Play It Now

I had a bit of an obsession about seeing the windows.

After hearing a lecture about Sheltering Arms Hospital and its 71-year history on Clay Street, here, I'd been dead curious about seeing those operating room windows that used to be opened during surgery, admitting fresh air and flies.

The notion of such a thing alone got me to the Grant mansion today where the fine folks at Sheltering Arms were offering guided tours of the rooms, complete with costumed interpreters.

As we gathered for the first tour, the crowd was asked if anyone had been born at Sheltering Arms and, lo and behold, two people in the group had.

We were led from room to room where black and white enlargements of of photographs showed the original look and configuration of the spaces and people dressed in old nurses' uniforms (and one man portraying Dr. Hunter McGuire)  told us about the staff they were portraying.

The nursing superintendent told us about how strict she was but also about how she'd broken the law by setting a fire on the roof to stop crows from nesting up there.

We saw the short-term ward, the original columns now mostly covered over with walls and the pharmacy, originally lined with wooden shelves holding bottles of donated drugs.

Best of all, I got to climb the steps to the third floor and see the former operating room and the windows that had once been used for ventilation during surgery.

At the lecture, we'd been told that the view from those windows facing east stretched for miles but today's view as cluttered with nearby buildings.

Still, I got to see what I'd come to see.

We finished out that floor with a trip to the nursery, just off the hallway that led to the nurses' residence, another facet I'd been struck by.

Aren't you always on call when you live where you work?

Leaving the medical past behind and well satisfied at having gotten a glimpse of what had been only hearsay before, I motored west to meet Pru for brunch and music at Cary Street Cafe.

Everyone's favorite Neil Diamond cover band, Diamond Heist, was playing all afternoon, with "Kentucky Woman" being performed when we got there.

It was already a full house with a small bridal party in tiaras, a steady stream of smokers leaving to go out front to puff and lots of fans of the band.

During "Soolaimon," the two women next to me instructed me to guard their stools while they went out to smoke. They were bigger than me, so I did what they told me to.

After ordering black bean nachos, lead singer Will announced, "We're Diamond Heist and thanks for being here because it would be lame without you guys."

I was happy to hear they now have a residency at Cary Street, performing every third Saturday of the month.

"Any first timers?" he asked the noisy group and a few people raised their hands. "These are for you!" and they launched into "I Am, I Said" and "Sweet Caroline," causing a raucous singalong.

When the set ended, he promised some surprises in the second set, including full frontal nudity.

Surprisingly, some people still chose to leave during the break. Not us. If twigs and berries were a possibility, Pru and I were going to hold tight our seats.

In the meantime we ate lunch - my nachos and her French onion soup - and listened to Will explain that they needed to increase their repertoire of Neil Diamond songs, which, he told us, are hard songs.

The second set began with "Hello Again" and took off with "Cherry, Cherry" after he said, "It could be called "Kerry, Kerry" and screams went up from a group of women who began dancing in the aisles.

"Red, Red Wine" elicited the observation, "Red, red wine or yellowish mimosas," a nod to all the pitchers full of mimosas standing on tables around the room.

Lit cupcakes were marched up to the drummer Dean, celebrating his 32nd birthday and the whole room serenaded him with "Happy Birthday."

Someone requested "the "ET" song - "Heartlight" and Will admitted, "That's one on the "need-to-learn" list. This is one that was requested and we know it. That's a nice confluence there."

It was the rabble-rousing "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show" and it had the keyboard player testifying mid-song.

Referencing this week's crowd-sourced Foo Fighters' show, he suggested the next crowd-sourced show should be Neil Diamond at the Diamond. Kind of brilliant.

"So we flipped the coin on the full frontal nudity ting and decided it was a really bad idea. There's not enough mimosas in the building for that."

They had a photographer there snapping pics for their Facebook page, so Pru and I smiled for the camera before she inched behind some big guy who barely moved to let her pass, saying to us and pointing to her breasts, "These puppies need more room. Want some?"

Um, no thanks, I have some of my own.

"I'm a Believer" and "Coming to America" got the crowd singing along on the chorus and for "Holly Holy," Will invited us to sing along or shake our moneymaker.

By then Pru was tired of sitting and wanted to exit, but I insisted we wait for "Cracklin' Rose," with the room screaming "Play it now!" in between sipping beer and talking to friends.

"We're going to close with a song we played earlier but had a request for,"Solitary Man," Will said. "It's related to full frontal nudity."

Only tangentially, I might add.

The Shock of the News

Outside. Waiting. Scared. Cold.

That's the sarcastic message my friend had just sent me when I looked out the window and saw him downstairs.

We had lunch plans and I was running a few minutes behind getting ready when I spotted him outside.

Dressing in record time, I came flying out my front door to his commentary about me "upstairs in my ivory tower," inaccessible to all.

So I had my doorbell disconnected. So I don't have a cell phone.

And my house is yellow, not ivory.

All he really had to do was call my name and I'd have heard him through the open window, but he claims he wasn't raised in the "holla."

We agreed on 821 for lunch, wanting to take advantage of the last little bit of non-student opportunity left.

Once at a table, Fleetwood Mac in the background, our server inquired if I wanted my usual nachos, starting to write the order before I even answered.

I did.

The shock came when she inquired if I wanted a half portion.

A what?

I've been ordering those black bean nachos exclusively at 821 for, oh, four or five years now, and never once has anyone offered me a half portion.

Color me surprised and more than a little thrilled.

Friend got his usual burger and we began the business of catching up on each other's lives.

It had been close to a year since we'd last met up and the original reason for our get-together was because he'd noticed we had a mutual friend on Facebook.

And not just any mutual friend, but the unlikeliest person he'd ever expected to see show up as one of my friends.

First off, he wanted that story.

