The solemnity of today required a little humor.
And by solemnity, I'm not just talking about a major car repair that took two days to complete and more money than I want to think about, I'm talking about the tragic news that the final Beetle that Volkswagen will ever make rolled off the assembly line today.
Can we just have a moment for my first car - a '66 blue Beetle - and its place in shaping who I am today? I mean, what kind of world are we leaving future generations if no more Beetles are being made?
RIP, Bug.
Add in that Mac's still a bit jet-lagged since her return from Scotland, and neither of us was feeling up to anything heavy tonight. So when trying to decide what movie to see, "Late Night" beat out other films such as "Shaft" and "Last Black Man in San Francisco," which would have required more brain reserves than we had.
Truthfully, I wanted it for Emma Thompson and she wanted it for Mindy Kaling, so we were a match made in heaven.
We started at Goatocado since she'd never been (eating at their food truck didn't count) and I'm such a fan. I'm embarrassed to admit that we ate indoors, a fact attributable on my part to all the walking I'd had to do in the hot afternoon sun and on her part to having been at work since 7 a.m.
She surprised me by ordering the ramen - which I'd never even noticed they had on the menu - while I did my usual Californian: flatbread stuffed with black beans, apples, corn, greens and avocado with a chipotle/pineapple dressing, which I proceeded to wolf down as if I'd been on the run all day. Oh, wait...
Then it was on to Criterion to see a film about sexism in the workplace, ageism, double standards, affirmative action and, central to the story, the dumbing down of entertainment in the YouTube/Twitter age of short attention spans and disdain for depth. Why have Doris Kearns Goodwin as a guest when you can have the latest YouTube sensation?
And while any one of those issues is enough to cause apoplexy, at least they were dealt with in a clever, comedic manner.
Better still, it was a comedy written by Mindy Kaling (whom, it turns out, Mac follows on Instagram) who had firsthand knowledge of being a woman in a male-dominated writing staff from her time writing for "The Office."
Only a woman writes a line like, "My Spanx have cut off the blood supply to my head" or "I am a 56 year old woman who's not had a baby and never seen a superhero movie." Need more proof? Only a woman would have her character bring cupcakes to her first staff meeting on her first day of work.
Not to go too far with this estrogen tangent, but both Emma and Mindy's wardrobes (and shoes) were also fabulously unique, albeit in completely different ways that any one of the seven - count 'em -women in the theater could appreciate.
Because of course it was a female audience, although I'm betting I'm the only one of them who's never seen a superhero movie.
Or, more importantly, had a window box full of plants in the back of her blue VW bug.
Showing posts with label Goatocado. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Goatocado. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
Thursday, June 13, 2019
A Firefly Never Forgets
I had a new recruit today, but not in the war between Freedonia and Sylvania.
Okay, not so much a recruit, per se, but a friend who'd been trying to schedule a walk with me for months, maybe even over a year by now. Problem was she broke her foot and that took a while to mend and then the fellowship that spawned a video filmed at the Bay of Fundy opened at the ICA and then another film project debuted at the Depot...you get the picture.
It was beginning to feel like it was never going to happen and then she reached out and we had compatible mornings free and we finally walked together. And on a gloriously cool June morning, too.
Naturally, I led her right down to the river, knowing full well that our chances of getting on the pipeline were nil. Two days ago, the only way I'd been able to get on it from the Brown's Island side had been by scrambling over a boulder and then propelling myself forward onto the pipeline and we'd had even more rain since then. It was much worse today with the entire western end under rushing water, but I wanted her to see it anyway.
We compensated by backtracking, taking the canal walk and picking up the pipeline walkway from the eastern end. I knew she "got" it when she marveled, "It's like walking on water."
Yes, indeed, that's exactly what it's like.
Since she'd already taken a yoga class before she met me, by the time we came off the pipeline, she admitted that her legs were feeling the walk. I've no doubt they felt it even more on the next part, which is a series of hills back up to Broad Street. Rest assured, since this was our first shared walk, I made sure to point out interesting things urban, historical, artistic and natural (she was thrilled that we saw two great blue herons) along the way as a distraction.
"You're part trainer, part field guide," she marveled. I'd call that one of my more unique compliments.
And if I was cheating on Mac walking with another woman, I made it up by meeting her at the Byrd to watch four Jews trying to get a laugh. And lest you think I said that, I can assure you that was Groucho Marx's response to those who questioned the political significance of "Duck Soup."
And while he denied it, Mussolini banned the film from showing in Italy because he thought it was an attack on him. I have to say, the anti-Fascist message came across as pretty timely in 2019 as well. Sadly.
