That's What Lookin' So Bohemian Gets Ya

I am inspired by the appearance of a bohemian in the new millennium. ~ John Malkovich

And I am happy to carry the bohemian flag into this century, despite my credentials having been earned in the last one.

However, do not ever call me at 9:40 a.m., or really, any time before 10:30 a.m., or you will get a return email hours later that, yes, answers the burning questions you left on your message, but also reminds you of my long-standing rule. Which, I might add, you should know by now.

Bohemians sleep 9 hours and they don't get up early if they can help it. That's how we cover multiple millenniums without burning out.

I'm a girl from a good family who was very well brought up. One day I turned my back on it all and became a bohemian. ~ Brigitte Bardot

Right? Although honestly, I'm not sure I ever considered embracing the alternative.

Heading to the river on my walk this morning, I paused to chat with a friend who works out of a nearby building because the garage doors were up. That's his signal for me to holler so he'll know I'm on the sidewalk and we can exchange pleasantries.

Once he joined me, the weather  became our first topic because it was already apparent it was going to be a changeable day. Humid, but intermittently cloudy and sunny, the weather has been warm enough of late that we'd both been making adjustments at home.

I've switched from flannel sheets to cotton and he's begun leaving a couple windows open in his Union Hill house when he leaves for work. We agreed that the terribly cold weather is probably behind us, but neither of us is completely convinced we won't still have a cold snap for a night or two.

As insurance for just such an occurrence, I told him I haven't yet thrown away the slippers that have gotten me through the last few winters. Oh, they need to go for sure this year, but I'll wait until there's zero chance I'll need them one last time. Because bohemians are cautious that way.

Chuckling, he looked down at me and said, "Yep, mine are so bad, all the leather part on the bottom is worn off, but I'm not throwing 'em away 'till I'm sure warm weather is here to stay." It's probably the epitome of middle age mortification to be discussing your worn out slippers with a friend, yet we both jumped right in.

Bohemians don't care about appearances.

All the time, I've felt like life is a wager and that I probably was getting more out of leading a bohemian existence as a writer than I would have if I didn't. ~ Christopher Hitchens

Absorbing the Post's obituary of William McPherson, the paper's Pulitzer Prize-winning book critic and editor in the '70s, I was struck while reading about his descent into the self-proclaimed "upper edge of poverty," a state he described as, "Not quite destitute, but where a roof over your head and a wardrobe that doesn't look as if it came from the Salvation Army is as good as it gets."

He blamed it on acting like a lottery winner and squandering money made from his books on houses, cars and Caribbean cruises, all choices that sound awfully un-bohemian to me. To my mind, we bohemian types would never blow funds on such bourgeoisie constructs.

Truth be told, I not only have a roof over my head and a wardrobe straight out of a thrift store, but a pretty fabulous cultural life, too. My guess is the upper edge of poverty looks wildly different to a Baby Boomer than it did to a member of the Greatest Generation.

My mother was a bohemian, in the good sense of the word. A searcher. ~ Madeline Kahn

As is my way, I search for something interesting and low or no cost to experience every night, but after a last-minute phone call from my companion for the evening who was sick, I knew I'd be doing it alone.

"It" was a donation-based screening of "Sustainable: A Documentary" presented by Tricycle Gardens at Ellwood Thompson's Beet Cafe, convenient because I could also pick up tilapia with lemon and capers, black beans and broccoli for dinner while I fed my mind.

Like all the excellent documentaries I'v seen on the subject of organic farming, sustainable methods and a shift away from the agri-industrial model that took hold at mid-century (so modern! so efficient! so terrible for the environment and humans!), "Sustainable" made its points using trailblazing farmers ("It's a noble cause to provide food for your fellow human beings"), chefs and advocates, all of whom are trying to shift agriculture away from the massively profitable but inhumane and ultimately deadly practice that it is now.

The film was shown with subtitles which provided an unexpected running thread of humor every time background music was played and the subtitle labeled it: captivating music, somber music, jubilant music, solemn music, enchanting music, pleasant music, grave music, playful music.

Not once did the adjective reflect the way the music sounded to me. Jubilant, for example, sounded wistful. Solemn sounded ominous. Someone was sleeping on the labeling job, that's all I'm saying.

Bohemian: (noun) a person with artistic or literary interests who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules or standards of behavior. Without bohemians, life would be a complete bore.

Without my fluid and unscripted lifestyle, I would be completely bored. The upper edge of poverty is what you make it.

Cue blithe music.

Lose Yourself to Life

Time to get back in the game. The question is, given my life, why did I take myself out?

