All That Glitters

On Richmond theater's high holy night, all I can do is dress up, walk five blocks and settle in for the show.

The scene: the November Theatre for the 10th anniversary of the Richmond Theater Critics Circle Awards, aka the Artsies. To put that in perspective, the Artsies began on the cusp of the new world order: the year the first iPhone was available.

A non-event for me then and now, the difference being I am now a complete anomaly and not just one of the less connected.

A decade on, the Artsies involve blasts of smoke and confetti falling from the ceiling, the constant shrillness of screaming girls next to me (an unearthly pitch that hurt more than the noise of a punk show) and reminders to actors to limit their speeches to one minute.

Please, they're actors.

As it turned out, that was a non-issue because one presenter and eight winners weren't in attendance for a variety of reasons - just moved to NYC, at a rehearsal, couldn't find a sequined tux - so the show just moved along.

Some non-attendees planned ahead, so when "In the Heights" won best musical direction, a stand-in could share, "If you know Ben Miller, you won't be surprised that he sent words to read." Nope, no surprise there.

One of the most hilarious moments came early on when the lovely and talented Georgia Rogers Farmer took the stage to such thundering applause that she had to curtsy and wait for the crowd to settle down, "Please!" she squeaked with her mega-watt smile over an absolutely gorgeous dress, "I'm a professional!"

Cut to row F, seat 5, where I am sitting next to Melissa Johnston Price's best friend from college and in front of Alexander Sapp, tonight's big winner, it turns out.

Having marveled at just about every performance he's ever done, I shouldn't be surprised that he plays an audience member with everything he's got, making him among the loudest at applauding and shouting affirmations when nominees are announced and winners called to the stage.

When he won Best Supporting Actor, he dazzled the crowd with well-deserved praise for the local theater scene, warning newcomers that, "People who come here from New York or Chicago, L.A. or Terre Haute, you better bring your "A" game!"

It was positively inspiring.

Proving that he was worthy of being part of the cast who won Best Acting Ensemble (for "Toxic Avenger," with the entire cast wearing some shade of toxic green) for more than superior acting skills, when Dean Knight won Best Leading Actor (along with the stellar Jeremy Morris for "Top of Bravery") and began praising such unsung heroes as stage managers, Sapp called out, "Dean, you classy guy!"

He then showed his own classy guy cred by praising the other nominees when he won best actor, but only after saying, "Holy shit! Thanks, Richmond, I'm in love with you!"

It's mutual, I'm sure.

Cut to jokes about the longevity of actors in this town - Jill Bari Steinberg admitted to 39 years in theater and Michael Hawke (who couldn't resist tossing out, "Trump is still an asshole!") to 50 years, and you have some idea of how theater talent can thrive here.

When Grey Garrett won best actress in a supporting role for a play for "Rabbit Hole," she immediately began singing the praises of getting to ask a Pulitzer Prize-winning author questions about his play as the cast worked on it.

Cut to Debra Wagoner winning best actress in a leading role/musical for her masterful turn in "The Toxic Avenger" and bringing it down to earth by saying her feet hurt and her contacts were dried out and it had been 10 years since she stood up there to say thank you. Too long.

When Dawn Westbrook won the same award but for a play ("Grand Concourse") she began by saying, "I have just two words: TheatreLab!" and praised the upstart company to high heaven. She then assured the people who had seen the play that the cat was alive and doing great (significant because in the play, it had died due to neglect).

When Nathaniel Saw won for best direction/musical for "In the Heights," he seemed genuinely touched. "This marks one year of me being in Richmond. Thanks for welcoming me into this beautiful community!"

Of all the unexpected presenters, our former first lady, Anne Holton, showed up to deliver the awards for best play and musical (after some mild ribbing about how it feels to lose to a narcissist) to "Grand Concourse" and "In the Heights."

As another year of Richmond theater was brought to a close, all the glamorous people headed across the street to Quirk to celebrate while I made my way home to change out of glitz and into everyday to meet an old friend from D.C. for conversation and laughs, always lots of laughs.

Seven years we've been friends and he still waits until the last minute to alert me that he'll be in town, so I can't help but razz him about that.