Waiting outside for Mac to arrive, I saw guy after guy approach the box office to get a single ticket. One guy cracked wise, requesting, "One for the soup du jour, please." Clearly the Marx Brothers are big with the Y-chromosome set.
Mac and I had barely settled into our seats when a very tall man sat down in front of us, scrunched waaay down in his eat and turned to ask us if he was blocking our views. We politely said no, all the while wondering why he didn't sit somewhere he didn't have to scrunch. I mean, his legs were almost under his chin. When Mac returned with popcorn and Milk Duds, he began making crazy motions with his hand, then got up and left, never to be seen again.
You can always count on a little weirdness at the Byrd.
Manager Todd began the evening by asking if seeing "Duck Soup" tonight would be anyone's first Marx Brothers movie and, amazingly, about a dozen people raised their hands. When he asked who was a Marx Brothers fan, easily half the large crowd roared back in affirmation.
One fun fact he shared was that "duck soup" used to be slang for something easy to do, news to me.
The movie began with a screen reading, "NRA Member. We do our part," followed by the Paramount logo. Kind of disturbing, but maybe not so much in 1933.
I've got no idea when I last saw "Duck Soup" but my best guess would be in college. Back then, my boyfriend and I were very into Woody Allen and it was common knowledge what a huge Marx Brothers fan he was. So I had no memory of what the film was about, although it came back to me as the film progressed.
Interestingly, one of the seminal scenes, which Todd had mentioned, was the mirror scene where Groucho and Harpo mime each other as if they're looking in a mirror. Long before I ever saw "Duck Soup," I'd seen the "I Love Lucy" episode where Lucy does the same thing with Harpo even though it took until college to understand the reference.
Okay, so Lucy and Harpo weren't the first to do it.
One of the most charming parts of watching the movie unfold was the reaction of the children in the audience, who laughed uproariously at so much of it. The scenes of Chico and Harpo taunting the lemonade stand guy - setting his hats on fire, putting their feet in his vat of lemonade - sent them into fits of giggles you could hear throughout the theater.
As a trainer and field guide, it was the puns and word nerd humor that set me off.
Mrs. T: Notables from every country are gathered here in your honor. This is a gala day for you.
Groucho: Well, a gal a day is enough for me. I don't think I could handle any more.
Let's face it, laughing at the Marx Brothers is duck soup.
Okay, not so much a recruit, per se, but a friend who'd been trying to schedule a walk with me for months, maybe even over a year by now. Problem was she broke her foot and that took a while to mend and then the fellowship that spawned a video filmed at the Bay of Fundy opened at the ICA and then another film project debuted at the Depot...you get the picture.
It was beginning to feel like it was never going to happen and then she reached out and we had compatible mornings free and we finally walked together. And on a gloriously cool June morning, too.
Naturally, I led her right down to the river, knowing full well that our chances of getting on the pipeline were nil. Two days ago, the only way I'd been able to get on it from the Brown's Island side had been by scrambling over a boulder and then propelling myself forward onto the pipeline and we'd had even more rain since then. It was much worse today with the entire western end under rushing water, but I wanted her to see it anyway.
We compensated by backtracking, taking the canal walk and picking up the pipeline walkway from the eastern end. I knew she "got" it when she marveled, "It's like walking on water."
Yes, indeed, that's exactly what it's like.
Since she'd already taken a yoga class before she met me, by the time we came off the pipeline, she admitted that her legs were feeling the walk. I've no doubt they felt it even more on the next part, which is a series of hills back up to Broad Street. Rest assured, since this was our first shared walk, I made sure to point out interesting things urban, historical, artistic and natural (she was thrilled that we saw two great blue herons) along the way as a distraction.
"You're part trainer, part field guide," she marveled. I'd call that one of my more unique compliments.
And if I was cheating on Mac walking with another woman, I made it up by meeting her at the Byrd to watch four Jews trying to get a laugh. And lest you think I said that, I can assure you that was Groucho Marx's response to those who questioned the political significance of "Duck Soup."
And while he denied it, Mussolini banned the film from showing in Italy because he thought it was an attack on him. I have to say, the anti-Fascist message came across as pretty timely in 2019 as well. Sadly.
Waiting outside for Mac to arrive, I saw guy after guy approach the box office to get a single ticket. One guy cracked wise, requesting, "One for the soup du jour, please." Clearly the Marx Brothers are big with the Y-chromosome set.
