With or Without Clothes

On Sunday, November 11, 2012, I saw my first Classical Revolution at Balliceaux.

I know that because one of the benefits of keeping a blog like this is being able to see where I was on any given day, assuming I blogged that day and presuming I chose to share everything I did, which no one should be surprised to learn I don't always do.

It's not just that casual revelations can backfire on me (but, oh, man, can they...), but that there's plenty that should only be shared face to face. A long-time reader recently summed it up nicely.

"All I know is the blog and that continually revolving story of events that you churn out day after day, something new, something old, hit replay or reset...offering yourself to the world (or what you want us to see)."

That's all you can know unless I want you to know more. Fair, no?

So when Beckham and the Beauty met up with me tonight for Classical Revolution's cleverly-titled "Haydn Where You Least Expect It," it was for a performance celebrating the series' fifth anniversary. That's part of the wonder of Richmond: start doing something interesting and it's bound to take off and with tending, last.

And why not celebrate at everyone's favorite lesbian bar, Babes of Carytown? Sure, I 've been there before - for the Mozart Festival, for book readings - but neither Beckham nor Beauty had ever set foot inside. In fact, it was funny, Beckham remembered it as having quite the fearsome reputation for a young male whippersnapper back when he was in high school.

Now it's just another cozy bar for Classical Revolution to share their message of bringing classical music to the kind of places popular music is so easily found.

The three of us weren't shy about claiming front row seats - Beauty immediately insisting on a "Karen sandwich" with me between them for sharing - with terrific views of two violinists, a viola and a cello player for tonight's performance of Haydn's "Emperor Quartet in C Major." Turns out it was so-called because the melody of the second movement went on to become both Austria and Germany's national anthem.

According to violinist Ellen, that came about because Haydn visited England, where he first heard "God Save the Queen," and thought to himself (her words, not mine), "Hey, we need one of those!" Further proof that musical history can be humorous and informative.

Explaining each movement before it was played went a long way toward helping the more musically-challenged among us (*raises hand) understand the nuances of the beautiful piece of music we were hearing, although as Beauty put it, "Sometimes it's nice to just lose yourself in the music and not even listen for what's going on."

Amen to that, especially on a dark, rainy night and especially after getting a chance to catch up with friends beforehand. After months of relentless studying, Beauty made me laugh rhapsodizing about the pleasures of vacuuming and her cooking faux pas at the cabin in Buckingham County.

I needed to hear that story about Beckham's cousin burning half his beard and all his eyebrows off lighting a fire with gasoline. Who hasn't made some poor choices while drinking whiskey and lighting fires? Hmm, I point out that last time I saw those two together, it involved alcohol and flames and Beckham looks mildly sheepish.

Of course that's not all we talked about - big knuckles and blood diamonds, the shawarma with preserved lemon I'd had earlier, hormones - but probably enough to share now.

"Really, in essence, what else is a writer to do? Besides, you're a blast because, to a great extent, your work is you. You make a connection. Your humanity comes shining through your endeavors. Every writer wants to be read, to be liked in some form or fashion. You're no exception. What's a poor girl to do but keep moving on?"

I'm just going to assume that's a rhetorical question and hit reset. Seems that's what I do.

Cult of Personality

The day has nowhere to go but up when breakfast involves watching a stranger vomit.

For the record, the guy was a passenger in the back seat of a car stopped at a traffic light across from where my friend and I sat eating and looking out a big plate glass window. He opened the door, barfed and closed it, re-opened it, barfed again and closed it.

At that moment the guy in the front passenger seat locked eyes with me and I gave him the thumbs up. He cracked up and returned the gesture as the driver pulled away.

Must have been a helluva Sunday night is all I can say.

Tonight was all about fighting fascism, so a friend and I were among the 100 or so people who gathered at Babe's of Carytown for a reading sponsored by Chop Suey Books. It was a diverse crowd of anarchists, middle aged people, crazies ranting about the monument removal, millennials and more than a few people taking notes.

A good representation of Richmond, in other words.

In the spotlight was Mark Bray, author of "Antifa: The Anti-fascist Handbook," which came out shortly before the Charlottesville debacle, making him a hot commodity these days.

He read from the book, but the bulk of the evening was devoted to taking questions and although everyone played shy at first, eventually the questions came hard and fast and he shared what he'd learned from talking to 60 anti-fascists from 17 countries.

"Fascism is colonialism and imperialism come home to roost," he told the room and surely I wasn't the only person marveling at the astuteness of the statement.

He emphasized that the goal of antifa (and let's face it, almost everyone I know is anti-fascist) is simply preventing fascists (neo-nazis, white supremacists, KKK) from having a platform to spew their venom.

Come on, who's not on board with that?

But his greatest passion was discussing the history of fascism and anti-fascism because, well, he's a history professor at Dartmouth. But he was also part of the Occupy Wall Street protest, so he had plenty of street cred as well.

Plenty of the discussion centered around freedom of speech and whether it's a slippery slope to deny fascists a platform, but for crying out loud, we're talking about fascism here. Did we learn nothing watching Hitler, Mussolini and Franco take over after being given platforms?

What I thought was especially notable about tonight - besides the interior of Babe's with its disco ball, aquarium, paneled walls and Jell-o shots - was that over 100 people came out on a Monday evening for a book reading (unheard of and I would know since I'm usually one of 6 or 10 people at readings) about an unlikely subject like anti-fascism.

Richmond, just let me say that your coolness goes far beyond new restaurants and trendy breweries.

There were so many questions and such passionate discussion that it was close to 9 by the time we strolled down Cary Street and settled on the patio at Can Can for dinner. Lucky us, there was only one other couple out there enjoying the warm night air and they were just finishing up.

I don't know which impressed our server more, the choice of Henri Bourgeois Sancerre La Porte du Caillou or that I travel with my own metal straw. She took it for environmental savvy but I also pointed out that it keeps my lipstick off the glass and dishwashers appreciate that.

"You're so considerate!" she marveled. Too many restaurant friends not to at least try.

My crabcake was thick with lump crabmeat and the accompanying baby kale, arugula and mango salad provided a nice counterpoint to the crab's richness, while my companion's plat du jour - half a grilled chicken with obscene garlic mashed potatoes and toothsome haricots vert - was equally over the top for such simple components.

Nothing like a brasserie to overfeed us while we savored the breeze and watched the street theater of Carytown unfolding a few feet away.

And while we were bound to see a few obviously drunk people (one woman, leading her friend out of Can Can, slurring, "Did you have a good time? See? Monday's as good as Friday for having fun!") given that we were across the street from Weezie's, at no point did anyone pull up, open the car door and barf in front of us.

Sunday night, Monday night, Tuesday night...the way I see it, any one of them can be just as good as Friday night.

Considerate types know it just depends on what you're doing. And sometimes, who you're with.