Wait and See When the Smoke Clears

You're insatiable! But yes, most likely.

To be clear, what I was asking about was whether or not I was invited to Pru's screened porch party  after our dinner and theater date this evening. Considering that it had been only four days since I last enjoyed porch pleasures with her and Beau, she saw my request, perhaps, as a tad greedy. How much outdoor conversation can one woman need?

What she failed to consider was that our Sunday night verbal extravaganza had been a party, a birthday throwdown for Beau and had included two other couples besides the four of us and Queen B. We were the mortified guests who arrived an hour late to find all the other guests patiently awaiting our appearance so that the first of many bottles of Moet Chandon could be opened and poured.

I take full responsibility, since I'm the idiot who'd looked at the invitation and somehow seen 4 instead of 5:00. The good news was, once the champagne began flowing, no one seemed to care that it had been delayed. Not to mention they were all sipping on something or other, just not bubbles when the cat dragged us in.

This was a backyard party and a lavish table had been set up under a huge umbrella. It wasn't long after we took the only two vacant seats that Pru began delivering the fruits of her days-long labor: beef and veggie kebabs, six pounds of perfectly steamed shrimp, corn on the cob, fresh butterbeans and crusty bread to sop it all up with.

It was some time early on in the meal when the humid air broke and a gentle rain began falling. It was an inconsequential enough weather change that everyone continued eating and talking because between the arbor and umbrella overhead, the rain wasn't inconveniencing anyone. Or at least that's what those of us who were still dry assumed.

In fact, my date and Queen B were out of range of the covering and being doused continually while we sipped and supped.

By the time it came to the attention of the rest of us, the two of them were completely soaked. Queen B's feather earrings were reduced to a couple of rain-slicked points that in no way resembled feathers. My date's shirt and shorts could have been rung out there was so much water in them.

Neither had so much as mentioned how wet they were getting while it was happening, making us dry diners feel a little guilty for not noticing. But once it became common knowledge, Beau, the birthday boy but ever the good host, retrieved another, smaller umbrella and attempted to set it up. The result was that new lines of drippage were created and before long, my chair and the back of my dress were soaked through.

Still, no one suggested leaving the table because how often do you get to have a summer supper in a pouring rainstorm? Honestly, it only added to the good time vibe, although at times it drowned out whatever music Alexa was playing.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me...

There was a lot of talk about travel, with Beckham and the Beauty telling us about their recent foray to New Orleans and how underwhelmed they'd been by some of the food they ate in what is considered to be a stellar food town. The history couple shared that instead of going to Paris this year, they're forcing themselves to embrace a trip to Glacier National Park, even though it's going to cost as much as the City of Lights.

Pru and Beau continue to insist they want to do a Scotch-tasting tour of Scotland at some point, and that was enough for Beau to bring out a bottle of very good Islay, which suited Beckham but not everyone, so a bottle of Highlands Scotch followed, while Pru and I wisely kept to bubbles. "Brown liquors are for cozy winter nights, not summer," she sniffed.

The chocolate ganache birthday cake from Morsels got high marks from everyone and again brought up the story of Beau's first attempt at making ganache, a culinary misadventure involving using evaporated milk instead of condensed milk, resulting in a ganache with zero sweetness and a whole lot of bitterness. Problem was, the cake was a birthday offering for Pru, who prefers milk chocolate.

Beau loved it, but he was the only one. He has since stepped away from ganache-making.

It wasn't even midnight, though it was some time after the in-depth explanation of fencing from a guest who does it and the shared anticipation of next month's beach adventure for six of us that people began thinking about work tomorrow and making their farewells.

Translation: not nearly enough time for conversation beyond the constant bouncing from party guest to guest to join discussions already in progress.

Tonight's requested porch time was only the final stage of an evening that began at Secco for dinner, which for me meant chilled melon gazpacho with pickled blueberries and feta, followed by arctic char with creme fraiche. But I'm here to tell you that the most swoon-worthy part of the meal was a summer vegetable tian - a gratin-like dish that made better use of zuchinni and squash than I have ever put in my mouth - savored with Louis Pato Baga Brut Rose to kick things off and a bottle of Moreux Sancerre Blanc "Les Bouffants" to follow, because, as Pru is so fond of reminding us, why would we ever leave the Loire?

Looking at the dessert menu, Beau was bummed that our favorite butterscotch pudding was no more, but I happily had the lemon curd tart with toasted meringue, candied violets and edible flowers, causing shock waves among friends who think I must have chocolate to close out a meal.

Not so, mes amis, let's not forget that I'm also a sucker for coconut cake. Not all desserts must be chocolate, as Beau reluctantly acknowledged with his buttermilk gelato, which managed to be decadently rich without the characteristic tang of buttermilk.

You live, you learn, according to Alanis Morisette.

After a drive up scenic Route 301, we landed at Hanover Tavern to take in "Crimes of the Heart" and enjoy some Southern gothic family drama. And while watching a play about three southern sisters dealing with each other and their long-time roles in the family provided plenty of fodder for a compelling story, those of us with five sisters know that there's so much more that could have been mined on the subject of sisterly love, family history and devotion.

Don't get me started.

Take it from the oldest of six, Maggie Roop masterfully nailed the weight of carrying the life-long responsibilities of being born first, playing oldest sister Lenny as equal parts substitute mother and general peacekeeper, with little regard for her own needs.

And while the entire cast was strong, has anyone ever changed her pantyhose while giving a monologue and made it more hilarious than Maggie Bavolack as Chick? Talk about comedic gold.

Despite not getting home from Hanover until after 11:00, we closed out the night on Pru's screened porch, talking about the success of the birthday party - really, how often in life do you get to peel shrimp  and sip champagne surrounded by pouring rain? - the top-notch acting in the play and how little James Bond experts Pru and Beau recalled of "On Her Majesty's Secret Service," which I'd just seen a few nights ago at the Byrd.

And that's just what I can mention.

My point is that I'm apparently not the only insatiable one since conversation flowed until the clock was hitting 1 a.m. and I finally headed back to Jackson Ward, where the recently returned student population was roaming the streets in search of a party.

My oldest sister advice to them would be to start by checking out the screened porches.

Sophisticated and Fabulous

If 30 people show up for your birthday party 5 minutes after it starts, you are popular.

I did not show up to the party then, or even during the entire first hour, but I had the best possible excuse: addressing my gross cultural illiteracy. More to the point, I was at the Bijou seeing "Donnie Darko" for the first time in the company of a friend who was just as illiterate.

All I can say is, praise be to the Bijou for upping my movie game just about every single weekend. I owe them a debt of gratitude.

Admittedly, I'd known for years that the 2002 indie film was one I needed to watch and the fact that this was a 15th anniversary restoration only sweetened the pot. But what truly sealed the deal was a friend telling me that when he saw it at 14, it had reordered in his mind what his notion of a film could be.

With no more information than that, we showed up for the weekend's final screening with just minutes to spare. In a testament to the busy weekend the theater had had with the film, they were completely out of popcorn, so for the first time I saw a movie at the Bijou without chomping through a bag of it as I watched.

What struck me immediately was the 1988 setting for the movie, which I hadn't anticipated. From the opening notes of Echo and the Bunnymen's "Under the Killing Moon" through Tears for Fears' "Head Over Heels" to the Church's "Under the Milky Way" to Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart," I wondered about the choice of year.

Was the era a favorite of the director? Surely we weren't already experiencing '80s nostalgia in 2002 or were we?

You're bitching but you're not a bitch.

Just as distinctive was seeing both Donnie and his father engrossed in reading books, as if suggesting that waaaay back in '88, people still found time to read. References to voting for Dukakis seemed tailor-made to nail a specific time period, as were those high-waisted pants the girls were wearing. It all felt very nostalgic.

You're weird. That was a compliment.

The movie was dark, with an overriding sense of emptiness and more sci-fi elements than I could get my head around immediately. And, yes, that's a compliment because although we discussed it as we walked back to my apartment, we didn't come close to parsing most of it.

Later, I found a message from him with a link to an article about the more scientific elements of time travel so I could better understand what had transpired, although I'm still a bit shaky on that. I feel flattered that he had enough faith in me to think I could read it and comprehend something so very scientific. As if.

So while I was late, once I'd corrected my cultural gap I was free to head to my friend's birthday party at Lulu's - closed tonight for her event - which was pretty much in full swing when I walked in. Barely through the door, I was enthusiastically greeted by the friendliest cool cat musical couple I know, then spotted the party girl's main squeeze across the bar and went to say hello after not seeing him for months while he was snowboarding out West.

