Part exciting, part terrifying, that was my Tuesday. Sometimes simultaneously.
The James River was a roaring beast today when Mac and I braved the pipeline walkway only to find waves lapping near our ankles. Never have I seen so much of the pipeline and several of the little beaches completely underwater, nor the rapids so unquestionably fierce.
At an unnamed restaurant for lunch with Foto Boy, a youngish black server (although not ours) made a point to come over and comment on FB's Black Lives Matter button, thanking him for wearing it and saying that he'd never seen a white person wear one.
Never? Really, Richmond, we can do better than that.
Mine was at home on another coat, but his comment made me realize how inclusive it is to others for me to wear it everywhere I go and not just sometimes. Such a small thing and yet so meaningful to someone else at a time when many of us are feeling shaky.
And why shouldn't we be when our new orange dictator is dramatically scaling back the EPA and muzzling its employees? Every day seems to bring some fresh new terror.
Listening to one of my Christmas presents, the new Pretenders' record, "Alone" - notable because it was produced by young Turk Dan Auerbach so it resonates with youthful energy under the assured attitude and lyrics of Chrissie Hynde - I was struck by her conclusions in the title song.
Nobody tells me I can't
Nobody tells me I shan't
No one to say you're doing it wrong
I'm at the best, I'm where I belong, alone
Yeah, I like it, I like being alone
What are you going to do about it?
And, so, f*ck off
I'll do whatever I want
It's not an entirely surprising attitude for a woman of 65 who's led an extraordinary life and decided that her first choice for company is her own. For that matter, I have woman friends not nearly that old who have already arrived at the same conclusion.
Prematurely, I think.
Now I'm out crawling the streets
With the poets and the geeks and the deadbeats
I'm taking my time sitting on park benches
And all the glamour, it all starts down here
This is where the trends begin
Life's a canvas and I'm on it
But what it immediately put me in mind of is an old Barbra song from her album "Streisand Superman" called "Lullaby for Myself," although unlike Chrissie's anthem, it's told from the viewpoint of a much less seasoned woman who hasn't quite reached those same conclusions.
It's really lovely to discover that you like to be alone
Not to owe your man an answer when he gets you on the phone
Not to share a pair of pork chops when you crave champagne and cheese
And your aim becomes to please yourself
And not to aim to please
Girl power stuff, right? Yet only so far as a young woman is willing to take it.
Self-aware with self esteem
Is selfishness a crime?
I take the day for quite a ride
And I take my own sweet time
Time to spare and time to share
And grateful I would be
If just one damn man would share the need
To be alone with me
As it happened, one damn man was willing to share his tickets with me for the Times-Dispatch's Speaker Series on "Politics in 2017 and Beyond" at the Historical Society, a discussion among the paper's political reporters and columnists that began with an acknowledgement that they'd all badly miscalculated Trump's viability during the series' discussions last year.
Well, them and half the country.
With no need for a pair of pork chops, or even champagne and cheese, ours was a progressive meal with tacos - carnitas, braised chicken tinga, carne asada and marinated grilled chicken - at En Su Boca before tackling political discourse, and desserts squared - chocolate crema followed by chocolate pecan pie - enjoyed with after-dinner drinks (whisky and M. Chapoutier Banyuls) at Acacia once all the analyzing was over.
With little time to spare and always much to share, I razzed him about never having been to the Historical Society before and crowed in disbelief that he's yet to ride the Capitol Trail. And we're friends? He teased back about me knowing someone everywhere we go, as if that were a bad thing.
Our unlikeliest tangent may have been sharing impressions of several homes for sale since we'd both seen some recently, though the open house I'd attended included a DJ spinning soul 45s and his, regrettably, did not. I suppose we can't all follow the music.
Best of all, in the true spirit of poets, geeks and deadbeats, we took time out to consider the malleable nature of friendship.
The way I see it, life's a canvas and I'm on it - with time to spare and time to share. Portion control is key.