Mac and I had barely settled into our seats when a very tall man sat down in front of us, scrunched waaay down in his eat and turned to ask us if he was blocking our views. We politely said no, all the while wondering why he didn't sit somewhere he didn't have to scrunch. I mean, his legs were almost under his chin. When Mac returned with popcorn and Milk Duds, he began making crazy motions with his hand, then got up and left, never to be seen again.
You can always count on a little weirdness at the Byrd.
Manager Todd began the evening by asking if seeing "Duck Soup" tonight would be anyone's first Marx Brothers movie and, amazingly, about a dozen people raised their hands. When he asked who was a Marx Brothers fan, easily half the large crowd roared back in affirmation.
One fun fact he shared was that "duck soup" used to be slang for something easy to do, news to me.
The movie began with a screen reading, "NRA Member. We do our part," followed by the Paramount logo. Kind of disturbing, but maybe not so much in 1933.
I've got no idea when I last saw "Duck Soup" but my best guess would be in college. Back then, my boyfriend and I were very into Woody Allen and it was common knowledge what a huge Marx Brothers fan he was. So I had no memory of what the film was about, although it came back to me as the film progressed.
Interestingly, one of the seminal scenes, which Todd had mentioned, was the mirror scene where Groucho and Harpo mime each other as if they're looking in a mirror. Long before I ever saw "Duck Soup," I'd seen the "I Love Lucy" episode where Lucy does the same thing with Harpo even though it took until college to understand the reference.
Okay, so Lucy and Harpo weren't the first to do it.
One of the most charming parts of watching the movie unfold was the reaction of the children in the audience, who laughed uproariously at so much of it. The scenes of Chico and Harpo taunting the lemonade stand guy - setting his hats on fire, putting their feet in his vat of lemonade - sent them into fits of giggles you could hear throughout the theater.
As a trainer and field guide, it was the puns and word nerd humor that set me off.
Mrs. T: Notables from every country are gathered here in your honor. This is a gala day for you.
Groucho: Well, a gal a day is enough for me. I don't think I could handle any more.
Let's face it, laughing at the Marx Brothers is duck soup.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Worlds Colliding
This is an evening for people who love all forms of music and are most excited to see something unlike anything else out there. If you're a true music fan, you're not going to want to miss it.
~ RVA Mag "Shows you must see this week."
Tell me something I didn't already know.
I mean, how could you call yourself a music fan and not jump on an intimate show of a string quartet performing selections from Trey Pollard's new album "Antiphones?"
Throw in that hometown-boy-made-good Matthew E. White was opening and it was a benefit for Classical Revolution RVA and you'd have to be a musical fool not to snap up tickets early. And I'm no fool, or at least, no musical fool.
Besides, despite being strangers, Trey and I go way back. I'd seen Foxygen at the National last year, the same Foxygen who'd had Trey do the arrangements for the album, which is why I went (that and local musicians backing them on said arrangements). I was part of the enthusiastic audiences that saw him play as part of Ombak at Balliceaux in 2010 and 2014. That's right, I saw him backing Lydia Ooghe at Live at Ipanema in 2010, a cozy and memorable show. Back in 2011, I'd not only heard jazz sextet Old New Things do Trey's "Americana" at the Camel, but met a middle-aged man who'd recently begun taking guitar lessons from Trey and bragged about it to me, a stranger. Heck, in 2016, he'd been part of the appeal of hearing the Scott Clark Other Other 4-tet in the dim light of the Gypsy Tea Room. For that matter, there was the time I saw him as part of the Matt White hometown show at Strange Matter touring behind Matt's "Big Love" album just when it was breaking huge. And let's not forget the Richmond Symphony Pops performance in 2017 where Trey wrote the arrangements for all the performers - Tim Barry, Bio Ritmo, Clair Morgan - and I was in the nosebleeds for them all.
But if you really want to drill down, I was at the Listening Room in April 2010 when he'd been playing pedal steel instead of his usual guitar and found myself too curious not to go up to him afterward. Music novice that I am, I'd asked him about it and been surprised when he admitted that the instrument was new to him, so it still required every bit of concentration he had.
Who knew anything musical was ever difficult for Trey Pollard?
All of that's just a long way of saying that seeing the RVA Mag piece after I'd gotten tickets for last night's birthday week fundraiser for Classical Revolution RVA was just validation that I'd made the right call.
Not that I need validation, mind you, but it's always a nice bonus.
After dinner at Goatocado - me with a Californian, Mr. Wright with a Mediterranean - you can be sure we arrived moments after the doors opened so I could have my choice of seats (second row, center, behind family members in the front row) for an evening with Spacebomb founder Matt and longtime collaborator Trey.
