Ain't That Peculiar

Talk about your rabbit holes.

As anyone who knows me can attest, I love asking people what their first concert was. It's often a fascinating glimpse into a side of someone you'd never get otherwise and inevitably, it leads to far-reaching music conversation.

Like when I asked a woman and she responded, "Billy Joel, on "The Stranger" tour," and then began a conversation with herself, eventually concluding that it had actually been the "Glass Houses" tour. But for me, it was that she'd seen him at the Capital Centre in Maryland, where I saw scores of shows myself, including my first.

"Do you remember WPGC?" she asked me excitedly after finding out we had shared venues. To quote the name of a Facebook group I belong to, "Bitch, please, I grew up in Prince George's County." Yes, that's an actual group.

From there she reminisced about how every week the radio station would release a pamphlet with a band's photo on the front and inside, the Top 10 for the week. She'd recently come across a stack of them she'd tucked away back in the day, for what purpose she couldn't conceive.

"Can you imagine that we used to care that much what was gonna be number one?" she asked rhetorically. There was apparently so little to occupy the teenage mind in those days without the internet or porn.

Mentioning that she still remembered buying Billy Joel's "The Stranger" at Variety Records, we then took off in that direction. We'd both frequented Kemp Mill Records, but most of my album purchases back then had been made at the University of Maryland record co-op, a groovy student-run means of paying $3 for the latest Grin album or the all-girl Fanny's first album.

I've only met one other person who's ever even heard of them, although David Bowie famously said that Fanny was as important as anybody else, it just wasn't their time. "One of the most important female bands in American rock has been buried without a trace. Revivify Fanny and I will feel that my work is done," the Thin White Duke said, echoing my opinion.

When I said that while my first show (the Who) had been at the Cap Centre, my second a few weeks later had been at Merriweather Post Pavilion to see Carol King, her response was that she'd seen Joni Mitchell there sitting on the grass. We recalled how cheap it had been to get lawn seats at Merriweather back then and what a polar opposite experience it was from the 19,000-seat Cap Centre.

A millennial I asked said her first had been the Backstreet Boys at the LA Coliseum, but she couldn't resist pointing out that every other boy band that followed was inferior, a point that several others nearby disputed. Another's initiation into live music had been seeing Green Day on the "American Idiot" tour, which he half-apologized for, saying he knew it was lame even then (2005).

But it was when a young woman said her first show - at 23! - had been Lynyrd Skynrd opening for Kid Rock that we came full circle. A young and drunken Skynyrd had also opened that first show of mine by the Who and it seemed pretty obvious from the crowd's reaction that almost no one had any idea of who they were, much less cared.

It didn't stop the guys in the band from shaking up cans of beer and aiming them at the crowd or pulling on bottles of Jack Daniels between songs, but even then I sensed how difficult it must be to be in front of 19,000 people with zero interest in your music.

Of course, the Lynyrd Skynyrd she saw was minus the three members who died in '77, so barely the same band although they probably got a lot more appreciation from the audience than the one I was a part of. But aside from that, what 23-year old wants to go see Kid Rock?

Fanny is forgotten and Kid Rock still attracts our youth? Let the revivifying commence.

Go On, I Dare You

Do I chase the night or does the night chase me?

On a night when I meet a friend at Laura Lee's - a mere 48 hours after the Elbys - staff and a few customers are still talking about their hangovers the day before. Some would say that's the sign of a good party.

While we necessarily spend some time covering the Elbys and aftermath, our primary purpose is a tad more self-involved since we haven't talked in a couple of weeks. Every friendship has its own frequency level and figuring out where that is provides part of the pleasure of making new acquaintances.

With a mix unexpectedly heavy on Fleetwood Mac, we devour mussels and sausage, salads and Syrah as parents with a screaming child try to eat in the dining room and cyclists arrive with lights so bright a bar sitter signals them to make it stop.

It all feels very southside neighborly.

And, for us, friendly. Tales are swapped about out-of-town excursions, costuming assistance is requested and the handsomest beard in the room and I delve deep into why everyone should see "Moonlight," which he watched while in full blown hangover mode.

But the best conversations come later - melody or lyrics, which reigns supreme? - over wine and set to a dash of the Grateful Dead by way of the National to start things off, and then followed by the Decemberists and St. Paul and the Broken Bones.

What better soundtrack to consider the elephant in the room and whether it's a Sri Lankan or Borneo variety? Inquiring minds want to know.

There is nothing better than a friend, except a friend who tells you what they're thinking. Way up in the sky, I can see that you want to.

Never underestimate the value of a well-placed lyric.

Let's just say I rarely have any problem sharing what's on my mind and leave it at that.

