May I just say how much I appreciated today's weather?
With the exception of a few minutes in the morning, the sun has been M.I.A. all day long. Between the gray, overcast skies and intermittent showers all day long, it's been, for me at least, an absolutely gorgeous day.
My garden, my potted plants, the trees, everything looks so lush and verdant as if the green pigment in them is on steroids. Even the humid air, so like the beach air I recently left behind, feels like a lovely thing.
But I seem to be in the minority when it comes to a day (or night) like this and when I invited Pru to join me, she begged off, claiming it was raining cats and dogs and lizards.
Umbrella in hand, out I went solo to Chop Suey for a reading.
The book store seemed crowded, but maybe it was just that everyone had umbrellas and books in hand. Not willing to risk it, I found a chair and planted my backside while mingling from a seated position with a painter and then a poet.
I was thanked for attending, to which I remarked that I love having people read what they wrote to me.
Marie Potoczny led off by reading a short piece called "If Not Now, When?" about car sex in a traffic jam. Sample line: "I go at him like he's an Arby's cheddar roast beef sandwich." There was a lot of laughter at the end.
Reading her short story, "The Third Prophesy," Katy Resch wove a story of a guy from a difficult background making his way in the world, not without some issues along the way.
Tonight's main event was Allison Titus (who looks younger every time I see her) reading from her new novel, "The Arsonist's Song Has Nothing to Do with Fire."
Chop Suey's owner Ward introduced her, telling us he'd taken her book to the pool one recent afternoon and didn't get much swimming accomplished because he cracked open the book and was immediately sucked in.
She began by reading the prologue about one of the characters "practicing" dying and then jumped into the middle of the book, which involved a doctor secretly creating wings to be implanted on humans, a pyromaniac who did not want to be labeled an arsonist and a mother who died seven years after her daughter stopped talking to her.
So, you see, it's really no surprise that Ward was engaged in this saga from the first pages.
When I left Chop Suey, it was still raining hard and puddles were getting wider and harder to cross, but I wasn't going to let that matter. Besides, I had on platform shoes.
Over at Saison Market, California winemaker Andrew Jones was pouring his "Field Recordings" wines and Saison's chef was pairing small plates with them.
Don't mind if I do.
His Chenin Blanc was fabulous with the pickled shrimp, as were the fennel-crusted lamb lollipops with the smoky "Neverland," a Cabernet Sauvignon/Petit Verdot blend and I adored the "Fiction" red blend with the southern-fried quail with mole sauce.
That's the wine Andrew said he makes the most of, using leftover bits from all the different vineyards he works with and blending until he gets it to just where he wants it to be.
Don't stop 'till you get it right, brother.
The tasting wasn't overly crowded, but with plenty to eat and drink, no one was in any great
hurry to move through, especially once the wine began softening the hard edges of everyone's rainy Thursday and laughter became the dominant sound in the room.
When I left there, it was to a gentle rain, sending me directly to my balcony and four days worth of newspapers to catch up on while the rain dripped on the metal roof next to me.
Did I mention how I love a rainy night?
Showing posts with label allison titus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label allison titus. Show all posts
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Unprovoked Limping and Faithful Eaters
It's always flattering when a man accuses you of cheating on him.
But first men (and a woman) read to me at Chop Suey Books.
A friend and I arrived just before 6 and the first thing I did was walk over and open the window to let out some of the frigid air-conditioned air.
It is, after all, as perfect a low humidity June day as we could possibly hope for, so why shut it out?
From there we took the first seats in the room and started to blather like it was, well, Friday night.
A guy soon came in and told us the reading wouldn't start until 6:30 and he was going across to NY Deli for a beer.
Rather than join him, we decided to use our unexpected time to get in some girl talk before everyone joined us.
Oh, if those walls could talk!
Even though she had some good restaurant gossip, I took the prize for most unexpectedly gross story shared.
People begin to filter back into the room and all of a sudden I noticed someone had closed the window.
What a pity.
By the time every seat was taken, someone had re-opened it, so I knew I had a kindred soul in the room.