Spotting the usual suspects - the DJ I'd just seen at "La Dolce Vita," the Bridgepark mastermind, assorted local musicians - I somehow managed to miss a favorite girlfriend who messaged me this morning, saying she'd seen me before the show and then I'd disappeared. How we missed each other, I'm not quite sure.
Next to me was a young couple, sounding new to each other because they were sharing their musical tastes. She explained that her taste was eclectic, although she couldn't abide country and he listened politely as she told him how much more music there was where she came from than here. Still, they agreed, Richmond was getting better and they were hoping they hadn't made a bad choice in coming tonight.
I didn't have the time or inclination for some real talk with them.
Matt came out and sat down at the piano with the uber-talented Alan Parker on guitar, explaining that it had been only last night when he'd asked Alan to accompany him. That's some serious chops right there. He then proceeded to play some of his new hushed and soulful songs, his back to the room because of the piano's placement.
"I was gonna tell a Trey story between every song - I've known Trey half my life - but I decided not to," he joked at the start, a shame for those of us who love a good yarn. His song about the current dictator in the White House was entitled "No Future in Our Frontman" and got a resounding round of applause, as much for the song's urgency as its message.
If not our musicians and artists speaking out against this abomination-in-chief, then who?
Eventually, Matt relented and shared a favorite Trey story, telling us how, as a teenager, his Virginia Beach guitar teacher was always holding up Trey as the local guitar pinnacle, which was meaningless because Matt had no idea who he was. At least he didn't until he realized that the cheesy Norfolk restaurant where he was hosting had a weekly band consisting of old guys playing rock and roll covers with one young guy shredding mightily on guitar.
Matt, meet Trey.
The string quintet - two violins, viola, cello and upright bass - joined Matt for the last couple of songs, with Trey warning the room that they'd not rehearsed together for this. But these were classical musicians and pros, and they nailed his arrangements, adding an incredibly lush note to Matt's music.
They were so good, in fact, that after the final note, Matt turned to them and Trey looking terribly impressed. "Hey, that was pretty good, Trey!" he marveled since he had just heard the arrangements for the first time, too.
Apparently when you've known someone nearly all your musical life, arranging for their songs is no big deal, or at least it isn't for someone as talented as Trey.
After a brief intermission, the string quintet returned to play selections from Trey's "Preludes and Fugues for String Quartet," a series of short pieces that delivered various moods and musical expectations, only to take off in a direction that felt fresher than any string quartet music you can remember hearing.
Trey introduced the musicians, then took up a spot standing off in a corner as they played.
Like an expectant father being asked to witness his baby's delivery, Trey's focus involved listening intently to the quintet while staring down with his eyes covered or up at the ceiling, at least until his young son approached him, arms extended. Trey took in the rest of the performance with his son's head nestled in his Daddy's neck. It was incredibly sweet.
But so was being on the second floor of the Hof with a small crowd of music lovers listening to homegrown Richmond music about to be released to the world. These guys represent Richmond impressively well and anyone who knew about the show and chose not to come had missed out.
Trey and the Classical Revolution musicians got a much-deserved and extended standing ovation and every time they tried to stop bowing and leave, the clapping kicked into a higher gear. Safe to say, everyone there knew they'd witnessed something extraordinary.
Making our way out, I ran smack into the handsomest bass player I know, surprising both of us since it had been a while and I'd missed his annual Halloween extravaganza because I'd been at a black tie gala dancing to "Brick House" instead of at his house.
"As I live and breathe, Karen Newton!" he exclaimed, hugging me while holding his wife's violin off to the side.
Just another part of a stellar evening I wouldn't have wanted to miss. As the DJ and I agreed, there was absolutely nowhere better to be in Richmond this Tuesday night.
P.S. Happy sixth birthday, Classical Revolution. Helluva celebration.
~ RVA Mag "Shows you must see this week."
Tell me something I didn't already know.
I mean, how could you call yourself a music fan and not jump on an intimate show of a string quartet performing selections from Trey Pollard's new album "Antiphones?"
Throw in that hometown-boy-made-good Matthew E. White was opening and it was a benefit for Classical Revolution RVA and you'd have to be a musical fool not to snap up tickets early. And I'm no fool, or at least, no musical fool.