We were barely finished saying hello when I turned to see with whom he'd been sitting and there was one of my very favorite guitarists/conversationalists/people of all time, a decade-long friend I hadn't seen in a whole year (for good reason it turns out) and who made my night by being there.

Sometimes it pays to click "going" when you're invited to an event.

Still, it was nothing short of a thrill to settle down next to him at the bar and pick up where we'd left off a year ago.

At his suggestion, I first loaded up a plate of Tio Pablo's offerings (you don't have to tell me twice to eat) fashioning a couple of chicken, black bean and onion tacos with tomatillo sauce to follow chips and guacamole and leave me energized for as much conversation as I could get.

We were soon joined by a music-lover who loves to combine travel with booty calls (she highly recommends the practice to me) and swore up and down she will never marry again. I always wonder about the ones who protest the loudest.

She also shared how she'd gotten into her first Cheap Trick concert (hint: it involved servicing a roadie) and how she'd be seeing them again this summer (ticket in hand this time). When she brought up Robyn Hitchcock, it was a flashback since I hadn't thought of him in eons - I first heard him in the '80s with his band the Egyptians - although my friend said he'd never listened to his music.

Once she left us to our own devices, we wasted no time in talking about the effects of music - old (Pantera, Van Halen) and new (Hiatus Kaioyte, Dirty Projectors) - on us as well as the need for soulful connections, one of those things that affect quality of life for certain people. What's the point of being friends if everything stays on the surface?

Our bar stool real estate meant that we could stay put and dive down multiple conversational rabbit holes all night while the killer well-chosen soundtrack played loudly overhead and people - the birthday girl, the drummer/music fanatic, the DJs) came to us to chat. I only had to move to score some dessert.

Agreeing that a year between conversations is excessive, I cited the uncertainty of life as a better reason to get together more frequently. For proof, I told him about the Maryland friend who'd meet me monthly in D.C. or Fredericksburg, not just because we wanted to keep up with each other, but because life is too short not to spend time with people who make you laugh and really listen to what you say.

Then he moved to Key West and we don't get that pleasure anymore, so I'm all for gathering ye friendship rosebuds while ye may. Let's talk about what's on our minds, everything and nothing, while we can, shall we?

And in what could only be a sign from the universe, as soon as I got in the car, the first song I heard on the radio was Robyn Hitchcock's "I Want to Tell You About What I Want" from his new (and 21st) album.

You know me, I'll happily tell you about what I want. Just ask, then settle in for the answer and a whole lot of laughter.

Learning the Hard Way

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood because the Bijou has opened.

If you want to get technical, it opened last weekend but I was out of town for Chaplin's "Modern Times," the inaugural offering. So after a friend's dimly-lit birthday party in the Gypsy Room at Vagabond, I walked down a few blocks to the Bijou.

But not before convincing doubters to eat torchon (without sharing that it's made from pig head), hearing vacation tales of the wonder of U.S. territory Puerto Rico (no currency exchange! no language barrier! a rain forest!), ingesting more rockfish rillettes than I care to admit and listening to the Denver transplant mock-whine about the local Broncos obsession and the abundance of pot shops and over-priced apartments out there.

Headed up Broad, I was looking forward to checking out the Bijou's new digs, which turned out to be the perfect starter space: small, simple and complete with bar and popcorn (two bags, no judging, please).

When I walked in, vinyl was playing on the turntable, there were two men clad in seersucker blazers despite Labor Day already being in the rear view mirror, and a growing crowd was filing in with a few familiar faces thrown in for good measure.

Even better, I was told that the earlier screening of "Miss Sharon Jones!" had sold out. See, Richmond, there's your proof we really did want a small arthouse theater showing repertory as well as new films. I, for one, am tired of reading reviews of wonderful but obscure or small films in the Washington Post, knowing full well they'll never play Richmond.

Happily, the Bijou is changing all that.

The film center's founders spoke briefly, including a mention about how film is truly meant to be experienced on a  big screen with strangers, a sentiment I support wholeheartedly and am mocked for regularly.

The documentary covered the period after Miss Jones found out she had stage two pancreatic cancer, underwent surgery and chemo and was nursed back to health so she could go back to singing, but it also included plenty of impressive live footage from before and after her illness.

I only saw Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings once, back in May 2010 at Maymont, and it was a helluva show given the towering musical talent of the band and the force of nature personality of Miss Jones. Even six plus years later, I can clearly recall the way she worked the crowd up into a dancing frenzy, never letting up herself...and she was also singing the whole time.

Of course, even without the cancer angle, her story was film-worthy. How does a singer who's been told by a record executive that she's too old, too black and too short (side note: how many men get told that by record execs, hmmm?) for success manage to have her first hit at age 40?

Major talent and sheer determination. A band that's as close as family. Divine luck.

After the film, I strolled down Broad Street chatting with a couple headed to their car. Like me, they'd really enjoyed the documentary, but unlike me, they'd never seen her live and wanted to hear every detail about my experience.

A block or so later, they asked if I was walking home and when I said yes, if I would like a ride for safety. I assured them I was barely six blocks from home, so I'd be just fine.

Besides, they're missing the point. With the opening of the Bijou, there's one more reason to attract people to the neighborhood, more to do once you're here and yet another formerly vacant storefront is knit into the fabric of Jackson Ward. Score!

So, yes, Bijou Film Center, I will happily be your neighbor.

You Can't Fix Stupid but You Can Vote It Out

Hostesses need not worry about small talk at parties these days with such an historically significant election at hand.

Even when the guest list is all kinds of diverse, pulling from friends, family, work connections and associated tangents, you can bet the farm that once mingling begins, straight talk about our next President is going to come up.

I drove to Church Hill listening to a dire weather warning about impending torrential rain - complete with buzzing - to reach a friend's surprise birthday party. Some friends you'd drive through torrents for, in this case, for the kind of introverted person who became a friend practically from the first time we began a conversation six years ago.

Every time I met someone new tonight who asked about my connection to the birthday celebrant, I had an array of anecdotes about our relationship to share. My favorite, of course, is about how I helped him get the girl, the girl.

Despite my early sagacious advice, he's the one who's been thoughtful and romantic enough to keep her.

That the party had been planned as a potluck ensured obscene amounts of food, including what one friend had warned us would be "mediocre wings," when actually it was wings from Bonchon Chicken that made fans of nearly everyone.

But not for us any nibbling until we'd donned party hats (blue, worn at a jaunty angle), grabbed noisemakers (green, required I was told) and scared the birthday boy half to death when he unlocked the front door, expecting to walk into a romantic birthday dinner chez his main squeeze and instead finding the most eclectic group of people he knows ever assembled.

I can't attest to where the conversation went in other nooks and crannies of the house, but there was some fiery rhetoric going on in the narrowest part of the kitchen near the refrigerator where I found myself.

Not going to lie, it brings up many feelings to hear people talk about being part of the groundswell that wants to commit to each changing just one person's mind about voting for Trump. Didn't childhood literature teach us that slow and steady wins the race?

"If each of us convinced just one Trump-supporter to change his vote, it would make a difference in the election," said one of the two men who'd gotten the "wear peach shirt" memo. His passion was palpable, even if his clothing choice was matchy-matchy.

Truthfully, I can only mock so much because I was one of three women who wore a summer outfit with a cut-out back, so apparently there were different memos for each sex, fortunate for me since I look dreadful in peach.

More than one person admitted that they would begin at the source by trying to change their parents' minds about Trump.

"We need to start by asking these people what they like about him," a friend insisted. "We have to understand where they're coming from to address their misconceptions."

And sometimes, you can't even try. One guy shared that after trying to talk rationally with Trump types, he'd complained to a friend that people like that were hopeless causes. "Don't talk to me about Trump supporters," the friend told him. "I'm behind enemy lines."

He lives in Colonial Heights.

It's satisfying to see how engaged people are in this election cycle, comparing speeches, giving massive props to Biden's, trying to figure out how 2020-related Romney's was, praising Obama's (about whose speech my own Dad had written "[it] exceeded anything sine William Jennings Bryan"), allowing for the significance of Bloomburg's and most definitely still over the moon about Michelle's, all of us convinced that she'd clean up should she run in 2020.

People are scared at the possibility of a Trump presidency and a birthday party of familiar faces seems to be a good place to admit that you're already preparing yourself for the worst possible eventuality.

One woman said she'd recently been part of a bachelorette party that made a stop at Trump Winery, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Her mother insisted she keep her feelings to herself and all she could think about was, why throw hard-earned cash at the business of a man whose platform terrifies you?

