Let's talk hot, shall we?
Mac and I dutifully trudged to the river to walk even though we knew we couldn't cool off in the water because neither of us knew if e. coli was still an issue after all the media attention the high levels got a few weeks back.
Ordinarily, we'd get as far as the pipeline and either climb rocks to find a spot to put our legs in the water or dismount the walkway at one of the little beaches and wade out to cool off. Today we had to make do with the new Native American monument in Capital Square which conveniently has a water feature burbling out of its center. I couldn't resist sitting down on the water-covered surface while the more circumspect Mac just leaned in to wet her hands, meaning I had to finish the last mile with my shorts soaked in the back.
If I looked like I'd wet my pants I was okay with that because wet shorts are cooler than dry shorts. No shame here.
Driving down Broad Street this afternoon to run errands, I saw one digital clock that read 102 degrees and another that read 108. Even splitting the difference, that's still 105 degrees. Meanwhile, back in my apartment, the temperature has been stuck at 94 for the past ten hours, although that doesn't take into account the humidity which makes it feel far hotter than a mere 94.
Even so, I'm not complaining about the heat. Granted, it's the hottest day of the year so far but I'm the one who chooses to live without air conditioning (proudly, in fact) and let's not forget that summer is supposed to be hot, humid and sweaty weather. Sorry, kids, but it's just not natural to be comfortably cool in July in Richmond.
Hello, that's why seersucker, sundresses and the south were invented.
But I'm also not too proud to admit that I didn't hesitate to spend two hours at the movies to escape the heat this evening, just like people have been doing since the 1920s when theaters began advertising their air conditioned interiors.
Tonight was the kickoff of the Byrd Theatre's month-long tribute to Wes Anderson with his debut feature, "Bottle Rocket." Given how well attended it was, I have to assume there are a lot of Anderson fans stuck in town for the July fourth holiday since I'm quite sure I was the lone attendee to have central a/c at home and choose not to use it.
For anyone who cares about the full story, I turned my back on air conditioning in 1993 for myriad reasons - the environment, the cost, the unnaturalness of it - and never looked back. That decision dictates that I sleep under a ceiling fan with two other fans pointed directly at me and occasionally forces me into a heat nap, but that's a small price to pay.
Part heist movie, part buddy film and visually a precursor to the celebrated Wes Anderson "look" he developed with his films, "Bottle Rocket" not only provided a respite from the heat but a slew of laugh out loud dialog ("Wow, you're really complicated." "I try not to be.") and - wait for it - multiple scenes shot inside and outside Frank Lloyd Wright's John Gillin residence in Dallas, the last Usonian house built before he died and the largest.
So, you see, I wasn't just catching a break from the heat, I was upping my architectural literacy. Like I do.
And now I'm back in J-Ward, all the street lights are out for some reason and it's still 94 degrees in my apartment. I call that another glorious summer night in the city.
Showing posts with label heat. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heat. Show all posts
Monday, July 2, 2018
Friday, July 29, 2016
All That Glitters is Not Gold, It's Heat
You know what the problem with tonight was? No eunuchs.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Stupid Girl, Only Happy When it Rains
When someone writes, "It was cool hanging out with you," couldn't they be saying you make them forget about the heat?
I'm fascinated to read today that the Washington Post labels people like me "heat deniers," a term that makes us sound more like morons but actually just addresses our rational acceptance of hot weather in summer.
Important to note: it's not that we deny that it's hot, just that it's unbearable. Buck up, weather wimps.
My solution to dealing with triple digit temperatures involves several pro moves, the only one of which I'll admit to publicly is wading out to waist-high depths in two different rivers over the course of two days.
Despite waiting out the sky's ominous threats in a breezy gazebo with friends and strangers, tonight's outdoor party got rained out, but not before some of us gathered for a fine dinner and lots of conversation about theater, hypocrisy and gifts of jewelry.
Because now, finally, I understand why women love being given a bijou or bauble.
To compensate for ankle-deep puddles, a wet dress and missed opportunities, I accept a friend's invitation to Amour for Le Petit Rouviere Rose and the accompanying thrill of seeing a sweetbread virgin's cherry popped after an octopus salad.