Besides, despite being strangers, Trey and I go way back. I'd seen Foxygen at the National last year, the same Foxygen who'd had Trey do the arrangements for the album, which is why I went (that and local musicians backing them on said arrangements). I was part of the enthusiastic audiences that saw him play as part of Ombak at Balliceaux in 2010 and 2014. That's right, I saw him backing Lydia Ooghe at Live at Ipanema in 2010, a cozy and memorable show. Back in 2011, I'd not only heard jazz sextet Old New Things do Trey's "Americana" at the Camel, but met a middle-aged man who'd recently begun taking guitar lessons from Trey and bragged about it to me, a stranger. Heck, in 2016, he'd been part of the appeal of hearing the Scott Clark Other Other 4-tet in the dim light of the Gypsy Tea Room. For that matter, there was the time I saw him as part of the Matt White hometown show at Strange Matter touring behind Matt's "Big Love" album just when it was breaking huge. And let's not forget the Richmond Symphony Pops performance in 2017 where Trey wrote the arrangements for all the performers - Tim Barry, Bio Ritmo, Clair Morgan - and I was in the nosebleeds for them all.
But if you really want to drill down, I was at the Listening Room in April 2010 when he'd been playing pedal steel instead of his usual guitar and found myself too curious not to go up to him afterward. Music novice that I am, I'd asked him about it and been surprised when he admitted that the instrument was new to him, so it still required every bit of concentration he had.
Who knew anything musical was ever difficult for Trey Pollard?
All of that's just a long way of saying that seeing the RVA Mag piece after I'd gotten tickets for last night's birthday week fundraiser for Classical Revolution RVA was just validation that I'd made the right call.
Not that I need validation, mind you, but it's always a nice bonus.
After dinner at Goatocado - me with a Californian, Mr. Wright with a Mediterranean - you can be sure we arrived moments after the doors opened so I could have my choice of seats (second row, center, behind family members in the front row) for an evening with Spacebomb founder Matt and longtime collaborator Trey.
Spotting the usual suspects - the DJ I'd just seen at "La Dolce Vita," the Bridgepark mastermind, assorted local musicians - I somehow managed to miss a favorite girlfriend who messaged me this morning, saying she'd seen me before the show and then I'd disappeared. How we missed each other, I'm not quite sure.
Next to me was a young couple, sounding new to each other because they were sharing their musical tastes. She explained that her taste was eclectic, although she couldn't abide country and he listened politely as she told him how much more music there was where she came from than here. Still, they agreed, Richmond was getting better and they were hoping they hadn't made a bad choice in coming tonight.
I didn't have the time or inclination for some real talk with them.
Matt came out and sat down at the piano with the uber-talented Alan Parker on guitar, explaining that it had been only last night when he'd asked Alan to accompany him. That's some serious chops right there. He then proceeded to play some of his new hushed and soulful songs, his back to the room because of the piano's placement.
"I was gonna tell a Trey story between every song - I've known Trey half my life - but I decided not to," he joked at the start, a shame for those of us who love a good yarn. His song about the current dictator in the White House was entitled "No Future in Our Frontman" and got a resounding round of applause, as much for the song's urgency as its message.
If not our musicians and artists speaking out against this abomination-in-chief, then who?
Eventually, Matt relented and shared a favorite Trey story, telling us how, as a teenager, his Virginia Beach guitar teacher was always holding up Trey as the local guitar pinnacle, which was meaningless because Matt had no idea who he was. At least he didn't until he realized that the cheesy Norfolk restaurant where he was hosting had a weekly band consisting of old guys playing rock and roll covers with one young guy shredding mightily on guitar.
Matt, meet Trey.
The string quintet - two violins, viola, cello and upright bass - joined Matt for the last couple of songs, with Trey warning the room that they'd not rehearsed together for this. But these were classical musicians and pros, and they nailed his arrangements, adding an incredibly lush note to Matt's music.
They were so good, in fact, that after the final note, Matt turned to them and Trey looking terribly impressed. "Hey, that was pretty good, Trey!" he marveled since he had just heard the arrangements for the first time, too.
Apparently when you've known someone nearly all your musical life, arranging for their songs is no big deal, or at least it isn't for someone as talented as Trey.
After a brief intermission, the string quintet returned to play selections from Trey's "Preludes and Fugues for String Quartet," a series of short pieces that delivered various moods and musical expectations, only to take off in a direction that felt fresher than any string quartet music you can remember hearing.
Trey introduced the musicians, then took up a spot standing off in a corner as they played.
Like an expectant father being asked to witness his baby's delivery, Trey's focus involved listening intently to the quintet while staring down with his eyes covered or up at the ceiling, at least until his young son approached him, arms extended. Trey took in the rest of the performance with his son's head nestled in his Daddy's neck. It was incredibly sweet.