I feel completely comfortable invoking MLK at this point: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." Ahem, the foreseeable future matters hugely, even to a well-aged vintage such as myself.

When the discussion veered to lighter topics, it was far funnier, as when a woman shared her experience visiting a European market that used a remarkable customer reward system.

She and her husband had ordered, and while she was hoovering hers, he was less impressed with his, basically pushing the food around on his plate.

The owner's wife took note, praising her and chiding him, and then delivering 3 or 4 desserts for her with explicit instructions not to share with him.

Odd as that sounds, it gets odder.

After setting down the desserts, the owner's wife moved behind her and - wait for it - began massaging the woman's shoulders while her husband nibbled on the verboten desserts. I'm not sure how it could have gotten much weirder unless they'd initiated a threesome right there on the table.

"I'm telling you about it so maybe you'll want to go check it out for yourself and write about it," she tells me at the conclusion of her story. Are you kidding? Who wouldn't want free desserts and a back rub from a stranger?

A service industry friend chimes in. "Gee, I wish I'd known to try that move before I left my last position."

I heard from another friend who's been training to be a yogi about the challenges of closing down her busy mind to meditate. "I didn't know how to turn off the 17 voices in my head and just be present in the moment," she explained about her first attempt at meditation.

Next thing you know, we're discussing science and why people react to the power of thunderstorms in the same manner they react to being near the ocean or running water: positive ions are released with all three and humans can't help but react to them.

But ultimately, the chatter always returned to the journey from now 'till November, with one young voter admitting that, "Part of me believes that we can really make change this time and the other half says, nah, they're just trying to pull one over on us again."

We can not risk being cynical, kids.

Another admitted he hadn't voted in the last couple of elections and while all I did was gasp in surprise, another friend extended his hand to democracy's non-participant, saying, "Nice knowing you."

Although he's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, his point was simply that when you don't vote, it's not rebellion, it's surrender.

It's good to know that I count as friends so many people who refuse to just roll over. Sometimes it takes a birthday party to remind you that we're as great as the people who participate.

Last House on the Left

Despite promises to the contrary, it should be noted that we did not play Twister.

Celebrating a friend's landmark birthday plus one involved a big house on Church Hill, meeting new people and hours of food and drink. But despite the birthday boy's promise of a rousing game of Twister, it wasn't happening.

There was the college roommate I'd heard plenty about and her husband wearing a "Puglsey" t-shirt (he looks at me and points. "You were at "The Damned' screening last night, weren't you?" Guilty as charged).

There was the birthday boy's historian best friend (who now knows far too much about my sleeping habits, courtesy of our hostess) since third grade and his wife, whom I'd heard give history talks at lunchtime.

There was the DJ who discreetly let me know that he knows my former boyfriend. You and the rest of the world, my friend.

Even with meeting five strangers, I was barely one degree of separation from any of them. So Richmond.

Since it had only been a month since I'd last been to my friend's house, I was totally unprepared for how the formal dining room had morphed from a cramped space chock full of moving boxes to an inviting space with a table that sat ten (which came with the house) and a grand fireplace.

Nickle and dime tours of the estate were offered and I joined for the backyard tour, particularly admiring a shower head mounted to the fence. No one had a good reason for this placement. Me, I'd have bent down and showered under it, neighbors be damned.

The first few hours of the party were devoted to mingling and munching while the hostess prepared things for the dinner. I volunteered to roll cured meats and butter baguette slices, chores that require no kitchen talent but a tolerance for repetitive work while she did the heavy lifting.

I was consulted on the music selection and while I may have been the only one to take notice of the Spinners or Barry White on the R & B station, let the record show I did notice. A fellow music lover discussed trombones and brewery gigs with me.

The former Mexico-dweller, always a terrific source of colorful stories, told us about a friend of hers there who not only grew pot but used it to produce a feminine hygiene spray with a scent of eau de weed. Imagine how into that some guys (and girls) would be.

Dinner for ten was frogmore stew, aka a low country boil, with shrimp, two kinds of Belmont Butchery sausages, red potatoes, onions and corn on the cob. Separate bowls held broth in which to sop the juices with bread. The birthday boy had had it for Independence Day and liked it so much he ordered it up for his birthday.

I couldn't say a word. As was pointed out to me, I drag my birthday out for weeks, or a month when I can and I always believe in eating whatever I want to celebrate.

Dessert was clafoutis, the classic French tart, with tonight's versions being mixed berry and another with peaches and raspberries. Our hostess is nothing if not an excellent cook.

We were not expected to sing happy birthday, perhaps because of the copious amounts of wine and Pimm's Cups consumed by this point. After dinner, splinter groups broke off, one to the back porch and another to the living room so lively conversation could ensue.

Or at least that's what we told ourselves by this point in the evening.

Pru and I had long ago decided that we aspired to hold salons a la Gertrude Stein so evenings like tonight could be considered the seeds of those future evenings. We're vetting potential guests for worthiness.

But did anyone make a move for the Twister box? Did our hostess even have Twister at the ready? Here I was ready to spin and contort for the sake of a good game and nobody was having it.

Looks like somebody else is going to have to organize a night of Twister. Somebody who's not scared. You know I'm not afraid to bend over (or under) anyone for the sake of right hand, green or left foot, yellow.

Wait'll you see my birthday party.

Psychedelic Pineapple Collective

My evening took me down a gravel and grass path to the '70s.

Technically speaking, it was a friend's birthday celebration but it was also a chance to show off their recently purchased Southside house and property. All I'd been told was that it was across from a park and needed a lot of work.

Finding it was the first challenge because while I saw 2716 and 2720, I saw nothing in between. Except above mentioned path. To quote Talking Heads, this must be the place.

Wrangling armfuls of stuff - spinach avocado dip, a bag of "really seedy" (actually the name) crackers, a blue hydrangea for the birthday girl's new garden, a jean jacket for once the sun went down - I joined two friends in taking the path to the party.

Passing a large camper (sold but not yet picked up), we soon came to the ramshackle house (originally 1780, addition 1800). This house pre-dates everything around it, having been built when Manchester was a separate city and the grid had not yet been extended that far. Old as dirt.

Nearby was a circle of seats and cushions around a fire pit, while behind that was the sweetest little camper painted dusty blue (matching the color on my host's knuckles) and their current living quarters.

Asked if I wanted a tour, I signed on to hear about their plans to grow indigenous perennials and fruit trees on the front acreage. On the back 40, they plan to convert the former shed to a tiny house they'll live in and the carport will become a studio and place for gardening classes.

As for the aging house, after renovations their intention is to rent out the two upstairs bedrooms to like-minded souls and use the large room downstairs as a community space. A summer kitchen using a gray water system will be built outdoors.

My only question was where will the outdoor shower be?

So, yes, it'll be an earth-friendly farming collective in the city. I felt like I was right back in the '70s, loving everything about the whole, groovy plan.

There were only about eight people at the party when I arrived, but already conversation was getting real. The mother of a toddler was explaining to another woman the miracle of childbirth, complete with open knees, saying giving birth was basically the same as sex, only better. "It's the ultimate sex."

Immediately, the birthday girl challenged her on how she knew how good someone's sex was and that maybe childbirth isn't better than some people's "getting busy" mode. I was in her camp.

People kept arriving with contributions for the vegetarian food table, soon groaning under an assortment of salads, bean dips and salsas, cheeses, fruits and casseroles. The unlikely crowd favorite turned out to have come from a funeral.

Well, if there's going to be a wake and folks are going to bring food, you may as well pick up fresh ideas for group meals.

This one was Paula Deen's pineapple casserole and as disgusting as that sounds, I have to say it was quite tasty, no doubt due to the abundance of cheddar, Ritz cracker crumbs and buttah, as Paula would say.

Rock solid southern funeral eating at its best.

A table held libations, a cassette deck player and a box of cassettes (Beatles, Phil Collins, a mix tape, natch) which were played throughout the night, although at times it was turned down to accommodate nearby conversations.

Toting buckets, flats of squash seedlings and pies from WPA, a girl showed up with party favors: bunches of carrots and bags of spinach from Tricycle Gardens where she works. Adult party favors, so much better than kazoos and bubble gum.

More than once, I was asked how I'd met the birthday girl and for the life of me, I couldn't recall. Probably a show, but I really wasn't sure. Midway through the night, it hit me.

It was her silent film-loving boyfriend I'd first met back in 2007 at one of his Silent Music Revival events. He was the reason I'd gotten into silent films. That was it.

I met a yoga teacher and another woman who'd done her yoga training in Colorado, only to feel like it didn't translate once she got back to Virginia. A passionate 5th grade teacher lamented the frustrations of having to teach to standardized tests.

