Time is Telling

When you haven't spoken to your best friend from college in six months, you're overdue.

The two of us had spent all last week trying to ascertain when the best time to talk would be, no easy proposition since our phone calls usually last about two hours and I had all kinds of things I had to or wanted to accomplish on Saturday.

And getting out of bed early wasn't one of them.

She had a haircut at 10 a.m., but I had a walk to do that was complicated by the marathon going on, lunch plans in service of my hired mouth, errands to run and an afternoon show to catch a favorite band I hadn't seen in a while, so we finally settled on 5:30 p.m.

Good thing we started early, too, or we'd never have been off the phone by 9:00.

The walk was my annual reminder that somehow people are so totally clueless as to be completely unaware of how much of the city is closed down for runners. I know because I saw the same cars sitting in traffic or making repeated loops in their vain attempts to cross Lombardy or Broad (impossible) or figure out a secret shortcut that would set them free.

Get on the highway or go home, kids.

In Carytown running errands, I was delayed by the guy singing to recorded tracks in front of the Virginia Shop. Stepping out of the car to his smiling face and dulcet tones singing the Spinners' "I'll Be Around" was matched only by returning to hear him do Smokey's "The Tracks of My Tears." I could have stood there half the afternoon just to hear him sing so beautifully.

After lunch, I dropped off the car and walked over to Gallery 5 for King of Pops' "Popchella" show, arriving in time to hear the last few songs of the Wimps' set. I'm not going to lie, it was a cold day and the last thing I wanted was a frozen pop, even if King of Pops was giving them away, although more than a few people were sucking on a pop.

Not me, I stood directly next to the radiator to hear the Wimps' lead singer say, "This song is for everyone who's ever had a broken heart. So it's for everyone." True that. Favorite line: "I know I left a lot of holes. Careful, darlin', how you fill 'em." Conclusion? I'll go see the Wimps again for a full set.

The band had a look going on, with suspenders being the common thread. The singer's suspenders were blue, the bass player's patterned and the drummer's pink. Only the keyboard player had the nerve to let his flannel shirt go un-suspendered.

Next up was Spooky Cool, a long-time favorite and in his usual, understated way, lead singer Zac announced, "We're Spooky Cool. We have some songs" and began playing to a half-filled room of attentive fans. The one thing you can count on with Spooky Cool is how beautifully Zac's ethereal voice will blend with the female singer's in harmony, even as the band rocks out.

A few songs in, Zac was heating up and asked the bassist to help him pull his hoodie sleeve off without removing his guitar. "How's that belly sweat stain coming along?" he asked, tugging on a sleeve. "It's getting there," Zac said, pushing his long hair back and pulling his t-shirt out to give said belly some air before launching into "Time Will Tell."

"We're Spooky Cool and we appreciate you being here on a Saturday afternoon and not running," Zac said to close out. Who would run when they could be listening to bands play four blocks from home? And that's not even with a pop in hand.

I got home exactly ten minutes before She Who Hated Me On Sight and Has Loved Me Since College and I were to rendezvous on the phone. My only error was in not fueling up beforehand, resulting in multiple mini-meals being taken during the course of the phone call. She'd never have known if I hadn't started choking on a pretzel mid-story.

I'm not a good telephone person, never have been, but when your best friend lives in god-forsaken Texas (or North Dakota or New Hampshire), you have no choice but to suck it up and be a phone person, at least for a couple hours.

This time, we added a visual element as I sent her photographs throughout the conversation. First, it was one of Mr. Wright and me because she was naturally curious about this person who set my world on its ear. But then she wanted to see snaps of my sisters and parents, whom she hadn't seen in 30 years.

"Wow, Pat looks great!" she gushed about my Mom. "She's hardly changed at all!" That's one comment I'll definitely pass along to Mom, who won't believe it but will nonetheless appreciate the words. Some of my five sisters she couldn't recognize at all, while others she thought were instantly familiar. A photo of me with her and her ex in Dallas from a decade ago was one she barely recalled, although it set her off on a tangent about the color of her hair at the time.

Hey, we are our own worst critics.

And because she's been my best friend since I was 19, we laugh almost non-stop. Half the time, we don't even have to finish our sentence to elicit a response from the other. She still gives me a hard time about things she was giving me a hard time about in the '70s and '80s and I take it because it gives her such pleasure.

What I didn't expect was all the bonus points she, the athlete in this duo, gave me for some of my activities with Mr. Wright. Canoeing, tandem bicycle riding and going to a Cubs game all elicited new respect from her since none seemed like things she thought I'd ever do.

Let's just say we've come a long way since she tried to teach me to play tennis, 'though she loves to crack herself up thinking about what a failure I was at it.

Finally, after three and a half hours talking, she pointed out the time and it only seemed wise to wrap up the conversation, with a plan to talk again before the end of the year so we don't have so much ground to cover.

Next morning, I woke up to a message from her. "I haven't laughed that much in a long time. I cannot tell you enough how truly happy I am that your life is going so beautifully. There is no one in the world who deserves it more."

Pshaw, it's not for me to say I deserve it. But I was careful, darlin', and waited my turn for it to happen. Tennis was hard. Nothing was easier than this.

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.