It's an aspirational thing. I do it for Julia Child.
After all, a woman who proclaims, "People who love to eat are always the best people" is essentially setting the bar for self-improvement. Of course I want to be the best possible person, so I love to eat. And if that requires lunch with one friend and dinner with others, I'll be the one to fall on that sword.
My lunch invitation came from a friend I hadn't seen (except in passing) in nearly two years. Even given how stupidly busy my life's been during that time, I knew we were overdue.
His suggestion was Saltbox at Willow Lawn and once I discovered they had eight oyster varieties on the menu, I was all in. The challenge was in choosing, but we eventually settled on Katama Bays (described as salt bombs, sweet-as-candy finish) from Martha's Vineyard after our server assured me they tasted like "a mouth full of ocean." Coming in second were Bayford Virginia's Shooting Stars, which were touted as salty, sweet, clean finish.
My only comment about oyster service concerns accouterments. Some of us believe that raw oysters should always be served with lemon wedges, even if I do mostly eat mine naked. The abundance of offerings that rode shotgun were, to a one, the sort to mask the tantalizing taste of oysters, meaning they left me cold.
Sorry, if you're putting cocktail sauce, basil-thyme mignonette, chimichurri or vinegar-heavy horseradish on your bivalves, you're dousing the flavor of the water that birthed them.
And this from a place with a sign humble-bragging, "We've served 26,000 oysters in our first 90 days!" And not a one with a lemon wedge?
Our table was set against a wall of windows that included a garage door that could be rolled up in good weather, although why anyone would want a view of the Willow Lawn parking lot is beyond me. I told my friend that a wise owner would add large pots of greenery to screen the car parade and bring the outdoors in a bit.
But, alas, we can't solve all the restaurants' problems, so we moved on to more important topics like local gossip and how crazy the restaurant scene here has gotten since we first met. Point in fact: if you'd told me ten years ago I'd be eating oysters at Willow Lawn, I'd have spit Muscadet in your face.
And then apologized, of course.
My choice for lunch was an avocado and shrimp salad starring jalapeno-ginger shrimp over watercress, avocados and radishes in a balsamic-mint vinaigrette, while Friend went safe with a crabcake sandwich and the requisite (at least to me) cole slaw. Favorite things about the lunch menu: how heavily pescatarian it was (only 4 of 14 items weren't from the water) and that their burger uses Monrovia Farms beef (as in, the same cows that made Lucy's a beef destination).
Unexpected dessert points went to an eclair cake that friend insisted we needed to share. Not really a cake, but layers of vanilla bean pudding, graham cracker crumbs and whipped cream were alternated with dark chocolate ganache and vanilla bean sea salt, a surprisingly winning combination given that it's a riff on a classic dessert that could have gone horribly wrong.
Although we did remarkably well at catching each other up on our lives since 2017, we both needed to get back to work, so we couldn't linger once the cake was history. I know I needed to get back to earning my keep for a few hours before heading out for dinner with friends.
After a busy afternoon that was supposed to be about writing but also included accepting nine new assignments, it was time to saddle up and go meet Holmes and Beloved for dinner at Amuse. It had been my suggestion since I couldn't recall the last time I'd eaten at the restaurant with the best art in town.
We arrived via the sculpture garden, strolling past the Chihuly red reeds and into the atrium where things were lively. A band was playing in Best Cafe and the African-American Read-in was going on, so people were milling about everywhere. Holmes and Beloved made a beeline for the elevator while I ascended the stairs, netting a compliment about my tights from a stranger on the way up.
Pays to get the exercise, kids.
I was just greeting the hostess, a native Californian and long-time acquaintance, when the elevator crew arrived. Recognizing Holmes, she quipped, "Oh, no, you're not with Karen's party, are you?" Holmes' reputation is legendary.
She led us to a table near the bar, a table so large that it was hard to hear each other, so we moved our chairs closer, leaving half the table unoccupied. That position afforded Beloved and I the reflection in the glass of the lighted back bar, putting both of us in mind of Manet's "Bar at Folies Bergere," minus the wasp-waisted bartender.
The Dynamic Duo starts every meal at Amuse with curry fried oysters with pickled vegetables and cucumber mint raita - our server said they'd changed up the recipe once and the regulars balked - and who am I to buck tradition, but this one also began with one of tonight's specials: three glasses of Sublime Rose Grand Cru to set the mood pre-dinner.