All You See Is Where Else You Could Be

Because I am a dinosaur, dating is not much different for me than it was when I was in my twenties. Old habits apparently do die hard for my people.

But I also concede that my experiences have almost nothing in common with those born after John and Yoko's "Double Fantasy" came out. Eating dinner with a millennial recently, he mentioned an article entitled, "This Is How We Date Now," lamenting that the dating world I know doesn't exist for him.

Reading the article, I was reminded of the new normal for that generation. Why commit when there are so many choices available via Tinder, OK Cupid, Grindr and the like? Endless possibilities mean there could always be someone better on a different app or platform. Not to mention the endless stream of friends' posts touting their picture-perfect relationships because people live out loud now, endlessly Instagramming or tweeting so everyone can see how enviable their lives are.

Why would you want to settle when your friend's life is so fabulous? The missing piece of the puzzle is that few people post about the arguments, the frustrations of trying to make a relationship work, so what you're envying isn't reality. It's a glossy facade, and completely unattainable.

Truthfully, the article was overly facile, purposefully glib and, in many ways, an ideal metaphor for the kind of shallow introspection that passes for deep thought. As guitarist John Mayer observed all the way back in 2003, "Numb is the new deep."

If that prediction was merely darkly amusing then, it's full-on depressing now.

That said, Death Cab for Cutie's 2005 album "Plans" contained the hauntingly beautiful "Your Heart Is an Empty Room," a song about a guy who can't quite commit because of (what else?) possibility.

Spring blooms and you find the love that's true
But you don't know what now to do
'Cause the chase is all you know
And she stopped running months ago
And all you see is where else you could be
When you're at home
Out on the street are so many possibilities 
To not be alone

Choice has always been there, obviously, but at least you used to have to leave your house to find it. Now dating options are as easy to order up as Chinese food.

All of this was in the back of my mind when I attended a show recently at Strange Matter. Because the band had originally been active from 1981 through 1989, the crowd skewed older, but with some millennials scattered throughout.

Taking up my usual position, I tried chatting up the very tall younger man standing next to me. I was curious how deep his interest in the band went, so I asked, apropos of nothing.

He looked nothing short of fully shocked that I'd instigated a conversation, but shared his enthusiasm for the band. After some face to face conversation, he kindly inquired if I could see well enough given the sold-out crowd in front of us. Explaining that at 5'5" I can never really get a great view, he moved behind me and gestured for me to stand in front of him.

I was terribly impressed with his thoughtfulness.

But from there, my evening unfolded like it was 1989 again, and not just because I was dancing for the next two hours. Because I was alone, several guys born while John Lennon was still in the Beatles decided to engage with me, talking about how good the band was, making jokes about people in the crowd, offering to buy me drinks, trying to make me laugh.

Hitting on me, plain and simple.

Which wasn't why I was at the show. But it occurred to me right then and there that they hadn't hesitated to come talk to me in an effort to try to connect with me. They were working it old-school style.

I go to Gallery 5 for shows all the time and I never see this happen. I'm the consummate observer when I'm out, but I just don't see 20-somethings making the effort to hit on each other at a show. You already have a band in common, so why the hell not?

What I do see is a lot of people on their phones - checking Facebook, filming or taking pictures and Instagramming, checking texts - while a band is singing and playing their hearts out right in front of them.

But not talking to strangers they're attracted to.

True, not everyone sees a person who catches their eye at a show, but surely it's a generational statement that it can happen to a dinosaur like me and not to the manic pixie dream girl types I'm surrounded by at these shows.

Is it because they're on Tinder and swiping their way to meeting yet another someone? As the writer of the article put it, "Maybe romance is still there, we just don't know what it looks like now."

Yeesh, at the risk of sounding like Yoko Ono ("The regret of my life is that I have not said 'I love you' often enough"), I think I'd find out about romance by talking to people's faces and not waste time swiping in search of someone to say it to.

I know, I know, how utterly prehistoric of me.

Technology and Self

If you'd ever looked at the "About me" section of this blog - unlikely, I know, but if you did - you'd know that under interests, the first thing I list is conversation.

And by conversation, I mean full-on, undivided attention, sparkling and provocative conversation. I grew up with extremely verbal parents, I have five chatty sisters and I've always been attracted to friends (and men) who not only love to talk, but have something to say. Give me your opinions and thoughts, if only so I can argue them with you.

Trouble is, it's getting to be the extremely rare occasion when I can find a conversationalist willing to stay in the moment with me.

I'm here to tell you that the situation has reached critical mass. I can't recall the last time I had a conversation with someone that they didn't pull out their cell phone at some point. Sometimes, it's to check facts, other times, nothing more important than checking screens to comment, text, like, tweet or even buy.