There was a time when Richmond wasn't cool enough to have a Farmer Speaker Series, but that day is long gone and when I saw that Joel Salatin of Polyface Farms was coming to Ellwood Thompson to share his thoughts on "You Can't Study What Isn't," I immediately bought a ticket and advised a friend, knowing it would be a (sorry) hot ticket.

That ship sailed within a week and I heard they had a waiting list for anyone who might drop out, not that that was likely.

Arriving at ET in time to score an enormous dark chocolate-iced gingerbread cookie (my Proustian reverie) while my date went for wine (sorry, grape overload after the past two days in wine country), we snagged seats in the second row behind an earnest-looking young man with a book on farming under his seat.

Joel's topic addressed the anti-meat culture that's become more and more of a thing, his point being that so much of the research is based on the kind of farming we shouldn't be doing anyway (and not the kind he's been doing at Polyface since 1982) that's it's irrelevant.

Maybe it's because he has an English degree and does so much writing, but he was a wonderful speaker, prowling the floor at the front of the room and and frequently asking in a rising voice, "What if...?"

But he also had a wicked smart sense of humor, sharing that he names all their bulls after philanderers - Don Juan, Teddy (as in Kennedy) - and pointing out the brains of the operation, his wife of many decades, as, "Behind every great man, there's an amazed woman. There's mine."

He was full of obscure information as in 500 years ago, this land that's now the U.S. produced more nutrition than it does today, solely because the Europeans arrived with their "progressive" methods and disease. Or, how about this one? 70% of all the drugs used in America are used on agricultural livestock.

"Who's been drugging your dinner?' he joked.

He'd already told us that he was not here to try to convert us to vegans or even vegetarians (ha, fat chance), but instead to point how too much farming was being done in ways that hurt the earth, depleted resources, provided a larger carbon footprint than necessary and produced poorer-tasting food.

All I can say to attest to that is that the first time I ate a "happy" pig - one raised on the kind of farm Joel runs and espouses - it was a revelation and as different a taste as any piece of pig I'd ever put in my mouth.

With me, he was preaching to the choir because I've tasted how right he is about proper farming.

After sharing scads of information and referencing a half dozen books that would probably make excellent food reading, he closed by saying, "May all your carrots be long and straight, all your radishes fat and not pithy," and went on from there.

Basically, Joel food-blessed us in closing.

Moving on to our own food needs, we trekked down the street to ZZaam, the new Korean grill, a place with all the ambiance of a betting parlor, with multiple screens, bad music playing and endless blackboards of food and drink info (is there any cuisine that hasn't adopted tacos as their own?) as patrons are herded along a counter to order and await sustenance.

A constant state of confusion reigned as people waited to order, waited for food, considered  options and milled about.

Crab pancakes, golden brown with egg, onions, carrots and even boasting a discernible crab taste were the best of the lot, which included mandoo - steamed pork dumplings with barely a hint of pig - and fat chicken lettuce wraps.

Home by 9:00, it was pretty obvious that I needed more. More everything that I'm not getting enough of. More reasons to be glad that this is my life. More reasons to enjoy right now instead of stressing to the point that a giant zit erupts on my face.

I put on some lip gloss and walked over to Balliceaux, my first time there since we rang in 2016. Overdue, long overdue.

The 13-piece Brunswick was getting set up. The guy on the bar stool next to me welcomed me, saying he was taking a load off because he'd walked over from Carver near Sugar Shack, touching off a discussion of my walk over and how he used to live in Jackson Ward.

One of the trombonists came over to order a drink, instrument in hand, and apologized when it ran into me, leading to a discussion of his Monette mouthpiece, apparently a Winton Marsalis favorite.

Oh, and by the way, it was made of gold and named for a yoga term.

A trumpet player I know looked especially dapper in a striped shirt, bow tie and jacket, having just come from VCU Jazz Orchestra's performance.

Everyone's favorite percussionist/trombonist told me he'd been playing in Europe and with Sufjan Stevens and asked what was new with me. An elementary school teacher friend told me her Spring Break plans, which were essentially non-plans for Spring weather. The brewery queen complimented my jacket and invited me to her pig event.

Brunswick knocked the collective socks off the room with an assortment of original material for ten horns, bass, drums and percussionist, along with covers of artists as diverse as Pedro the Lion and Daft Punk. Near the bandstand, a DJ danced alone, eyes closed, to practically every song.

Note to self: You're not getting any younger. Do more, dance more. Be open to everything at least once. Change things that need improving. Maybe it's time to lose the blog and put my abundance of energy elsewhere.

Maybe it's time to grow radishes fat and not pithy, and, yes, that's a euphemism.