An aptly-named wine, that's all I'm saying.
A bottle of J. Mourat Collection Rose accompanied my mussels and house bacon in a sauce described as white wine and butter (but which skewed heavily to the latter), Holmes' crabcakes over dirty rice and collards and Beloved's special of falling-off-the-bone short ribs.
The big news is that her broken elbow has healed enough that she can finally get a fork to her mouth with her right hand, but only if it's a long fork. Still, it's progress.
Holmes got off on a basketball tangent because his UR Spiders aren't doing well and he'd seen a billboard that read, "Fire Coach Mooney!" Ignorant of such things, I asked if he agreed with that sentiment. "He needs to go," Holmes affirmed. "He has no magic to work."
I don't know that I've ever heard a finer explanation for getting rid of a man. No magic = gone.
I've long been a big fan of the vibe at Amuse because of the diversity of museum patrons who decide to spend time there. From the clutch of millennials in the low-slung green chairs to the dressed-up older couples who looked like donors to our unlikely posse, everyone seemed to belong, like figures passing through in a Seraut painting.
Once the dining room began clearing out, we moseyed back through the sculpture garden to Holmes' man-cave for dessert of radio bars, a delicacy I'd never heard of until moving to Richmond. After polishing that off, we spent the night listening to Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music albums while I ogled his handsome face and stylish clothes on the album covers.
The man was as stylish and timeless as Bowie.
Fittingly, we started with 1982's iconic "Avalon" and worked our way back to 1976's "Let's Stick Together," which included a stellar cover of Lennon and McCartney's "It's Only Love" done in that mellow cabaret style that he does so well. And don't get me started on the seductively poetic "To Turn You On."
Because unlike some men I could mention, Bryan Ferry will always have magic to work.
Showing posts with label j mourat collection Rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label j mourat collection Rose. Show all posts
Friday, February 22, 2019
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Nowhere to Hide
Is it wrong to covet someone's go-go boots?
Knee high, shiny white and about the grooviest thing you could possibly wear to sing back-up on songs by the likes of the Ronettes, these were go-go boots for the ages. You couldn't try to look bad dancing in them.
Janet, the friend who was looking fabulous in them, was part of the Shangri-Lords, a band I hadn't seen since they last memorably performed at a pool party in August 2014. That night, members of the band had jumped in the pool mid-song and then - wait for it - climbed out and finished the song.
Needless to say, when I heard they were playing at Hardywood tonight, I planned my evening around it.
Eager to share the thrills I knew they'd deliver, I invited a fellow music-lover of the appropriate age to appreciate a band that covers girl group songs. That would be girl group songs sung by a male singer, but that's also sort of the point.
We started at My Noodle and Bar for a quick dinner fueled by everyone's favorite picnic wine, J. Mourat Rose, listening to the oddest soundtrack, which ranged from Tame Impala and Animal Collective to Aretha to, worst of all, 80s-era Yes.
Luckily the food and wine were good enough to make up for the latter.
We got to Hardywood just as the band was taking the stage to get the dance party started. Singer Michael had done it up right in a silver sequined blazer which he shed after only a few songs ("It's not the heat, it's the humidity!" he joked) to reveal an embroidered black shirt.
The moment they started "Be My Baby," with Janet on castanets, the crowd began to sing and/or dance along, although no one could beat back-up singers Janet and Lindsey for smooth moves. Someone had been practicing their choreography.
By the time they got to "Nowhere to Run," people were screaming and flailing with abandon, sort of like children at the beach. This is a band that's all about the fun.
When they did Leslie Gore's proto-feminist "You Don't Own Me," easily half the woman in the room began singing along, yours truly included. The woman in front of me belted it out to her date while using him as a pole to dance against.
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Do't tie me down cause I'd never stay
I don't tell you what to say
Oh, I don't tell you what to do
So just let me be myself'
That's all I ask of you
Just after it ended, the woman behind me leaned over and noted, "Most subtle coming-out song in history!" True enough.
The Shangri-Lords' momentum went out of control on "You Keep Me Hanging On," as Michael incorporated hand gestures the Supremes would have been proud of. And don't get me started on the masterful "whoa, whoa, whoas" coming from the back-up singers. Priceless.