I found him in a dark corner at GWAR Bar eating, but convinced him it would be far more pleasant to be outside in the warm, humid October night than in the frigid air conditioning with heavy metal screaming from the speakers. The windows were dripping with condensation from the contrast inside and out.

Call me a good salesman, but it was an easy sell.

Apparently we weren't the only ones looking for night air because Saison Market's patio was full, so we settled for an indoor table until a prime spot opened up outside.

I'll give him this much: he's a master with words (and likes to tell me that he gives better words than any man I know) and not at all shy about teasing me about my "gentlemen callers," as he likes to call this non-existent group, among whom he counts himself.

But his best line came about during a discussion of his older brother, with whom he has a fractious relationship these days.

"I'm the last person to talk to about norms, but I do know what a norm is," he claimed, despite hours discussing the freelancer life we both live. Can't say that I do, but I'm also decades into being non-norm.

Please, I'm a professional.

Up the Waterzooi

Best way to celebrate Belgian independence day (as told by an Irish-American woman):

1. Follow the Belgian flag and a gnome (?) hovering on the roof to Cask for a pop-up by chef Xavier Meers of Brux'l Cafe.

With Broadbent Vino Verde warming up at an alarming rate in this heat wave, we dove into cheese croquettes, garlic scampi, waterzooi of chicken (a traditional Belgian stew), mussels Provencal and a superb veggie salad that included among other things, tomatoes, cantaloupe, watermelon and olives.  Basically, we ate everything on the pop-up menu.

When the chef put in an appearance, we agreed he resembled a Dutch masters painting: curly haired, red cheeked and sturdy of form. Frans Hals or Rembrandt would have painted him.

2. Proceed to Ardent Brewery for Secretly Y'all, Tell Me a Story with tonight's theme "I quit!"

Standing in the back challenged the ears (too far from the storytellers) and patience (too many talkers) but the handsome bartender was complimentary ("Love your hair") and during intermission, we scored seats up front.

Stories ranged from a guy who learned to quit violence after choking a guy into unconsciousness to quitting the church and heroin at the same time to trying to quit life on the Lee bridge after a party in Oregon Hill to an ESL teacher in Henrico who chucked it all to make soap to an ESL teacher in Thailand who inadvertently taught kindergartners to say "sandwich" to a job as building inspector that included finding men having sex in the showers to a Ziplock bag of human poop that required quitting a job to save face to a man who refused to beat up on inmates.

Let's just say there are many ways - and things - to quit. Still deciding what it is I need to let go. I have an idea.

Friends ranged from a gallerist needing an open door to a bartender who gave me crap about quoting her to a wine guru trying to read a book to a yoga teacher questioning my location.

3. Final stop? GWARbar for metal night, the DJ spinning such classic pre-metal gems as Iron Butterfly and April Wine. Tattoos, dreadlocks and piercings abounded, but the Espolon was flowing and the conversation amiable.

Here's to 84 years of independence, Belgium! May I have just as many.

Do You Appreciate My Company?

Sometimes having a fabulous night is purely circumstantial.

The only thing set in stone was an early dinner. My date wanted sushi and I wanted to try the new Akida, recently moved from its long-time Robinson Street location to the Devil's Triangle.

Early as we were, every table was taken so we took up residence at the sushi bar and were soon joined by other stragglers. After both ordering Combo #4, our server brought miso soup within seconds, but the surprise was when one of the sushi chefs handed us each a salad, saying it was with his compliments.

Akida's food never disappoints and tonight's cucumber roll, avocado roll and four chef-selected pieces of sushi - yellowtail, salmon, tuna and mackerel - all tasted amazingly fresh. And who doesn't appreciate a good sinus cavity-cleansing when you take in just a tad too much wasabi?

Much as we wanted to linger over wine, a line had formed at the door for seats and we felt too guilty to camp out. Pity.

Back in Jackson Ward, I made tracks for First Friday.

First stop: ADA gallery for Bruce Wilhelm's "Paintings/Props/Intermediaries," 60 colorful mixed media paintings hanging on a huge wall, related sort of, and not.

Next door at Ghostprint Gallery was "Signes and Symboles," with ethereal work by two female artists I'd seen before, Catherine Brooks and Tifenn Python. The news there was about Ghostprint's upcoming pop-up at the Cookie Factory. I'm looking forward to art on that side of town for a change.