We finish with Cremant d'Alsace Rose and sorbet samplers, sharing cantaloupe pastis, blueberry, lychee rose, strawberry, coconut milk and pineapple, along with the heaviest of topics: why some people choose to take care of themselves while others slide into decay with abandon.
For that matter, the more things change, they more they stay just as unsatisfactory as they were.
Proof of just that abounded at the VMFA's fabulous new photography show, "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott," a collection of mid-century photographs, many of them chronicling just how little progress we've made in this, our so-called post-racial world.
Witness: An image of a man behind a newspaper with the screaming headline, "Seven Unarmed Negroes Shot in Cold Blood by L.A. Police" and another capturing five black men in suits and hats picketing with protest signs, including one reading, "Police Brutality Must Go."
A closer inspection of Parks' images of black life in the '50s and '60s tells stories so much bigger than a first glance offers up and surely must have been revelatory to Life Magazine's mostly white readership. The exhibit could not be more timely.
As for changing with the times, I thought that Old Saltes were the love of my life, but after years of devotion, I find that my head can be turned by a Pickering Pass.
Permanently? We shall see.
I'm fascinated to read today that the Washington Post labels people like me "heat deniers," a term that makes us sound more like morons but actually just addresses our rational acceptance of hot weather in summer.
Important to note: it's not that we deny that it's hot, just that it's unbearable. Buck up, weather wimps.
My solution to dealing with triple digit temperatures involves several pro moves, the only one of which I'll admit to publicly is wading out to waist-high depths in two different rivers over the course of two days.
Despite waiting out the sky's ominous threats in a breezy gazebo with friends and strangers, tonight's outdoor party got rained out, but not before some of us gathered for a fine dinner and lots of conversation about theater, hypocrisy and gifts of jewelry.
Because now, finally, I understand why women love being given a bijou or bauble.
To compensate for ankle-deep puddles, a wet dress and missed opportunities, I accept a friend's invitation to Amour for Le Petit Rouviere Rose and the accompanying thrill of seeing a sweetbread virgin's cherry popped after an octopus salad.
We finish with Cremant d'Alsace Rose and sorbet samplers, sharing cantaloupe pastis, blueberry, lychee rose, strawberry, coconut milk and pineapple, along with the heaviest of topics: why some people choose to take care of themselves while others slide into decay with abandon.
For that matter, the more things change, they more they stay just as unsatisfactory as they were.
Proof of just that abounded at the VMFA's fabulous new photography show, "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott," a collection of mid-century photographs, many of them chronicling just how little progress we've made in this, our so-called post-racial world.
Witness: An image of a man behind a newspaper with the screaming headline, "Seven Unarmed Negroes Shot in Cold Blood by L.A. Police" and another capturing five black men in suits and hats picketing with protest signs, including one reading, "Police Brutality Must Go."
A closer inspection of Parks' images of black life in the '50s and '60s tells stories so much bigger than a first glance offers up and surely must have been revelatory to Life Magazine's mostly white readership. The exhibit could not be more timely.
As for changing with the times, I thought that Old Saltes were the love of my life, but after years of devotion, I find that my head can be turned by a Pickering Pass.
Permanently? We shall see.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
94 and Rising
We're having a heatwave, a tropical heatwave
The temperature's rising, it isn't surprising
She certainly can can-can
With a forecast of temperatures close to 100 degrees for Monday and Tuesday, I declined an invitation to the country. It was going to be too hot to head inland. Instead, I got up yesterday and started for the river.
A mile in and sweat was running down my back. Two miles in and all I could think about was a drink of water, but with cemeteries to my left and houses to my right, there was no water in sight.
I crossed my fingers that there would be a water fountain at Texas Beach, although I knew it was unlikely.
Walking through the neighborhood a different route, I came across all kinds of charming things to take my mind off my unrelenting thirst. A tidy white church tucked onto a corner, with rows of blooming roses surrounding it. A front yard garden labeled "potager" with a rainbow-colored gate behind it. A yard so full of kitsch that it was difficult to take in the hundreds of items that adorned every inch of space.
