Come See About Me

One way or another, I'm living a song.

Mac and I walked this morning, the first time since Folk Fest and though the river is still high, we were able to get on the pipeline. It apparently made Mac so happy (frisky?) that she decided to vault the log that's been laying across the pipeline for months now.

I was just glad to be walking after missing so many daily constitutionals lately. Well, that or less nervy. Or agile.

After so much bad pizza lately in service of my hired mouth, when the work day was over, I headed directly to Riverside Drive for the most scenic route I know to stellar pizza. Add in having to wait on Forest Hill Avenue for a freight train to pass and I couldn't have asked for a more pleasant change of scenery.

At the counter of Giustino's Pizza, I joined two women having wine and pizza while discussing life and art. When the server overheard one say she was a fourth grade teacher, she asked her what she taught, resulting in a response of the expected subjects: science, social studies, math. When the server asked if she taught art, the woman looked sad. "No, but maybe if I'd gone that route and taught art, I'd be happier now. Everyone loves going to art class."

Do they? What if she had gone that route and was still miserable at 27 or 28, whatever age she was? I wonder what her solution would be then?

As I sat there eating my Bianca pizza, listening to a soundtrack of old favorite bands like Local Natives and Arcade Fire, a guy sat down at the counter and smiled hello. A male customer comfortably clad in sweats and ball cap came in to pick up his pie and - my guess? - head directly to his couch. A woman arrived to to buy a $50 gift certificate and all I could think was what a fabulous present that would be.

Happy birthday, here's the equivalent of 4 or 5 Giustino pizzas. Score.

After ditching the wheels, I meandered over to Black Iris Gallery, getting stuck behind a slow walker. Not wanting to be rude, I crossed the street at the nearest corner so I could go at my own pace. Mid-block, he crossed, too. Looks like we had the same idea, I said. Smiling, he agreed.

At least now I was in front.

When I got to Black Iris, I had time to check out the Diane Clement ("The Old Artist with the Dragon Tattoo") show of action paintings - think Jackson Pollak - primarily done outdoors and on raw canvas.

From the very first piece, a large format, unframed canvas of blues, white, arcs of black and red dots that could have either been a brilliant July sky at the river seen through trees or a view approaching a glacier with ice floes all around. And yet it was abstract.

Nearby hung a painting that was as different as could be. Mostly white over washes of blue near the top and blue-green near the bottom, it had small rectangles of mauve, rust and gold scattered around. The artist's words, "As much as I love heavy paint and texture, weightless layers give the elements flight and space."

What she said.

"Fitful and I Like It" was a smaller, darker action painting perfectly described in its title. And then, looking at it, it hit me: Diane Clement is as much a storyteller as a painter Each painting was a story.

From "My Homage to ADD"  to her commentary about a tangle of colors and drips, "I see ships' masts under predawn" to "The Bright Side of the Dark Side," this artist found meaning in whatever her gestures wrought. Never mind all the additional interpretations by anyone who saw them, so we're talking endless possibilities in non-representational art.

I'd come for music and been given an amuse bouche of art. Am I lucky or what?

When I finally made it to the bar, a small wood-paneled room in the back where I've seen dozens of shows, I found a ridiculously small crowd. One of the Black Iris guys asked my opinion of waiting for more people to arrive (I had all night, although, shhh, in my heart of hearts, I don't believe in punishing the punctual) as a few people trickled in.

Overhead, the sound system was pumping out the unlikeliest of mixes with the Supremes' "Come See About Me," Roberta Flack's "Killing Me Softly" and, be still my heart, the Stylistics' "Stone in Love with You."

Who makes such a mix? And may I shake your hand?

At the bar, one of the band members was talking to a local about what a find Black Iris is. To explain, he compared it to a few bars he favors just north of the Nashville city limits. "So they're not on Air BnB or Uber or Trip Advisor's radar, which is good because you don't want them to blow up or they won't be fun anymore," he said. "You only know about them if you live there or someone tells you."