Showing posts with label en su boca. Show all posts
Showing posts with label en su boca. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Monday, May 23, 2016
A Voice of Reason
We've been through a lot together, and most of it was your fault
~wording on birthday gift (box of out-sized matches)
I hear this a lot, but that stuff wasn't my fault, just a byproduct of, you know, having fun.
Besides, birthdays aren't a sprint, they're a marathon.
They're an opportunity to discuss the Oxford comma, which happened at Metzger while drinking Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose, eating a cheese plate and a charcuterie plate and listening to vintage soul thanks to a Taurus also obsessed with my favorite New Jersey DJ.
For the birthday girl who grew up in Maryland, the fried softshell crab was a decided highlight.
Sitting five abreast, from the farthest bar stool I overhear, "He's talking about putting tse-tse fly sauce on his sub," and wonder how my friend can be so far along when it's only our first stop.
Oh please, do go on! I could listen to you talk about your blog all night!
~ front of birthday card showing couple deep in discussion
Prom kids commandeered a long table behind us at Nota Bene, where we wound our five-top around the corner of the bar - and I learned that the bartender's prom date 20 years ago had been named Nikki LaRoqua and that she measured up to her name - for ease in hearing each other blather.
Words fell short when a steady stream of food began showing up, a lot of it off the specials board: two bowls of braised fennel with capers and tomato, two more of sugartoads with bagna caude and lots of bread to soak up its buttery, garlicy goodness, pizza of Tellegio and onions, the same roasted cauliflower with lemon, olive oil, capers and fresno chilies I'd fallen hard for just over a week ago and a big bowl of clams and fennel.
People think I'm bossy, too."
~ caption on birthday card image of Ghengis Khan talking to dark-haired woman with glass of pink bubbles in front of her
There was spirited discussion of the difference between a harlot and a strumpet, with the consolation "harlot" t-shirt going to Pru.
Lights were dim but the restaurant was still packed when we arrived at L'Opossum for our final course. Inquiring about the nature of the black bottom, our server summed it up by saying, "It's a circle of life in a chocolate cupcake."
Perhaps not everyone could glean her meaning from that, but I could.
With disco alternating with k.d. lange crooning cover songs, we had three of them, mine with a lit candle, plus creme brulee, fiery chocolate and foie gras bread pudding. I sipped glasses of Cocchi Barolo Chinato while others savored plastic-wrapped Laura Palmers.
Holmes ordered a Glen Moray and our server asked if he wanted it over a Death Star. He did, allowing us all to marvel over the globe-shaped ice.
It takes a long time to become young.
~ Picasso, but handwritten inside one of my birthday cards
For the second year in a row, we closed down L'Opossum in service of celebrating my birthday.
Today began with a birthday gift being delivered (on Sunday, no less) before motoring through the mist to Upper Shirley Vineyards for lunch. I hadn't expected the place to be so large, but both the packed parking lot and capacity dining room prove that the word was out.
I'll tell you this much: it appears to be the place for ladies who lunch (eat? trash talk?) in the East End. Lots of bling, lots of all-female tables, lots of shrill conversation bouncing off hard walls.
Addressing the Southern half of my heritage with practically perfect ham biscuits sweet with pepper jelly eaten on the couch for lack of a free space, followed by a move to a table of our own, shrimp and avocado salad and then fried chicken and waffles, we saved the wine tasting for afterward in lieu of dessert.
I am too lucky to have you as a girlfriend, companion, confidante, soul sister, advisory. partner-in-crime and voice of reason when I need one.~ sentiment written inside a birthday card
How hilarious is it to hear me referred to as a voice of reason? I'll take it with a grain of salt.
The Tannat was the most arresting of the bunch but it was glasses of Rose we took first to the big porch to get a view of the river, where it was too chilly and damp for the birthday girl before moving back to the couch and eventually to the city for a double hot fudge sundae at Bev's and at Secco, a bottle of Can Xa Brut Rose because birthdays.
A quick stop at En Su Boca made birthday nachos my reality and I finally got to see "Barbershop: The Next Cut," a film I'd gone to see weeks ago only to find it sold out.