Or, at the very least, a window fairy.
Our host explained that they were going to decide which order the poets would read in based on drawing straws.
But it wasn't the poets drawing straws, it was their proxies.
Not that everyone was certain who they were standing in for, because they weren't.
It soon became abundantly clear that no one knew much about the drawing straws method.
The whole episode reminded me a lot of the old "Who's on first?" gag.
No one had any idea what was going on.
When Jack's proxy got the shortest straw, he held it up and said, "I got the shortest straw, whatever that means."
No one had planned that far.
But soon Jack Christian took to the podium with a small butterfly bandage over one eye and talk of meeting a doorknob and how much alcohol was in a National Bohemian.
He began with the title poem from his book, "Family System," full of childhood memories and assessments.
"This poem made for an interesting discussion with my parents last year," he laughed. "My Mom said she didn't get it and I said I know you don't, Mom."
We all have our crosses to bear.
My mother can't understand how I eat brains or heart or beets.
My favorite was the poem called "Marie," which he preceded with, "This is a little bit longer, but it'll be good."
And good it was, especially when it began with, "Karen's parents" and went on to name names.
Andrew was impossible to locate.
Clay had gone to Maui.
Sadie preferred barbecue.
By the end of it, he was chuckling right along with us.
Next came Gabe Durham, a long, tall drink of water with a smile that hinted at his understated but hilarious wordplay.
"No Moms for Miles" was about camp life and provided guidelines.
No unprovoked limping.
In the event of some unexpected arousal, play basketball.
"Icebreaker" was about meeting a goat-sacrificing Satanist in an elevator and the moral dilemmas that ensue.
A poem about how people met in the pre-Internet days explained that they "locked beer eyes across the bar" and eventually "said hi."
Yes, kiddies, that's how it was done back in the olden days.
Camp and youth returned for "No Gourd" about how young men will always fall for girls on summer nights.
Wow, your skin looks great in starlight.
Durham was the best possible reader of his own words, inflecting them with a rhythmic, humorous cadence that perfectly suited his poems of life instructions and astute observations.
When he read his last to great tittering, he closed with, "Thanks, guys, this was so fun."
Last but not last was Allison Titus, whom I'd seen read almost three years ago, which seems like ages ago except part of her introduction included that she's been working on a novel.
That'll take up some time.
Referring to the amusing poetry we'd already heard, she began by saying, "I'm going to take it down a notch because I only have one funny poem and I didn't bring it."
We heard from her "Office" series which she'd begun after being laid off and included such disparate topics as accounting and taxidermy.
"Station of the Harness-Maker" included the line, "I rode my bike to the ditch and I ditched it."
You gotta love that noun/verb doubleplay.
She read the poem she'd written for her neighborhood after living almost a decade on 24th Street, "Essay on Urban Homesteading."
Sirens, blackouts and a rampage of little boys throwing rocks.
Her work may not have been funny but it had an evocative subtlety to it that perfectly closed out a blue-sky evening of poetry.
Fittingly, we decided to eat on 25th Street at the Roosevelt, where I was long overdue.
How do I know?
When the chef came out and saw me, he asked if I'd been cheating on him.
It's always nice to be missed.
But the really big news was that bartender T was clean-shaven, his Lincoln-worthy beard now history.
He looked very handsome but it's almost startling when you first lay eyes on him.
Once adjusted to that novelty, we focused on his face long enough to hear the specials.
Stop right there, I told him, we'll start with crispy-fried monkfish cheeks with remoulade.
If any chef in this town can produce the most delectably crusted anything, it's Chef Lee and, as I told my friend, I didn't honestly care what was inside the crust.
Fortunately, though, it was the meatiest monkfish cheeks a person could hope to put in their mouth, delicate in flavor but with an almost streak-like texture.
Nothing says Friday night like cheeks and, yes, that's a metaphor.
Next came the double cheeseburger with onion jam, bacon and rooster sauce with a side of braised green beans with almonds and roasted garlic.
The conversation took a left turn when Friend told me about the burger discussion she and some office mates had recently had.
