Life, Better than a Reproduction Lecture

I am completely unable to ignore the man who first informed me - before I knew it myself - that I was a hopeless romantic.

Oh, I was flattered when I heard from the west coast, "Oh, shoot, is this the end of the blog? Say it ain't so...xo," but I was, alas, so much busier with work and a decided uptick in my social life that I had to let go of something.

I certainly wasn't about to let go of things like a poetry reading at Scott House, with verse dedicated to topics such as nosebleeds, elk offal, pyre-building and gray scum (Gregory Kimbrell's first reading from his completely disarming and disturbing new book of poems, "The Primitive Observatory") or Allison Titus' elegiac space rock poems about fireflies lamping the back yard.

As a result, I decided to use my usual blogging time for fun so I didn't have to miss out on anything like the screening of "Labyrinth" at Hardywood (my first viewing of the Bowie/Jim Henson classic) or an afternoon under the spell of K Dance's "Shorts," with works by Tennessee Williams, Suzan-Lori Parks and Shel Silverstein.

With no obligation to keep track of my comings and goings, I left town for three days, taking long walks in unfamiliar places, doing a lot of reading and savoring the lobster roll my critic friend recommended. When I got back, it was to an unexpected message, letting me know of the sender's "continuing appreciation for what you do to show a strong, smart, engaged approach to living."

There are people reading me who get that? Praise the lord and pass the biscuits.

Right, and there was that time I went to the new Early Bird Biscuit and shared my biscuit and blackberry jam with a homeless man who called me kind for doing so. I would call the person who wrote that to me kind as well.

When the French Film Festival hit town, Pru and I set out to get our yearly Francophile fix, except that what she really wanted to discuss for those three days was not cineastes but my absence in the blogging sphere, having been immediately suspicious when I'd stopped.

Over dinner at Secco one day, Amour Wine Bistro another and Bistro Bobette a third, she tried to get me back in writing mode. "All these amusing things I've been saying and no one's writing them down for posterity!" she lamented.

Days later, I get a message from her. "It looks like your radishes are growing fat instead of pithy at present...hmmmm." After much back and forth about my personal life, she offered advice not printable in a  family blog...or this one. Her summation? "Get out there and get pithy!"

Can I not be pithy without blogging?

Perhaps I'm too busy flaunting my D.C. roots with a James River Film Fest screening of "S.E. 67," a documentary about a group of Southeast Washington kids offered free college educations back in the '80s. I sign a petition to save the Enid Haupt Gardens in D.C., aghast that their demolition is even being considered.

There's a show and dance party at Studio 23 of go-go posters from the '70s and '80s (the graphic style instantly recognizable because I grew up seeing them everywhere), along with two DJs playing nothing but go-go, something that rarely happens outside D.C.

I have a ball dancing, talking to fellow go-go fans and even to a guy who'd attended one of the shows advertised in the poster. I overheard so many fascinating conversations and shared none of them.

Not having to blog meant plenty of time for dinner at the ever-fabulous Acacia (duck heart salad with strawberries, my, oh my and squid ink pasta with clams) before seeing Quill Theater's "King Lear" and repairing to Can-Can for Shakespeare discussion among the Saturday night divorcee crowd.

Did anyone really need to hear my thoughts on the new bands I've been seeing lately? The new Scott Clark Trio, for instance, or Microwave's soulful sounds at Cary Street? Zomes at Steady Sounds or the killer chops of Ralston, Parker, Fonville at Balliceaux? Probably not.

I have taken epic walks with my new walking partners, shared an unexpected brunch with an attentive artist and gone to a late night screening of a movie about wine, "Premiere Cru." At the Valentine's final Community Conversation, I enthusiastically discussed Richmond's public spaces with strangers and people of opposing opinions.

If anyone actually cares that I saw the cult 1986 documentary "Heavy Metal Parking Lot," I'd be thrilled to hear from them. Personally, it was a kick seeing all those skinny kids in the Capital Centre parking lot, the scene of most of my concerts for the first 8 or 10 years of my concert-going life.