And when I got to the parking lot at Texas Beach, I was thrilled to see not one but three water fountains, one for adults, one for kids and one for dogs. Drinking greedily, I yielded the fountain to two overheated runners and headed to a bench to sit down.
On it was a large, unopened bottle of water, condensation indicating it was still somewhat cold water. I picked it up and put it back down. Looking around, I saw no one looking for their water. In that instant, it became mine.
Once hydrated, I walked down the stairs to Texas Beach to get in the river and was completely surprised to see ten Japanese rock pile statues dotting the water. I'd been down there just last Wednesday and noticed that all the pilings from last year were gone. Somebody had been busy in the past few days reconstructing them.
Let the summer begin.
Heading back up to the parking lot to start the hot walk home, I got behind two men on the staircase discussing the Koran and how "they" are just as afraid of us as we are of them. When they paused on a landing to get their breath, one guy waved me by. "I can see you're in tip top shape and we're not, so go ahead," said the one in the VCU shirt.
I don't know about all that, but I passed them anyway, refilled "my" water bottle at the fountain and slogged toward home, grateful that the water gods had looked out for me when I hadn't had the sense to bring my own.
Half a mile from home, I heard my name called and there was a friend offering me a brief home in air conditioned comfort. With over five miles of walking under my sweaty belt, I happily hopped in. Maybe my Mom's right and some days are just too hot to walk.
Awaiting me at home was an invitation to spend the day in air conditioned places of my choosing, an offer too good to refuse.
We began at Saison Market for a cold beverage before moving on to Criterion to see "Love and Mercy," the biopic about Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys. I've never been much of a Beach Boys fan, but I'm on record as loving a good true story and this one is hard to beat given its sordid elements: abusive father, controlling doctor, mental illness.
Probably most fascinating was the glimpse of Wilson's creative process as he tries to recreate the voices and sounds in his head into a record in the studio. Hearing those familiar songs broken down into the abstract components of his complicated vision was mesmerizing and all but a music lesson for the less musically savvy (read: me).
From there, we headed to the air conditioned comfort of Can Can for happy hour deals, enjoying three kinds of P.E.I. oysters (my favorite for the name alone: Salutation Cove) and a charcuterie plate with Morbier, pork pate and prosciutto-wrapped ripe cantaloupe, washed down with Muscadet.
In the bathroom, a woman was making a face at herself in the mirror, holding up a lock of hair. "Why did I spend half an hour straightening it if it's already curly again?" she asked me. Meanwhile my straight hair was losing what little body I'd forced in with a blow dryer to the heat, I pointed out.
"Your hair looks great," she claimed, but only a curly haired girl would say that. We all want what we don't have and my hair was suffering in the heat as much as hers.
From there, we braved the oven-like heat of Cary Street to walk down a few blocks to Chop Suey Books where the Music Circus was in full swing. I don't even know how many years now I've attended the annual tribute to John Cage, but at least since it was held at the old Chop Suey eight years ago.
Moving from room to room, looking at books along the way, I heard the Man About Town reading from his unfinished novel, saw a sax duo that included JC Kuhl upstairs near cookbooks and lingered to watch drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones playing percussion and song flutes. It was a far smaller Music Circus than any I'd seen before but just as cacophonous, which is exactly the point.
Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped at Belmont Food Shop for appetizers of crab and avocado (one of my very favorite warm weather combos), lobster salad and, wait for it, lamb belly (obscenely delicious and one of my go-tos at Belmont).
As the crowd dwindled, the bartender got tired of the usual soundtrack ("I've been listening to it for two and a half years") and offered up his phone so I could choose some different music. Everyone knows I love playing DJ.
Hmm, so many options. I choose Strand of Oaks because I'd just seen them and Father John Misty because I'm currently infatuated with that album, eventually going with Ryan Adams because who doesn't like Ryan Adams? My date did and that's all I care about.
I couldn't leave without ordering silk pie, a crumb-encrusted dark chocolate mousse-like round that never disappoints, or a few minutes' conversation with the low key chef about his upcoming beach and fishing trip.
Sure, it would have been so easy to just go home at that point, but how could we when it was heavy metal Monday at GWARbar?
