? There's at least three feet in front of your truck. Just go.

Gack. Too many people harshing my mellow.

Don't let me end up in a locked room with people who wait endlessly at flashing red lights or can't parallel park. Please, no freshmen after death. I want to choose my own Hell.

Lucky Me

The first rule of the Down Home Family Reunion is you don't leave.

That is, if you live in Jackson Ward, you don't want to risk giving up your parking space because chances are, you won't easily find a replacement in the neighborhood all day and night today.

Fair enough. After a wildly busy week (I was away five of the last seven days), it didn't take much incentive to keep me in the 'hood for food and music.

All afternoon long, cars had been driving down Clay Street, music blaring into my open windows, for the most part classic R & B such as Roberta Flack and Rick James.

People were gearing up for the show.

Bound for the Rogue Gentlemen down Leigh Street, I got a backside view of the stage and Proverbs Reggae Band giving it their all for the crowd.

Walking down St. Peter Street past endless lines of cars circling the block for non-existent parking spaces, I saw a cop at the end near where the street was blocked off.

Pointing out that at least he could hear the band despite not being able to see it, he said, "I've been working this festival for ten years and I like it fine from right here."

Amen, brother.

At the Rogue Gentlemen, I found the bar empty and took a stool at the end where the music (Killers, Black Keys, Kooks) was easy to hear.

Starving after this morning's nearly seven mile hike, part of it along the Northbank trail, I proceeded to order far too much food.

Lemon verbena tomato gazpacho with pressed melon, pine nuts and buttermilk got me started on solid footing with the exquisitely melded flavors of summer.

A man came in and sat down at the bar around the time my pork crepinette - a good-sized flattened sausage patty - was delivered.

Vermouth-soaked cherries complemented the saltiness of the sausage and a soft-cooked quail egg added richness.

On the side was frisee with speck and pistachios, making for a decadent plate of food.

Midway through tucking into it, my sweet corn agnolotti showed up and I immediately switched over to that for fear of overindulging in pig and not being able to fully appreciate the little dumplings.

Floating in a pale orange sea of paprika butter and ringed with heirloom yellow cherry tomatoes and sprinkled with Pecorino Toscano and bits of guanciale (cured pork jowls), wonderful flavors all, it was the purity and sweetness of the summer corn in the agnolotti that was the undisputed flavor star of the dish.

As it should be.

Like the tomatoes and melon in my soup, there is no better time to be savoring them.

Walking home, I saw that people were arriving in droves to add to the already teeming crowd, so I went to get my chair and join the other music lovers in the park.

It was between sets so Al Green was blasting from the speakers and I found a place to set up with an unobstructed view.

People watching was great because so many people were styling for the festival and despite it being held in a field, there were lots of high heels.

After a while, a guy came over and asked if I was ready for the show.

Telling him I was, he said, "You look comfortable. I like to see that!"

Not long after, a woman came by passing out fliers reminding people to vote (not that I ever forget).

Then the guy came back to ask if I was alone and although I told him I was waiting for a date, he took that as a cue to stand behind me and tell his friend what a terrific singing voice he had.

To prove it, he began singing.

You must be a special lady
And a very exciting girl

The Elegba Folklore Society's dancers and drummers performed next and then there was an unexpected lag for Ray, Goodman and Brown.

After all kinds of delay tactics, MC Micah "Boom Boom" White admitted that there had been some mis-communication and that the band, who had been here earlier, had thought they were due at a much later time than they actually were.

The good news was they were just arriving, but with set -up and sound checking, it was practically 11 when they took the stage.

Their set had supposed to run from 9:30 to 11. Oops.

"It's been a long time since we played Richmond," singer Billy "Get Down" Brown told the crowd. "We used to play DJ's Supper Club!"

A woman in the crowd corrected him. "TJ's Supper Club. And I was your waitress!"

With a full band behind the three singers, they took us back to the days of love songs, even doing the synchronized hand gestures and dance steps to every song.

They'd been introduced as the band who were originally called as The Moments and known for their incredibly tight harmonies.

Their mouths were barely open before it was clear that all three voices were still spot on.

Referring to Barry White-like songs that women love, Billy said, "All you gotta do is sit on the bed and drop the needle on the record and let Barry sing. Then I say, take it off, baby. Well, we got a song just like that for the ladies here."

He wasn't lying. From "With You" ("loving you is easier than breathing") to "Look at Me" ("I'm in love") to "Lovely Way She Loves," it was music made for scoring.

When someone in the golden circle yelled out a request, he said, "Yes, honey, we're gonna do that. We're gonna do two way street and three way street."

Given the band's late start, I think everyone in the crowd was worried that they'd have to cut their set short.

The woman nearest me about lost it when they kicked into "I Don't Wanna Go," but everyone seemed to have their favorites.