Paul McCartney, Elton John, Cher, the Who, Fleetwood Mac, Diana Ross, the Beach Boys, Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith, all revealed themselves to me for the first time at ye old Cap Centre, but at this screening, I got the bonus of seeing the building's implosion, something I'd missed, having moved to Richmond  by then.

But who cares?

And does anyone really want to know that I've been to Merroir twice in recent weeks, along with Metzger, Pizza Tonight, My Noodle and Bar (I'm besotted with the decor) and the Roosevelt for a wine dinner with Chatham Vineyards, their delightful and voluble winemaker seated at our table? Probably not.

When it was last minute company I needed, I found it with an empathetic friend at Sabai for dinner and the Broadberry for a DJ out of Phoenix who took the stage at midnight after two others and melted our faces off with European beats.

Walking out of Richmond Ballet's Studio 3 series after being gobsmacked seeing "The Rite of Spring" and a world premiere of Mark Annear's "City Life," I run into the mustached scientist, whom I haven't seen in eons.

"Well, that was better than a reproduction lecture,' he observes in his usual deadpan, referring to the class he should have been teaching while he was instead watching dance.

Just before I get ready to leave the house Sunday, my trusty land line rings and it's the college friend who now resides in Key West, calling to check on me for the simple reason that I haven't blogged in a few weeks. Am I okay, how's my love life, how can anyone, friend or foe, be expected to match my energy level?

Although it sounds like typical friend phone conversation, you have to understand that we don't talk on the phone. Or if we do, there are years in between conversations. Clearly, he must have been worried and we can't have that.

After all, he's the one who advised me back in 2009 when my life was in shambles that, "Loneliness and regret are mean friends and piss poor mates."

I'm working on having none of either, thank you very much. So the blog is back, in some fashion or another, probably a less revealing one so more of my business is my own. How's that for pithy?

Say it ain't so.

From Tammy to Tennessee

Rain, rain, go away.

Waking up to torrents of rain changed everything. All of our plans to explore the great outdoors of the eastern shore vanished when we had to wade through ankle-high puddles just to get to breakfast.

One thing I wasn't letting go of was a trip to Tammy and Johnny's for lunch.

A guy from the Virginia Department of Tourism had heard me talking about my plans to visit Chatham vineyards and insisted that Tammy and Johnny's had the best fried chicken on the eastern shore.

Whether he was right or not, I had to know for myself.

Driving rain accompanied us as we headed north, taking diverting jaunts to every small town along the way, and the DJ on the radio warning us," Don't be that guy who drives through a puddle of standing water."

Oh, and PS, flood warning in effect.

Fortunately, the sign for Tammy and Johnny's was enormous and we didn't have to drive through any standing water to get there.

Everyone looked at us like we were from another planet, but I got what I wanted: three pieces of chicken, cole slaw and mustardy potato salad.

The chicken suited me fine with a crust that wasn't too greasy or too crispy and we polished it off, wiped our fingers and headed to lunch just as a line of locals began forming.

Our pourer at Chatham yesterday had not just made recommendations of maritime forests, but also of restaurants, so we were in search of the Island House and Marina in Wachapreague, apparently the closest we were going to get to the Atlantic given all the barrier islands.

Pulling up, my first impression was of how it reminded me of the Fisherman's Wharf restaurant in Wanchese, N.C., weathered and surrounded by boats.

Our server was charming, home-schooled and now with an associate's degree and no real idea what he wanted to do with his life.

In the meantime, he did an exemplary job of waiting on us, bringing even brinier oysters than we'd had the day before.

Pretty soon we were going to be licking the ocean floor to get saltier.

When he got busy with other tables, I went ahead and poured us more of the Chatham Chardonnay we were drinking to help him out.

"But I wanted to give you the full experience!" he lamented hilariously. Consider it done with your humor.

After a salad of spinach, quinoa, craisins and walnuts, I kept it local with ice cream from Chincoteague's Island Creamery, listed as one of the 30 places to eat in Virginia before you die.

Flavor? Marsh Mud, of course, a decadent double chocolate ice cream that had been touted as tasting like chilled brownie batter and named after the boggy area surrounding us.

After our two-stop lunch, we had a decision to make. Should we stay or should we go?