A DJ was set up just behind the stools we sat in and while I didn't recognize a single song as a series of appropriately dressed DJs took turns spinning, it's always great people watching there, whether it's poseurs or metalheads.
Not to mention that their air conditioning was working just fine and spending time in it had been our one and only goal of the day and night. We're simple people, although he was going home to sleep in air conditioned comfort while my overnight involved a ceiling fan and two auxiliary fans pointed directly at me. Bliss.
This morning, I considered routes for my walk, taking into account that it's supposed to be 99 degrees today, so desperately seeking some shade along the way.
Heading downtown, I was immediately struck by how few people were out and about. The Jehovah's Witnesses who usually set up shop near city hall were M.I.A. The lunchtime crowd appeared to have stayed inside. Even the guys who usually hang out in front of the barber shops were absent.
But a few brave souls were out. Walking down Marshall Street, from the apartment house stairs above me, I hear a man say, "There she is! There's summer!"
Looking up at him, I remark that it's not summer till next week. "It's summer today, darlin' and so are you!" he calls with a big smile. I have to assume he's referring to my wide-brimmed hat and limbs glistening with sunscreen.
"Nice sunblock!" a man with a backpack and tall walking stick calls to me from across the street, obviously not referring to my pink shorts.
We're having a heat wave, a tropical heatwave
The way that she moves, that thermometer proves
She certainly can can-can
Oh, and, for the record, under that hat that gets me so much complimentary attention, my hair most definitely does not look great. It's summer.
The temperature's rising, it isn't surprising
She certainly can can-can
With a forecast of temperatures close to 100 degrees for Monday and Tuesday, I declined an invitation to the country. It was going to be too hot to head inland. Instead, I got up yesterday and started for the river.
A mile in and sweat was running down my back. Two miles in and all I could think about was a drink of water, but with cemeteries to my left and houses to my right, there was no water in sight.
I crossed my fingers that there would be a water fountain at Texas Beach, although I knew it was unlikely.
Walking through the neighborhood a different route, I came across all kinds of charming things to take my mind off my unrelenting thirst. A tidy white church tucked onto a corner, with rows of blooming roses surrounding it. A front yard garden labeled "potager" with a rainbow-colored gate behind it. A yard so full of kitsch that it was difficult to take in the hundreds of items that adorned every inch of space.
And when I got to the parking lot at Texas Beach, I was thrilled to see not one but three water fountains, one for adults, one for kids and one for dogs. Drinking greedily, I yielded the fountain to two overheated runners and headed to a bench to sit down.
On it was a large, unopened bottle of water, condensation indicating it was still somewhat cold water. I picked it up and put it back down. Looking around, I saw no one looking for their water. In that instant, it became mine.
Once hydrated, I walked down the stairs to Texas Beach to get in the river and was completely surprised to see ten Japanese rock pile statues dotting the water. I'd been down there just last Wednesday and noticed that all the pilings from last year were gone. Somebody had been busy in the past few days reconstructing them.
Let the summer begin.
Heading back up to the parking lot to start the hot walk home, I got behind two men on the staircase discussing the Koran and how "they" are just as afraid of us as we are of them. When they paused on a landing to get their breath, one guy waved me by. "I can see you're in tip top shape and we're not, so go ahead," said the one in the VCU shirt.
I don't know about all that, but I passed them anyway, refilled "my" water bottle at the fountain and slogged toward home, grateful that the water gods had looked out for me when I hadn't had the sense to bring my own.
Half a mile from home, I heard my name called and there was a friend offering me a brief home in air conditioned comfort. With over five miles of walking under my sweaty belt, I happily hopped in. Maybe my Mom's right and some days are just too hot to walk.
Awaiting me at home was an invitation to spend the day in air conditioned places of my choosing, an offer too good to refuse.
We began at Saison Market for a cold beverage before moving on to Criterion to see "Love and Mercy," the biopic about Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys. I've never been much of a Beach Boys fan, but I'm on record as loving a good true story and this one is hard to beat given its sordid elements: abusive father, controlling doctor, mental illness.
Probably most fascinating was the glimpse of Wilson's creative process as he tries to recreate the voices and sounds in his head into a record in the studio. Hearing those familiar songs broken down into the abstract components of his complicated vision was mesmerizing and all but a music lesson for the less musically savvy (read: me).