Funny and not funny, relevant without being strident, with talking points that come across like an overdue rap session, it's the kind of film that makes you realize that white people don't see nearly enough black movies.
Shakedown 1981 during the scene when the entire barbershop breaks into dance at the first notes ("Can't fool myself...") of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" and I immediately flash back to a Christmas party that year when the exact same thing happened, albeit not as rhythmically since we were white.
And can we just have a moment for how good looking - body and face - Common is? It's too bad about that time I didn't get in to see him at the Pit. Needless to say, I also have new respect for Nicki Minaj's bountiful booty. Truly, a masterpiece of human engineering.
And wear some jeans for chrissakes.
~ sentiment written inside a birthday card
I might if I had that kind of booty.
~wording on birthday gift (box of out-sized matches)
I hear this a lot, but that stuff wasn't my fault, just a byproduct of, you know, having fun.
Besides, birthdays aren't a sprint, they're a marathon.
They're an opportunity to discuss the Oxford comma, which happened at Metzger while drinking Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose, eating a cheese plate and a charcuterie plate and listening to vintage soul thanks to a Taurus also obsessed with my favorite New Jersey DJ.
For the birthday girl who grew up in Maryland, the fried softshell crab was a decided highlight.
Sitting five abreast, from the farthest bar stool I overhear, "He's talking about putting tse-tse fly sauce on his sub," and wonder how my friend can be so far along when it's only our first stop.
Oh please, do go on! I could listen to you talk about your blog all night!
~ front of birthday card showing couple deep in discussion
Prom kids commandeered a long table behind us at Nota Bene, where we wound our five-top around the corner of the bar - and I learned that the bartender's prom date 20 years ago had been named Nikki LaRoqua and that she measured up to her name - for ease in hearing each other blather.
Words fell short when a steady stream of food began showing up, a lot of it off the specials board: two bowls of braised fennel with capers and tomato, two more of sugartoads with bagna caude and lots of bread to soak up its buttery, garlicy goodness, pizza of Tellegio and onions, the same roasted cauliflower with lemon, olive oil, capers and fresno chilies I'd fallen hard for just over a week ago and a big bowl of clams and fennel.
People think I'm bossy, too."
~ caption on birthday card image of Ghengis Khan talking to dark-haired woman with glass of pink bubbles in front of her
There was spirited discussion of the difference between a harlot and a strumpet, with the consolation "harlot" t-shirt going to Pru.
Lights were dim but the restaurant was still packed when we arrived at L'Opossum for our final course. Inquiring about the nature of the black bottom, our server summed it up by saying, "It's a circle of life in a chocolate cupcake."
Perhaps not everyone could glean her meaning from that, but I could.
With disco alternating with k.d. lange crooning cover songs, we had three of them, mine with a lit candle, plus creme brulee, fiery chocolate and foie gras bread pudding. I sipped glasses of Cocchi Barolo Chinato while others savored plastic-wrapped Laura Palmers.
Holmes ordered a Glen Moray and our server asked if he wanted it over a Death Star. He did, allowing us all to marvel over the globe-shaped ice.
It takes a long time to become young.
~ Picasso, but handwritten inside one of my birthday cards
For the second year in a row, we closed down L'Opossum in service of celebrating my birthday.
Today began with a birthday gift being delivered (on Sunday, no less) before motoring through the mist to Upper Shirley Vineyards for lunch. I hadn't expected the place to be so large, but both the packed parking lot and capacity dining room prove that the word was out.
I'll tell you this much: it appears to be the place for ladies who lunch (eat? trash talk?) in the East End. Lots of bling, lots of all-female tables, lots of shrill conversation bouncing off hard walls.
Addressing the Southern half of my heritage with practically perfect ham biscuits sweet with pepper jelly eaten on the couch for lack of a free space, followed by a move to a table of our own, shrimp and avocado salad and then fried chicken and waffles, we saved the wine tasting for afterward in lieu of dessert.