"Special Lady," the song the guy had been serenading me with earlier, got the full singalong treatment with men and women doing separate parts.

Things got groovy when all three singers were introduced by name, zodiac sign and birth city,

I was impressed that Kevin used to sing with Luther Vandross but also bowled over that Billy's voice still hit those notes on the hits I recognized.

The crowd, meanwhile, danced and even sang along like they were back in high school.

Of course, the most reaction came for "Love on a Two-Way Street" and people began singing at the top of their lungs.

"It's the Richmond Tabernacle Choir!" Billy said as we sang and an extended arrangement took the song long past the three-minute mark.

It was a shame we only got a 45 minute set, but life's not always fair. Killer harmonies helped make up for fewer songs.

As I made my way toward home among clusters of people dragging chairs, I heard more than one ask a companion, "Where did we park?"

Happily, some of us didn't have that concern. We'd never left the 'hood.

Down home is right here.

Give Up the Funk

You've got a real type of thing going down, getting down
There's a whole lot of rhythm going round

I can always tell when the Down Home Family Reunion starts because I can hear it through my open windows.

After all, I'm only two blocks from Abner Clay Park.

I'd invited a non-family member to join me and he arrived with a picnic, so we took our chairs and dinner and walked the short distance toward the sound.

The Down Home Family Reunion isn't like any other festival I've been to, which is exactly what I love about it.

Besides the fact that it's two blocks away.

You see people dressed up at this one.

Like a leopard print jumpsuit.

Jean shorts, a red t-shirt and red and gold pumps.

His and her black leather chaps.

Skintight paisley bell-bottoms and a purple polyester shirt and hat.

I don't even try to compete with the likes of that.

Settling in with our picnic, the emcee said, "I wish y'all could see what y'all look like from up here!"

I'll bet the two of us looked starved, considering how we dug into roast chicken, caprese salad, bean and olive salad, hummus and peach pie.

We took a break to move closer when the Kenya Safari Acrobats took the stage.

Part dance, part magic, part gymnastic, part yoga, they amazed.

One condensed his body to almost nothing in the way they were taught to do in Kenya and Tanzania when confronted with a leopard.

Another got on a table and proceeded to bend his body backwards until his feet were resting on his head.

He even removed his hat with his toes.

There was a limbo dance (done to win a wife) with a stick on fire, making it essential to go as low as the limber, brave man could go.

He did.

For their final act, they created a human pyramid using a woman as the base.

It was significant because no acrobatic troupes there will use women because the men presume a woman will drop them.

Aminia, the female base, went on to support all kinds of men in various configurations, even walking a short distance while supporting them all.

The entire act required such skill and precision as to have been absolutely Olympic-worthy.

Meanwhile, I ran into a friend (and pianist for the Richmond Symphony) and caught up with his escapades (turkey burgers! Chopin! Pocahontas Park!)

And that's exactly what's supposed to happen at the Reunion.

I spent over six hours behind a woman who was serially greeted by no less than thirty people.

It was impressive to see.

A girl asked me to take a survey about the festival, inquiring about how far I'd come to see it, how much I might spend and if I'd been before.

I'm always happy to share my opinions.

Next onstage were NYCE, a local group who wore matching salmon-colored outfits while executing synchronized steps and singing '60s and '70s R & B.

Stuff like Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder and the Temptations, but not the Top 40 stuff.

Their set got people in the mood, like when a man walked by, spotted a friend and did a synchronized dance move in front of him before saying hello.

The Elegba Folklore performance group played drums and danced while a costumed figure on stilts moved through the crowd.

"If you can walk, you can dance," the group's director shouted.

I would have broken it down even more basically than that.

Periodically, the scent of incense wafted by.

Once the sun went down and I lost my companion to work, I was glad I had a blanket to drape over my legs.

"You had the right idea with that blanket," a man said to me when he saw me getting cozy.

By the time the big names arrived, the crowd was large and feisty.

Original P, comprised of four of the original members of Parliament Funkadelic and eight of their siblings and children, took the stage like they owned it.

"We're ready to party like it's 1975!" leader Calvin shouted to raucous response.

Almost at once, a freaky-looking guy started walking through the crowd with a large sign saying, "One Nation Under a Groove."

A guy came by to check on me. "How you doing?" he inquired sweetly. "You look comfortable! Enjoy yourself."

Of course the twelve piece had a big horn section and an array of back-up singers, but I was unprepared for the keytar.

Damn, we were taking it all the way back.

The crowd went wild for "We Want the Funk," but they also went crazy for tales of booty patrols and an extended psychedelic jam that had people dancing in the field.

By that point, audience and band were feeding off of each other under the night sky.

"Richmond Vee-Yay in the mother-fu*kin' house!" the bandleader yelled as people waved glow light swords and hands in the air.