From there, we headed to the air conditioned comfort of Can Can for happy hour deals, enjoying three kinds of P.E.I. oysters (my favorite for the name alone: Salutation Cove) and a charcuterie plate with Morbier, pork pate and prosciutto-wrapped ripe cantaloupe, washed down with Muscadet.
In the bathroom, a woman was making a face at herself in the mirror, holding up a lock of hair. "Why did I spend half an hour straightening it if it's already curly again?" she asked me. Meanwhile my straight hair was losing what little body I'd forced in with a blow dryer to the heat, I pointed out.
"Your hair looks great," she claimed, but only a curly haired girl would say that. We all want what we don't have and my hair was suffering in the heat as much as hers.
From there, we braved the oven-like heat of Cary Street to walk down a few blocks to Chop Suey Books where the Music Circus was in full swing. I don't even know how many years now I've attended the annual tribute to John Cage, but at least since it was held at the old Chop Suey eight years ago.
Moving from room to room, looking at books along the way, I heard the Man About Town reading from his unfinished novel, saw a sax duo that included JC Kuhl upstairs near cookbooks and lingered to watch drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones playing percussion and song flutes. It was a far smaller Music Circus than any I'd seen before but just as cacophonous, which is exactly the point.
Since we were in the neighborhood, we stopped at Belmont Food Shop for appetizers of crab and avocado (one of my very favorite warm weather combos), lobster salad and, wait for it, lamb belly (obscenely delicious and one of my go-tos at Belmont).
As the crowd dwindled, the bartender got tired of the usual soundtrack ("I've been listening to it for two and a half years") and offered up his phone so I could choose some different music. Everyone knows I love playing DJ.
Hmm, so many options. I choose Strand of Oaks because I'd just seen them and Father John Misty because I'm currently infatuated with that album, eventually going with Ryan Adams because who doesn't like Ryan Adams? My date did and that's all I care about.
I couldn't leave without ordering silk pie, a crumb-encrusted dark chocolate mousse-like round that never disappoints, or a few minutes' conversation with the low key chef about his upcoming beach and fishing trip.
Sure, it would have been so easy to just go home at that point, but how could we when it was heavy metal Monday at GWARbar?
A DJ was set up just behind the stools we sat in and while I didn't recognize a single song as a series of appropriately dressed DJs took turns spinning, it's always great people watching there, whether it's poseurs or metalheads.
Not to mention that their air conditioning was working just fine and spending time in it had been our one and only goal of the day and night. We're simple people, although he was going home to sleep in air conditioned comfort while my overnight involved a ceiling fan and two auxiliary fans pointed directly at me. Bliss.
This morning, I considered routes for my walk, taking into account that it's supposed to be 99 degrees today, so desperately seeking some shade along the way.
Heading downtown, I was immediately struck by how few people were out and about. The Jehovah's Witnesses who usually set up shop near city hall were M.I.A. The lunchtime crowd appeared to have stayed inside. Even the guys who usually hang out in front of the barber shops were absent.
But a few brave souls were out. Walking down Marshall Street, from the apartment house stairs above me, I hear a man say, "There she is! There's summer!"
Looking up at him, I remark that it's not summer till next week. "It's summer today, darlin' and so are you!" he calls with a big smile. I have to assume he's referring to my wide-brimmed hat and limbs glistening with sunscreen.
"Nice sunblock!" a man with a backpack and tall walking stick calls to me from across the street, obviously not referring to my pink shorts.
We're having a heat wave, a tropical heatwave
The way that she moves, that thermometer proves
She certainly can can-can
Oh, and, for the record, under that hat that gets me so much complimentary attention, my hair most definitely does not look great. It's summer.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
We're Having a Heat Wave
It was too hot to go far.
Really, it was too hot to eat, but my evening's companion was starving.
So we met up at Bistro 27 where I was surprised to see the place rapidly filling up.
Clearly, "Spring Awakening:" is good for the local eateries. That, or everyone's too hot to stay at home.
I know I was; it was 96 degrees in my apartment when I left it.