But so was being on the second floor of the Hof with a small crowd of music lovers listening to homegrown Richmond music about to be released to the world. These guys represent Richmond impressively well and anyone who knew about the show and chose not to come had missed out.
Trey and the Classical Revolution musicians got a much-deserved and extended standing ovation and every time they tried to stop bowing and leave, the clapping kicked into a higher gear. Safe to say, everyone there knew they'd witnessed something extraordinary.
Making our way out, I ran smack into the handsomest bass player I know, surprising both of us since it had been a while and I'd missed his annual Halloween extravaganza because I'd been at a black tie gala dancing to "Brick House" instead of at his house.
"As I live and breathe, Karen Newton!" he exclaimed, hugging me while holding his wife's violin off to the side.
Just another part of a stellar evening I wouldn't have wanted to miss. As the DJ and I agreed, there was absolutely nowhere better to be in Richmond this Tuesday night.
P.S. Happy sixth birthday, Classical Revolution. Helluva celebration.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
A Leg Up
So maybe I wasn't the very last person invited. Maybe I was just one of the last.
All I know is that when I got home from the beach at midnight last night, there was an invitation to Style Weekly's Best of party at Hardywood awaiting me. As a token of their appreciation for my hard work writing for the issue, two bands (Upper East Side Big Band and Photosynthesizers), lots of local restaurants and beer could all be mine, if I said the word.
I said yes, figuring I'd know a few people, go early and stay just as long as I chose to. Walking out of my apartment, the new guy next door sitting on his porch smiled and gave me an approving nod. "You look really great. Got a hot date?"
Not that I know of. P.S: Second oldest line in the book.
At Hardywood, the party was just starting, so I set out to mingle. I was talking to a restaurant owner about the double whammy of Broad Appetit and today's event, munching on Pasture's ham, pickle and pimento cheese roll, when I heard a familiar voice behind me saying, "I need to say hello to those legs."
You just never know who you're going to run into out of the blue or what's been going on in their life since you saw them last (a tumultuous relationship that didn't sound like much fun and was already over), but it was like old times listening to him critique all the dishes we sampled as we talked.
He was surprised to see I wasn't drinking, having forgotten I don't drink beer. In fact, the first time we hung out over a three-hour conversation, he'd e-mailed me when he got home with a fine compliment: "You'd be perfect if you drank beer." Not true, but flattering.
My friend and former neighbor, the councilman, introduced me to the owner of Paradise Garage, so I got to hear about his fabulous fundraiser parties. Maybe now my invitation will show up in the mail. When we went to try Torero Tapas Bar and Grill's paella, one of the chefs turned out to be a familiar face from another restaurant I frequent.
At the Alamo table, I asked for a sample of everything (although my hands-down favorite is that cowboy caviar) and looked around to see a disappointed-looking singer I've met before. Poor man doesn't eat pork and was having a devil of a time finding anything else at the party. This is a pig-centric town, after all.
Not shy, I didn't hesitate to ask the Alamo server if he had anything non-pig and sure enough, he got barbecued chicken for him from the back. Never hurts to ask...or to score points with a musician
Upper East Side Big Band was playing when I arrived so I caught most of their set, unsurprisingly a lot of clever arrangements of Beatles' songs ("Something" to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"), and then later, part of Photosynthesizers' set as well. I was honestly amazed at how few people were in the room listening to music at any given time.
It was the photographer I'd first met at the "Man Meat" dinner seven years ago who steered me to Goatacado, where, against his advice, I skipped over the Athena for the Mountain Tropp, a killer bowl of warm quinoa, arugula, smoked Gouda, avocado, black beans, plus apple and sweet corn pico de gallo in lime mango sauce.
Apparently I looked like I was enjoying the hell out of it (true story) because twice strangers came over and asked what I was eating because it looked so good. I sent them straight to the goat.
I decided I'd had enough savory to earn my sweet, a chocolate sea salt pop from King of Pops (the guy who handed it to me agreed). I carried it inside, letting it soften, and ran into the talented and energetic actor/singer I'd come to see here Saturday night.
We talked about that show for a minute and he started razzing me about being at Hardywood so often. "Want a beer?" he said, laughing and already knowing the answer. "Gotta ask!"
Outside, I saw a patient Mom occupying her two little ones with the cornhole boxes and before long, her youngest was smiling at me and trying to impress me with his toddler moves. It was very sweet. Then his hip father steps over to speak to me and says, "Are you still doing your blog?"