Let me be clear about that: while we're having a conversation.

I know I can't fight the tide, especially at this point when it seems as if everyone (and I do mean everyone, including ocotgenarians) except me has a cell phone, but the fact is, our collective ability to have vibrant, prolonged, open-ended conversation is on the way out.

Apparently I'm not the only one who's noticed, just the only one who's not doing it. A new book, "Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age" addresses this very subject, albeit by someone who calls the devices "facts of life and part of our creative lives," which strikes me as a bit over the top.

Creativity was in full flower long before the tech world had people convinced that life was impossible without constant communication. Hello Renaissance? What's up, Jazz Age?

In reading about Sherry Turkle's new book, I discover that she's a psychologist and the director of MIT's Initiative on Technology and Self, a title so ridiculous an improv troupe could riff on it for hours, nay, days.

But this is a woman who's studied our relationship with technology for decades and I, for one, am not the least bit surprised to learn that it's not looking good for dedicated conversationalists such as myself.

Using my hero and fellow Luddite, Henry David Thoreau, she elucidates her findings with the lessons he wrote about in "Walden." We need time alone to understand ourselves, which in turn helps us understand others, and then conversations with others to use that understanding, which then improves our ability to be introspective.

All well and good for 150 years, but not so much anymore.

Divided attention is the new normal because technology interrupts the cycle by curtailing conversation. There's a generation who have never experienced unbroken conversation, never enjoyed a meal or a walk in nature without someone pulling out their phone.

That's nothing short of tragic.

We've gotten to the point that phones are used as a safeguard against boredom  - witness waiting rooms, lines and other places people used to read or chat with strangers - despite countless studies proving that often it's boredom that sparks creativity. And even if it doesn't, isn't learning to navigate boredom part of life's lessons?

I realize I'm shouting into an abyss and no amount of lamentations will bring back a world where people got together solely for conversation without a thought to swiping, liking or posting, but as a mere observer to the constantly connected world, it makes me sad.

Even close friends, people who know how I feel about cell phones, no longer hesitate to pull them out at dinner. Worse is how when one person in a group does it, everyone else immediately feels entitled to do the same and suddenly I'm the only one not riveted to a screen.

It's especially depressing for future generations when I see parents walking or pushing young 'uns in strollers with zero interaction with the children. How do you teach a little one curiosity about the world or explain the wonder of what you pass by when Mom or Dad is on the phone?

In a recent "Date Lab" column in the Washington Post - where two strangers are sent on a blind date that is then documented in the Sunday magazine - the daters were barely a few minutes into the date, trying to get to know each other, when, in their words, their phones began "blowing up" with friends wanting to know how things were going, if they should call the police or not.

Bad enough (and so typical) that they looked at their phones five minutes into the date, even worse that they both paused to text those friends and reassure them that all was well. Actually, kids, the date is not going so well if you're willing to stop and text others rather than staying in the moment.

For several years now, a friend and I have said that when we're old ladies, we will live in her giant Church Hill mansion and hold salons, in the manner of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, inviting the cleverest and most scintillating guests to spend evenings conversing with us. Our responsibility will be to direct the conversations, keep them lively and provocative.

But I'm beginning to wonder if there will be anyone left willing to forsake their phones for the sake of talking to us without interruption.

Turkle says people need to use their phones with greater intention, but even a cockeyed optimist like me can't imagine such a thing happening. The world is too far gone.

A hundred years from now when someone unearths my blog from the crumbling remains of the Internet, they'll look at the "About me" section and wonder what kind of person put conversation above all interests.

Answer: one who never had to reclaim conversation because she never lost it in the first place.

Sadly, she may even be the last of her kind.

Trail of Breadcrumbs

Doing dinner progressively results in two things: multiple menus to choose from and a constantly changing array of characters talking to me.

At the first place and despite being nowhere near home, I met a guy who's about to open a business right here in Jackson Ward.

A big, gregarious fellow who'd just bought a cigar and was looking for someone to cut off the tip and light it for him, he explained his plans to open a "close contact martial arts" studio over top of a restaurant that will serve coffee, smoothies and pastries a few blocks from my house.

Eventually, he said, it'll also serve healthy Caribbean food because (I guess) nothing tops off close contact fighting like some jerk chicken.

And because I know so little about martial arts or fighting, I have to wonder: isn't all fighting close contact? You can't very well be across the room and expect to knock someone out, can you?

Clearly I know nothing about sports.

The second restaurant delivered a woman who seemed a bit glum because the transmission had died on her truck today.

"My boyfriend and I used to use it for a tree removal business, so I'm not too surprised," she admitted pragmatically.

