Never Gonna Give You Up

The lead-up to Snowstorm Jonas has begun in earnest.

And by that, I mean a routine stop at Kroger felt like entering a madhouse or, on a more positive note, a carnival.

Granted, it doesn't help that the VCU student population started classes two days ago, but it looked pretty obvious from people's baskets - beer, milk, snack foods -that people are planning to hunker down once the white stuff begins falling Friday.

In the soup aisle, I ran into a J-Ward restaurant owner out procuring citrus after his supplier shorted him. Curious about his establishment's snow plans, he confirmed that the restaurant would probably close but the market would stay open. Good to know.

Tonight was bingo at Gallery 5 and, judging by the fact that there were more tables than usual, a crowd was expected. But no, the crowd was a tad smaller than last month, which we regulars chalked up to weather wimps succumbing to fear of frigid temperatures.

That said, G5's hardy curator admitted that he's already canceled both his Friday and Saturday night music shows. Sigh.

At least we had tonight.

Grandma Muriel, who calls the bingo games using an effects pedal, a peach peignoir and a beer with a straw (the mask precludes guzzling) was sporting a new hat tonight and looking particularly fetching, assuming you like cross-dressing sax players in drag and who doesn't?

Once the games got underway. it became obvious we had some first-timers in our midst because they tittered every time Grandma batted the light fixture with her rolling pin or called out a number with so much reverb you could barely understand her.

Another clue came when people realized they'd scored. "Oh, shit! Bingo...a while ago!" one guy yelled, just then noticing that he had five in a row. Another guy's cry of, "Bingo" was so faint that only his tablemates heard him.

Come on, guys, belt it out like you mean it, especially when you're winning fabulous prizes such as $53 or a Richard Simmons workout record complete with instructive poster (plus, it should be added, Hardywood bucks, gift certificates to G5 and a ten spot). Novices.

I mean, come on, Richard Simmons on vinyl? Who'd have thought such a thing was ever even created?

Between games when we broke so people could buy more bingo cards or grab a beer at the bar, Grandma would pull our her harmonica and play a few bars and then point at someone to sing.

She tried it with me, but that wasn't going to happen, nor with his next victim. Finally, he put it down, crushed his PBR can and went to score another beer. I think we disappointed her.

For the first time in the four month history of G5 bingo, the music wasn't solely John Carpenter's "Halloween" all night (not that there's anything wrong with that). Not only did we hear some electronica, but even a little Rick Astley - radical for bingo night.

There were only two of us at my usual table, two regulars who show up every month because we've been seduced by the bingo goddess. But because it was just us, for the first time we had the opportunity to introduce ourselves and chat. Turns out he lives a few blocks from G5, too, except eastward to my westward.

Neither of us won tonight, a first for me since I've won something every month since bingo began. But that's okay, I'm not owed. I needn't win to enjoy the mild gambling thrill of bingo.

And, more importantly, knowing that my social life will be severely curtailed this weekend thanks to Jonas, it was enough just to have some fun tonight.

I fear my thrills may be limited for a few days. But afterwards? I will be owed.

It's Not a Habit, It's Cool

I love bingo but I'm not addicted to gambling.

I am addicted to sitting at a table with strangers in a dim room listening to Grandma Muriel call numbers using effects pedals.

Make no mistake, I come from a family of gamblers. Growing up, my Dad made a weekly foray to pick up the "Racing Form" to plan his weekly track betting. He and my sisters bet on football, do the whole March Madness bracket thing and love betting on card games. On a related note, most of them have a lead foot and gamble on a ticket every time they get behind the wheel.

Not me.

But after last month's refreshingly bizarro bingo game at Gallery 5, I came away a changed person. Maybe it was having a costumed, cross-dressing caller. Maybe it was winning the best prize. Maybe it was just whatever minuscule amount of gambling blood I do have being activated by the unexpected excitement of waiting to hear my number called.

A guy tonight likened the bingo thrill to substance abuse. You keep buying more cards because you need another fix. Like crack without the drug dealer.