At Candela Gallery's new show, I couldn't get over the sheer number of people (okay, students probably) on their phones rather than looking at Daniel Leivick's striking photographic exhibit, "Heliopolis."

On the couch at the front of the gallery, a couple sat, arms and thighs touching, both staring fixated at their cell phones and exchanging zero conversation. What's the point?

Fortunately, once I made my way to the back gallery, there were plenty of intense-looking student/photographer types peering intently at the satellite photos over which Leivick has inserted images of complex civilizations.

"Ooh, that thing that looks like an ant is a car!" one co-ed squealed after studying a photo from two inches away.

Circumstance delivered me a surprise upon leaving when I heard the most incredible voice coming out of Souleil, a vintage boutique I'd never even noticed before.

Standing against a deep orange partition, a woman was playing guitar and singing, pulling in almost everyone who heard her from the street. Listening, I perused the racks of clothing only to find so many styles and fabrics I remember from the '70s. Granny dress complete with lace? Check. India print tops and dresses? Yup. Maxi skirts? Oh, yea.

At one point, the singer motioned to a guy who'd come in, saying, "You wannna freestyle for the people?" and sure enough, he stepped up and began rapping while she filled in with background song. I stayed through it all.

Heading to Gallery 5, I passed Comfort, where a drummer friend was taking someone's order at a table in the front window and waved at me in recognition. Poor thing, working First Fridays is no fun, I know.

Showing at G5 was "Communication Arts Senior Exhibit," which meant scads of people (even some parents) and a wide-ranging show. Honestly, what surprised me most was that several students had done botanical illustrations for their senior projects. They were exquisite, but who knew kids today were even into that?

Downstairs, I caught part of Manatree's set, enjoying their youthful energy and as always, impressed with their musicianship, obvious pleasure at playing and short, fast songs. Because I've seen them plenty of times, I had no guilt about not staying for their whole set and, besides, I had a new gallery to check out.

30/60/90 had intrigued me from the first time I saw those numbers painted on the door because it gave no clue to what it was. Only after talking to someone did I learn it was a gallery and then I was impressed because it's off the beaten gallery path.

Walking in, the overhead music was loud, the art was eclectic and it reminded me of some of the more DIY galleries that inhabited Brook Road 7 or 8 years ago such as Transmission Gallery.

There was a large sculpture made of lampshade frames with orange yarn and fabric woven over the edges. A pipe in the gallery had been yarn-bombed. A line of ceramic snails made its way along the staircase ledge.

Busy taking in such varied art, I didn't even hear the group arrive, but all of a sudden, a cadre of activists gathered at the front of the gallery holdings signs saying, "#blacklivesmatter" and sequentially began reading a treatise about Baltimore's situation.

Everyone in the room listened and applauded. After they concluded, they disappeared as silently as they'd come.

I'd decided to make a pit stop at GWAR Bar since it was practically next door and I figured the odds were low that it would be inundated with suburban art walkers since they rarely like loud metal offending their delicate eardrums.

It was busier than I expected, but not so much so I didn't find a stool and order Espolon easily.

The guy in the next stool said hello and dramatically laid his hand palm down on the bar next to me. Unsure if this an international symbol for something with which I was not familiar, I did the same. What's up with that, mister?

"Just checking your marital status," he explained, grinning widely. "So you're not married?" So you're not blind?

Conversation revealed that he'd been there already for hours, having come from work, but he also lives in the neighborhood, so he considers GWAR Bar his hangout bar. That seems to be true of most of the men I've met there.

Maybe it was all that after-work drinking, but it took him no time at all to begin steering the conversation to men and women, the pitfalls of dating, the importance of not waiting too long to have sex in a relationship and a dozen other topics he needed to get off his chest.

When he asked me, apropos of nothing, if I liked wine, I naturally said yes, not seeing the landmine I was stepping in. I deflected his invitation by explaining that I was going to a show shortly and he departed soon after.

That left me to sip my Espolon and watch the movie playing on the screen over the bar. I had no idea what it was, so when a guy took the stool next to me, I asked.