Upon learning that my parents lived on the northern neck, a favorite couple told me about a friend they'd known who'd also lived there. No longer, because he committed suicide (or his wife killed him, if you believe the scuttlebutt).

Seems that he was loaded. He'd ended up down there because he'd run his boat into a mud flat on the Carrotoman river and his solution was to buy all the land around the mud. He wanted a circus, so he created and paid for an annual I Love America Festival, complete with elephants.

Because we all want to celebrate how much we love our country with America's indigenous species, the elephant. Hilarious!

Talking about the annual James River Batteau Festival, one long-time participant shared that while she wears a long skirt on the boat, her costume is hardly period correct.

"There's a guy on another batteau who dresses to the period in Revolutionary War clothing down to the details. He looked at me and said I was a "far-be," as in, "far be it from historically accurate." Not that she cares when she and her fellow boat mates are wrangling a shallow, flat-bottomed boat down the James River for a week.

I got a recommendation for a new Philly band, Foxhound, with ties to another musician I've seen several times, Chris Kasper. Described as psychedelic Appalachian folk music, I was assured I'd like it a lot. Now I'll need to hear it and find out.

Once the sun set, a fire was lit as people continued to arrive, take the tour and chat with each other. What was so interesting was how far away from the city it all felt, surrounded as we were by land and greenery (lots and lots of mulberry trees). Yet, at the end of the path and across the street, a night baseball game was happening on a lit field with fans shouting their team support.

You just wouldn't know it from where we stood.

The birthday girl told me some great stories she'd been told by the owner of the house, who'd bought it back in the rough and tumble '80s when Richmond was a very different city.

To discourage crackheads from squatting on his property, he'd gone out and shot five bucks, decapitated them and placed the five heads on stakes around the property to ward off unwelcome visitors. I can't imagine they smelled too good come summer.

She said when they'd first asked to look at the house before they bought it, the owner had admitted he'd lost the house keys while using a scythe (!) to trim the grass in the yard. Undaunted, they'd propped a ladder against the rickety old wooden porch and climbed through an upstairs window to gain access to look at the house ("I can't believe we did that!").

The funniest part of that story is that when they returned after buying it, they found that a homeless man had picked the lock and gained entry, although not yet moved in. Basically, he'd saved them a locksmith's fee.

"I shouldn't tell you this," she went on, looking around, "But a friend suggested we christen the camper the "stabbin' cabin." When her partner was informed of this, he cringed, saying that when he gets lucky, he never thinks of it as stabbing. Good man.

Besides, stabbin' cabin doesn't flow with the feel-good vibe of their sprawling compound.

Unable to resist, I told a similarly-aged friend that everything from stepping into the camper to the sense of community and shared goals felt like deja vu. She nodded. "It's just how we lived back then."

Everyone who heard the master plan for the property was impressed, many complimenting it as the wave of the future, energy efficient and green in most every possible way. The whole idea of a collective suggests a group of like-minded people doing their part to be part of the solution, not the problem.

I think we called it a commune back in the '70s and there was no craft beer or pineapple casserole. But otherwise, take me home, country roads.

And don't come a-knockin' if the van is a-rockin'.

Holiday Antidote

Happy birthday and Merry Christmas all in the same night.

It was celebration time for a friend and former co-worker so he'd invited his dearly beloved to Pasture to fete him. I was just glad he'd picked Pasture and not someplace further afield since my vehicle is out of commission.

Walking by Rappahannock, I saw it was mobbed with suits (private party) and Pasture wasn't much less crowded with the birthday celebration coinciding with a Modern Richmond happy hour. I've been wanting to go to one of their events for a while and haven't yet, but I did get to meet the organizer tonight, where I was introduced as "Karen, a woman about town."

That's one way of putting it.

I'd brought my friend the gift of cookies, a nod to the first year we were friends when I left six dozen cookies on his desk at work and he about burst with pleasure at the unexpected gift. We've been friends long enough now that he knows to expect a doctored card (I fill in the speech bubbles to suit our history) and cookies.

After catching up with a theater-loving friend who'd missed seeing "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," I spent time chatting with a favorite music writer about the lack of local girl bands, upcoming shows we need to see and the importance of learning how to discourse rather than argue.

When you want to make a point, it's best to stay calm, we agreed.

To fuel our banter, I ordered pinto bean dip with garden salsa and hot oil for scooping with tortilla chips. I love me some beans.

When I couldn't finish the chips, I handed the little brown bag of remainders to the birthday boy who happily munched away after already having far too many birthday drinks bought for him. I foresee a hangover for him tomorrow, a shame since he has work training tomorrow.

Midway through my conversation with the music writer, I spotted a former restaurateur I hadn't seen in ages and took some time to catch up with her. Facebook had let me know that she'd met the love of her life, but I wanted to hear the story.

It was a doozy, beginning with a last minute invitation to a friend wedding in the islands, a persistently romantic man she met in the wedding party ("He said he knew the moment he laid eyes on me"), fireworks exploding over them on a darkened beach and now she's moving north to live with him happily ever after.

I couldn't have been happier for her happiness. She said she'd about given up at her age (34, pshaw!) of finding Mr. Right and getting the whole fairy tale romance when boom! It landed in her lap when she least expected it.

Heaven knows, I'm enthralled with a romantic love story.

After a couple of hours at the party, it was time to bundle up and walk over to the Speakeasy for a staged reading of Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge. The house was rapidly filling up when I asked a couple if I could join their table, followed by a noted dancer and a culture big shot and his wife.

The table's original occupants were there because their daughter was ushering and they had loads of questions about theater in Richmond since they'd only recently started getting out to see plays and readings with her. In short order, they wanted the scoop on Firehouse Theater and why everyone in the room seemed to know each other. Our advice was not to miss the Acts of Faith preview.

Then it was time for a seriously hilarious holiday mashup.

The story, a takeoff on A Christmas Carol was so politically incorrect, so irreverent and so funny that I felt it more than balanced the retro and wholesome Christmas vibes I'd gotten seeing "White Christmas" Sunday. Or walking through any store right now.

The performance had plenty of wicked asides as well as commentary about the play itself (the young Jacob Marley asking, "Why don't I have any lines?" after a long discourse by other characters). The play posits that Ebenezer Scrooge's habit of saying "bah humbug" would be considered Tourette's syndrome these days.

The Ghost of Christmases Past, Present and Future, written for a black woman and played to perfection by Katrinah Carol Lewis, got laughs when Scrooge tells her, "I don't think there even were any Negro people in 1843."

Mrs. Bob Cratchit turned out to be a miserable woman who hated her life and was always leaving to get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. She belittled her children mercilessly, ignored their requests for food and barely tolerated her cheerfully sanctimonious husband, who tells his children, "Okay, on the count of three, everybody weep." And they do while the Mrs. rolls her eyes.

In a play full of references to other times, she bemoaned the absence of feminism. "I wish it were 1977 so I'd be admired for my unpleasantness," she wailed. No feminist stereotype there.

Kenneth Lay and Jeffrey Skilling put in appearances trying to involve Scrooge in a scam to sell "energy shares" and the ghost of Christmas past came dressed as a UPS delivery man. A scene from Scrooge's childhood ends up being a scene from "Oliver" with the plaintive, "May I have more, sir?" getting a big laugh.

The ghost of Christmas present scene had a Dutch couple exchanging gifts - a watch chain and hair comb - a tableau straight out of "The Gift of the Magi."

But eventually Clarence, the angel from It's A Wonderful Life, came along to help out the ghost and solve both Scrooge's attitude problem (after he supplies happy Meals for the Cratchit's Christmas dinner) as well as Mrs. Cratchit's misery.

But not before Mia Farrow takes 18 of the unwanted Cratchit children off their hands.

Todd Schall-Vess did a superb job as George Bailey, mimicking not only the timbre of Jimmy Stewart's voice but the exact cadence of the lines. No surprise there since the Byrd shows it every Christmas and Todd introduces it.

The twist that joins Scrooge and Mrs. Bob Cratchit in co-joined nastiness lands them in, when else, 1977, where they become Harry and Leona Helmsley. "Do something mean and let me watch," Scrooge tells her.

By the end of the play, the ghost is searching for a moral to the story, offering several possibilities and finally settling on this: If you're happy, you can be poor and if you're mean, you better get money.

Walking home in the cold night air, it hit me. Happiness must be the reason I can be so poor.

On the flip side, a mean person wouldn't have had to walk. Even so, I'll take it.