Word must be on the street, too, because tonight's fun attracted three times the people it did last month. Hell, people were still arriving to join when we were on the third of four rounds. Not sure what caught them by surprise more, Grandma Muriel or the eerie Halloween soundtrack and dim lighting.

Sitting next to me was a first-timer with a lucky streak drinking peanut butter oatmeal stout who repeatedly cracked up at the spectacle of it all. Or maybe that was the stout.

She not only won the cleverest prize of the evening, an instant NASCAR party (tablecloth, napkins, two #14 koozies, plus $10 for beer) but in the very next round, also took home $14 and a gift certificate for two dozen Sugar Shack doughnuts.

Damn, girl.

We were excited for her after the first round when she came back with her NASACR gear, proudly announcing, "Oh, yea, my birthday's coming up!" to which the guy across from me responded, "Your birthday is today!"

When she said that she was going to invite all of us to her NASCAR party with doughnuts, one woman who had yet to win piped up, saying, "I don't believe you." People get bitter at bingo quickly, it seems.

Laugh all you want, but once you come play bingo, you'll understand. Bingo gets under your skin once you're at the table.

After four rounds, we were technically finished, but organizer Nick decided to go for a fifth round after a few more people straggled in late, so everyone bought more cards for a shot at the $30 prize.

Turning to my doubly lucky tablemate, I told her that the crowd was going to stone her if she won again, a fact that didn't subdue her enthusiasm one bit.

"Are we playing corners?" one of the newbies called out, barely into the game, incensing Grandma Muriel. "Get out!" she bellowed, pointing at the door. He didn't.

We don't play no stinkin' corners at Gallery 5 bingo, kids.

It was barely five calls in when one of the new arrivals yelled out "bingo" and brought his card to Grandma to be checked. "Look upon my work, ye mighty, and despair!" he announced loftily while we marveled that he'd won so quickly.

"You are not the chosen one!" Grandma Muriel announced from behind her mask. Apparently he'd misheard a number and didn't yet have bingo. Things heated up quickly.

Grandma continued to entertain us, knocking the hanging light so it would swing, using various effects to distort her voice and crazy inflections to make us laugh. "This is what my life has become," she muttered late in the evening. "Little numbers on a cube."

One of those little numbers - N42- had me calling "bingo," only to hear another voice echo the same a few seconds later. Yep, I was part of a double winner round, taking home $15 cash money for the pleasure of gambling with strangers.

It's like the guy across from me said early in the evening, "Crack is expensive, bingo is cheap."

Hello, my name is Karen and I'm a bingoholic.

A Hard-Worn Place of Mystery

Bingo. It's not just for grandmas anymore.

I did a double take when I saw the invitation to bingo at Gallery 5. Had bingo gotten cool when I wasn't looking? I knew they did RVA Pieces, a night of games like chess, but this was the first I'd heard of bingo, much less with the numbers being called by someone named Grandma Muriel.

Come on, how could I not go?

When I got there, a couple of duos were engrossed in chess matches, but on the stage side, two long tables were set up and a tall, skinny cross-dressing man in an orange peignoir, flowered head scarf and old lady mask was setting up effects pedals.

This was going to even better than I thought.

A few people straggled in as I told organizer Nick that I hadn't played bingo since I was a kid. "Really? I played last year in North Carolina," he said. "I look for bingo wherever I go."

With time to kill before the first number was called, I checked out Gallery 5's current show,"All the Saints Theater Company: A 10 Year Retrospective," featuring some of the puppets, sculpture and banners used by ATS over the years, including in their Halloween parades, of which I've been a part many times.

Giant sculptures made of recycled materials resembled elephants, lips and Poe while huge cloth banners carried in the parade had stronger messages, such as "How Much Longer?" with a picture of a soldier pointing a gun at a small child.

It was an exhibit of whimsy and message, like anything ATS does and I was happy to get to see it before it closes.

Then it was bingo time.

Grandma Muriel was totally into her role, crafting a complete experience with a hanging light (which she hit periodically to send it swinging eerily), a Halloween soundtrack and a microphone so she could call numbers and distort the words through the pedals for effect.