The downpour was going to severely limit what we could do anywhere, so what would be consolation for that?

Aha, the brilliant one suggested, why not go to Virginia Beach and at least have a night sleeping to the sound of the ocean?

Never, and I do mean never, will I turn down an opportunity to be lulled to sleep to that most soothing of sounds, even with winds that had flags standing rigid from the gusts sweeping off the ocean.

We found an old school, two-story beach motel - The Sea Shell - tucked between two high rises (which only added to the wind tunnel effect), the kind of place that only takes cash, has no ice machine and has orange plastic ashtrays in every room.

The front desk was staffed by a woman who'd just moved here in July after a lifetime in Tennessee and had the accent to prove it.

Shortly after we settled in, I saw her out on the deck overlooking the boardwalk, phone in hand, trying to record the majesty of the surf rolling in.

Crazy, isn't it? I asked her from the relative safety of our room's doorway, where I had to hold on to the door jamb to keep from being buffeted by the winds.

"It's beautiful!" she yelled. "My girlfriends in Tennessee won't believe this!"

Much as I wanted to leave the door open, it was impossible, so I settled for the two windows and sat on the bed to enjoy the sights and sounds of some serious weather.

Whitecaps formed out as far as I could see and wind whistled between buildings and around corners.

Now this was what we'd come for: weather as entertainment.

After the requisite beach nap that oceanfront living requires, we headed out to Eat, an American Bistro, also located on Atlantic Avenue right on the beach and another of the 30 places to eat in Virginia before demise.

The door was locked when we arrived, a safety measure because the wind kept blowing it open, the hostess said.

With seats at the darkened bar, I turned to the woman next to me, only to find that she was a Richmonder who lives on Floyd Avenue (my home for 13 years) in the Fan.

Small world, isn't it?

The bar was intimate, the bartender gregarious, and the crowd lively with two TV screens, one set to the Food Channel and the other to Monday Night Football (which I didn't care about but one of us did).

All bottles of wine under $100 were half off, all but necessitating that we order a bottle of sparkling Brut Rose to accompany oysters rock (the dish that puts the rock in Rockefeller, or so the menu claims), a gooey delight of oysters, spinach, heritage bacon, Asiago, Hollandaise, smoked paprika and fennel pollen in the half shell.

When we ordered Ye Old School wedge, our server said that they were out of the avocado (a case had come in but they'd been rotten) the dish called for, so we accepted extra heritage bacon in lieu of missing avocado and everybody was happy.

The meatballs stuffed with fresh Mozzarella arrived in a pool of tomato ragout with a Parmesan crisp, meaning we were three for three at Eat.

Even the music suited me just fine, ranging from Chaka Khan to the XX, or roughly, my listening history, and while the guys around me cared about the sports on the TV, I had pink bubbles and appealing music, so what game?

Besides, I'd now crossed two more places off the list of pre-death eats.

But because this was a day of substituting indoor fun for the great outdoors, we eventually left Eat for the Raven, a pub that's been a fixture on Atlantic Avenue since 1968.

You know the kind of place - a small front area for non-smokers, a long bar and booths for smokers, a ceiling so low I could touch it from my bar stool.

But they had 1800, the game was on and Marshall Crenshaw was belting out "Whenever You're On My Mind," so while the wind howled outside and the parking lot had been a mine field of puddles, all was good inside the Raven.

And for the one who cared about such things, his team won the game.

Of course, the highlight for me was back at the Sea Shell, where we had  front row seat to the churning ocean and ceaseless winds, even if there was no hope of seeing the full moon tonight.

Not that it really mattered.

Sleeping to the sound of the surf, awakening to an absence of wind and a morning walk along the beach (ocean water so warm I waded in up to my skort...and then some when a wave caught me by surprise) were the best possible finish to our eastern shore adventure.

Safe to say I had the full experience.

Always for Love, Idiot

It had been a while.

The last time I can recall going to Virginia's eastern shore, it was en route to Rehobeth beach from the Outer Banks.

This time, the eastern shore was the destination.

After a stop at a scenic overlook just after the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, we found our way to Aqua, a waterside restaurant in Cape Charles, a quaint, little resort town that was part cute-sified and part worn-looking beach houses, the kind I like.