I alternated between staying in my seat (where a guy came over to ask if I was okay by myself over there) and standing closer to the stage to enjoy the sheer spectacle of so many musicians clearly having a ball.

"If y'all don't get up off your asses now, I'm gonna be forced to get mean," we were informed.

It only took one warning for everyone but the oldest and most infirm to follow P-Funk's advice: "Free your mind and your ass will follow."

When the band finally ended, it was only because the organizers told them they had to.

The band made it clear that they wanted to keep playing.

Danced out, the crowd resignedly started packing up.

Original P serenaded us as we made our way out to the streets of Jackson Ward.

If you're not gonna get it on
Grab your date and take her home

My date long gone, it looked like I wasn't going to get it on.

But my answer to the final survey question had been confirmed in spades.

Would I come back to the festival next year?

Hell, yes. We want the funk.

Down Home Friendly

Depending on where in J-Ward you live and whether or not your windows are open, you can start hearing the music just before 4:00.

The moment I stepped out of the shower, there it was.

The Down Home Family Reunion had begun.

By the time I made myself presentable and ambled down Clay Street, reunion attendees were everywhere, walking with chairs, looking to park, chatting with friends on the sidewalk.

Passing the gazebo in Abner Clay Park, a gentleman tipped his hat to me and said, "You have a nice afternoon out there, miss."

I found a shady spot just in front of the post wall exactly where I sat last year. And the year before. In some respects, I am such a creature of habit.

Unfortunately for me, the organizers had decided to allow vendors to set up in the area behind the stage seating, so my view was somewhat obstructed.

I could see only part of the stage.

What I could see was the parade of sharp-dressed men (and a few women) passing in front of me. I gave first prize to the man in the pink driving cap (worn backwards naturally), pink and white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, white cargo shorts and white shoes.

Not every man can pull off pink and white without looking like an ice cream man, be he did so in spades.

Moments later, Tobey Foyeh and Orchestra Africa took the stage.

They were the ones I'd come to see. >Their music is a pastiche created from a fusion of traditional Nigerian Yoruba music with Afro-beat, Highlife, jazz and Latin elements.

The MC said that Foyeh began performing music at an early age in Ibadan and Lagos, Nigeria and is a self-taught musician who eventually went to Berklee.

Channeling Prince and doing it all, Foyeh composes, arranges, produces, and sings, interpreting traditional and contemporary African music.

Songs had a distinctly African slant, with names like "Market Place" and "The Rain Dance."

His orchestra features him on guitar but also traditional African instruments like the gangan (talking drum) and the kalimba (thumb piano).

His talented backup female singers wore African dress and did a call-and-response style of chorus singing while performing African dance.

Luckily, I could see them from my vantage point.


Naturally I ran into neighbors, one of my favorite couples, and they teased me that I never walk down their way anymore since I no longer have the beagle.

Guilty as charged. I need to change that we agreed.

During a break in between songs, one of the guys standing atop the post wall behind me called down.
"Hey, young lady down there! Are you doing okay?" he inquired with a big smile.


For the second time today, a stranger was concerned with my enjoyment.

Apparently that's just how people roll at a family reunion in Jackson Ward whether you're the kind of family they know or not.

God, I love this neighborhood.

Welcoming Summer with a Brown Paper Tablecloth

Best way to celebrate the first day of summer: on the Northern Neck enjoying summertime food and drink.

Truthfully, we were celebrating a belated Father's Day, but today being the start of the "living is easy" season, we made sure that the lazy porch meal fit the new season.

First off there was white sangria full of fruits and unknown liquors, but tasting mainly of mango and peach and the kind of libation that can be sipped all afternoon long without a second thought.

After a pleasant enough hour spent sipping and watching the tide come in, we were sufficiently hungry to do justice to the afternoon's feast.

Lunch was a half bushel of crabs heavily seasoned, paired with watermelon and hushpuppies as an accompaniment. Is there a simpler or more delicious summer meal? Not in my family.

As always, talk ranged over the latest news from my five sisters and their goings-on (I try to stay out of the fray and just get the bulletins).  There's always scuttlebutt with my family.

The sister who got married in New Orleans a few weeks after September 11th is having a ten-year anniversary party this fall.

I attended the fifth anniversary soiree down there and am still debating this one, so that was a major topic today. Will she or won't she?

After sating ourselves on crabs, I brought out the dessert I'd made to celebrate the summer solstice: peach ice cream.

Despite a mild peach allergy which causes my mouth to itch when I eat a little bit of peach and my tongue to swell when I overdo it, I think peach ice cream is irresistible.

And homemade peach ice cream enjoyed with white sangria on a breezy porch with  a view of the river? Downright decadent.

But I was only doing it for Dad. Really, it was all about the man who made me possible.

Or, as my Father's Day card said, "Thanks, Dad, for impregnating Mom!" Love, Karen.

He loved it and she cringed. Guess which one I favor.