He looked at me incredulously, saying, "It's 'Dawn Till Dusk,' a Quentin Tarantino movie. It's really old." Of course I had to ask what he considered really old. "Mid-nineties. I was in, like fifth grade and I'm in my mid 30s now. Look how young George Clooney is," he said.

Oh, I'd already picked up on that (35 can be a really attractive age for men).

My new friend introduced himself as Jay and after shaking my hand, turned to the bartender. "She's never seen 'Dawn Till Dusk," he marveled. Minutes later, as a bloodbath erupted on the screen, he leaned in and warned me that we were coming up on the ending.

It was a good thing because I was tired of seeing people explode.

Naturally he had to ask why I hadn't seen it (I don't know, better movies to see in 1996?), amazed that I don't watch movies on TV. Knowing I could top that, I said I didn't have a cell phone and his jaw dropped.

That was a ten-minute conversation, but it finished satisfyingly, with him acknowledging, "I get it, you want to be in control of being bothered." Bingo.

He, too, said GWAR Bar is his bar, so when I left for the show, we shook hands, knowing we may very well see each other there again.

Back at Gallery 5, I caught the last five songs of Claire Morgan's set, wedging myself through the huge crowd to enjoy their well-crafted songs. I swear, they get better every time I see them.

Next up was Brooklyn's Ava Luna and while they set up, I scanned the crowd, always a source of entertainment.

One guy had on a t-shirt with the last two lines of Keats' "Ode to a Grecian Urn" on it.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth and all ye need to know

One guy had on a red satin KTVO jacket. Another guy had on a hoodie, the back reading, "Start jumping out of planes," with a drawing of bodies splattered on the ground.

I spotted the VCU professor I shared a few dates with 13 years ago. I recall introducing him to tequila and him not handling it very well. I waved hello and found a spot across the room.

Ava Luna (two girls, three guys) came out looking like your usual indie rock outfit with two guitars, bass, keys and drums. Right off the bat, they got major points for having three vocalists and the slinkiest of grooves.

It was soon apparent that Ava Luna's sound was heavily soul-influenced and the crowd responded by grooving in place almost constantly. Really, it was impossible not to.

Behind me, I overheard a guy observe, "It's like dirty hippie prom music," but he looked to be about 28, so I'm not sure he knew from dirty hippies.

What I heard was more Prince-influenced with front man Carlos invoking the master with his falsetto and smooth delivery while a distinctive bass line carried him along. But just when I thought I had them pegged as neo-soul, they threw me for a loop.

Melding post-punk, almost jazz-like elements, terrific harmonies, high drama and abrupt tempo changes, this was a band that was constantly surprising the crowd, who loved it. The way this quintet played off each other screamed talent and practice.

One thing that occurred to me was that no one in Richmond sounds anything like these guys. Which is a shame, because I was crazy about what I was hearing.

Late in the set, I spotted a drummer friend and his wife, who looked to be enjoying Ava Luna as much as I was. Joining them, we marveled that this was a free show.

They said that this was their second time seeing the band and they'd been blown away the first time just like me. They were just so good at what they were doing.

Ah, but my friend had intel about that. Seems that Carlos' Dad had been a soul DJ back in the '70s, so he'd grown up with this music.That explained a lot.

When the band said it was their last song and then they'd be at the merch table, my friend said, "Uh-uh, this won't be your last song." It was clear that the audience wouldn't accept that.

Sure enough, they left the stage, the canned music came up and the crowd yelled "one more song" until they returned, already halfway to the table by the time they realized.

"Usually when the house music come on, people just disperse," Carlos said from the stage. "Not Richmond."

Indeed. They played us one more song that ended with chanting and dissonance but still felt soulful before heading to the merch table and effectively ending the night.

I headed in the same direction, intent on buying a CD, only to find a line already formed. A guy came up to Carlos, telling him he couldn't find the band's van outside. "Never mind, I'll deal with that later." Looking at me, he said, "I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment."

I bet. After I bought my CD, I raved about their sound and asked about his Dad.

"Yea, he was a soul DJ." he said smiling and shrugging his shoulders. "So my music's circumstantial."

No more so than that it was at the ninth place I wound up tonight that I got lost in some of the finest grooves I've heard in ages. I call that hella good circumstances.