Aqua, however, was in the tony area where pastel-colored McMansions had views of marshes and bay and so did we from the restaurant's deck, where massive clouds promised rain in our future.

Kicking off the getaway with Graham Beck Brut Rose (causing our server to smile broadly and plead, "Can you guys just stay here all afternoon?"), seaside oysters, mussels Provencale, fish tacos and a crabcake sandwich, we took our time over the mid-day meal while others on the deck came and went.

Eventually, we did, too, but only after a New Jersey-looking guy unexpectedly squeezed my arm.

Just down the road, we landed at Chatham Vineyards, the reason I'd wanted to go to the eastern shore in the first place.

Having had their steel-fermented Chardonnay with oysters recently at the governor's mansion in Richmond and enjoyed it very much, I now wanted to taste through their entire list.

On the way, we passed a self-serve pumpkin stand, an indicator of the expectations of civility in these parts.

We were greeted by an affable woman, our pourer, the aged winery dog, a puffy, little purse dog type and soon joined by a couple from Mechanicsville, who, like us, were out and about looking for some afternoon wine.

They'd had Chatham's Cabernet Franc at a local restaurant the night before and been so impressed they wanted to taste more.

The tasting room was so chilly I had to return to the car for a wrap, which didn't seem to bother the vintner's kids who were busy bouncing a ball off the back wall while their parents worked on this year's Chardonnay harvest.

Our pourer provided local tidbits such as that a meteor had slammed into the southern tip of the eastern shore 35 million years ago, displacing the soil and fragmenting the shells and minerals, which is where the Chardonnay is grown and accounts for its mineral qualities and how well it pairs with oysters.

The oak-aged Chardonnay was rounder and creamier and the Rose a tad sweet to my taste. We moved on to the reds - Merlot, Cab Franc and Cab Sauvignon- before finishing with their late harvest dessert wine made with Merlot.

When our pourer asked if we wanted any wine, I said something about it being obvious what I liked and she laughed and said to my companion, "Then make it so."

With some of the unoaked Chardonnay in hand, we retired to the garden, putting our feet up on the fire pit walls and taking in the view of the fields and an old house with buzzards perched on the roof under the roiling crowds.

Interestingly enough, the soundtrack was twofold: an air cannon and a recorded loop of bird screeches to scare off predators, both intermittent and unexpected.

Before we left, we chatted with our pourer who, like me, had lived in Washington back when it was a simpler and less pressured place to live.

Talking about the ultra-focused types who make up the majority now, she cracked me up when she said, "I just want to tell them, just stop and smell the Smithsonian!"

I couldn't have put it better or more humorously myself.

Closer to where we were, she pulled out the Virginia winery map and began making suggestions for places to see and eat.

We wasted no time making our way to Savage Neck Dunes Natural Preserve, a maritime forest that took us through the woods on a sandy, pine needle-strewn path and deposited us at the bay.

Without pausing at all, I hiked up my dress and waded out where I found a sandbar that allowed me to keep going while only getting my legs wet.

There were a few people walking the sandy beach, but I stuck to the warm-as-bathwater bay to make my way along the coastline, eventually losing the bottom six inches of my dress to the waves.

What's a wet dress when you unexpectedly have a chance to take a dip?

Driving back toward Cape Charles, we couldn't resist a stop at Yuck-Yuck and Joe's, a roadside restaurant with a jukebox playing the likes of the Steve Miller Band, Stevie Nicks and the Eagles and plenty of locals there on a late Sunday afternoon.

That said, none of them were playing pool at the tables, but maybe that's not a Sunday thing around here.

What passes for eastern shore surf and turf at Yuck-Yuck's is two pounds of wings and shrimp, tempting except we already had plans to eat at the Shanty.

After changing into a dry dress at the Sunset Beach Inn, which looked to have been built in the '60s, round with a space needle thing coming out of the top straight out of "The Jetsons," we fumbled our way to The Shanty on the waterfront.

Between the hour and the weather, it was already dark by then, but hard to miss the Spanish galleon sitting next to the restaurant.