When she really lit up was when she got to talking about her kids: one of her own, two step-children and two adopted.

The one she described as "the easy daughter," whatever that means, is getting married soon and she shared all sorts of details about planning that.

First, it was going to be at Maymont ($17,000) but that idea was dropped when her ex opted out of sharing wedding expenses.

Plan B was a cruise for 20 ($3,000) but that limited the guest list too much.

The final plan involved renting an 8-bedroom house oceanfront at Myrtle Beach, where they'll be married on the beach and hold the reception and the couple will stay on to honeymoon.

Apparently the house has two bars, one next to the pool, and she's already put in her bid for that to be her spot.

If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Only problem with that plan was the bother of getting the South Carolina paperwork done ahead of time so they decided to get married at the registrar's office here quietly and just pretend that the beach wedding is real.

I told her how my best friend from college had done a similar thing, getting married at the courthouse on the sly with just me and my boyfriend for witnesses and then letting her parents throw them a big, splashy wedding the following summer.

Everyone was happy and no on was the wiser.

And on that subject, the woman also proudly shared that she'd recently gotten divorced on the cheap, doing the paperwork herself so all she had to pay was the filing fee.

Now all her friends want her to write a book about how to do it to save them money. I guess they've never heard of the Internet.

I'm sure if her daughter's starter marriage doesn't work out, she'd help her with the divorce just as she's helping her with the wedding.

The third place yielded nothing more interesting than a bartender who insisted on chilling a wine glass (like they do with martini glasses, filling it with water and ice) before pouring in wine.

She explained that because she liked her glass really cold, she figures her customers do, too.

At the last place, I found a colorful guy I'd met at Amuse a few years back, a man who strongly resembled Colonel Sanders minus the bolo tie (bow tie instead).

He explained to me the importance of finding a man who was passionate, who had a big brain, a man who could appreciate my fine mind and quick wit.

I was told he also made a comment about my rear end when I left to go to the bathroom.

Seems like he should have told me to look for a man who appreciates that, too.

My Lord, What a Morning

Ladies and germs, but mostly my friend Stephen, I offer proof that I can put myself together quickly when I need to.

Stephen has never let me forget the time he called from a new bar wanting me to join him and I said it would be an hour and a half because I had to get ready.

This morning I woke up forty minutes before I wanted to be at the VMFA for the latest in their Conversations series.

For the record, I dropped into my seat at 10:58, full dressed and fed. The handsome black man next to me helped remove my jacket as we talked about the size of the crowd that had come out for a musical morning.

What I hadn't wanted to miss was a program about singer Marian Anderson with a conversation between the museum's American art curator Sylvia Yount and singer/educator Lisa Edwards-Burrs.

With a standing room only crowd, the conversation began with a 1939 film clip of Anderson singing "My Country Tis of Thee" on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on Easter Sunday before 75,000 people.

We were reminded that the significance was that the Daughters of the American Revolution had refused to let her sing at D.A.R. Constitution Hall because she was black.

Her contralto voice soared until I'm certain it wasn't just me who had chills listening to her.

After a photo-montage clip set to her singing "My Lord, What a Morning," the audience was pretty much in a puddle.

Today's program had been in the works since VMFA had acquired Beauford Delaney's sublime and sunny portrait of Anderson a little over a year ago.

February was her birthday month so it finally came together to talk about the woman described as the "voice of the American soul" and the one who'd sparked the beginning of the nascent Civil Rights movement.

On display was one of the gowns Anderson wore on her farewell tour in 1965, borrowed from our own Black History Museum right down the street from me in Jackson Ward.

Yount and Burrs talked about Anderson's place as a singer and cultural icon before the large group moved downstairs to see the tactile painting, it's thick yellow paint a true celebration of the art of painting.

Gathered in the American gallery, Burrs stood next to the portrait of Anderson and sang without accompaniment.

She said she'd planned to sing "My Lord, What a Morning," but since we'd just heard it done perfectly, she wasn't going to.

I could understand what she meant.

She prefaced doing her favorite Anderson song, "Crucifixion," by saying that she wasn't a contralto, so we had to allow for that.

No allowances were necessary for the moving interpretation she delivered.

Then she did her soprano Anderson imitation with "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," and the room seemed stunned when she finished.

Watching Burrs sing while looking at the larger-than-life painting was transcendent and I know I forgot about everyone else in the room as I listened and looked.

Saying that she didn't know if Anderson had done this song, she began "This Little Light of Mine" for her final piece.

She explained that because she was singing a capella, she'd chosen spirituals, but she wanted to make sure we knew that Anderson sang a lot of classical music during her career.

