Victim of the Modern Heart

Make the most of it, that was the plan.

So even though I'd walked a couple of miles this morning, by afternoon, I'd found a willing accomplice for another, more ambitious walk. After all, the polar vortex is coming.

Meaning, while it was 51 degrees today and the projection is for 69 tomorrow, we're also looking at a low of 28 degrees tomorrow night. I'm going to freeze my patootie off come my Wednesday trek.

But for today at least, the weather was brisk but bearable, so we set out on foot. Our first stop was at Perly's where we were told they were closed although it wasn't even 2:00 yet. No doubt they were running out of ingredients and patience by that point.

Hey, Perly's was on the way. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Never one to let denial stand in the way of a diverting afternoon, we continued on down Second Street, admiring the magnificent vista of the James at the top of Brown's Island Way. A young woman was coming up the hill, pushing her bike and puffing a bit, giving us the look (it sure is steep).

Crossing Brown's Island and greeted by gusts coming off the river as we walked beside it to the path leading down to the Pipeline Walkway, thrilled when the sun appeared and added its warmth to that of movement.

Then it was east along the Capital Trail (I shared my wish for a parallel raised walkway for pedestrians only under the train trestle) to Chapel Island to look at the remains of the Trigg Shipbuilding Company.

Besides the particular pleasure of being on an island, I was amazed at a photograph of the stadium-like structure once on the island that would've been drained so they could build the torpedo boats in it and then filled with water to launch them into the river. Brilliant 19th century technology.

Wandering back along Tobacco Row to admire the warehouses turned lofts and apartments (my favorites had narrow balconies on the first floor, created from the lip of the former loading dock), we wound our way over to Cary to see the recently-completed religious freedom sculpture erected in front of the new Marriott Hotel. It's a fitting replacement for the painted wall covered up by hotel construction that honored the site where the Virginia Assembly passed the Statute for Religious Freedom.

That's the kind of thing that matters to us heathens.

The good news on Main Street downtown is that finally (finally!) there are retail signs of weekend life down there. Subway had a sign on the door touting new Saturday hours and even the CVS recently began Saturday and Sunday hours. Hotel guests and downtown dwellers alike will fist bump in approval.

By the time I was back in J-Ward, we'd covered a 5 1/2 mile route, a worthy addition to my earlier couple of miles.

Although my morning oatmeal and fruit had carried me that far, I was ravenous by then. Coincidentally, my fellow walker had an itch to watch the Detroit game, so we drove to Gus' Bar and Grille, although at less than two miles away, it wouldn't have been much more of a walk. Kick-off, however, wouldn't allow it.

And while I (understand and) can watch football, I'd yet to dive into today's Washington Post, so I brought it along. Walking in to Gus', a guy in a Redskins jersey approaches us and leads us to a booth, "So it'll be easier for you to read your paper," he graciously says. It didn't hurt that there was a TV in the booth for the fan to watch.

Over 20 hot wings, I meandered through the kinds of stories I look forward to in the Sunday paper. A review of a new Peggy Lee bio (hadn't known she was the basis for Miss Piggy), where I learned she was a nutcase (and had four husbands).

An opinion piece about the use of the word "feminist," a subject near and dear to my heart (that will be an entire blog post one day soon). Touring whisky distilleries in Tasmania (traveling with someone originally labeled "ex-boyfriend" but by the end of the piece, "husband"...ah, the power of whisky). The new Elaine Sturtevant retrospective at MoMA (why it matters, why it doesn't).

A ridiculous two-month study showing that kids make better lunch selections in the school cafeteria if you reward them for healthy choices with stickers and fake tattoos (let's bribe their taste buds and reinforce the need for constant praising/rewarding). One-derful Records' recording of the Jackson 5's "Big Boy" and the subsequent unearthing of that master tape that pre-dates the Motown years.