And Bistro 27 wasn't exactly cool. Between the open kitchen and 108-degree day, it was more like tolerable.
Which was plenty good enough in comparison.
A new bartender awaited me and he was good enough to pour me some Gavi.
Everyone was moving a little slowly tonight and that included us.
We spent some time comparing summer colds and discussing various elements of "Spring Awakening" before even giving the menu a look-see.
A salad of Cabbage Farm arugula, red onion, tomato, pickled quail eggs and fried goat cheese was large but light enough to work on a hot day like this.
Afterwards, I saw a friend and we discussed our upcoming trips away.
He's headed to Nashville with his beloved and had been doing his research online, pleased to learn that the city that houses the Grand Ole Opry (which interests him not at all) also offers a smorgasbord of lesbian bars, male stripper bars and drag queen bars.
He expects to have a ball. And to think his favorite thing about time away is drinking and wild sex.
After hearing the specials, we decided to share the halibut with crab in butter and a medley of zucchini, squash and red pepper matchsticks.
It turned out to be a terrific choice; the fish portion was plenty for two and the abundance of crab and butter filled us up easily.
Once it got late, the chef came over, glass in hand, to give us a cultural lesson.
"This is the summer drink in Argentina," he said, offering up a taste.
The mixture of Malbec, coke and ice was surprisingly more palatable than I'd have guessed given the ingredients.
Or perhaps anything cold tastes good on a day like today.
Despite my protestations, we got dessert, the mixed berries in a chocolate cup with zabaglione, but I wasn't able to do my usual share tonight.
Too much halibut, too much heat.
Look, I love summer and I'm the last person to complain about the heat.
But when it gets to the point where your belly is sweaty, something's up.
An Argentine might say it's time to pack up the Malbec and Coke, a bathing suit and take Ivy's advice.
Roll the windows down
Take a look around
Everything is melting in the sun
Nothing's getting done
I don't have the time
Can't you see that I'm
Trying to get out of the city?
Really, it was too hot to eat, but my evening's companion was starving.
So we met up at Bistro 27 where I was surprised to see the place rapidly filling up.
Clearly, "Spring Awakening:" is good for the local eateries. That, or everyone's too hot to stay at home.
I know I was; it was 96 degrees in my apartment when I left it.
And Bistro 27 wasn't exactly cool. Between the open kitchen and 108-degree day, it was more like tolerable.
Which was plenty good enough in comparison.
A new bartender awaited me and he was good enough to pour me some Gavi.
Everyone was moving a little slowly tonight and that included us.
We spent some time comparing summer colds and discussing various elements of "Spring Awakening" before even giving the menu a look-see.
A salad of Cabbage Farm arugula, red onion, tomato, pickled quail eggs and fried goat cheese was large but light enough to work on a hot day like this.
Afterwards, I saw a friend and we discussed our upcoming trips away.
He's headed to Nashville with his beloved and had been doing his research online, pleased to learn that the city that houses the Grand Ole Opry (which interests him not at all) also offers a smorgasbord of lesbian bars, male stripper bars and drag queen bars.
He expects to have a ball. And to think his favorite thing about time away is drinking and wild sex.
After hearing the specials, we decided to share the halibut with crab in butter and a medley of zucchini, squash and red pepper matchsticks.
It turned out to be a terrific choice; the fish portion was plenty for two and the abundance of crab and butter filled us up easily.
Once it got late, the chef came over, glass in hand, to give us a cultural lesson.
"This is the summer drink in Argentina," he said, offering up a taste.
The mixture of Malbec, coke and ice was surprisingly more palatable than I'd have guessed given the ingredients.
Or perhaps anything cold tastes good on a day like today.
Despite my protestations, we got dessert, the mixed berries in a chocolate cup with zabaglione, but I wasn't able to do my usual share tonight.
Too much halibut, too much heat.
Look, I love summer and I'm the last person to complain about the heat.
But when it gets to the point where your belly is sweaty, something's up.
An Argentine might say it's time to pack up the Malbec and Coke, a bathing suit and take Ivy's advice.
Roll the windows down
Take a look around
Everything is melting in the sun
Nothing's getting done
I don't have the time
Can't you see that I'm
Trying to get out of the city?
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