They'd insisted no one could top Carytown Burger and Fries and here we sat with irrefutable proof that they were wrong.
I saw a friend and her husband having dinner and she mentioned that it had turned out to be "the cool kids' night" with a noted culinary historian, the Kaine staffer who books shows and the director of "Richmond's attic."
I was just happy to be in their company.
By the time we got to dessert, we could reach no accord.
I wanted coconut cake but she doesn't like flaked coconut, only whole or milk.
She doesn't even like Samoas, I discovered, but I'm trying not to hold that against her.
I'm no fan of panna cotta but when I saw it was cocoa, I allowed as how it might be okay and friend was delighted.
She's a panna cotta hound and this one came under a layer of big, beautiful lightly sweetened strawberries over a pale chocolate pudding.
I'd been won over yet again by this man.
What kind of idiot cheats on a chef who makes her cheeks, burgers and pudding?
Don't look at me.
I've got too much poetry in my soul for that.
But first men (and a woman) read to me at Chop Suey Books.
A friend and I arrived just before 6 and the first thing I did was walk over and open the window to let out some of the frigid air-conditioned air.
It is, after all, as perfect a low humidity June day as we could possibly hope for, so why shut it out?
From there we took the first seats in the room and started to blather like it was, well, Friday night.
A guy soon came in and told us the reading wouldn't start until 6:30 and he was going across to NY Deli for a beer.
Rather than join him, we decided to use our unexpected time to get in some girl talk before everyone joined us.
Oh, if those walls could talk!
Even though she had some good restaurant gossip, I took the prize for most unexpectedly gross story shared.
People begin to filter back into the room and all of a sudden I noticed someone had closed the window.
What a pity.
By the time every seat was taken, someone had re-opened it, so I knew I had a kindred soul in the room.
Or, at the very least, a window fairy.
Our host explained that they were going to decide which order the poets would read in based on drawing straws.
But it wasn't the poets drawing straws, it was their proxies.
Not that everyone was certain who they were standing in for, because they weren't.
It soon became abundantly clear that no one knew much about the drawing straws method.
The whole episode reminded me a lot of the old "Who's on first?" gag.
No one had any idea what was going on.
When Jack's proxy got the shortest straw, he held it up and said, "I got the shortest straw, whatever that means."
No one had planned that far.
But soon Jack Christian took to the podium with a small butterfly bandage over one eye and talk of meeting a doorknob and how much alcohol was in a National Bohemian.
He began with the title poem from his book, "Family System," full of childhood memories and assessments.
"This poem made for an interesting discussion with my parents last year," he laughed. "My Mom said she didn't get it and I said I know you don't, Mom."
We all have our crosses to bear.
My mother can't understand how I eat brains or heart or beets.
My favorite was the poem called "Marie," which he preceded with, "This is a little bit longer, but it'll be good."
And good it was, especially when it began with, "Karen's parents" and went on to name names.
Andrew was impossible to locate.
Clay had gone to Maui.
Sadie preferred barbecue.
By the end of it, he was chuckling right along with us.
Next came Gabe Durham, a long, tall drink of water with a smile that hinted at his understated but hilarious wordplay.
"No Moms for Miles" was about camp life and provided guidelines.
No unprovoked limping.
In the event of some unexpected arousal, play basketball.
"Icebreaker" was about meeting a goat-sacrificing Satanist in an elevator and the moral dilemmas that ensue.
A poem about how people met in the pre-Internet days explained that they "locked beer eyes across the bar" and eventually "said hi."
Yes, kiddies, that's how it was done back in the olden days.
Camp and youth returned for "No Gourd" about how young men will always fall for girls on summer nights.
Wow, your skin looks great in starlight.
Durham was the best possible reader of his own words, inflecting them with a rhythmic, humorous cadence that perfectly suited his poems of life instructions and astute observations.
When he read his last to great tittering, he closed with, "Thanks, guys, this was so fun."
Last but not last was Allison Titus, whom I'd seen read almost three years ago, which seems like ages ago except part of her introduction included that she's been working on a novel.