I am too lucky to have you as a girlfriend, companion, confidante, soul sister, advisory. partner-in-crime and voice of reason when I need one.~ sentiment written inside a birthday card
How hilarious is it to hear me referred to as a voice of reason? I'll take it with a grain of salt.
The Tannat was the most arresting of the bunch but it was glasses of Rose we took first to the big porch to get a view of the river, where it was too chilly and damp for the birthday girl before moving back to the couch and eventually to the city for a double hot fudge sundae at Bev's and at Secco, a bottle of Can Xa Brut Rose because birthdays.
A quick stop at En Su Boca made birthday nachos my reality and I finally got to see "Barbershop: The Next Cut," a film I'd gone to see weeks ago only to find it sold out.
Funny and not funny, relevant without being strident, with talking points that come across like an overdue rap session, it's the kind of film that makes you realize that white people don't see nearly enough black movies.
Shakedown 1981 during the scene when the entire barbershop breaks into dance at the first notes ("Can't fool myself...") of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" and I immediately flash back to a Christmas party that year when the exact same thing happened, albeit not as rhythmically since we were white.
And can we just have a moment for how good looking - body and face - Common is? It's too bad about that time I didn't get in to see him at the Pit. Needless to say, I also have new respect for Nicki Minaj's bountiful booty. Truly, a masterpiece of human engineering.
And wear some jeans for chrissakes.
~ sentiment written inside a birthday card
I might if I had that kind of booty.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Every Day is Like Sunday
One shot and probably only the hardcore crowd cared anyway.
Movieland was doing one screening of the concert film, "Morrissey 25: Live," tonight and since I've never seen the Moz live (there's a story there because I was secretly given tickets, but didn't find them until after the show), it seemed like the thing to do.
Taking a night off from dating I invited a Smiths fanatic to join me, thinking that he would blend in with an audience of what I was sure would be entirely middle-aged men.
Actually, there was a handful of my gender represented, but Y chromosomes abounded.
The film was shot at a show at Hollywood High last spring and it must have been a show advertised only through a fan site because every person in the crowd was an over-the-top Morrissey fanatic.
Hell, it looked like most of them had some sort of Morrissey or Smiths tattoo (including the friend with me).
For that matter, a surprising number of people in tonight's audience had on Morrissey t-shirts.
The fan fawning sometimes went over the top when the Moz would hand his microphone to an audience member and let them gush about how great he was, but it was hardly surprising.
If he'd handed the mic to me, I'd have told him that he was totally rocking his bold-patterned shirt with no hint of a paunch, despite being 50-plus.
A worthy accomplishment.
He was in fine voice, but then he's really aged from a melancholic youth to a melancholic crooner.
Does the body rule the mind?
Or does the mind rule the body?
I dunno.
He didn't look especially happy or into performing despite the adoring crowd, but he never really did.
And because he is who he is, he repeatedly changed shirts, all of them showing off his fine physique until he eventually just rips his shirt off.
Well done, sir, especially for a 54-year old.
After being reminded that it's my life to wreck my own way and that meat is murder, the show ends and the faithful are turned out into the night, both onscreen and off.
The lesson here? Every day is silent and grey.
But rather than dwelling on misery, we make the short drive to En Su Boca to eat, arriving to hear Interpol playing.
Waiting for the hostess, two armed cops in vests arrive, looking grim.
Just as I am about to ask if there's going to be a raid, one puts his hands up and says, "We're just here to eat."
When they take bar seats, we choose the patio.
The weather is perfect for it and the music mix is to my taste - Twin Shadow, Cat Power and Grizzly Bear.
I order queso fundido cheese dip, which is more like a layer of melted chihuahua cheese over Chorizo and peppers than a dip, but I'm starving by this point, so it serves its purpose.
Anyway, it wouldn't be right for me to feel too happy or satisfied after an hour and a half of Morrissey's moaning about how bad his life is.
To quote the Moz, what difference would it make?
And, to answer his question, the mind rules the body, but only for so long.