And while I'd have happily listened to anything Burrs sang next to that painting, there was something fitting about hearing spirituals while looking at a woman who faced many struggles in this country because of her race.

Our time was up and the gallery was about to be overrun by 60 school children, but the crowd clamored for one more and Burrs did "Deep River," finishing to applause that echoed through the high-ceilinged gallery.

No hard feelings, Stephen, but some things are worth getting out of the house for at warp speed.

Paying homage to Marian Anderson with music and art is one of them.

Hello Winter

If you're going to preview your winter menu, you can't do much better than a snowy night.

Good thing Bistro 27 is only a few blocks away so it didn't take that much effort to traverse the ever-whitening streets.

Inside, a crowd of neighbors was already mingling and eating, the only surprising part being that I didn't recognize anyone.

Turns out it didn't matter because a woman walked up to me and asked me to join her and who am I to refuse a conversational partner, even a stranger?

Over pumpkin-stuffed ravioli in a brown butter sage sauce, skewers of grilled eggplant filled with herbed goat cheese over marinara and lamb kabobs, we got to know each other at a table by the window with the heat vent blowing on my feet and a view of Broad Street becoming a winter wonderland.

It must have been the occasion, but the stereo was set to house music, the kind of pulsing beat you'd expect to hear in a club.

My new friend turned out to be a delightful woman just back from a business trip to California where, besides enjoying the 78-degree days, she was working on merging an east coast group that mentors girls with a west coast group that does the same.

A Church Hill resident, we bonded over a  love of city living, our mutual disappointment with the fried fish tacos at Kitchen on Cary and the hurdles of getting over good girl syndrome when you're the oldest child.

While we were downing a dessert of nut-crusted chocolate pate, her friend arrived and she began introducing us, unnecessary because it was a local gallery director I've interviewed twice now.

All of a sudden, it was three woman of an age, all passionate about urban, feminist and gentrification issues and we were off and running.

How do we prevent losing the rich cultural history of Jackson Ward as more newcomers arrive? How exciting is Sonya Clark's new show at 1798 Gallery going to be given its marriage of hairstyling and art? How do we get more people off of Broad and into my neighborhood on first Fridays?

As lively and interesting as all that was, we got even more into it on the subject of the lost art of conversation, increasing lack of interactivity amongst subsequent generations and how our mothers had talked to us about "girl issues."

You'd have thought we were old friends, but it was really a case of daughters of similar childhoods all grown up.

Sitting watching the snow fall on Adams Street, we could have talked the night away but instead made plans to meet up again and take our discussion even further when the threat of bad weather wasn't hanging over us.

If you're going to make new friends, you really can't do it more enjoyably than over new dishes in your neighborhood joint with non-stop conversation.

And if you're foolish enough to wear a dress in a snowstorm, especially when the heat vent is blowing directly on your feet.

Some Like It Hot

If last night's date was all about the literature, tonight's was all about the music.

He was craving spicy and suggested Lemon. I countered with Curry Craft since I hadn't been since practically the first week they opened.

You have to appreciate a guy who asks you out and then lets you dictate the destination.

It was our first date, although not our first conversation and although it had been a while, we picked up where we'd left off.

First he cracked wise about being intimidated about my superior food knowledge but I assured him eating was the surest way to learning.

"You have the best job in the world," he told me.

Well, maybe, unless you like expensive houses and jewelry but fortunately I like neither.

Although now he's a banker, he's been a musician for far longer so we had loads to talk about.

Our waitress suggested we order an appetizer to tide us over since she'd already picked up on the fact that we had much to discuss and weren't in any hurry to order.

We asked for Juhu beach-style chaat (puffed rice, potatoes, green chili, red onions and pomegranate and spices), requesting it medium-hot, plenty of heat for me but my date was left wanting more.

Twenty minutes into the date and I already know he can handle more heat than I can.

We talked about some of the music we'd seen at the National, his years as a sound engineer and why 21st century bands are lucky to have decades worth of influences to pull from.

In one of those "we know we're the same generation" moments, we discussed the pleasures of album art and liner notes and how reading them can lead to discovering other musicians.

His tangent about "X" was exquisite.

After the third time our server came back to take our order, we took a minute to look at the menu and choose.

He went with chicken-mushroom dhaniwal, a Kashmiri-style chicken stew, while I got chicken khubani-zafrani for its spicy sauce boasting saffron, iris essence and apricots.

After enjoying tender chicken morsels with the sweetness of the fruit over basmati rice, I used garlic naan to sop up some of the beautifully fragrant sauce.

It didn't take us long to discover some of our shared soapboxes - iPods, photographing food, people not willing to pay for music - and I teased him that we sounded like fist-shaking blue-hairs.