That'll take up some time.
Referring to the amusing poetry we'd already heard, she began by saying, "I'm going to take it down a notch because I only have one funny poem and I didn't bring it."
We heard from her "Office" series which she'd begun after being laid off and included such disparate topics as accounting and taxidermy.
"Station of the Harness-Maker" included the line, "I rode my bike to the ditch and I ditched it."
You gotta love that noun/verb doubleplay.
She read the poem she'd written for her neighborhood after living almost a decade on 24th Street, "Essay on Urban Homesteading."
Sirens, blackouts and a rampage of little boys throwing rocks.
Her work may not have been funny but it had an evocative subtlety to it that perfectly closed out a blue-sky evening of poetry.
Fittingly, we decided to eat on 25th Street at the Roosevelt, where I was long overdue.
How do I know?
When the chef came out and saw me, he asked if I'd been cheating on him.
It's always nice to be missed.
But the really big news was that bartender T was clean-shaven, his Lincoln-worthy beard now history.
He looked very handsome but it's almost startling when you first lay eyes on him.
Once adjusted to that novelty, we focused on his face long enough to hear the specials.
Stop right there, I told him, we'll start with crispy-fried monkfish cheeks with remoulade.
If any chef in this town can produce the most delectably crusted anything, it's Chef Lee and, as I told my friend, I didn't honestly care what was inside the crust.
Fortunately, though, it was the meatiest monkfish cheeks a person could hope to put in their mouth, delicate in flavor but with an almost streak-like texture.
Nothing says Friday night like cheeks and, yes, that's a metaphor.
Next came the double cheeseburger with onion jam, bacon and rooster sauce with a side of braised green beans with almonds and roasted garlic.
The conversation took a left turn when Friend told me about the burger discussion she and some office mates had recently had.
They'd insisted no one could top Carytown Burger and Fries and here we sat with irrefutable proof that they were wrong.
I saw a friend and her husband having dinner and she mentioned that it had turned out to be "the cool kids' night" with a noted culinary historian, the Kaine staffer who books shows and the director of "Richmond's attic."
I was just happy to be in their company.
By the time we got to dessert, we could reach no accord.
I wanted coconut cake but she doesn't like flaked coconut, only whole or milk.
She doesn't even like Samoas, I discovered, but I'm trying not to hold that against her.
I'm no fan of panna cotta but when I saw it was cocoa, I allowed as how it might be okay and friend was delighted.
She's a panna cotta hound and this one came under a layer of big, beautiful lightly sweetened strawberries over a pale chocolate pudding.
I'd been won over yet again by this man.
What kind of idiot cheats on a chef who makes her cheeks, burgers and pudding?
Don't look at me.
I've got too much poetry in my soul for that.
Friday, September 3, 2010
The Real Story, Part 2
Boy, what kind of a lame blogger purporting to "go on and on" writes such a vague and abbreviated post as I did last night? I've got no excuse other than how incredibly busy I was from the second I got up yesterday until I got home from Balliceaux at 1:30 and I was just ready to crash.
The fact is the evening had a little bit of everything I like, including great conversational partners both the expected and unexpected kinds. And then there was the poetry, the art, and the music.
Chop Suey was hosting poets Allison Titus and Julie Doxsee and it was as if the invitation to the reading only went out to a small group of poets and fiction writers...and me. It made for a very informal reading for an unusually low turnout, but I was just pleased, as always, to begin my evening with hearing poetry.
Allison began with some of her newer work, all office poems, each distinguished by their subtitle, including one about the Southside Unemployment office, a place she said she knew well. It was she who wrote the line mentioned in last night's post.
Julie said her book began as 56 letters to objects but turned into something more. She was on city four of a ten-city tour and beginning to experience mid-tour burnout. Favorite line: "Your body is a map of skin, more you than skin." By the way, I stole the title of last night's post from the title of one of her poems (it's a tribute, Julie).