The Mechanicsville couple had told us about the galleon, here from Barcelona and staffed with volunteers, which they'd spotted the night before while at The Shanty, saying that the replica of a 16th century merchant vessel was doing a tour of the east coat and only here till Monday.

When the hostess asked for our seating preference, we chose the deck with a direct view of the magnificent El Galeon Andalusia and within earshot of the singer doing covers nearby.

Beginning with guacamole labeled "authentic" (as opposed to inauthentic guac?), we kept to our eastern shore theme with baskets of fried seafood and frites.

Before long, I spotted a guy sitting on the deck of the galleon in the dark, hoisting a beer bottle to the singer every time he finished a song.

Much as I enjoy live music, I had to shake my head when he began doing Talking Heads' "This Must Be the Place," my favorite Talking Heads song, but this was a jaded millennial's rewrite of the lyrics.

So instead of the romantic "Never for money, always for love," he chose to sing, "Never for love, always for money," a depressing change to the song.

Good luck in life and love with that kind of sour attitude, son.

Dinner over, we strolled down the dock to get a closer look at the galleon, striking for its long and elaborate beak and many massive masts.

If it wasn't raining tomorrow, I definitely wanted to come back to go aboard and tour it.

We finished out a fine day by walking out on the Cape Charles fishing pier where, despite the late hour, there were still fishermen out there casting their lines in the dark.

Hope never sleeps, I guess.

After stopping to smell the bay all day, I couldn't think of anything I wanted more.

An Aphrodisiac of a Morning

It takes a damn good reason to get me out of bed before 9, but oysters and wine will do it.

Governor Terry McAuliffe was holding a celebratory press conference on the front lawn of the Executive Mansion announcing the creation of the Virginia oyster trail.

Because a lot of Virginia's seven oyster regions share watersheds with many Virginia wineries, it's a tourism match made in heaven.

Let's face it, this is nothing I didn't already know first hand, having been to so many Virginia wineries and having visited so many Virginia oyster businesses in the pursuit of writing articles about all aspects of oysters: farming, home gardening, restaurants, shucking and selling.

Still, why would I turn down a chance to be eating bivalves and sipping wine a mere half an hour after breakfast?

After the speeches by the governor, secretary of agriculture and first lady, I moved on to the morning's real agenda of slurping and sipping.

One of my goals for September is to make it to Chatham Vineyards on the eastern shore, so I began with Cherrystone Aqua Farms oysters sublimely paired with Chatham's steel fermented Church Creek Chardonnay.

As a bonus, a guy with the Virginia Tourism Board gave me a recommendation for the best fried chicken on the eastern shore, so my Chatham trip plans were further enhanced.

I do so love a good salty oyster with a wine grown by the sea ("What grows together goes together," the first lady quipped), so I kept my salinity streak going with Ruby Salt Oyster Company from the lower Bay, eastern shore and paired with Trump Winery's sparkling Rose, a beautiful expression of Chardonnay and Pinot Noir.

Not to brag, but I was two for two.

In my quest to hit as many oyster regions as possible, I also tried Shore Seafood oysters from the upper bay and Johnson & Sons from Tidewater.

The award for fattest oysters went to Ward Oyster Company from the lower bay, western shore and paired with Stinson Chardonnay, a winery I'd visited on a snowy day back in January 2013.

Give me heat over cold any day.

By then, between the oppressive morning sun and wine and oysters after breakfast, I was feeling a tad rich (or should I make that randy?) but soldiered on for one last sentimental stop at Windmill Point Oyster Company.

It was just last Monday that I'd visited Windmill Point for the first time and while all we'd done there was walk the beach, I at least had a frame of reference I wouldn't have had before then.

Naturally, my first question of the oyster farmer was why it was called that and if there had ever been a windmill.

Chuckling, he said he didn't know but that the plan was to build one on their property...eventually.

For those keeping track, that's six of the seven oyster regions because I didn't feel the need to eat at the Rappahannock River Oyster Company since I already do so often (see: last Monday at Merroir).

So there you have it: me up early, working a press conference, meeting the governor ("Thanks so much for coming") and slurping down a dozen oysters and three wines before 11:15.

Not a bad start to the day, eh?