A small group was mingling nearby and the subject of where everyone was from came up. A tall brunette turned to me to include me in the question and before long we were talking about how D.C. has changed, especially the U Street corridor and around the 9:30 Club. That led us to how you hold on to your city - her Nashville, my Richmond - even as it's changing around you and becoming suddenly cool by outsiders' standards.

Engrossed as I can get in conversation, I shouldn't have been surprised when, after we'd covered several topics, she introduced herself as Chandra, coincidentally, one of the Watson Twins whom I'd come to see. When her sister Leigh appeared in matching snakeskin ankle boots, I knew it was show time.

The Watson Twins were only in my neighborhood tonight because they're on tour with Pokey Lafarge and Pokey's not playing the next two nights. "And we wanted to play music!" Leigh said.

I'm not going to claim I knew a lot of the Watson Twins' music, although certainly I heard plenty of that album "Rabbit Fur Coat" that they did with Jenny Lewis back in 2006. But I do know that no one harmonizes like family and an awful lot of people have used them to sing back-up on their records because of the beauty of their voices blended.

That was enough for me.

And since there were barely a dozen of us, chairs magically appeared in the dim, candlelit room with the faux spiderwebs stretching from wall to chandelier to bar and we all sat down to what felt like a private show, though it was open to the public. Chandra played acoustic guitar, Leigh did the snapping, clapping and tambourine playing and they'd brought along Brad (the guy espousing North Nashville) to handle electric guitar duties beautifully.

Leigh gave the audience their RVA story first. Growing up in Louisville, they'd become fans of Richmond punk band the Veil and saw them every time they came through town. Along the way, they imagined Richmond as this epic punk town, while their first visit proved it was just a great town with a good vibe.

Their new album "Duo," out last week and the first of their eight albums to be written together, provided much of tonight's set list, including the first song "Hustle and Shake." They said it was autobiographical about the difficulties of the music business but it was the sound of their voices harmonizing that took the breath of listeners and caused a delay in applause as we sat there with jaws dropped.

After doing "Playing Hearts," they told a story of their 92-year old grandma listening to the lyric, "I want it all, I want it now," and commenting to them, "I know how you feel!" as only a nonagenarian could. For "Crybaby," they took mics in hand and swung and danced in time as they sang the heartbreak lyrics.

A highlight was their cover of the Cure's "Just Like Heaven," which had been used in a sex scene in a bathtub in a vampire film, spurring hopes that it would be their big breakthrough. But the song required a harmonica and when Chandra went to find hers and couldn't, Leigh offered hers.

Looking right at the audience, Chandra announced, "The only thing we don't share is harmonicas and men." Boom.

The twins were hugely appreciative of the people who'd come out  on a Monday night, saying, "When we sell out the National, don't worry about buying a ticket because every one of you is getting a VIP ticket on us!" Sounds good to me.

To introduce "Rolling Thunder," they explained - because it was always they, never just one talking, each finishing the other's thoughts...or correcting her - that it was about when your town starts to be taken over by developers and corporations and little local businesses you've loved go away so new places can take their place. About the 21st century evolution of urban life.

"We have 26 cranes in Nashville at any given time," Leigh observed, noting that a town isn't defined by that. "People are the authenticity of a town."

All I know is, sitting in candlelight at Black Iris listening to those two angelic voices after scarfing one of Giustino's pies felt pretty damn authentic. And given that it's Richmond, the pipeline and freight train didn't hurt, either.

Let the thunder roll.

Giddy and All In

It's been a while since anyone complimented me on my firm handshake.

But that's exactly how the Dutchman in the blue/green house greeted me after I said hello and extended my hand. And that's before I'd even handed off a bottle of J. Mourat Rose to him as a contribution to the evening's festivities.