You say you still care for me
But your heart and soul needs to be free
And now that you got your freedom, you wanna still hold on to me
You don't want me for yourself, so let me find somebody else
Set me free, why dontcha, babe
Get outta my life, why dontcha babe
Cause you don't really love me
You just keep me hangin on
There was one song that required Janet to shriek melodically on cue and my date and I marveled at her ability to do it repeatedly. You can't teach a person that kind of talent, kids, they're just born with it.
But then, she's also a wizard with go-go maintenance. Just yesterday, she'd posted, "Pro tip: magic erasers are pretty good at getting scuffs off white vinyl go-go boots."
If only I had a pair to scuff. Some girls have talent and all the luck.
Knee high, shiny white and about the grooviest thing you could possibly wear to sing back-up on songs by the likes of the Ronettes, these were go-go boots for the ages. You couldn't try to look bad dancing in them.
Janet, the friend who was looking fabulous in them, was part of the Shangri-Lords, a band I hadn't seen since they last memorably performed at a pool party in August 2014. That night, members of the band had jumped in the pool mid-song and then - wait for it - climbed out and finished the song.
Needless to say, when I heard they were playing at Hardywood tonight, I planned my evening around it.
Eager to share the thrills I knew they'd deliver, I invited a fellow music-lover of the appropriate age to appreciate a band that covers girl group songs. That would be girl group songs sung by a male singer, but that's also sort of the point.
We started at My Noodle and Bar for a quick dinner fueled by everyone's favorite picnic wine, J. Mourat Rose, listening to the oddest soundtrack, which ranged from Tame Impala and Animal Collective to Aretha to, worst of all, 80s-era Yes.
Luckily the food and wine were good enough to make up for the latter.
We got to Hardywood just as the band was taking the stage to get the dance party started. Singer Michael had done it up right in a silver sequined blazer which he shed after only a few songs ("It's not the heat, it's the humidity!" he joked) to reveal an embroidered black shirt.
The moment they started "Be My Baby," with Janet on castanets, the crowd began to sing and/or dance along, although no one could beat back-up singers Janet and Lindsey for smooth moves. Someone had been practicing their choreography.
By the time they got to "Nowhere to Run," people were screaming and flailing with abandon, sort of like children at the beach. This is a band that's all about the fun.
When they did Leslie Gore's proto-feminist "You Don't Own Me," easily half the woman in the room began singing along, yours truly included. The woman in front of me belted it out to her date while using him as a pole to dance against.
You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Do't tie me down cause I'd never stay
I don't tell you what to say
Oh, I don't tell you what to do
So just let me be myself'
That's all I ask of you
Just after it ended, the woman behind me leaned over and noted, "Most subtle coming-out song in history!" True enough.
The Shangri-Lords' momentum went out of control on "You Keep Me Hanging On," as Michael incorporated hand gestures the Supremes would have been proud of. And don't get me started on the masterful "whoa, whoa, whoas" coming from the back-up singers. Priceless.
You say you still care for me
But your heart and soul needs to be free
And now that you got your freedom, you wanna still hold on to me
You don't want me for yourself, so let me find somebody else
Set me free, why dontcha, babe
Get outta my life, why dontcha babe
Cause you don't really love me
You just keep me hangin on
There was one song that required Janet to shriek melodically on cue and my date and I marveled at her ability to do it repeatedly. You can't teach a person that kind of talent, kids, they're just born with it.
But then, she's also a wizard with go-go maintenance. Just yesterday, she'd posted, "Pro tip: magic erasers are pretty good at getting scuffs off white vinyl go-go boots."
If only I had a pair to scuff. Some girls have talent and all the luck.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Let's Go in the Talking Room
The time to make up your mind about people is never.
The time to make plans to see one of the pithiest romantic comedies of the past 75 years - and make reservations at Spoonbread - was weeks ago. Pru and Beau collected me shortly before sunset and we navigated around VCU because of tonight's basketball game, of which we were all completely unaware.
We landed upstairs at Spoonbread this visit, sipping Left Coast Pinot Noir and eating ourselves into a stupor with the aid of an affable server who lavished attention on us, including crawling under the table to wedge folded paper to stop the table from doing the see-saw.