Where we differ from true old folks is a shared passion for new music and smart-ass attitudes.

"I've always liked older women," he tells me.

I recognize a kindred geek when he tells me about his upcoming trip to Las Vegas and his intention to visit the neon museum, a place I would surely go should I ever end up in Vegas.

We talk about Chicago, a city we both enjoy, agreeing that walking it and looking up is enough to occupy entire days there.

I was impressed to hear that he'd made a record with a group of British musicians and he was impressed to hear what my first concert was.

He kept making obscure music references and I kept getting them while our poor server kept stopping by unnecessarily.

Eventually we let her box up our remains, mainly to give her something to do, but we continued to camp out.

Fortunately, it's the second night of a three-day weekend and the restaurant wasn't full, so we had no guilt about taking up space.

We did get mango kulfi, a creamy ice cream studded with cranberries and two kinds of nuts, a decadent ending to the meal, if not the conversation.

That didn't end until we looked up and realized four hours had passed.

Now he knows. Older women can go on and on.

Fortunately for the newly-dating, some men seem to like that.

Good Tongue = Optimization

"You're Chat Central tonight."

In the scheme of things, my evening's activities could be described in far worse ways.

All I did was sit down to have a little dinner. The luck of the draw was that I happened into three conversations that bridged the three and a half-hour evening from start to finish.

The first of them was chatting with the bartender's girlfriend when I arrived, so I didn't interrupt.

After observing some interaction between her and him, the barsitter got suspicious. "Are you two sweeties or pals?" he asked of them.

"Sweeties and pals," the good girlfriend responded.

Immediately making eye contact with me, he introduced himself from across the bar.

We began a conversation over her head, but it wasn't long before he asked if he could move to my side of the bar.

"I was wondering how long that would take," the barkeep noted wryly.

He turned out to be a fascinating guy with a history working in theater, opera and advertising.

When my Beef Two Ways arrived, he told me to go ahead and eat and I did but the conversation was too enjoyable to only eat, so there may have been some chewing and talking.

My mother would not approve of my bad manners, although she'd be thrilled I was talking to a guy.

And the slow-cooked Angus beef short ribs and braised beef tongue over local grits were really worthy of my full attention. The beef tongue especially was probably the best I've ever had.

Meanwhile, back at the conversational ranch, multiple points went to this guy for talk of Frank Loesser, Polonious, and Norman Mclean. 'Nuff said.

Let's just say I was willing to share my meat and he was willing to eat it. And he'd already had the lamb.

Once he vacated the stool, I turned to my left to join the two art lovers next to me

They're part of the inspired group planning the upcoming Art Karma, one of my favorite fundraising events. Besides being a great party, for me it's an excellent way to pick up local art.

But the best part of the conversation was about walking. We got on the subject of where they lived and he said he lived in Hanover.

Which is scary enough, but he'd just moved from London to Hanover. It boggles the mind.

How does one adjust to a move from a bustling urban locale like that to the sticks? Not well, he said.

And mainly because he missed the walking. He missed the convenience of places to go on every corner. He'd gained weight since he got here and started driving everywhere.

Not surprisingly, I made it my mission to suggest a few more centrally-located possibilities for him to consider (J-Ward, perhaps?) I couldn't have lived with myself if I hadn't.

Non-profit types only stay up so late, so they left to go to bed so as to make an early-morning meeting; I was without talkers for about 30 seconds before two guys sat down on my right.

They're in town working on a  project indefinitely. Oh, boy, RVA virgins who needed guidance! I could do this.

All they had heard of our fair city was Carytown and the Fan. The one said he hadn't even noticed our historic architecture.

My work was cut out for me.

Hailing from Minneapolis and Philly, they were at least both urban dwellers in their respective cities, so they could appreciate the local scene I described to them.

Since they were both drinking suds, I told them about next week being Richmond Beer Week and all that's going on with that.

I corrected their misconception that all the fun stuff was over on Main Street in the Fan. As if.

They'd heard of First Fridays and wanted to know the essential galleries. Tha's an easy one. Let me give you directions, guys.

It was not long after our conversation began that the bartender had walked by me and made the smart-assed "Chat Central" remark.

It wasn't my fault that people kept sitting down next to me.

And for that matter, I was entertaining his customers, freeing him up for other chores. Hell, he ought to tip me out.

Except that I was the one having all the fun. And making new, ahem, friends.

Sufferin' Succotash

"Come hungry and loquacious."

Could there be a better invitation to dinner than that for a person like me who lives to eat and talk? I even got to pick our destination, with my companion's only request being "somewhere new to him" and he readily admitted to having little knowledge of the Richmond restaurant scene. The field was wide open.