My partner-in-crime/favorite traveling companion and I were there, in fact, for sipping and nibbly bits (as Pru likes to call them) accompanied by travel conversation - past and future - with he and his artist wife. But that came after admiring the art-filled house they'd completely renovated four years ago - including removing the balustrade from the staircase, turning mere steps into an eye-catching architectural focal point - and her compact backyard studio.

Part of the conversation was about change. Because he was Dutch and part of her youth had been spent in Europe, both carried memories of a time when far fewer tourists crowded desirable destinations. After dealing with massive crowds in Madrid and Amsterdam a while back, she'd had enough (her term was "a meltdown") and was ready to go home if they couldn't find a place less clogged with tourists and selfie sticks.

As someone who refused to even go in the Louvre gallery where the Mona Lisa hung for exactly that reason, I felt her pain. What was astounding was her adoring husband's reaction: he immediately returned all the tickets that had been procured for the remainder of their itinerary and instead found a small village in southernmost Italy for them to spend the rest of their vacation time.

Like any sane people, they were soon seduced by the region, resulting in them now owning a house there. Even better, a house they let out to close friends. And while I didn't yet qualify, my handsome partner apparently does, so for such a devoted planner, this was the kickoff for him to start another planning binge.

When we weren't talking travel, the womenfolk were comparing notes about how we got to Richmond in the first place. I thought I'd had it bad arriving here from D.C. in 1986 and first living in Chesterfield County before high-tailing it to the city, but she took the prize when she shared that she'd arrived in Colonial Heights in 1983. Ye gads.

After checking out the area, she'd promptly driven home to Boston, a reaction I find completely understandable. No intelligent, much less creative, woman should have had to live in Richmond back then and yet here we were: two survivors and glad we'd stayed.

As we got up to go, I was asked about my favorite restaurant (no one such thing, but I do have multiple top choices) but I turned the question on my hosts, who copped to liking Fat Dragon, Bacchus and Galley.

So after we'd said our good-byes, I thought our next stop should be Galley Market so I could deflower a Giustino's pizza virgin while furthering the travel talk. For the first time, I sat at a table among the shelves of groceries, rather than the counter. A Greek salad was followed by a Bianca (yes, I know I'm a creature of habit, but I wanted to make sure his first pie experience was one I could vouch for) and a whole lot of talking about everything. Like we do.

I was especially taken by his assessment of our long weekend in Irvington about how we have more conversation than any other two people would even think possible, much less intensely pleasurable. And he's right.

Walking to the river with Mac yesterday, she commented how my blog posts continue to sound giddy, even as I really do try to rein in my euphoria when blogging. "I love that you're so happy," she told me, cracking wise about my rose-colored glasses.

And it only took 32 years from my arrival in Richmond to get to that beatific point. And if I thought that time flew by, it's nothing compared to the warp speed that's become my new normal. It's like what the late, great Anthony Bourdain said. "Your body is not a temple, it's an amusement park. Enjoy the ride."

Enjoying. Every. Second.

Talking About Soft Stuff

Hello, April. Surprise me, sure, but please don't fool me.

Mac's been at the ocean, I'd been at the river and we agreed that we were overdue to convene and debrief. It was as easy as me suggesting a gangster movie and her having the bright idea to begin with Giustino's pizza and our date was planned.

When I went to pick her up, it was obvious we were on the same hopeful weather page, since we both showed up in open shoes and jean jackets as if it were 70 degrees rather than 55. I blame it on water-focused weekends and our eternal optimism.

At Galley Market, we joined a much older couple eating dinner at the counter, or rather, him patiently waiting while she, hunched over her plate as if it could be taken away from her at any moment, slowly and methodically chewed each bite while staring at the counter.

I came this close to finally breaking bad and ordering something other than the Bianca pizza I've had every other time, really, I did, especially after spotting a Popeye pizza special (sauteed mushrooms and spinach), but I was saved from leaving my comfort zone when Mac ordered it first, effectively guaranteeing me a Popeye sample.