Hoping to Rooster Like I Used To

Much the way the Watermelon Festival swells the Museum District for a day, the Down Home Family Reunion takes over Jackson Ward every August.

And naturally J-Ward girl has to be in attendance.

It was about 3:30 that I was standing in my bathroom next to the open window, and I heard music.

Since the festival starts at 4, I recognized it as what had to be the sound check.

Listening as I brushed my teeth, I realized it was time to gather my forces and get myself over to Abner Clay Park.

There was a surprisingly good-sized crowd already seated in front of the stage when I arrived. I found a shady spot and set up my chair just as the MC began introducing Leroy Thomas and the Zydeco Roadrunners.

People started dancing to the very first song of their accordion-based sound and more joined in throughout, despite the heat of the afternoon sun.

The band had driven all night from Rhode Island to make this gig and had to leave the second it was over to play another in Baltimore tonight.

You'd never have known it by the energy that they expended onstage.

Introducing one song, Leroy said, "This a song my Daddy wrote waaay back in 1981!"

Wow, practically a golden oldie.

Most ear-catching lyric: "Can't rooster like I used to, I think I need a booster."

Yes, it was a song about Viagra and Cialis.

That's 21st century zydeco for you...and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.

After their set, I wandered the global market, admiring fabrics and clothing and inhaling a lot of essential oils.

Wanting a little something to eat, I tried ordering a Hawk's BBQ, but they'd already sold out.

I ended up with a jumbo hot dog instead and took it back to my corner of the park to enjoy.

A recent transplant from Idaho sat down with me to chat.

I said hello to several neighbors, but didn't run into the one I was certain I'd see until the next band had started.

They were Back 'n Da Day, a group who sang classic Motown to recorded music.

But they had all the required voices to duplicate every big hit of the Spinners, The Temptations, et al and, just as importantly, all the right choreographed moves.

More than a few of the guys lounging behind me sang every note perfectly along with them, which I found pretty cool. It was my very own chorus.

I know from previous years that the crowd will grow much larger for the evening performances, and the atmosphere will get very party-like, familiar and fun.

My neighbor and I had been so busy talking that I hadn't even realized how late it was getting.

But it was, so I put my shoes back on and we walked out together, him going to a neighbor's house for another drink before returning for more music and me home to get ready to go out.

Three hours plus lost in a haze of zydeco, Motown and neighbors; now that's a down home family reunion in the 'hood.

And now I'm going to make some arriving reunion-goer very happy when I vacate my parking space.

I know they'll enjoy.

The Belvidere at Broad

A new neighborhood restaurant is always cause for exploration.

And because of that, last night I invited Beer Geek Friend over to share some wine (yes, he goes both ways) and do some reconnaissance.

We enjoyed a bottle of Antonelli 2008 Grechetto Colli Martani DOC, courtesy of River City Cellars' Italian Summer Sippin' tasting a week or so ago, and had to agree with Peter of RCC about its fruity and floral notes, but weren't quite as clear about it having a sense of structure and grip that would be the envy of many red wines. Still, it went down easily and was a fine start to the warm evening.

We then set out on the arduous two-block walk to check out The Belvidere at Broad, barely allowing us enough time to compare notes on insomnia. Mine is a fairly new phenomenon, having started back in February after life smacked me in the head with a two by four, but he's had it for years. Even so, he could offer no assistance about how to deal with the frustration of waking up at 3 or 4 a.m. to obsess.

The Belvidere was hopping when we arrived around 715ish, but we managed to snag a booth in the back. Three of the eight wines by the glass were from Washington state (!) and $30 was the highest priced bottle (a Gruner Vetliner). The menu was interesting, with an emphasis on organic, so naturally I ordered a burger and Friend got salmon. Both dishes satisfied and my side of broccoli rabe was especially tasty.

Between the large burger and the cab I was drinking, there was no room for dessert, which prompted our waitress to insist that I return and try the dessert menu. Friend is watching his weight, so he settled for ordering another beer. (Note to locals: PBR on tap).

One of the owners introduced herself and talked about their hopes for making a difference on that block of Broad (near the Rite Aid) and in the west end of Jackson Ward in general. Turns out she loves the neighborhood as much as I do (she's a neighbor of mine, too) so we had loads to talk about. She told us about what a mess the space was when they began and, looking around, it was clear that everything in the restaurant was new.

Got home, we finished the wine, Friend left and then the dog and I headed over to Abner Clay Park, which was hosting the Down Home Family Reunion, for the last part of Jr. Walker's All Star Band's set (yes, Jr.'s been dead for years, but two of the originals added members and carried on).

They were doing classic Motown (Stop! In the Name of Love, Dancin' in the Streets, et al.) and the large crowd was way into it.

The dog and I got comfy and finished our evening laying in the grass listening to music. And this is why I love my life.