She seemed to especially like calling the letter "O" and letting it reverberate endlessly.

The wooden tokens with the numbers/letters on them were placed in a red bucket and she'd stick the mic in there as she shook them to get a rumbling reverb effect for each call.

There were only six of us for the first round, but with Grandma Muriel's full production on each call, it was slow going for us participants. "Bingo games are long, " the guy across from me said sadly and we were only on the first round.

We got two new players for round two ("This is way better than watching jujitsu," one observed) as Grandma Muriel got even more into it. "I think it's disturbing that someone would want to dress up and do this," one guy said, although not loud enough for Grandma Muriel to hear.

Things got a little competitive, with people looking over at other people's bingo cards to see how close they were to calling bingo and bemoaning when someone else won, but I think that's just the spirited nature of playing bingo. Isn't this why old ladies end up using the F-word in church basements?

There were prizes - tickets to the Comedy Coalition, to Gallery 5, a gift certificate to Bunny Hop bike shop - but the biggie was dinner for two at Max's and, as the organizer pointed out, not even a designated amount, just "dinner for two."

Yours truly won that, playing two cards for the first time in her life (the guy next to me was playing four) in a round that lasted far longer than the first three rounds had. Who knew bingo could be so suspenseful?

The final round was a cash prize and a guy who'd joined the table only for the last round won that, loudly and happily. Several of us asked when the next bingo game was (last Wednesday of the month is the plan, but it's just that since this was the first event) and if Grandma Muriel would be available for it.

And if not? "I've got a friend who does Stone Cold Steve Austin. I can see if he's available," Nick says. What could be more bingo-like than a wrestler, I ask you?

So I walked out of there five dollars poorer except that I also had a gift certificate for dinner, so not a bad way to laugh, watch some hilarious performance art by a man in drag and experience the thrill of filling your bingo card.

And thank goodness I was in a happy place when I left there because I almost got creamed in the middle of Broad Street.

I'm cruising along at the speed limit in the middle lane, and some VCU twit decides she's going to make an illegal U-turn at Harrison Street right in front of me, causing me to swerve and just barely avoid her. The best part? The cop in the lane next to me waiting to turn, who immediately put on his lights, caught up to her and nailed her.

Sometimes there is justice...and it's sweet to witness.

I was en route to Balliceaux to drink a housemade root beer and see the Sam Reed Syndicate, whom I'd never seen before.

As is so often the case, though, I'd seen several of the group's members in other configurations. Sam's the singer for Photosynthesizers, whom I've seen plenty, but I also recognized her keyboard player/producer, the amazing Devonne Harris, and the ubiquitous Mark Ingraham on trumpet.

Sam looked fabulous in a purple kimono belted low at the waist ("I'm all taped up here and I want to make sure I don't show anything") over black leggings, but with her dynamic singing style it wasn't long before she was hot as hell and pulled out a Japanese-looking fan with which to fan herself during and after songs.

At one point, she bemoaned having bothered to straighten her hair "on the most humid day of the Fall," but the truth was, no one cared about her hair when they were listening to that voice.

"I'm Sam Reed and this is the Sam Reed syndicate," she said by way of introduction. "A syndicate is a group who has a common goal and expectations. And I knew I could make music with these guys." And she did.

She's got such a powerful voice, which I knew, but not having heard her new album "This is Love," I hadn't had a feel for the sound of this band, which turned out to be pretty diverse. Sometimes the band  - guitar, bass, keys, trumpet, drums - was full-on funky and other times, more definitively rocking.

Telling us we'd recognize the next song, and that it was one she was known for on Thursday nights (karaoke, perhaps?), the band did a killer cover of "Maniac" from "Flashdance" and a couple of girls proceeded to dance to it almost appropriately.

They did an old Mark Ingraham song, another song she characterized as an experiment between her and Devonne and the funky "Astrobelt" before closing out their set, effectively ending my night.

All in all, it turned out way better than watching jujitsu.