Adult Swim

What's better than a birthday pool party in the summertime?

A pool party with a really good band, that's what.

So after black bean nachos and 1800 at 821 Cafe, it was on to Granite Pool, a place I hadn't been in 15 years, and one so tucked away, I'm always amazed that I'm able to find it.

By the time I joined the fun, plenty of people were in the pool, enjoying water that felt warmer than the air.

I greeted my hostess who was in a stellar red bikini, hugged the birthday boy and absorbed some of his pool wetness, then moved on to talk to others I knew: the WRIR couple, the singer and her cute pink shoes, the guitar player in his cammo bathing suit, the other singer, looking fabulous, like she was wearing a classic 1970s jumpsuit (actually a bathing suit and pants).

It was hard to beat the combination of sitting on the side of the pool with my calves submerged and having a front row seat for the band's performance.

What are soggy shorts and a wet butt but two of the pleasures of summer?

A guy floated up in an inner tube and introduced himself. I suggested he stay nearby for a great view.

And not just any band, but the Shangri-Lords - a local band in which I know five of the members (including Kyle and Tim from Diamond Center as the rock steady rhythm section), and yet had inexplicably never seen perform ("What? Are you serious?" a friend asked, slack jawed)- all of whom have the last name Lord.

The Ramones have nothing on these guys.

With Michael doing lead vocals, Lindsey and Janet doing back-up vocals and Kyle doing some of both, they proceeded to get the party started with some outrageous '60s girl group songs.

Don't say you don't know what I'm talking about: "Be My Baby," "Nowhere to Run," "Good, Good Lovin." Amazing stuff.

There was one girl determined to get the dancing started, sometimes alone, sometimes with a willing or reluctant partner. She even asked me.

Handling the lead vocals, the witty banter and the dramatics, Michael (whom I know from much different bands) was smooth as silk, his arm around the blue support as he crooned, making kiss and good-bye gestures as the lyrics dictated.

Even better, he was dressed in a tux. During the band's set, our hostess appeared at my side in the pool, asking rhetorically, "Who would show up at a pool party in a tux? This guy."

Yes, and we love him for it.

Our lovely back-up singers were equally as impressively clad and talented, all in black and dancing rhythmically to every song.

They were masters of the double clap/snap routine and harmonized magnificently with Michael.

Clearly the band had put some thought into the set list, mixing up raucous dance songs with slow dances so people could grope.

With a funky drum part coming from Tim, they even sang "happy birthday" to the beaming celebrant.

When they announced they were doing a sexy song, Lindsey warned party goers, "Single people, you need to start talking to each other now."

Then when it began, she used her best announcer voice to say, "And now it's adult swim."

For the last three songs, she exhorted the crowd to get up and dance now if they'd been planning to and plenty of people couldn't resist The Supremes' "You Keep Me Hangin' On."

Saying it was anthem time, we got what was the highlight for me, the vintage proto-feminism of Leslie Gore's 1963 classic, "You Don't Own Me."

They absolutely nailed it, Janet and Lindsey's vocals and dancing spot on as Michael sang, "Don't tell me I can't go with other boys!"

I don't tell you what to say
Oh, I don't tell you what to do
So just let me be myself'
That's all I ask of you

That's some stellar '60s girl power right there.

They closed their set with the Tammys' "Egyptian Shumba," practically a call to arms to twist and do the bugaloo and the dancing crowd obliged on the wet decks.

Near the end of the song, Michael left the stage to incite the crowd further and before long, jumped in the pool, incidentally losing his glasses along the way.

In his tux.

Not to be outdone, Lindsey was next and Janet soon followed.

Coolest part? They splashed around a bit and then returned to finish the song.

How in the world had I not seen this band before? Already looking forward to the next time.

If you've been to a better pool party, I want to hear about it.

Shadows and Light

I can never decide if people notice when I take a day off from blogging.

After five plus years of detailing so much - heartbreak, meals ate, music seen, what books mean - almost every single day, it's hard to gauge if anyone realizes when I step back briefly.

Oh, I know people notice when I lean way back like I did last August and stopped blogging entirely for a week, but does a missing day merit notice? Hard to say.

And yet it's so much a habit that I notice when I don't bother sharing.

Today dawned late for me because I went to bed just as the birds were starting their morning songs.

It's not something I do often anymore, but it was a night for talking and listening to albums like Joni Mitchell's "Hissing of Summer Lawns" beginning with the exquisitely poetic, "In France They Kiss on Main Street." In Richmond, they kiss on Clay Street.

Sometimes the music doesn't end until it's almost 5 a.m.

Once the afternoon sun roused me, I invited my photographer friend to join me for a walk after I awoke to a message instructing, "Holla!"

I led him down through Monroe Ward, across the expressway, past Ethyl's "no trespassing" sign to the river to hear the sound of it rushing by and admire the blue of it on this impossibly warm day.

There's just something about the sound of moving water that soothes the soul, so we took advantage of it by strolling Brown's Island, walking the sandy trail to the pipeline, underwater so unwalkable, and back up to the island to traverse the truncated bridge out across the river where the sound of it obliterated anything else, at least until a train began approaching and he began filming it.

My goal was to wave to the guys in the engine and get them to wave at me (successful), which may or may not have put the back of my head and hand in frame.

Then it was the slow mount up the big hill and back home.

Last night's birthday party brought together a small but party-minded group of restaurant types, agricultural engineers, small business owners and a couple who renovate and turn houses for an evening of food, pink bubbles, brown liquor and fiddle music.

Best line overheard when an old-timey song came on: "That's my uncle Larry- in-law." Pretty sure there's no such thing.

But my favorite conversation was with a guy who's recently reunited with his former beloved and he made an analogy that, like a talented band, they were getting back together for another go at making beautiful music together.

"But not for a single," he clarified. "For a full album, maybe two. But that doesn't mean kids." I gave him high points for his romantic and musical metaphor.

By the end of the night, the birthday girl was only somewhat loopy but her husband's world was spinning, meaning a good time was had by all.

Sunday had wound down with a bottle of wine, a princepessa pizza - sausage, onions, mushrooms, spinach garlic and oil - at Ariana's with the Sunday Washington Post for reading material.

It was a low key meal, at least until a woman took her child into the ladies' room and the girl began shrieking, "I don't want that! I don't want that in me!" followed by blood-curdling screams.

It certainly wasn't very conducive to good digestion.

The night ended at the Criterion Cinemas for the Oscar pick for best picture of the year, "12 Years a Slave," with only four other people in attendance.

I'm not going to lie, it was an extremely difficult film to watch because it was based on a true story of a free black man kidnapped and brutally enslaved at a series of southern plantations with owners of varying degrees of humanity.

A powerful film and one not soon forgotten.

Which is a good thing, since I didn't get around to writing about it for a couple of days. Not that anyone would have noticed.

Feet on the ground, head in the sky, I know nothing's wrong. Everything's absolutely wonderful.

Jazz Hands and Birthday Pink

Sometimes you just have to cross people off your list.

So when I got offered tickets to the Richmond Jazz Fest at Maymont, I said yes so that I could cross two musicians off mine. I'd invited a friend to join me and since I was supplying the tickets, his job was to provide the picnic.

Given the changeable weather, we decided to cut our losses by arriving mid-day, hoping to miss at least some of the rain. We walked into Maymont about 3:45, just about the time the colorfully-clad Tiempo Libre took the stage.

It hadn't been that long since I'd seen them - March with the symphony- so I knew to expect high-energy Cuban music brought to us by classically trained musicians. I don't know how they did it, dancing and playing non-stop in the afternoon sun, but they even managed to make it look fun. Their set ended with a conga line and a long string of attendees snaking behind the lead singer, dancing in the grass.

During the break, we strolled over to the "bar" to get ID'd, buy tickets and finally (ta-da!) qualify to buy a bottle of wine. It wasn't an easy process, but sometimes you have to persevere for the cause.

Given the humidity, we opted for a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, taking it with us as we wandered through the craft area (lots of jewelry, something I don't wear) and the bistro area (lots of fried food with Mama Musu's and Croaker's Spot the only recognizable names) before returning to our chairs.

Not long after, Dr. John  and the Nite Trippers took the stage, thereby satisfying one of my must-see needs. The good doctor wore a hat over his trademark be-ribboned ponytail and got right down to business.

Four or five years ago, a friend had advised me that the only place to see Dr. John was in New Orleans, but I figured it was best not to wait indefinitely for that opportunity.

The man is, after all, 72 years old.