Movieland was doing one screening of the concert film, "Morrissey 25: Live," tonight and since I've never seen the Moz live (there's a story there because I was secretly given tickets, but didn't find them until after the show), it seemed like the thing to do.
Taking a night off from dating I invited a Smiths fanatic to join me, thinking that he would blend in with an audience of what I was sure would be entirely middle-aged men.
Actually, there was a handful of my gender represented, but Y chromosomes abounded.
The film was shot at a show at Hollywood High last spring and it must have been a show advertised only through a fan site because every person in the crowd was an over-the-top Morrissey fanatic.
Hell, it looked like most of them had some sort of Morrissey or Smiths tattoo (including the friend with me).
For that matter, a surprising number of people in tonight's audience had on Morrissey t-shirts.
The fan fawning sometimes went over the top when the Moz would hand his microphone to an audience member and let them gush about how great he was, but it was hardly surprising.
If he'd handed the mic to me, I'd have told him that he was totally rocking his bold-patterned shirt with no hint of a paunch, despite being 50-plus.
A worthy accomplishment.
He was in fine voice, but then he's really aged from a melancholic youth to a melancholic crooner.
Does the body rule the mind?
Or does the mind rule the body?
I dunno.
He didn't look especially happy or into performing despite the adoring crowd, but he never really did.
And because he is who he is, he repeatedly changed shirts, all of them showing off his fine physique until he eventually just rips his shirt off.
Well done, sir, especially for a 54-year old.
After being reminded that it's my life to wreck my own way and that meat is murder, the show ends and the faithful are turned out into the night, both onscreen and off.
The lesson here? Every day is silent and grey.
But rather than dwelling on misery, we make the short drive to En Su Boca to eat, arriving to hear Interpol playing.
Waiting for the hostess, two armed cops in vests arrive, looking grim.
Just as I am about to ask if there's going to be a raid, one puts his hands up and says, "We're just here to eat."
When they take bar seats, we choose the patio.
The weather is perfect for it and the music mix is to my taste - Twin Shadow, Cat Power and Grizzly Bear.
I order queso fundido cheese dip, which is more like a layer of melted chihuahua cheese over Chorizo and peppers than a dip, but I'm starving by this point, so it serves its purpose.
Anyway, it wouldn't be right for me to feel too happy or satisfied after an hour and a half of Morrissey's moaning about how bad his life is.
To quote the Moz, what difference would it make?
And, to answer his question, the mind rules the body, but only for so long.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Bring on the Dogs
It's been a good week for me and porn.
First there was "Lovelace" and today there was En Su Boca.
Foto Boy and I ran the gauntlet of Redskins Training camp to make it over to the Boulevard and eat in the former porn shop.
I'd heard enough crusty jokes to eschew interior dining for the spacious patio.
That and the temperature was far nicer outside than in.
Nothing could completely make you forget the noisy traffic or worn-looking storefronts across the street, but the high wooden fence at least mitigated them somewhat.
Also helping were the garden, tiki torches and window boxes that filled the space.
Looking at the menu, the winner for best porn-related name was the bacon-wrapped big wiener, so I asked our server about it.
"I love it," she exclaimed. "I had a few drinks after work and it was the perfect thing to keep me from getting drunk."
High praise, indeed.
I inquired about the bolillo roll it came on and she said they split the roll and tucked the dog inside.
Her other recommendation was the carne asada burrito so FB got that.
A bit later, our server came back and asked if we'd left our dog in the VW in the parking lot.
We figured she had concerns about the heat of the car, but, no, actually she just wanted the owner to know that their patio is pet-friendly and invite the dog in.
Given how few RVA patios welcome man's best friend, we were impressed with this.
But no, it wasn't our dog.
She left us to our discussion of moods, friends with benefits and cocooning and while the two of us had plenty to talk about, eventually it became clear that our food was not forthcoming.
People who'd arrived after us were now eating.
When she did come back, it was with a pained look to say that the kitchen was out of bolillo rolls and did I still want it without it?