The Big Night

It was a night for wine, women and song.

Secco was hosting a night in Venice wine party and since I've yet to visit the actual Venice, a proxy evening seemed like just the ticket.

I walked in and staked my territory at the bar, awaiting the arrival of my evening's companion, Roxy.

She soon arrived and we stationed ourselves at the corner of the bar with a view of everything while the music was set to the Italian cafe station on Pandora. As one woman noted, it sounded like the soundtrack to "The Big Night."

Our starting libation was a Venetian spritz of Adami Prosecco "Garbel" with Cappelletti, a slightly bitter wine equivalent of Aperol, making for a refreshing way to begin the evening, even more so when enjoyed with an aged and salty cheese.

There were no gondolas, but we were off to a fine start.

The overwhelmingly estrogen-based population of the bar was soon jarred by the arrival of a strapping, young man who had wandered into the Venetian fray.

When the evening's plan was revealed, he gamely agreed to buy into it, despite this being a first date and an"almost blind" one at that.

I advised him that a first date where there were four courses and five wines would separate the girls from the women and he took my advice and paid for two in advance.

Now I had a front row seat to a first date.

Roxy and I chatted about her favorite Riesling and Champagne (both available on the chalkboard) and about how much she misses her people in San Jose. So much so she will soon move back.

Where she reminded me, she will pay $850 more for an apartment that is 300 square feet smaller than her  beautiful Miller & Rhoads condo.

I have a sentimental attachment to San Jose since my best friend from college was born and raised in San Jose, making Roxy and I practically blood sisters.

Once everyone was ensconced at tables and bar, we were served Dal Maso 2012 Gambellara Ca'Fischele, a fine and acidic wine that neared perfection when eaten with tuna tartare set into hard-boiled eggs with capers and aioli.

Just as we were swooning over this blissful match, marinated squid salad with kale, garlic and chick peas arrived, again demonstrating how perfectly the acidic wine worked with the seafood and salt.

Roxy and I raised a glass to the chef's brilliance. "I'd marry him," Roxy observed. It's tough to beat a man who can cook.

Next came crispy Fontina chips filled with seared cauliflower, parsley and lemon paired with Corte Majoli 2012 Valpolicella, a medium bodied red that showed even better with the obscenely rich next course.

Chicken liver mousse sat atop grilled polenta, accompanied by chicken fat-stewed onions and bits of fried chicken skin, an altogether decadent dish that positively sang with the wine.

As our server noted, it came with a side of Lipitor.

Roxy and I alternately made orgasmic sounds about the dish and flapped our gums about how obscene it was.

Meanwhile, the first dater next to me was telling the girl, "This has a really unusual taste. I've never had liver before. I usually go paleo during the week."

Son, there's nothing paleo about chicken liver or chicken fat. Just so you know.

And, P.S.  Corny lines like, "I just want to know more about your family life" make it tough to keep my liver down.

While waiting for the next course, I took a side trip to the loo, but was stopped by Chef Mike, who was offering up samples to all who passed by.

"This'll be the best bite of the night," he assured me. The piece of Dixie doughnut with a schmear of chicken liver may have been the closest thing to heaven my mouth has tasted.

I returned to a plate of beef and potato meatballs with orange peel and fennel seed in a fennel tomato sauce and matched with Zanta 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon "Due Santi," a complex, full-bodied wine that was a worthy counterpoint to the meatballs.

Truth be told, Roxy and I were lagging by this point.

Oh, not conversationally. First marriages, dimples, body confidence, we'd covered quite a bit. But our stomachs were not bottomless.

Finally the last course arrived, a chocolate roll with roasted nuts and topped with vanilla citrus whipped cream, paired with one of the last four bottles in the state of Dal Maso's 2007 late harvest sweet wine.

For no good reason, this led to a conversation about Deleon Tequila, which Roxy had recently enjoyed with her boyfriend in San Jose and which provided me with a recommendation for something new to try, assuming the VA ABC deems it acceptable to carry.

I'll certainly find out.

Back to the dessert, I have no compunction about admitting my love for chocolate, nuts and cream and while Roxy found the Dal Maso overly sweet, I found it a lovely complement to the chocolate.