Hello! Once again, my past had shown up at the party. This time it was a musician I'd met seven or eight years ago when he'd been in a band I'd really liked. I'd interviewed them, been to plenty of their shows but hadn't seen him in eons. Apparently he'd been busy in that interim.
Just as I decided to leave, a friend insisted I try a beer that had been brewed with a wine component, something still in development, but he was praising it for its integration of the two. Couldn't I taste that? I'll take my wine straight, thanks, although not at Hardywood.
Walking to my car, I realized I'd had a far better time at the party than I'd expected, but then who doesn't like getting reacquainted when it comes with sides of compliments and dinner invitations?
Leaving behind that crowd, my next destination was the great outdoors for live music. It's the first of this series I'd made it to this year, despite frequent attendance the last two years.
Plenty of people had brought blankets (a lot of the Indian print kind we all had in college) and beer (although the girl next to me forgot an opener. Duh), but not me. I found a wooden bench with a good view of the band and got comfortable, scanning the grass for my people. Before long, the organizer came over to say hello and update me on the band tour he's been working on as a roadie.
One thing I noticed right away was that the crowd was larger and more diverse age-wise than it had been in the past, a good thing. Since the organizers insist on no social media about the event, it looks like their goal of community building in real life is working. Hooray for the old ways.
The dance party king showed up and we commiserated about the (possible) loss of Balliceaux. I was certain he'd also been there that last night but I hadn't laid eyes on him. Sure enough, he'd been just as bummed as I was about the loss to the scene
I was happy to see the world travelers arrive, also recently back from their own tour. She thanked me kindly for the blog post about her outdoor birthday party, a laid back and enjoyable night with a potluck supper, a campfire, music on cassette and wide-ranging conversation. I thanked her for providing great fodder for me to write about, not to mention a thoroughly pleasant evening outdoors.
When they didn't recognize the band, Manatree, they asked who it was. "Man, they're babies!" my lanky friend said. If they looked like babies to him, they should have looked like embryos to me.
But of course, they don't because I've seen them plenty of times, although never unplugged like they were in the park tonight. There were even times when the annoying stage-whispering and laughing of self-involved twits near me all but drowned out their voices, guitars, fiddle, flute and tambourine. Only the drum beat out the rudeness.
Do I need to get back on my soap box about talkers not ruining the experience of others? If you go to a show to blather and not listen, at least have the decency to go to the back. Yeesh, I'd swear some people were raised by wolves.
Filling out their sound for the first time tonight were two female singers, also the source of the flute and fiddle playing. It was such a different experience hearing Manatree this way when their usual M.O. is short, hard, fast and loud. Tonight their sound was folky, harmonious and almost pretty.
During one song at dusk, the buzzing insects in the trees around us began humming in time with the tambourine shakes and drumbeats while fireflies lit on and off around our heads. It doesn't get much groovier than that.
It might have been perfect, but I didn't drink beer.
All I know is that when I got home from the beach at midnight last night, there was an invitation to Style Weekly's Best of party at Hardywood awaiting me. As a token of their appreciation for my hard work writing for the issue, two bands (Upper East Side Big Band and Photosynthesizers), lots of local restaurants and beer could all be mine, if I said the word.
I said yes, figuring I'd know a few people, go early and stay just as long as I chose to. Walking out of my apartment, the new guy next door sitting on his porch smiled and gave me an approving nod. "You look really great. Got a hot date?"
Not that I know of. P.S: Second oldest line in the book.
At Hardywood, the party was just starting, so I set out to mingle. I was talking to a restaurant owner about the double whammy of Broad Appetit and today's event, munching on Pasture's ham, pickle and pimento cheese roll, when I heard a familiar voice behind me saying, "I need to say hello to those legs."
You just never know who you're going to run into out of the blue or what's been going on in their life since you saw them last (a tumultuous relationship that didn't sound like much fun and was already over), but it was like old times listening to him critique all the dishes we sampled as we talked.
He was surprised to see I wasn't drinking, having forgotten I don't drink beer. In fact, the first time we hung out over a three-hour conversation, he'd e-mailed me when he got home with a fine compliment: "You'd be perfect if you drank beer." Not true, but flattering.
My friend and former neighbor, the councilman, introduced me to the owner of Paradise Garage, so I got to hear about his fabulous fundraiser parties. Maybe now my invitation will show up in the mail. When we went to try Torero Tapas Bar and Grill's paella, one of the chefs turned out to be a familiar face from another restaurant I frequent.
At the Alamo table, I asked for a sample of everything (although my hands-down favorite is that cowboy caviar) and looked around to see a disappointed-looking singer I've met before. Poor man doesn't eat pork and was having a devil of a time finding anything else at the party. This is a pig-centric town, after all.