A Woman Young and Old*

It's hard to explain what a few hours of snow does to the extroverted self-employed.

Don't get me wrong, I love seeing snow start falling from the sky shortly after returning from my walk not long after 1:00 in the afternoon. I enjoy it all the more for listening to husband and wife duo Tennis all afternoon. Their indie neo-soul aesthetic is a female-driven sound that speaks to me.

Just when I think that you're mine
You start to slip away
But your love is divide
You know I'm coming for you

But I'm also that person who begins to chafe and sweat at the idea of being trapped at home for days. Yes, I have a great book, plenty of food and the ability to walk, but the fact is, I want company. Give me humans.

Which is why it's barely 4:15 when I head out, umbrella in hand (to the consternation of Canucks everywhere), determined to find company, alcohol and food. The snow is coming down in earnest but that's part of the appeal of the walk.

Stop one is Saison Market for a glass of Cava and the chance to read Atlantic Monthly while Beach House's Teen Dream  plays. While "Take Care of You" pours out of the speakers, I chat with the guy next to me who is writing in a notebook while he sips a beer. Unlike me, he's too young to appreciate the lyrics.

Promptly at 5:00, I shoulder on my coat to cross the brief distance to Saison where I find a group of MCV dental students and a glass of Prosecco with my name on it. Animal Collective's "Summertime Clothes" is playing and everything is right with the world.

If only I were wearing summertime clothes, maybe a sundress or something equally lightweight and adorable. Instead, snow is pouring down outside and I am wearing multiple layers to deal with the cold. I am most definitely not a cold weather person.

One of the dental students is celebrating a birthday and clinks glasses with me, having just come from Sam Miller's and multiple Long Island iced teas. I marvel that one so seemingly clueless will soon be in charge of strangers' teeth.

Fortunately, I soon have superior company and a plate of fried chicken. Usually a Sunday night special, tonight's fried chicken appearance is a special due to the snow, along with sides of corn bread and black beans and rice with sausage.

Perhaps the most pleasant part of it all is how uncrowded the dining room is and that most of its occupants are Jackson Ward residents. If you're here, you walked to get here. Howdy, neighbor.

But all good things must come to an end and they want to close so their employees can get home safely. Fortunately, my dining companion had noted that GWAR Bar was open when he walked over. It's enough incentive to trudge over in the still-falling snow.

On the way, I spot a favorite couple through the window of their J-Ward condo and wave under my umbrella until they come to the door and say hello. Turns out they have already been to Max's for the same reason I was at Saison.

It's a meager crowd we find at GWAR Bar despite the open sign and blasting metal soundtrack. With an apologetic look, the bartender tells us they're about to close. Fair enough, but she agrees to serve us one round.

Midway through that round, a favorite gallerist arrives with his wife and we are soon deep in discussion of upcoming events at his gallery. Next thing I know, he has sent over a bourbon shot for me, despite the fact that I don't drink bourbon. Meanwhile the door keeps opening with others seeking warmth and spirits.

All of a sudden, the evening has taken a turn. I shouldn't be surprised given that we're at GWAR Bar.

With people continuing to arrive, the bartender has abandoned any hope of closing early. We're all in it for the long haul. Snow changes the rules.

Before long, the art teacher and her newly-shorn beau arrive and wave from across the bar. It's beginning to look like anyone who lives within trudging distance is here. Outside, everyone in the neighborhood who has a dog is out walking it.

One of my favorite newcomers is a Puerto Rican with a laptop who is experiencing his first major snowfall since moving here a year ago. He is amazed at the city's reaction to snow. "I've seen hurricanes that are much worse than this," he claims. No doubt, but this is a weather wimp town.

Outside the big windows, the snow continues to fall steadily, a sure indicator that we will indeed have 8-10 inches by lunch time tomorrow if it keeps up. I love the snow but hate what it will do to my social life and desire for company this week.

The only good part is that I've had great fun on the opening night of Snowmageddon week. It's a good thing, too, since it may have to last me all week.

Who am I kidding? I'll find someone somewhere who wants to see me tomorrow night and the next, even if they're strangers.

I've been told an optimist's company is always welcome. Let's see if that holds true in the snow.
(*W.B. Yeats)