What are girlfriends for, after all?

I'll tell you what, they're for justifying a dessert both of us were too full to eat but nonetheless managed to devour. Walking toward the Byrd, Mac wanted to duck into Sugar & Twine to get a muffin for breakfast, which is where we spotted a housemade "Little Debbie" and next thing you know, we're looking at walls covered in American scene painter J. Bohannon's canvases and digging into our tower of chocolate and whipped cream.

The only downside? No room for popcorn once we made it to the Byrd. Instead, Mac showed me some of the men currently trying to win her favor online and we marveled at how some men have no clue which photos they shouldn't post if they're hoping for a favorable response.

A surprising number of people showed up for a Monday night gangster film. For a change, there was no introduction, no mention at all of today being the first day of Gangster Month at the Byrd or any fun facts about Edward G. Robinson's starmaker turn in 1931's "Little Caesar." We were on our own with a movie designated one of those that must be seen before we die.

Let's see, '30s cliches abounded: every man wore a hat, most used cigarette cases, wore spats, cops were all Irishmen and the death penalty was carried out with a hangman's noose. Absolutely no background music. And love? "Nothing! Less than nothing! Soft stuff." Tough guy jargon.

When the film ended in a brief 79 minutes, we both marveled at how almost cartoon-like it had been. Or, more accurately, how practically every crime movie for the past 87 years owes something (and in many cases, almost everything) to "Little Caesar." From drive-by shootings to personifying firearms, this is the movie that set the template that shaped our notion of gangster films.

"You want me? You're going to have to come get me!"

I wanted Mac and all the shared updates possible. You better believe I'll come get her if it means a night full of girltalk, gangsters and the best crust in town.

Best ever. No fooling.

What She's Having

Certain sounds are positively unmistakable.

So when I walked out of my apartment this afternoon into the hallway to the sounds of a woman crying, "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ohohohoh!" from behind the back apartment door, I knew exactly what I was hearing: neighbor sex.

And while we've all heard fake sex in movies, I can't say I've ever heard a woman climax live before. Granted, it sounds just like the simulated variety (see: "When Harry Met Sally"), but it somehow made me feel like an audio voyeur, not that my overhearing it was intentional.

All I needed was bananas and kleenex at the grocery store, for cryin' out loud (intentional, yes).

As I was headed down the steps toward the front door, her shrieks got louder, she reached that final "Ooooooooh!" and I felt obligated to let myself out and lock the door as silently as possible. But why? I'm not the one who was broadcasting my business, I was simply on my way out.

I know some people like a sandwich after having sex, but I'd only heard sex, so what I wanted was a pizza from Galley Market and I couldn't think of a single reason not to drive to southside to get one. I'd been craving another since I'd had my first a month ago.

When I ordered my Bianca pizza -  house Mozzarella, Gorgonzola, Parmesan, garlic, black pepper and olive oil on a crust with the chew of a fine baguette - I told the cashier I felt kind of lame ordering the exact same pizza I'd ordered last time.

"No shame in that," he assured me. "I go back and forth between the Bianca and the Grape & Gorgonzola, so I'm almost as bad."

Waiting at the counter for my pie to bake, I noticed a new piece of red neon announcing "Giustino's Pizza" hanging from the ceiling, an addition since my first visit giving credit to the multi-talented percussionist and pizza-maker who I could see busy in the kitchen through the open doors.

When he spotted me, he came out to say hello and I shared that I'd left Jackson Ward to come to southside for his outstanding crust and pitch perfect toppings. When I told him I've also been telling everyone I know to go eat his pie, he wrapped me in a bear hug, apologizing in advance for getting flour all over me.

What's a little flour between cook and eater?

It was everything I could do to drive that Bianca home before diving in. I thought I might arrive home to hear round two in progress, so I entered tentatively, but all was quiet on the back apartment front.

No shame in that. Sometimes once is enough.