That said, he sounded exactly like he did when he first sang "Right Place, Wrong Time" in 1973.
He proved it by singing it tonight and as a guy sitting nearby observed, "If you closed your eyes, it was just like hearing it in the '70s."

The crowd today would know about the '70s, since it appeared that most of them came of age then.
In fact, at one point my friend looked at me and said that we were at the young edge of the average age, no small feat.

I would say that hearing Dr. John's distinctive gravel of a voice was a most satisfying experience as he tore up the skull-adorned piano in the muggy afternoon sun.

We decided to use the next break to eat, enjoying fried chicken and coleslaw with our Riesling while a gentle rain began to fall. No problem; along with other necessaries, I'd made sure to bring a small umbrella, if only to keep the raindrops out of my wine glass.

My planning skills are among the best.

At this point, many people began packing up to go while just as many arrived to set up camp. Depending on your taste, the main event had either just happened or was just about to.

Next up was another 72-year old, this one, Chick Corea, another musician I had to see for posterity's sake. His group, the Vigil, looked to be less than half his age and my friend noted that they might as well have been his "class."

His master class, maybe.

The man who was once part of Miles Davis' band in the '60s walked out looking easily 20 years younger than he was and proceeded to show the youngsters how it's done. With an almost constant smile, he showed his mastery, never dominating the sound, but always clearly the one driving the bus.

It's exciting to see someone of his age still so obviously enjoying what he does.

When their set ended, we decided to pack it in, both of us having already seen Michael McDonald.
You know, the great jazz artist, Michael McDonald. Yea, right.

Our original intent had been to make it to somewhere less populated after the music to watch the Perseid meteor shower, but the lingering cloud cover made that impossible. Instead we finished the evening at the late evening birthday party of a friend, drinking Rose from Provence, listening to Madonna and watching a Queen concert on a big screen.

One guest wore white pants and shirt, his glowing cell phone in his pocket beaming its light from his thigh. Another told me how much he liked my writing, citing a specific article I'd written almost six months ago.

Did I mention there was a smoke machine to set the birthday mood?

Yah mo B there, wherever the most fun can be found.

I only hope that's still the case when I'm 72.

The Fun in Dysfunction

Nothing like a little family dysfunction to celebrate a major life marker.

My Mom was the one being celebrated and since it was a big birthday, it required everyone who ever mattered to her.

People like the best friend she went all through Catholic school with. The couples she and my Dad used to play bridge with when we were kids.  Her conservative sister and dimpled brother.

And, most importantly, her six daughters, of which I am the oldest, a fact often pointed out by the other five.

Getting to the party was the difficult part, a two and 3/4 hour drive up Route 301, but at least it allowed plenty of time for good road trip music.

Stuff like Pete Yorn's "Musicforthemorningafter," Local Natives' "Hummingbird" and the Arcade Fire's "Funeral."

Good thing I got my music fix in because once at the party, there were so many people that if music was being played, I never heard it.

Because I live in Richmond and the rest of my sisters live in Maryland, I don't see them all that often.

That's part of why I live in Richmond, but it also means I usually enjoy when I do see them.

We're really close in age, with all six of us having been born in an eight-year period.

And while that was problematic when we were all kids living at home, it only got more challenging now that we're all grown women.

Imagine the likelihood of any six women so close in age all being compatible with each other.

I'm no mathematician, but it seems to me that the odds are very small that they're all going to get along.

Years ago, back in the pre-Internet days, I found an article saying that large families of same-sex children tend to be fractious because of being treated like a unit instead of individuals, and sent it to my Mom.

I thought it explained a lot, but my Mom didn't see it that way.

Your siblings are your closest relatives, she used to tell us.

Closer than your father and I are to you. Closer than anybody. You should want to get along.

That wasn't what I wanted to hear when I discovered a sister had worn my new shirt without asking and returned it reeking of her obnoxious perfume.

Or when one of them took my new album and left it on the floor with scratches.

And especially anytime we were together in public and someone referred to us as "Pat and Carl's girls."

So over the years, we've each carved out very separate identities as a way of compensating for those days as one cog in a larger family wheel.

And frequently we've butted heads, unwilling to appreciate each other for how like and unlike we are.

About a year and a half ago, during a weekend away together (we call these annual jaunts "sistertrips"), unkind things were said, feelings were hurt, a sister left unexpectedly and another ended up in tears.

It was a big, old familial mess.

E-mails were exchanged afterwards, but two separate factions formed and there were clearly hard feelings on both sides.

As recently as last Fall, my mother had stated for the record that she wasn't going to have a big birthday party (despite the momentous birthday) unless we were all getting along.

Ignoring her, my youngest sister began planning a festive event, asking everyone to contribute different things and hoping for the best.

Coming from the furthest away, I was the last to arrive to a house filled with dozens of people I knew, many of whom I hadn't seen in years.

I jumped right in, greeting the family friend I used to babysit for, my sister's godmother I hadn't seen in decades, my tipsy cousin, the nurse.

I teased my Mom about how old she must be to have a daughter my age and agreed with my Dad that he was the luckiest man on earth.

And throughout the afternoon and evening, as we ate endless food, watched family videos, admired a scrapbook made for my Mom for the occasion, I wound up in long, funny, intimate and happy conversations with every one of my sisters, one on one and in small groups.

After maybe five or so hours, a photographer started to round up the sisters for a picture with my Mom.

One sister resisted ("We're not a photogenic family," she insisted), but got pulled in physically by another sister.

All of a sudden, it wasn't just the official photographer, but a phalanx of cameras facing the group of us.

We were told to smile and flashes started going off non-stop.

Once again, Pat and Carl's girls were a unit. And not just looking, but feeling very happy about it.

Happy birthday, Mom.

Requiem for Beauty Rest

If ever anyone doubted the musical quality of life in this town, I offer the following.

At 4:00, I had no plans. None materialized by 5:00 or even 6:00.

So by 6:30, I knew I needed to start working towards something to do until the late night birthday party I was attending began.

As I showered, I considered my options, looking for low cost.

I could go to a movie or for that same ten bucks, I could go hear the Richmond Symphony.

At 7:15, I left for CenterStage and by 7:30, had purchased a $10 ticket.

By 7:35, I was settled into the very back row with an empty seat next to me.

Before long it was filled by a guy who'd driven in 40 minutes from the far reaches of Hanover County.

When I asked what had brought him out on this slushy evening, he got right to the point.

"I was trying to decide whether to go to a movie or come hear some friends play music, so I decided on this."

Bingo. Here was tonight's soul mate.

Like me, he didn't mind being in the cheap seats.

"I don't need to see their faces," he said with a smile. "Hi, I'm Steve."

Turns out he's roommates with one of the symphony's viola players.

"People ask if that isn't really cool, getting to hear classical music all the time," he said. "But it's a viola, so I hear a lot of background stuff, but never any melodies. And lots of scales."

Before long, the concert began and the new concertmaster was introduced.

And there he was, the guy I'd met at the Mardi Gras party Tuesday, the one whom I'd heard say, "Where are the single women?" just before the host introduced us.

Let's just say he was way more dressed up tonight.

To get us in the mood for tonight's piece de resistance, first we heard Mozart's overture for "The Magic Flute."

I saw my friend Matt, the symphony's librarian and a bass player, come onstage with music and I knew it wasn't the last I'd see of him tonight.

Next came what conductor Erin Freeman described as "a sonic journey," composed in 2007 by John Hedges and called, "Prayers of Rain and Wind."

The cool part was that Hedges had written the concerto for double bass player Joseph Conyers, who also happened to be in the house.

And playing for us tonight.

Hedges had written the piece for Conyers, a weather freak.

It began with "Summer Rain Fantasia," a rendering of a muggy, humid night, a lovely thing to evoke on this frigid evening.

Conyers' bass then offers up a prayer, "Hymn," to the weather gods and a gentle rain begins, followed by horns announcing the hurricane.

It started with winds (think "The Wizard of Oz") and moves on to the eye of the storm and you could almost feel the release as the sky exploded sonically.

For me, it was a lot like watching the weather from my balcony, knowing that the oppressive heat will eventually give way to the release of a good thunderstorm.

After intermission, we got the reason every seat was full tonight.

The symphony, along with the Richmond Symphony Chorus (all 140 of them) and four soloists, was doing Mozart's "Requiem."

My knowledge of classical music is embarrassingly shallow, but even I knew that it was Mozart's last work and left unfinished when he kicked the bucket.

It was an incredibly moving piece that got a standing ovation afterwards.

Walking out, a woman behind me said, "It was all I could do not to sing along."

I only wish I was savvy enough to wish for the same.