Ghostprint Gallery's opening was in full swing when I arrived for Sterling Clinton Hundley's "Crew." The show is a combination of large scale paintings, in many cases paired with the much smaller black and white studies for those paintings. And while you can't compare apples and oranges, in some ways, I preferred the clean lines and monochromatic pallet of the studies, not that I wouldn't have happily taken home the painting "Winter Road" if it had been offered to me.
Several friends were already at the show, including one wearing the cutest little sweater dress she'd knitted herself. Honestly, it looked very much like something I wore in college, but inevitably in fashion what goes around comes around and she certainly didn't remember the style from last time around.
Waiting to meet my old Floyd Avenue neighbor for drinks, I overheard a couple of guys at the end of the bar discussing ordering White Russians. "You know my Kahlua is at my house," one offered. "And I even have organic milk." The other guy was having none of it and ordered his drink at the bar.
I ordered a glass of Domaine de Camplazens rose only to be told they were sold out of pink. In that case, I told the bartender, I'll have 1800. "Wow, that's quite a swing!" the bartender commented grinning hugely. It's pink or tequila lately, my friend.
The first thing my friend commented on was that I was wearing black, presumably because of my post the other night. I pointed out that I did have on a white skirt with a band of pink and red flowers, but he was right; I had reverted to black on top anyway. He said that thinking back to all those years we were neighbors all he remembered seeing me in was black...and I lived there 13 years. I really do need to work harder on this.
What we didn't realize back in those days was how similar our going-out outlooks were. Like me, he doesn't stay in when he could be out. He's working on a big new project and was soliciting my skewed viewpoint for it.
This naturally led to a dissection of the blogging community (he was a pioneer on the Richmond blogging scene) as well as the age-old issue of poorly written blogs. Our conversation was especially satisfying because, like me, he can discuss music and rave about Richmond endlessly.
At one point, a girl came over to say hello to him and he introduced us, using only my first name, which of course meant nothing to her. He then further qualified it by saying, "She's the I could go on and on blogger," and her face lit up with recognition. I continue to be amazed to discover strangers who know of me because of my blog.
He was funny, insisting on knowing what my first two stops had been and where my last stop would be. Maybe he couldn't wait for the post, probably a good thing since I was too tired to write it up last night.
And finally I ended up at Balliceaux for Fuzzy Baby, a band I had seen months ago at Live at Ipanema and really enjoyed. In fact, Guistino of FB was next to me at the bar and inquired as to why I was there. He was visibly impressed to hear that I was a return fan. It was his comment about his red polyester shirt that I quoted in the previous post. Molly, his musical partner, had on a red jumpsuit that, again, I think I may have worn in 1989.
I remember being impressed last time because they had played wine glasses. Tonight's instrumentation was limited to tuba, drum, clarinet, guitar, tambourine, bass and those beautiful voices, sometimes a Capella. Kicking off by saying, "We like to stimulate our audience," they played two excellent sets.
Once Giustino left my side to perform, he was replaced by one of my favorite local musicians, whom I am seeing everywhere lately. He'd told me his new goal was to "make the scene" more often and he must be succeeding because all of a sudden he's everywhere I am.
But he's a pleasure to talk to and I so enjoy his insightful musical perspective. I once had a boyfriend I could ask all my dumb non-musician questions of and lacking that now, it's nice to have someone who can explain musical things to me.
It's funny, though; he's the musician but he's been asking me for suggestions of can't-miss shows, so I suggested a couple to him last night. I may not always understand all the musical elements but I always know what I like and keep an ear open for what sounds interesting.
How else would I have anything worth posting about before I go to bed? When I can be bothered to go on and on, that is.
The fact is the evening had a little bit of everything I like, including great conversational partners both the expected and unexpected kinds. And then there was the poetry, the art, and the music.
Chop Suey was hosting poets Allison Titus and Julie Doxsee and it was as if the invitation to the reading only went out to a small group of poets and fiction writers...and me. It made for a very informal reading for an unusually low turnout, but I was just pleased, as always, to begin my evening with hearing poetry.