Talk about clever, an amuse bouche of especially decadent pimento cheese rested in an edible cracker spoon with swipes of spinach aoili and tomato fondue for dipping. "If we used edible spoons all the time, we'd never have to wash silverware again," Pru noted with delight.
I got to hear about one of Beau's Christmas presents to Pru, a laser-cut listing of all the rules of the house (hers, that is), all of which he's gradually learned over the course of the relationship, stipulations such as "don't bring up a topic unless you can go deep on it." True enough.
The most succinct: "Mix wit, sarcasm and profanity. Shake well." This is one of those house rules that follows us wherever we go, so it's actually more of a lifestyle rule, just as applicable in situations far from home.
Meanwhile, the menu had fresh appeal. Not going to lie, this frequent diner was terribly impressed to see changes and tweaks to the fish and seafood-heavy menu since we were last there in November.
Much like then, every dish succeeded splendidly tonight, not just in execution but in sheer over-the-top largesse, whether it was the killer South-meets-Asian pork sriracha collard green rolls (more, please!), a repeat from last visit of the completely obscene foie gras over spoonbread or tonight's special, bouillabaisse with an Old Bay broth.
I could have mainlined that broth, so of the Bay it tasted.
While originally billed as having John Dory along with shrimp, lobster and mussels, our server was mistaken, but since the kitchen made up for the missing Dory with a lobster tail and rockfish, no one was complaining, although even with Beau's help, I couldn't finish the bowl.
Now, the chocolate mousse tart, that I managed to polish off while the happy couple downed caffeine and our server belatedly showed up to advise us of the after-dinner offerings - Sauternes, Madeira, Port, Chartreuse, Fernet - which spawned a discussion about places to go after a film or play for drinks and discussion.
While they have some fine late night choices, Spoonbread only stays open till 10 during the week and 11 on weekends, which might not be late enough to really dig deep, depending on the subject matter. Nevertheless, we added them to our list of possibilities for the future
At the Byrd Theater for "The Philadelphia Story," I found us seats in my favorite row (no visible springs in the seat), immediately spotted two women passing a silver flask back and forth two rows back and heard my name called by a theater critic in the row right behind me.
Turns out his girlfriend had never seen "The Philadelphia Story" while her friend considers it her favorite movie. The minute Pru sat down, I introduced the two of them, since it's also her favorite film. Naturally, a film discussion group sprung up immediately, with Beau doing his best to listen in and grin.
In short order, we discussed the gender issues of "The Apartment," Jack Lemmon's limitations as a dramatic actor and why "High Society" should never have been made. My contribution was telling everyone about the upcoming Fascist mini-film fest at the Bijou, two can't miss weekends for film and democracy fans.
The course of true love...
Gathers no moss.
While Pru can recite the script along with Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant and James Stewart, it had been a couple of years since I'd seen the classic comedy of remarriage from 1940 with its non-stop wittily romantic script and the added bonus for me of a 32-year old James Stewart, lanky, full of attitude and, as usual, achingly sincere (no one says "doggone" like he does).
Whiskey is a slap on the back and champagne's heavy mist before my eyes.
Besides, I have to love a film showing a party where the band is still playing while people are still dancing and talking and it's 4 a.m. Can I go to parties like that, please?
You have unsuspected depth!
Knowing we'd want to end the evening on a conversational note, I'd made sure to have wine in the house and a fresh stack of newly-acquired records for the turntable in case we opted for here over a more public gathering spot.
We did and while the two of them prefer '70s (Roberta Flack, Art Garfuckel, CSNY) over '80s, I slid in both because the pithy dissection of male and female behavior, traditional gender roles versus expanded and Beau's passionate prosecution of marriage meant that half the time they were arguing their points, not paying attention to the music.
Except when Gladys Knight and the Pips came on, at which time Pru was visibly dancing in her chair.
Nearly three hours into our conversational soiree, Beau reminded us it was a school night for him and we wound down our closing topics, making up our minds about absolutely no one.
As is to be hoped, nothing had been brought up that hadn't been examined in great depth using wit, sarcasm and profanity. That's just how we do.
Oh, dear, is there no such thing as privacy anymore?
Only in bed, Mother, and not always there.
The time to make plans to see one of the pithiest romantic comedies of the past 75 years - and make reservations at Spoonbread - was weeks ago. Pru and Beau collected me shortly before sunset and we navigated around VCU because of tonight's basketball game, of which we were all completely unaware.