Steve wished me a good evening and I had no doubt it would be since I was heading to a musician friend's birthday party at Patrick Henry Pub in Church Hill.

Turns out it was a multi-person party, with not one, but four people being feted, of which I knew two.

There were probably only 25 people when I arrived, but that number soon grew.

As if the birthdays weren't enough to celebrate, it was also Saturday night, so everywhere I turned, I got interesting if not inebriated conversation.

A woman told me about her shoplifting blind aunt who used to take her with her to Woolworth's when she was a child.

"She'd always have a cigarette hanging out of her mouth," she said. It's quite a visual.

Overheard near the bar: "Back in high school drama class, she supported Bush/Cheney, but now she says she didn't, but I know she did."

When the subject of tequila came up, the talented Herschel made a face, saying he couldn't stand the burning sensation going down.

When I asked if he'd tried good tequilas, he looked at me like I was an idiot.

"I'm Prabir's brother. Of course I've tasted every tequila."

Someone walked up to the guy next to me and inquired, "Are you rolling in the deep?" to which my friend responded, "I don't even know what that means."

And, yes, Matt showed up again, this time sans tux, and there was a protracted discussion of attending a bris, something I did once and intend to never repeat.

The party's hosts had promised food "to soak up the alcohol," and I, for one, couldn't resist the array of potato skins, meatballs and wings.

Now, that's party food.

After a few hours with the DJ spinning the Ramones and the like, our attention was called.

"Does everyone know what we're celebrating?" one of our hosts asked.

It's a good bet that most people did not.

I know that when I had walked into the pub next to a stranger and asked if he was coming to Willis' party and he had said, "Who's Willis?"

So that was clarified for all who weren't overly loopy at this point. and then the live entertainment began.

Everyone's favorite ukulele player who wears a ninja hat, Herschel, then proceeded to play while birthday boy Willis held the mic and did interpretive dance.

There was "Beauty Rest," about a girl who was ugly on the outside, but working on it.

Aren't we all?

He introduced the next song by saying, "It's weird that the way you move has so much attraction. So this is like a sex advice column."

Rile #1 was, "Don't talk."

Rule #2 was, "Shake that ass."

So you see where this song was going.

Meanwhile, Willis danced to Herschel's beat, moving the mic up to his mouth and down to his uke and inciting the crowd to sing the "na-na-na" chorus when appropriate.

His last song was dedicated to several friends who'd died, taking Herschel on a tangent about children dying before their parents.

His suggested solution was not to have children.

But then he sang Randy Newman's "Losing You" beautifully and his lecture was forgotten.

Performance over, the DJ cranked it up again and the party started back in earnest.

I wiled away some time with the smokers on the front porch before deciding to slide back down the hill and call it a night.

It had been a hell of a night's entertainment for ten bones.

And how often do you get wings and Mozart on the same night?

Sounds Very Karen

It was a clamorous evening.

My neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds, was hosting two bands for our listening and dancing pleasure.

The three-block walk over was unexpectedly scenic when fat snowflakes began falling.

Could it really be only three days ago that I wore shorts on my morning walk?

Inside the store, a crowd was growing and Hoax Hunters was about to begin.

Lead singer and guitarist PJ warned us that it was going to be loud. "I have earplugs if you need them and I won't be offended if you take them. Tim will be, though."

Tim was the bass player (and also the drummer for the Diamond Center) and none of us wanted to disappoint him.

For the record, only one person took PJ up on his earplugs offer.

Hoax Hunters are loud, no question about it, but they're also exciting to watch because all three of them are having such a good time.

In the middle of one song, just as the drum solo took off, PJ stepped over by the record bins and began browsing the stacks until he was needed again.

You don't block a drum break in Hoax Hunters, it seems.

Tim's parents were in the house and introduced, waving nicely to those of us crowded around them.

Their songs are fast and hard, not long, and neither was their set so just as everyone's ears were adjusting to the volume, PJ introduced their last song.

"This is off our EP, which isn't a record, but is available for download. Sorry, Steady Sounds."

Of course the irony of that is that PJ and his cute wife are inveterate record collectors.

During the break, I tested my hearing by chatting up friends about the WRIR party, particularly enjoying telling a musician friend that local band Dead Fame had personalized beach balls at the show.

The WTF? look on his face as his eyes widened was the comic high point of the afternoon.

PJ said that after the show he was going to Don't Look Back to eat and kindly invited me to join him and a friend, but I explained that I was going to Edo's Squid for a mutual friend's birthday dinner.

"Sounds very Karen," PJ noted.

Actually, it didn't because I'm not much of an Edo's Squid type at all, but the birthday girl had made the restaurant choice, not me.

E.D. Sedgwick, a D.C. band. came out next and immediately set the tone in their all-white ensembles.

The theme carried over to instruments, with the guitarist playing a black and white double-neck guitar and the bass player playing a white bass.

It carried over to the two female singers, one of whom was black and one white.

The only thing out of place so far as I could tell was that the drummer had a guitar tattooed on his arm.

The band's music sounded post-punk but the addition of the two female singers took it into the power pop range as the band rocked out for their all-too brief set.

The rhythm section anchored the whole thing magnificently.

"Hey, has Richmond changed in the past couple of years?" bandleader Justin called out to the adoring crowd, several of whom danced through every song (Janet, I'm looking at you).

"Yes," someone called out. "I'm speaking for everyone."

"Well, this song is for everyone who liked it better before," he challenged. "It's called "Rock the Boat."

And it did, indeed, rock the record store and everyone in it.

He also gave a shout out to the drummer, saying, "Let's have a round of applause for Sammy, who's not really in our band."

Well, that explained a couple of things- the guitar tattoo and the presence of a second guy since E.D, Sedgwick is known to be just Justin and all women.

Hell, he used to perform in drag until he got tired of wearing a dress (can't relate; I love wearing dresses).

I got the sense that everyone in the room would have liked them to go on playing, but an in-store appearance only lasts so long before the band has to move on.

I did stuff some cash in the pitcher for their time and checked out their spanking new album, "We Wear White" before heading out into the evening.

Stop #2 was Edo's Squid where a VCU game made for horrific traffic near the Squid.

Inside, the parking situation caused our group of nine to assemble slowly and with Edo's strict seating policy, we spent 45 minutes being in the way of busboys as we crowded around the bar while our empty table sat tucked into a corner waiting for us.

The clamor of punk was well-matched in the incessant din that is Edo's during dinner service.

On the plus, side, I met a bunch of interesting people with whom I was about to have dinner.

Once at the table, we began the Edo's traditional "family-style negotiation" process required when a group is sharing dishes.

Eventually an accord was reached and the food began arriving.

Squid in lemon, arugula, garlic butter and pine nuts. Sausage with polenta and white beans. Penne with mushrooms. Spaghetti with white clam sauce. Whole red snapper (they were out of Branzino). Brocoli rabe with penne.

I'd chosen a seat on the "hearty eating" side of the table as opposed to the facing side who mainly ate pasta and made us feel like gluttons.

And both sides were okay with that.

There was an interesting architect on my left and we spent a fair amount of time talking about the local restaurant scene.

I tried having a cross-table conversation about the Colloquial Orchestra at the WRIR party, but the distance cross the large round table made it challenging.

But the birthday dinner was great fun, with too much food, lots of new conversational partners and a radiant birthday girl celebrating with friends.

We even did the requisite group picture although my head somehow didn't make it into the frame.

When we finally said goodnight, the birthday girl was heading to Balliceaux to dance her birthday butt off.

My next stop was Fat Dragon to check out their Saturday night DJ scene.

The place wasn't nearly as crazed as the last time I'd been in, but maybe that's just because few Richmonders eat dinner at 10:30.

There were plenty of drinkers, though, as the DJ played an indie dance mix that could have used a little more energy given that it was Saturday night.

I became one with a glass of Honora Vera Garnacha and a look around.

A couple came in and sat down next to me, the guy complaining about the weather.

"I'm from Chicago and I hate this cold, " he said, smiling and rubbing his hands together.

He and his partner had just come from Richmond Triangle Players' show of  "Before It Hits Home" and recommended it highly for the range of emotions depicted.

Random theater recommendations are always welcome.

He inquired what I'd been up to like we were old friends and I shared my story of the family-style meal with him.

The DJ was perched high on a catwalk overlooking the bar, far away from anyone wanting to make requests.

Intentional or accidental?

The best part was the volume; it was loud enough to make for a definitive vibe but still allow for easy conversation.

I may just be back to see if I can hit on a DJ more to my musical taste on a Saturday night.

A good beat you can dance to trumps clamor every time. Just ask the birthday girl.