Not shy, I didn't hesitate to ask the Alamo server if he had anything non-pig and sure enough, he got barbecued chicken for him from the back. Never hurts to ask...or to score points with a musician
Upper East Side Big Band was playing when I arrived so I caught most of their set, unsurprisingly a lot of clever arrangements of Beatles' songs ("Something" to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"), and then later, part of Photosynthesizers' set as well. I was honestly amazed at how few people were in the room listening to music at any given time.
It was the photographer I'd first met at the "Man Meat" dinner seven years ago who steered me to Goatacado, where, against his advice, I skipped over the Athena for the Mountain Tropp, a killer bowl of warm quinoa, arugula, smoked Gouda, avocado, black beans, plus apple and sweet corn pico de gallo in lime mango sauce.
Apparently I looked like I was enjoying the hell out of it (true story) because twice strangers came over and asked what I was eating because it looked so good. I sent them straight to the goat.
I decided I'd had enough savory to earn my sweet, a chocolate sea salt pop from King of Pops (the guy who handed it to me agreed). I carried it inside, letting it soften, and ran into the talented and energetic actor/singer I'd come to see here Saturday night.
We talked about that show for a minute and he started razzing me about being at Hardywood so often. "Want a beer?" he said, laughing and already knowing the answer. "Gotta ask!"
Outside, I saw a patient Mom occupying her two little ones with the cornhole boxes and before long, her youngest was smiling at me and trying to impress me with his toddler moves. It was very sweet. Then his hip father steps over to speak to me and says, "Are you still doing your blog?"
Hello! Once again, my past had shown up at the party. This time it was a musician I'd met seven or eight years ago when he'd been in a band I'd really liked. I'd interviewed them, been to plenty of their shows but hadn't seen him in eons. Apparently he'd been busy in that interim.
Just as I decided to leave, a friend insisted I try a beer that had been brewed with a wine component, something still in development, but he was praising it for its integration of the two. Couldn't I taste that? I'll take my wine straight, thanks, although not at Hardywood.
Walking to my car, I realized I'd had a far better time at the party than I'd expected, but then who doesn't like getting reacquainted when it comes with sides of compliments and dinner invitations?
Leaving behind that crowd, my next destination was the great outdoors for live music. It's the first of this series I'd made it to this year, despite frequent attendance the last two years.
Plenty of people had brought blankets (a lot of the Indian print kind we all had in college) and beer (although the girl next to me forgot an opener. Duh), but not me. I found a wooden bench with a good view of the band and got comfortable, scanning the grass for my people. Before long, the organizer came over to say hello and update me on the band tour he's been working on as a roadie.
One thing I noticed right away was that the crowd was larger and more diverse age-wise than it had been in the past, a good thing. Since the organizers insist on no social media about the event, it looks like their goal of community building in real life is working. Hooray for the old ways.
The dance party king showed up and we commiserated about the (possible) loss of Balliceaux. I was certain he'd also been there that last night but I hadn't laid eyes on him. Sure enough, he'd been just as bummed as I was about the loss to the scene
I was happy to see the world travelers arrive, also recently back from their own tour. She thanked me kindly for the blog post about her outdoor birthday party, a laid back and enjoyable night with a potluck supper, a campfire, music on cassette and wide-ranging conversation. I thanked her for providing great fodder for me to write about, not to mention a thoroughly pleasant evening outdoors.
When they didn't recognize the band, Manatree, they asked who it was. "Man, they're babies!" my lanky friend said. If they looked like babies to him, they should have looked like embryos to me.
But of course, they don't because I've seen them plenty of times, although never unplugged like they were in the park tonight. There were even times when the annoying stage-whispering and laughing of self-involved twits near me all but drowned out their voices, guitars, fiddle, flute and tambourine. Only the drum beat out the rudeness.
Do I need to get back on my soap box about talkers not ruining the experience of others? If you go to a show to blather and not listen, at least have the decency to go to the back. Yeesh, I'd swear some people were raised by wolves.
Filling out their sound for the first time tonight were two female singers, also the source of the flute and fiddle playing. It was such a different experience hearing Manatree this way when their usual M.O. is short, hard, fast and loud. Tonight their sound was folky, harmonious and almost pretty.
During one song at dusk, the buzzing insects in the trees around us began humming in time with the tambourine shakes and drumbeats while fireflies lit on and off around our heads. It doesn't get much groovier than that.
It might have been perfect, but I didn't drink beer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