Hmmm.
Once you've got your sights set on a big wiener, it's hard to settle for anything else so I agreed to having it on a tortilla, which sounded slightly more appealing than naked, the other option she offered.
It came covered in drunken beans (cooked in beer), lime mayo and onions with a tiny little Key lime half on the side.
All I can say is that a big wiener really doesn't belong on a tortilla, nor should bacon be cooked to the point of shattering, at least in my opinion.
I took a bite of FB's burrito, leaving a lipstick print on it, much to his amusement, and finding it, well, pretty safe.
Two orders of chicken wings al pastor landed at two tables nearby and I wondered if they knew something we didn't.
Our server returned to clear our dishes, noting that much of my tortilla remained and sweetly offered to give me a popsicle to compensate for the missing bolillo.
Who am I to turn down a free popsicle, especially one hand-made by La Michocana over on Midlothian Turnpike?
The large white bar was made of frozen yogurt and full of fruit- cherries, kiwi, grapes, strawberries, peach- with a crooked stick coming out of the bottom, adding to its charm.
Once it softened, the combination of sweet yogurt and all that fruit got two thumbs up from us.
And what could be more appropriate than finishing our meal in a former porn shop licking and sucking?
The lesson here? A big wiener only takes you so far.
First there was "Lovelace" and today there was En Su Boca.
Foto Boy and I ran the gauntlet of Redskins Training camp to make it over to the Boulevard and eat in the former porn shop.
I'd heard enough crusty jokes to eschew interior dining for the spacious patio.
That and the temperature was far nicer outside than in.
Nothing could completely make you forget the noisy traffic or worn-looking storefronts across the street, but the high wooden fence at least mitigated them somewhat.
Also helping were the garden, tiki torches and window boxes that filled the space.
Looking at the menu, the winner for best porn-related name was the bacon-wrapped big wiener, so I asked our server about it.
"I love it," she exclaimed. "I had a few drinks after work and it was the perfect thing to keep me from getting drunk."
High praise, indeed.
I inquired about the bolillo roll it came on and she said they split the roll and tucked the dog inside.
Her other recommendation was the carne asada burrito so FB got that.
A bit later, our server came back and asked if we'd left our dog in the VW in the parking lot.
We figured she had concerns about the heat of the car, but, no, actually she just wanted the owner to know that their patio is pet-friendly and invite the dog in.
Given how few RVA patios welcome man's best friend, we were impressed with this.
But no, it wasn't our dog.
She left us to our discussion of moods, friends with benefits and cocooning and while the two of us had plenty to talk about, eventually it became clear that our food was not forthcoming.
People who'd arrived after us were now eating.
When she did come back, it was with a pained look to say that the kitchen was out of bolillo rolls and did I still want it without it?
Hmmm.
Once you've got your sights set on a big wiener, it's hard to settle for anything else so I agreed to having it on a tortilla, which sounded slightly more appealing than naked, the other option she offered.
It came covered in drunken beans (cooked in beer), lime mayo and onions with a tiny little Key lime half on the side.
All I can say is that a big wiener really doesn't belong on a tortilla, nor should bacon be cooked to the point of shattering, at least in my opinion.
I took a bite of FB's burrito, leaving a lipstick print on it, much to his amusement, and finding it, well, pretty safe.
Two orders of chicken wings al pastor landed at two tables nearby and I wondered if they knew something we didn't.
Our server returned to clear our dishes, noting that much of my tortilla remained and sweetly offered to give me a popsicle to compensate for the missing bolillo.
Who am I to turn down a free popsicle, especially one hand-made by La Michocana over on Midlothian Turnpike?
The large white bar was made of frozen yogurt and full of fruit- cherries, kiwi, grapes, strawberries, peach- with a crooked stick coming out of the bottom, adding to its charm.
Once it softened, the combination of sweet yogurt and all that fruit got two thumbs up from us.
And what could be more appropriate than finishing our meal in a former porn shop licking and sucking?
The lesson here? A big wiener only takes you so far.
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