In between sections, I kept an eye on Detroit's best field efforts on the mute screen, celebrating when they did something right and returning to the paper when they couldn't move the ball. Favorite player name: Golden Tate (did his parents know he was going to play football?).

Mostly I tried to ignore the very drunk trio of guys nearby high-fiving and lamenting being mid-40s and still single. Based on their corny, loud obnoxiousness and infantile humor, it was hardly surprising women weren't flocking to them.

My bowl of chili (I cook carrots in my chili so I'm always a little disappointed when no one else does) arrived with a plate of blue, red and yellow corn chips, so I scooped my sports-appropriate dinner out of a bowl with reds and blues as the clock ticked down and Detroit players put on their sad faces.

It's not whether you win or lose, boys. How about if we give you a sticker or a fake tattoo to make it feel all better?

If not, try Rose and some 1987-era Earth, Wind and Fire, say "Touch the World" and see if that doesn't send you over the moon.

Make the most of what you got, whatever it is. Right?

Hits, No Runs

Every now and then I get sporty.

For the second time in just over a month, I was at the Diamond to see a Squirrels game.

Last time I got rained out, but tonight the weather held.

A friend was in a sporting mood and invited me to share the nosebleed seats for an evening of entertainment.

I was expecting it to be a dry night since I don't drink beer, the official beverage of baseball, but we found a vendor selling James River Cellars wine and I much preferred a cup of Vidal Blanc over anything else to be had.

Once up the stairs and in the cheap seats, we settled in to see what the game could deliver, finding a lovely breeze at our new altitude.

It wasn't long before a ball went soaring into the stands and hit a guy sitting nearby squarely in the chest.

By that time, I'd already expressed concern that given my pathetically slow reflexes, if a ball came my way, I'd be powerless to do anything but take the direct hit.

Being sporty is hard.

Since it had been years since I'd been to a game, I was unprepared for all the hoopla that happens between innings.

Musical chairs, t-shirts shot out of guns, dressing contests, pigs in wheelbarrows set to the tune of John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," the wacky shenanigans didn't let up.

You didn't even have to like baseball to have a good time.

It didn't hurt that the roving vendors accommodate the crowd's every wish, which for me meant water and peanuts (Virginia Diner, mind you) and the occasional wisecrack to go with my wine.

My slow reflexes failed me again when a Squirrels water bottle landed practically at my feet, but the little boy who scrambled up to collect it no doubt deserved it more than me.

Sitting up so high afforded a stellar view of the city skyline and spectacular blue and pink sky as the sun moved lower in it.

I decided my favorite player was #23, not just because 23 is my favorite number, but because every time he came up to bat, the music played was Frank Sinatra.

We watched as the Squirrels surged ahead 5-0 and prevented the Baysox from scoring again and again.

When we finally left, it was only because the Squirrels had the game firmly in hand and we were hungry.

We ended up at Gus' where the tables and bar were full of people in team shirts (all teams sponsored by Gus'), many with eyes glued to the hockey finals.

It was easy to do given that there was a TV at every booth (don't get me started), not to mention all the screens on the walls and over the bar.

Given Gus' Greek roots, the Greek house wine seemed the logical choice and our harried server agreed.

Keeping to the theme, I had a lamb burger with tzatziki and feta and a side of onion rings while the baseball fan had Gus' spaghetti with everything but the kitchen sink.

Despite being no fan of sports, the game capturing everyone's attention was for the championship  so I ended up paying far more attention than I might have.

At the every least, we cheered the fact that both hockey teams at least came from ice-prone areas.

Friend had been hoping Boston would win and send the series into another game, but alas (I guess), Chicago wanted it badly enough to win in Boston and end it all right in front of us.

I was far more into my lamb burger than the game but once things got tense, it was impossible not to watch the last two minutes until Chicago clinched it.

Driving home under the remnants of the super moon centered over Broad Street, I had to admit that for a night centered on sports, it had been an especially enjoyable one.

Where is Karen and what have you done with her?