After sharing how that unholy union had come about, he filled me in on his life.

The least I could do was the same and while I generally prefer to wait for people to inquire about my life rather than assuming they want to hear about my business, I've been chided for that quality.

So, my friend, here's what's been up with me.

Ah, the pleasures of dropping a long-time friend's jaw.

He was agog, so much so that when the check arrived, he scooped it up, insisting, "For that story, I'll buy you lunch!"

Since the lunch rush was winding down, we sat there chatting even once our food was gone, with him saying, "For this, I've got time."

Funny, I didn't hear a bit of sarcasm in that.

Inside. Talking. Shocked. WTF?

Filming a Life

It's a good friend who e-mails me post-vacation, asking if I miss the beach.

I admit I do, so he suggests lunch today as a distraction from the pile of work I have been immersed in since my return.

When he picks me up in his new car, Jack Johnson blaring, I choose 821 Cafe because I know it'll remind me of all the things I love about Richmond, even as I continue to miss the beach.

Walking in, a favorite server spots me, seats us almost immediately and grins, saying, "I guess I already know what you want."

Not much of a challenge there.

Foto Boy and I sit on the same side of a table, leaving the other side for new arrivals.

It's not long before a young couple take us up on our invitation to join.

She's got a seagull on her shirt and one tattooed on her shoulder; he tells us he's a server at a chain near Short Pump.

"They've only got 90 restaurants, so they haven't sold out completely," he claims, but when I challenge him on this, he concedes that, yea, they have.

Foto Boy and I order (what else?) a plate of black bean nachos and look around.

We spot our favorite activist in uncharacteristic flip-flops, having brunch nearby.

A familiar beer rep comes in, looking only slightly hungover.

The server (and new Mom) who brings our nachos is also a friend and greets us both warmly.

As we plow through the plate of nachos, Foto Boy wonders why he can never make nachos this good at home.

Dunno, but why bother when 821 is so close?

I regale him with a story about a recent episode where a woman told me how seductive I looked, expressed worry that when I sit down people could see my underwear and even told me I was beautiful.

"She was hitting on you!" he says laughing, almost choking on a tortilla chip.

We chat up the couple at our table, who have presumed that we are a couple.

FB clarifies that we never got that far, having skipped ahead to friendship and I explain that this gives me the right to razz him about his date choices.

"And I give her a hard time because men are always hitting on her," he tells these strangers. "And lately, even women!"

Without missing a beat, the Short Pump server leans in and eyes me, saying suavely, "Have I told you how beautiful you look today?"

Now I'm the one laughing out loud at his quick repartee.

As we leave 821 and round the corner, we run smack-dab into a small group filming a scene.

It's July, so I realize instantly what weekend it must be, but ask anyway.

Gotta be 48-hour film fest.

They grin, acknowledging as much, and we suggest they move their backpacks from against FB's car before we drive away.

Before we can even start the car, they're back to filming and I'm thinking how much I love this town, the people and all the interesting stuff that's always going on here.

Talking about gardening on the way home, he asks if I have any flowers I want to share and once at my house, I lead him to a plot of black-eyed Susans and offer them all up to him.

He's tickled at the prospect of so many new flowers for his yard, straight from mine.

Friend to friend flowers, so to speak.

What was I missing again?

Luckily, I'll make it back to the beach before the summer's over, but for right now, my lunch has reminded me that I'm fine until I do.

Art for Lunch

Yet another great facet of Richmond is the proliferation of alternate spaces in which we can take in art.

That shows can be found at libraries, restaurants and coffee shops takes away any excuses for not having a schedule that accommodates gallery hours.

So let's just say that's how I ended up taking in the Nathan Motley show during lunch at 821 today.

His artist's statement was a fascinating expose of Nathan's circuitous path that led to the current exhibit.

It's his belief that his early years as a baker taught him the discipline required for art.

With advanced degrees from VCU and Pratt Institute, as well as the requisite attendant restaurant jobs during that same period, Nathan has been showing successfully in galleries for years.

The work I saw today was bold and colorful; clearly the artist favors bright red and yellow, ensuring bold contrast in all his work.

The paint is almost sculptural, layered and thickly applied.

Many of his figures have a Cubist bent, with fractured faces and disjointed body parts.

It's almost as if texture and color are battling it out on the canvas; visually, it's striking.

You can see it for yourself at Nate the Great's current show at 821 Cafe.

And, sure, since I was there anyway, I might have enjoyed a plate of my beloved black bean nachos.

But only because I was already there.

Right.

821 Cafe and a Tattoo Tidbit

Despite having had chili for lunch, I was craving 821's black bean nachos; maybe it's the weather. Just as my food arrived, the stools around me filled up with Mike Moses and his fellow tattoo artists. I met Mike about a year and a half ago and was impressed by his abilities outside of being a tattoo artist: musician, gardener, painter and raconteur. I have one of his prints,"Sister Sleep," so I was interested to hear that he just hung a show at Empire which will open December 4th.

I haven't seen it yet, but two things are always guaranteed at Mike's shows: it'll be interesting work and the cost to own one will be minimal. I'd be the first to acknowledge that economic times are tough, but I'd also be the first to say that artists have to eat, too. I'm crazy about having local art all over my walls; I enjoy it on an additional level when I know the artist. It's a reminder of a talented person I know.

But I digress. My nachos arrived, I ate a good three quarters of them and eavesdropped on a conversation about cleaning out the ink wells at a tattoo place. At stake was the issue of whether to use paper stick Q-Tips or plastic stick Q-Tips to clean out the traces of ink. This discussion required a level of expertise I didn't possess, so I stayed out of it, paid the check and was about to walk away when one of the guys finally weighed in.

"Plastic stick's better. Paper sticks get soaked and bent." Now I know.