I'm not saying it topped the Dixie doughnut with chicken liver mousse, but it was damn good.

After saying farewell to Roxy, I left to pick up a girlfriend for a Virginia wine crawl. Because, you know, one wine event an evening is not enough.

Approaching Pasture, we were greeted by fire performers, breathing and showing off with fire, something I've seen at Gallery 5 enough times to stop worrying if they're going to singe the hair right off their faces or not.

Inside, it was just as circus-like, with acrobats on the floor supporting other acrobats in mid-air.

My friend looked at me, grabbed my hand and led me away from the performers.

Near the back, we found a table serving Breaux Vineyards "Marquis de Lafayette," a shining example of Cabernet Franc, a grape she and I love.

Glasses in hand, we escaped to a table away from the hordes and sat down to catch up on girl stuff, oblivious to the networking going on around us.

We let the interested parties come to us, with only a brief foray out to collect some Gabriele Rausse Nebbiolo, a wine I like so much I once worked an entire day at the Virginia Wine Expo just to score bottles of this luscious grape.

Our idyllic girl time was interrupted when Jason Tessauro mounted the table next top us and began reciting his ode to Virginia wine, with highlights like, "To be or Tannat" and "I deem any man a liar who don't dig Matthew Meyer" (Williamsburg Winery's winemaker), "Keep your loyalties looser" and the fitting closer, "Has Virginia wine arrived? You bet your ass!"

Fortunately, he then dismounted from the table. the ideal moment to escape the madness and make our way to destination #2, Rappahannock.

There we found an old friend from the former Six Burner, Tracey, and Blenheim Winery's winemaker, who was gracious enough to pour us a taste of "Painted White," a delectable blend of Roussanne, Marsanne and Viognier being served with scallop ceviche.

The evening's music came courtesy of my neighborhood DJ, Marty of Steady Sounds, and I have to say it was a mix of music I'd never heard him play.

Prince. Michael Jackson, Donna Summer. Diana Ross. Madonna. Needless to say, the crowd was dancing drunkenly in no time.

 I was eager to sample Chatham Vineyards steel fermented Chardonnay and wasn't disappointed to taste the salinity and minerality of the eastern-most of Virginia's wineries.

Resolved: there's a winery I intend to visit come spring.

Next thing we knew, people in tight, red polyester jumpsuits with even their faces covered had joined the crowd and were dancing everywhere. If it hadn't been for the accentuation of their junk, it would have been pretty funny.

At the Boxwood Winery table, we tried  a blend of Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon and Petit Verdot, poured by a taster who was dancing in place to Prince's "Kiss."

Truth be told, I was holding a glass and dancing in place to the same song.

The crowd had gotten so thick (and so loopy) around DJ Marty that we did a full circle around the back of the bar in an attempt to reach the one remaining winery up front.

On the way, a woman stopped me and said point blank, "You have such a pretty face." While I would have liked to have kissed her in gratitude, I settled for thanking her profusely but she went on. "Even your hair is perfect for your face."

It's difficult to properly thank someone for saying something so complimentary and so random, so I just hugged her and went on my way.

We finally made it to the Thibaut Jannison table for a flute of Blanc de Chardonnay, at which point I made a bee line for the freshly shucked oysters and helped myself to a ridiculous number of Olde Salts.

Only when my girlfriend suggested I try some Rapphannocks did I diverge from my single-minded, salty plan.

We found respite far in the back of the room, away from the hordes dancing to "Wanna Be Starting Something" and "Let the Music Play."

From there, we had a bird's eye view of drunken people stumbling around, eyes glazed and footing unsure.

One woman came up and said, "I know you don't like me. But you're a baller when it comes to music."

Like the woman who'd liked my face, there's not a lot I could say to that. Fortunately, by that time, it didn't matter.

Friend and I were ready to move on. To the strains of "Ain't No Stopping Us Now," we made or way through the crowd and to the car.

There, we spent the better part of an hour doing the girl talk thing that all the festivities had interrupted. It was divine.

Over the course of six hours, did I manage to get enough wine, women and song?

You bet your ass I did. My loyalties remain loose with wine and tight with everything else.