Allison began with some of her newer work, all office poems, each distinguished by their subtitle, including one about the Southside Unemployment office, a place she said she knew well. It was she who wrote the line mentioned in last night's post.
Julie said her book began as 56 letters to objects but turned into something more. She was on city four of a ten-city tour and beginning to experience mid-tour burnout. Favorite line: "Your body is a map of skin, more you than skin." By the way, I stole the title of last night's post from the title of one of her poems (it's a tribute, Julie).
Ghostprint Gallery's opening was in full swing when I arrived for Sterling Clinton Hundley's "Crew." The show is a combination of large scale paintings, in many cases paired with the much smaller black and white studies for those paintings. And while you can't compare apples and oranges, in some ways, I preferred the clean lines and monochromatic pallet of the studies, not that I wouldn't have happily taken home the painting "Winter Road" if it had been offered to me.
Several friends were already at the show, including one wearing the cutest little sweater dress she'd knitted herself. Honestly, it looked very much like something I wore in college, but inevitably in fashion what goes around comes around and she certainly didn't remember the style from last time around.
Waiting to meet my old Floyd Avenue neighbor for drinks, I overheard a couple of guys at the end of the bar discussing ordering White Russians. "You know my Kahlua is at my house," one offered. "And I even have organic milk." The other guy was having none of it and ordered his drink at the bar.
I ordered a glass of Domaine de Camplazens rose only to be told they were sold out of pink. In that case, I told the bartender, I'll have 1800. "Wow, that's quite a swing!" the bartender commented grinning hugely. It's pink or tequila lately, my friend.
The first thing my friend commented on was that I was wearing black, presumably because of my post the other night. I pointed out that I did have on a white skirt with a band of pink and red flowers, but he was right; I had reverted to black on top anyway. He said that thinking back to all those years we were neighbors all he remembered seeing me in was black...and I lived there 13 years. I really do need to work harder on this.
What we didn't realize back in those days was how similar our going-out outlooks were. Like me, he doesn't stay in when he could be out. He's working on a big new project and was soliciting my skewed viewpoint for it.
This naturally led to a dissection of the blogging community (he was a pioneer on the Richmond blogging scene) as well as the age-old issue of poorly written blogs. Our conversation was especially satisfying because, like me, he can discuss music and rave about Richmond endlessly.
At one point, a girl came over to say hello to him and he introduced us, using only my first name, which of course meant nothing to her. He then further qualified it by saying, "She's the I could go on and on blogger," and her face lit up with recognition. I continue to be amazed to discover strangers who know of me because of my blog.
He was funny, insisting on knowing what my first two stops had been and where my last stop would be. Maybe he couldn't wait for the post, probably a good thing since I was too tired to write it up last night.
And finally I ended up at Balliceaux for Fuzzy Baby, a band I had seen months ago at Live at Ipanema and really enjoyed. In fact, Guistino of FB was next to me at the bar and inquired as to why I was there. He was visibly impressed to hear that I was a return fan. It was his comment about his red polyester shirt that I quoted in the previous post. Molly, his musical partner, had on a red jumpsuit that, again, I think I may have worn in 1989.
I remember being impressed last time because they had played wine glasses. Tonight's instrumentation was limited to tuba, drum, clarinet, guitar, tambourine, bass and those beautiful voices, sometimes a Capella. Kicking off by saying, "We like to stimulate our audience," they played two excellent sets.
Once Giustino left my side to perform, he was replaced by one of my favorite local musicians, whom I am seeing everywhere lately. He'd told me his new goal was to "make the scene" more often and he must be succeeding because all of a sudden he's everywhere I am.
But he's a pleasure to talk to and I so enjoy his insightful musical perspective. I once had a boyfriend I could ask all my dumb non-musician questions of and lacking that now, it's nice to have someone who can explain musical things to me.
It's funny, though; he's the musician but he's been asking me for suggestions of can't-miss shows, so I suggested a couple to him last night. I may not always understand all the musical elements but I always know what I like and keep an ear open for what sounds interesting.
How else would I have anything worth posting about before I go to bed? When I can be bothered to go on and on, that is.
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