We landed upstairs at Spoonbread this visit, sipping Left Coast Pinot Noir and eating ourselves into a stupor with the aid of an affable server who lavished attention on us, including crawling under the table to wedge folded paper to stop the table from doing the see-saw.
Talk about clever, an amuse bouche of especially decadent pimento cheese rested in an edible cracker spoon with swipes of spinach aoili and tomato fondue for dipping. "If we used edible spoons all the time, we'd never have to wash silverware again," Pru noted with delight.
I got to hear about one of Beau's Christmas presents to Pru, a laser-cut listing of all the rules of the house (hers, that is), all of which he's gradually learned over the course of the relationship, stipulations such as "don't bring up a topic unless you can go deep on it." True enough.
The most succinct: "Mix wit, sarcasm and profanity. Shake well." This is one of those house rules that follows us wherever we go, so it's actually more of a lifestyle rule, just as applicable in situations far from home.
Meanwhile, the menu had fresh appeal. Not going to lie, this frequent diner was terribly impressed to see changes and tweaks to the fish and seafood-heavy menu since we were last there in November.
Much like then, every dish succeeded splendidly tonight, not just in execution but in sheer over-the-top largesse, whether it was the killer South-meets-Asian pork sriracha collard green rolls (more, please!), a repeat from last visit of the completely obscene foie gras over spoonbread or tonight's special, bouillabaisse with an Old Bay broth.
I could have mainlined that broth, so of the Bay it tasted.
While originally billed as having John Dory along with shrimp, lobster and mussels, our server was mistaken, but since the kitchen made up for the missing Dory with a lobster tail and rockfish, no one was complaining, although even with Beau's help, I couldn't finish the bowl.
Now, the chocolate mousse tart, that I managed to polish off while the happy couple downed caffeine and our server belatedly showed up to advise us of the after-dinner offerings - Sauternes, Madeira, Port, Chartreuse, Fernet - which spawned a discussion about places to go after a film or play for drinks and discussion.
While they have some fine late night choices, Spoonbread only stays open till 10 during the week and 11 on weekends, which might not be late enough to really dig deep, depending on the subject matter. Nevertheless, we added them to our list of possibilities for the future
At the Byrd Theater for "The Philadelphia Story," I found us seats in my favorite row (no visible springs in the seat), immediately spotted two women passing a silver flask back and forth two rows back and heard my name called by a theater critic in the row right behind me.
Turns out his girlfriend had never seen "The Philadelphia Story" while her friend considers it her favorite movie. The minute Pru sat down, I introduced the two of them, since it's also her favorite film. Naturally, a film discussion group sprung up immediately, with Beau doing his best to listen in and grin.
In short order, we discussed the gender issues of "The Apartment," Jack Lemmon's limitations as a dramatic actor and why "High Society" should never have been made. My contribution was telling everyone about the upcoming Fascist mini-film fest at the Bijou, two can't miss weekends for film and democracy fans.
The course of true love...
Gathers no moss.
While Pru can recite the script along with Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant and James Stewart, it had been a couple of years since I'd seen the classic comedy of remarriage from 1940 with its non-stop wittily romantic script and the added bonus for me of a 32-year old James Stewart, lanky, full of attitude and, as usual, achingly sincere (no one says "doggone" like he does).
Whiskey is a slap on the back and champagne's heavy mist before my eyes.
Besides, I have to love a film showing a party where the band is still playing while people are still dancing and talking and it's 4 a.m. Can I go to parties like that, please?
You have unsuspected depth!
Knowing we'd want to end the evening on a conversational note, I'd made sure to have wine in the house and a fresh stack of newly-acquired records for the turntable in case we opted for here over a more public gathering spot.
We did and while the two of them prefer '70s (Roberta Flack, Art Garfuckel, CSNY) over '80s, I slid in both because the pithy dissection of male and female behavior, traditional gender roles versus expanded and Beau's passionate prosecution of marriage meant that half the time they were arguing their points, not paying attention to the music.
Except when Gladys Knight and the Pips came on, at which time Pru was visibly dancing in her chair.
Nearly three hours into our conversational soiree, Beau reminded us it was a school night for him and we wound down our closing topics, making up our minds about absolutely no one.