Step Right Up

"I know I'm not going to get any sympathy from you," the birthday boy said with a grin.

Probably not, since turning 30 hardly requires sympathy from friends.

Which is not to say that I wasn't at his house for the pre-dinner festivities, sipping Prosecco, admiring the tucked away Christmas decorations (miniature Santa suit hanging from a mirror, HO HO HO atop a kitchen cabinet), and having a bottle of peanut butter and jelly vodka shoved under my nose for consideration.

Thank you, no. Not if it was the last spirit on earth.

Mixing and mingling was the order of the night, at least right up until it was time for the first wave to leave for Carytown.

You see, the guests were being dispatched in waves to walk the four blocks to Don't Look Back for chow.

Being a little peckish, I immediately volunteered to be part of the first wave and follow the host carrying a plate of cupcakes down the street.

Right past the ambulance at Cary Street Cafe (never a good sign).

On the other hand, according to the outside banner, they were having karaoke (Free! tonight at 9) later.

DLB was hopping on a Monday night (mega margarita specials no doubt helped), so we began our slow assault on the room, insinuating ourselves into the limited space and bar stools available.

There was an Indiana Jones movie on the big screen, which meant every male within viewing range was sharing his opinion of it.

Once they started throwing terms like "hyper-realism" around, I tuned out and considered the menu.

A friend who'd met the party at DLB took us aside and recommended that we order before our entire party decided to.

It was a brilliant suggestion and we were munching on nachos when the second wave arrived.

The birthday boy is a friend of six or so years and his friends are an eclectic lot, so there were lots of possibilities for good conversation.

I talked to a favorite gay couple about their plans to move to Maryland for a more gay-friendly state to pay taxes to.

I heard from friends their plans for a minimal family holiday. "I'd rather be sitting around a fire in the woods with friends and laughing and talking for Christmas," she said with feeling.

My fellow theater buff and I talked about what we'd both seen since we last met.

Then there was another friend who's seen Richmond Triangle Players" "Whoop-Dee-Do" three times and it runs until December 29th.

He was especially tickled because he'd advised the actor who plays Judy Garland in that play to employ her trademark over-the-shoulder mic cord maneuver and by the time he saw it for the third time, he was doing just that.

There's such satisfaction in people taking your advice, isn't there?

The birthday boy was being taken advantage of, with many of his friends buying him shots of indeterminate ingredients.

He tried to convince me that turning 30 was a big deal, but I failed to follow his reasoning.

Eventually he gave up, acknowledging that I wasn't going to see 30 as much of a milestone.

I mean, I do think that by 30 a man should be at least partly house-trained, aware of basic social conventions and able to maintain home and hearth.

And Andrew has achieved all that.

But sympathy? When 2/3 of his life is still to be enjoyed?

When he's still got decades to go to shows and talk about how these young bands aren't nearly as good as the bands he grew up to?

Sympathy for him being a fine physical specimen while his brain has developed beyond the post-college state finally?

And certainly no sympathy for his over-active metabolism which still allows him to order fries and mashed potatoes as sides for his burger.

Oh, yes. He did.

So, no, my friend, no sympathy for turning an arbitrary age when you're about to discover how much better the 30s are than the 20s.

But not any envy, either. I wouldn't mind having my 30-year old body back, but I can assure you I want nothing to do with my 30-year old mind.

You'll see. It only gets better, Andrew. Promise.

And you know how I'm always right.

Happy Birthday Hovering

In a way, I went to two birthday parties tonight.

The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.

At least at first.

Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.

As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.

Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.

You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.

Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.

Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.

Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.

We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.

The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.

He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.

After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.

"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.

Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.

The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.

Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.

During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."

Ba-dum bum.

Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.

I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."

We all know there's a difference.

Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.

Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.

The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.

From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.

Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.

Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."

Illusion or not, I did, too.

Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply

Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.

"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."

That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.

Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.

Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.

The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.

After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.

"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."

Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."

"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."

He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."

Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.

Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.

Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.

Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?

It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.

Vienna Sausage Envy

There's nothing like seeing a grown man cry.

Not that there was anything to cry about at The Roosevelt where the evening began.

We arrived early and had our pick of seats in the light-filled dining room. All we really needed were the two end stools.

I always enjoy being in The Roosevelt early on before the hordes descend. The vibe is so completely different.

'Tis the season, so we got a bottle of Boxwood Rose to ease us into the weekend.

Like we needed easing.

The good news was that the menu had just been tweaked today, making for some new choices for us regulars.

Crostini thick with local ricotta, anchovies and radish slices satisfied us to start.

A new salad of peaches, burrata, hazelnuts and arugula with banyuls vinaigrette delivered the taste of summer fruit and the ultra creaminess that mozzarella only wishes it had.

Hand-cut steak tartare got a richness boost from an egg yolk and charcoal vinaigrette, making for a plate sopped clean with bread so as not to miss a trace of charcoal, beef or egg.

Between discussing Members Only, the local '80s cover band that's got everyone dancing lately and hearing about how to handle a lubricated customer from bartender T, we hadn't noticed how much time had flown.

I should have realized because the dining room was suddenly full.

Coca cola cake and King Family Loreley were requested in short order, giving us the sweet period at the end of the meal sentence.

Properly fortified and dressed appropriately, it was time for the GayRVA third birthday party at Gallery 5.

The party was still very much in the mingling stage when we arrived and the host was giving everyone a bear hug as welcome.

3-D glasses were handed out at the door, tying in to the theme "Attack of the 30-Foot Drag Queens."

It didn't take long to find friends or drinks as DJ Soigne West kept the bass thumping.

And such friends. The handsome theater critic complimented my brief dress, Princess Di ruffled my hair, telling me how much he liked my "sex" hair and a guy I met a year ago told me he reads my blog regularly and loves it.

A girl can't get too much of that kind of attention.

The buffet was courtesy of Crossroads VCU and had a '50 theme: spanikopita, cream cheese-stuffed celery, cheese and Country Club crackers.

But as a friend noted, it also had a particularly phallic theme: pigs in a blanket, meatballs, Vienna sausages.

Yes, Vienna sausages. We'll leave it at that.

Cupcakes came from Delish and the dark chocolate frosted chocolate one I tried was spicy with the heat of cayenne.

It wasn't long before the show started and it was being hosted by Natasha Carrington, self-described as "a fat guy in a dress."

Actually, she had on a bodysuit, a sparkly shrug and impossibly high heels.

Before long, press-on nails were flying off the stage and she was shimmying all over the place.

Women began approaching the stage with dollar bills for her efforts and I noticed more than one woman with a wad of bills tucked into her bra or shirt pocket.

I wish I'd known.

Talking afterwards, Natasha began having microphone issues and insisted to no one in particular that it be fixed.

Once that problem had been solved, she joked, "How many gay men does it take to fix a microphone?''

She paused less than one beat. "None!" she cackled. "Get a lesbian!"

Later when she commented on how warm the room was (the radiators actually felt warm for some reason), she called out, "Any lesbians out there with heating and air conditioning skills?"

Natasha wasn't the only performer; we also saw Scarlet Starlet in red fishnets and eventually her pasties before Deanna Danger took the stage and did the same but with a hula hoop.

But Natasha was our hostess and she never stopped engaging and provoking the audience.

"Will you look at this tuck job?" she asked, looking very feminine down there. So we did look.

When it was time for the big moment, the announcement of GayRVA's Richmonder of the Year, Natasha stood by as publisher Kevin praised the winner as someone who'd been tireless in his work fundraising for HIV awareness and the Fan Free Clinic.

And then boom, the announcement that it was Natasha, aka John, and the tears began to fall.

Accepting a bouquet and goody bag, Natasha wiped her mascaraed eyes and shouted, "F**k you bitches for making me cry!"

It was actually a very touching moment.

Eventually we moved on from burlesque to boylesque with Jebidiah Stone taking the stage dancing in a  cardboard robot costume that was eventually shed for shiny blue shorts, then black briefs and eventually a G-string.

And he never stopped dancing, flipping and flexing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Natasha roared afterwards, "That's how a man should take off his clothes!"

Okay, maybe not every time, but on occasion, it would definitely have its appeal.

Scarlet performed again and so did Deanna, although this time it was her aerial stylings.

Out of nowhere there was a large metal ring hung from the ceiling and she mounted it, weaving her body in, on and under it in any number of suspended provocative poses.

And speaking of provocative, on a trip to the bathroom, I excused myself by a large group and one woman looked me up and down and said, "Mmm, mmm, mmm!"

I think I knew what she meant, but I'm not sure we're compatible.

I can't fix a microphone.