We met at The Empress, although he was well into his wine and an order of sauteed calamari in garlic and herb sauce when I arrived under my umbrella, fresh from a meeting with a bunch of actors who now knew far too much about me.

Chef Carly greeted me and was kind enough to bring me some Hob Nob Pinot Noir to get my cold and damp blood moving. What happened to Spring again and can we get it back?

I took advantage of his invitation to partake of the appetizer and enjoyed the buttery, garlicky sauce on both calamari and bread before inhaling a crumb of bread and coughing in a most unladylike manner for ten minutes.

Only then was I fit to peruse the menu, urged on by owner Melissa to try something  new ("What haven't you had before?" she challenged me. Not much, I had to admit).There was only one order of lamb chops left and everyone there knows how I feel about those chops, but I willed myself to branch out.

Unable to resist the lure of bison, my companion went with the buffalo lasagna and I, a sucker for succotash, picked the grilled scallops with green bean and corn succotash with sauteed fingerling potatoes.I could see Melissa's approval in her eyes.

He loved his lasagna; I scarfed down my scallops and all the while we discussed curtailing risk-taking (his and mine), his time spent as part of the East Village scene in the 80s (Television and Talking Heads), and using it or losing it (that would be any and all parts of it). Loquacious does not begin to cover it.

He made a strong case for adding the Seville April Fair to my bucket list (except that I don't have one) and, based on his description, he may be right about it being something I need to experience.  If Byron could admire its women and oranges, so could I.

We followed food and wine with wine and dessert, but I deferred to his choices, what with him being an Empress virgin and me willing to eat just about anything. Besides, there are no bad choices on that dessert menu.

Like all first-timers, the award-winning chili chocolate pate blew his mind (that heat on the finish always has that effect on first-timers) but the chocolate/banana crepes disappeared just as quickly. We traded plates until both were gone. I have no dessert shame whatsoever.

Even more impressively, we outlasted the ten-top, the four-top and the deuces, but eventually even we had to go. Before we left, I was complimented on my conversational skills and although my eating talent went unremarked, I feel certain I had fulfilled both requests of his invitation as I had promised earlier.

"Rest assured, I am always both."

But to really challenge me, you'll have to ask me to do something more difficult than breathing...aka eating and talking. That's just too easy.

Get Yourself a Trap Door

Out on my walk on Grace Street this morning, one of the regular VCU grounds guys said good morning and started explaining why I hadn't seen him in a while (I hadn't asked or wondered, but okay).

"It sure is cold out here," I said, changing the subject.

"Sure is," he said. "Got your long johns on?"

"No, but I've got leggings on under these," I explained. "Couldn't walk in this cold without two layers."

"Long janes, huh? Do those have a trap door like mine do?" he wondered. "Makes it awful easy."

"Uh, no," I said.

"You ought to get a pair of small men's long john's and then you'd have a trap door!" he told me, solving all my problems. Time to go, I thought.

"Maybe they come in peach!" he called to my back, chuckling. Maybe they do, but I doubt it.

Please tell me other people have these odd conversations with strangers.

Why I Love Strangers

Grace Street, 8:15 a.m. A man getting into his car smiles at me. I smile back.

Him: Did anyone tell you that you look gorgeous this morning?
Me; No, they didn't.
Him: Well, I'm telling you now.

I am wearing black shorts and a Yo La Tengo t-shirt; gorgeous I'm not. The very first person I've spoken to and he's a stranger who has made my day.

Yes, I know I'm a lucky girl.

No One Wants Their Sex Questioned

They joy of working the census these past two weeks has been spending hours walking around the Ward, which is establishing me as a daily presence to VDOT workers, mailmen and assorted business owners, many of whom greet me like an old friend now.

Since I don't have problems talking to strangers (as one of my coworkers told me he did today; yeesh, bad job choice, buddy), it's not a particularly tough job and often results in some great exchanges in the 'hood.

We're required to ask certain questions of people when we enumerate them and you can imagine how some people react when you ask the obvious.

We're supposed to say, "Are you male or female?" which I usually paraphrase so as not to appear moronic.

Today a woman responded with, "Do you see ANY part of me that doesn't look like a woman's body?"

I think she thought I was challenging her femininity (or maybe she was just proud of the work she'd had done; who knows?), when really I was just talking government-speak.

For the record, I told her no.

Walking up Second Street, a group of three young guys were lounging outside a barber shop.

One told me that I was too young to be wearing such a cute flowered skirt to work in.

"For all you know, I'm old enough to be your mother, " I teased him and we exchanged ages.