As is to be hoped, nothing had been brought up that hadn't been examined in great depth using wit, sarcasm and profanity. That's just how we do.
Oh, dear, is there no such thing as privacy anymore?
Only in bed, Mother, and not always there.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Ways to be Wicked
There are so many reasons to entertain come the end of the year.
To start with, everyone knows that the best way to get your house cleaned is to invite people over. Despite my house being constantly neat, it was aching for a big dose of clean, which it got.
Not to brag, but I'd put my freshly-laundered curtains and lemon-polished furniture up against the nearest clean house, at least for the next few days.
For that matter, it's ridiculously easy to piggyback during the season of non-stop soirees.
After saying yes to Tracy and Kenny's holiday jam at Steady Sounds - which involved alcohol, sweets and gangs from Danville and New Jersey planning to rumble after their band Positive No played - I saw that several friends I don't see often enough were attending.
How easy would it be to invite a few of them to make the three-block trek to my abode afterward forsome holiday revelry a listening party on my new/old turntable?
As it turns out, not very.
One way to look at it is that Positive No had put everyone into such a great mood (Tracy's swinging ponytail and green tunic over red tights dancing around the store as she sang was enough to do so) that my intended guests couldn't help but say yes.
Well, except for the friend who'd just come down with the "RVA flu," which is knocking people out of circulation for upwards of a week with its debilitating symptoms. No, thank you.
Another is to presume that after both of us saying for literally years that we were going to get together, one friend decided to take advantage of a ready-made opportunity, bringing her art geek spouse along to amuse us with a mispronunciation of "'zines," which came out rhyming with "dines," and resulted in much laughter.
Yet another guest was a friend of a friend and new to me, or at least I didn't recognize him as he appeared tonight at Steady Sounds, but once ensconced in a chair in my living room, once he told me his drag name, but of course I knew him from all manner of burlesque performances over the years.
There was the shy one quietly sipping on her J.Mourat "Collection" Rose, occasionally clarifying Turkey's geography for the group or the sound benefits of a venue and then there was the one who was almost embarrassed to admit he'd never been to my house despite our man-made familial connection.
It made me happy to take questions about some of the local art on my walls, regaling them with stories about the who and why when asked. That was usually by the one who works at VMFA, although I had to tease her after she admitted that she only switched her major to art history because of a crush on her art history professor.
Who doesn't have their tawdry secrets?
I plied my guests with alcohol, then played music loud enough for it to be a focus during conversation. After all, it's my party and I'll play how I want to.
Considering my audience, I chose my records carefully, eager to appeal and not bore, but trying to find some soft spots and knowing full well that no other human being would enjoy everything I played as much as I did.
Karen's holiday 2016 playlist started with "The Best of Donny Hathaway," not just for the voice that inspired everyone from Stevie Wonder to Amy Winehouse, but because side two ends with an unknown-to me holiday gem, "This Christmas," and how better to kick off a party?
Then, to reel in my Hopscotch regulars (who questioned why I don't attend and insisted they always have an extra bed), you play Lydia Loveless' "Real" and try to pretend it isn't on daily rotation (it is), but more importantly, follow it with Lone Justice's self-titled 1985 debut album, hoping others will, like me, marvel at how, given the era and their sound, they didn't get bigger than they did.
But in order to bring it around to my real roots, we then dive into "To Be True" by Harold Melvin and the BlueNotes featuring Theodore Pendergrass, for a solid dose of Gamble and Huff-penned Philly soul that I still enjoy every bit as much as I did when I first heard it.
And, let's be real, most women could listen to Teddy (RIP) sing the phone book.
By this time, I can tell that between pulls on his wine glass, the DJ is fully researching every album cover after I start the record, and frequently allowing his inner dance party to express itself by reacting to the bass line and grinning like he'd been the genius to put it on. Ahem.
"Roxy Music: The Atlantic Years 1973-1980" speaks to practically everyone regardless of age or sex (or maybe the beer and wine have just kicked in by now) because every song Bryan Ferry croons is instantly familiar and swoon-worthy.
Completely confident of my audience by then, I put on the Blow Monkeys' "Animal Magic," which causes one guest to '80s dance in his chair while another films the action. Hilarity ensues when the video shows him dancing while the younger guest next to him appears frozen motionless...or at least completely unmoved by the music.