"You could be my girlfriend definitely, but not my mother!" one said.

"Don't you guys have hair to cut?" I responded and took my flowered skirt on its way.

Passing the never-ending road repair work on Brook Road, one of the guys told me it was taking me as long to count people as it was taking them to fix the road.

Of course, there's ten of them to one of me, but either way, you're talking about your tax dollars at work, if you know what I mean.

Heading home down Marshall, I got my best comment of the day in front of Gallery 5 when a guy gave me a big smile and said, "You got a jazzy walk!"

Could there be a better way to walk the "Harlem of the South" than in a jazzy manner?

Didn't think so.

Old Ladies Need Tongue, Too (Apparently)

As I was doing my walk on Grace Street this morning, a guy yelled at me from behind, "Hey, do you run the 10K?"

Not even slowing down, I shook my head no and kept on.

Just my luck, he was on a bike, so he pulled up beside me.

"Why not?" he asked.

"I'm a walker, not a runner," I told him.

He went on to say that he always goes to watch the 10K and the marathon, that he's fascinated by the sheer number of people who participate.

"Last year I saw 21 people throw up during the race," he bragged. "I used to be in nursing training, so I know how hard it is on your body to do that and sometimes you just puke."

Good to know.

"Did you hear about that 88-year old that ran last year?" he inquired.

I hadn't.

"Yea, after she finished she came up to me and asked if she could hug a young man to celebrate finishing, so I told her sure."

Clearly young is in the eye of the beholder because this guy had to at least 50.

"After she hugged me, she gave me a big old kiss," he over-shared. "Would you believe she slipped me the tongue?"

Good god, I didn't want to hear this, although I gave the guy credit.

He probably made that woman's day and for all I know, he may have given her tongue back.

Still, I picked up my pace.

From behind I heard him say, "Nice talking to you. I'm turning here. Have a great day!"

I'm actually a very normal-looking person.

I will never understand what it is about me that causes people to say the things they do to me.

On the other hand, my walks are seldom dull.

La Grotta: Oh, the Pressure!

When you have an Italian guest coming in from NOVA on a Monday, it's important to choose a restaurant that's not going to pale in comparison to what he's used to at home.

And when it's someone you haven't seen much in a very long time, you also seek out an atmosphere conducive to private conversation with unobtrusive service.

And preferably no large groups or babies.

So it was that we ended up at La Grotta in the Slip, a place I don't frequent often and yet, I've always had excellent food and service there.

Maybe it's the challenges of parking in the area, but on a Monday night, it was easy enough in the less-than-crowded streets.

So uncrowded, in fact, that a couple of kitchen guys were throwing a football back and forth in the middle of 13th Street, not something you see every day in the Slip.

Our table was away from the fray, although within earshot of a large group with a baby, drat the luck.

Luckily, they were much further along in the meal process than we were, so we only had to put up with them for a while.

And while we weren't purposely eavesdropping, some comments just catch your ear, for instance, a boast about taking the 7-year old to the shooting range.

We wondered how long before the little one in the car seat gets his turn with the trigger.

But they left soon enough and we had plenty of privacy to talk.

I had the Insalate Tricolore (homemade mozzarella, tomato and organic baby greens in a white balsamic) and he had a special that was similar with the mozzarella, roasted eggplant and roasted red peppers in the balsamic.

We agreed that the mozzarella was just lovely. I followed with the Cape Sante (baked scallops on the half shell with jumbo lump crab and roasted red peppers), decadent with butter and crab meat oozing, and he with a special of rock fish, perfectly cooked and seasoned.

As good as the food was, we had a lot of talking to do, so our server made countless unnecessary trips over to our table thinking perhaps we'd finally finished, but alas for him, it was a long, lingering meal.

We were the last ones out and I feel certain those were looks of relief on the staff's faces when we finally stood to leave.

Even the football guys had moved on.

Mondays can be tough nights to make a dining choice because the variety of open restaurants is more limited than the rest of the week.

Of course, depending on how good the company is, the food's importance is a relative thing.

La Grotta delivered an excellent meal, but we probably would have enjoyed Perly's just as much.

It was all about the conversation.

Rumination on Reality

Although the bright blue sky and brilliant sun on my walk this morning should have lifted my spirits, instead I was lost in thought about how anything is really not possible. In a perfect world, maybe, but in this one, no.

If it were, you could walk up to someone you see in the street and just say whatever you wanted to say, with no concern for propriety and no fear of their reaction. It happens in books and it happens in movies, but it's not the kind of thing we risk in real life.

So conversations don't happen and opportunities are missed out of fear. Blue sky and sunshine aside, it's such a shame that this is how the world works.