I decide to close out with the Roches' 1979 debut album, mainly because a serious music geek recently said to me that if "Hammond Song" from that record came along today, the band would be huge and he's probably right.
What got my attention was that it was produced by Robert Fripp. Wow, just wow.
But looking at the album cover of the three sisters, all my youngest party guest can do is marvel at the vintage Adidas and Nikes the women are wearing on the cover. I've had that album for decades and never noticed their shoes.
Which brings us to our final point, which is that sometimes you entertain just to have fresh eyes on your life and fresh ears on your stories.
This Christmas, Mr. Hathaway, that's my goal.
To start with, everyone knows that the best way to get your house cleaned is to invite people over. Despite my house being constantly neat, it was aching for a big dose of clean, which it got.
Not to brag, but I'd put my freshly-laundered curtains and lemon-polished furniture up against the nearest clean house, at least for the next few days.
For that matter, it's ridiculously easy to piggyback during the season of non-stop soirees.
After saying yes to Tracy and Kenny's holiday jam at Steady Sounds - which involved alcohol, sweets and gangs from Danville and New Jersey planning to rumble after their band Positive No played - I saw that several friends I don't see often enough were attending.
How easy would it be to invite a few of them to make the three-block trek to my abode afterward for
As it turns out, not very.
One way to look at it is that Positive No had put everyone into such a great mood (Tracy's swinging ponytail and green tunic over red tights dancing around the store as she sang was enough to do so) that my intended guests couldn't help but say yes.
Well, except for the friend who'd just come down with the "RVA flu," which is knocking people out of circulation for upwards of a week with its debilitating symptoms. No, thank you.
Another is to presume that after both of us saying for literally years that we were going to get together, one friend decided to take advantage of a ready-made opportunity, bringing her art geek spouse along to amuse us with a mispronunciation of "'zines," which came out rhyming with "dines," and resulted in much laughter.
Yet another guest was a friend of a friend and new to me, or at least I didn't recognize him as he appeared tonight at Steady Sounds, but once ensconced in a chair in my living room, once he told me his drag name, but of course I knew him from all manner of burlesque performances over the years.
There was the shy one quietly sipping on her J.Mourat "Collection" Rose, occasionally clarifying Turkey's geography for the group or the sound benefits of a venue and then there was the one who was almost embarrassed to admit he'd never been to my house despite our man-made familial connection.
It made me happy to take questions about some of the local art on my walls, regaling them with stories about the who and why when asked. That was usually by the one who works at VMFA, although I had to tease her after she admitted that she only switched her major to art history because of a crush on her art history professor.
Who doesn't have their tawdry secrets?
I plied my guests with alcohol, then played music loud enough for it to be a focus during conversation. After all, it's my party and I'll play how I want to.
Considering my audience, I chose my records carefully, eager to appeal and not bore, but trying to find some soft spots and knowing full well that no other human being would enjoy everything I played as much as I did.
Karen's holiday 2016 playlist started with "The Best of Donny Hathaway," not just for the voice that inspired everyone from Stevie Wonder to Amy Winehouse, but because side two ends with an unknown-to me holiday gem, "This Christmas," and how better to kick off a party?
Then, to reel in my Hopscotch regulars (who questioned why I don't attend and insisted they always have an extra bed), you play Lydia Loveless' "Real" and try to pretend it isn't on daily rotation (it is), but more importantly, follow it with Lone Justice's self-titled 1985 debut album, hoping others will, like me, marvel at how, given the era and their sound, they didn't get bigger than they did.
But in order to bring it around to my real roots, we then dive into "To Be True" by Harold Melvin and the BlueNotes featuring Theodore Pendergrass, for a solid dose of Gamble and Huff-penned Philly soul that I still enjoy every bit as much as I did when I first heard it.
And, let's be real, most women could listen to Teddy (RIP) sing the phone book.
By this time, I can tell that between pulls on his wine glass, the DJ is fully researching every album cover after I start the record, and frequently allowing his inner dance party to express itself by reacting to the bass line and grinning like he'd been the genius to put it on. Ahem.
"Roxy Music: The Atlantic Years 1973-1980" speaks to practically everyone regardless of age or sex (or maybe the beer and wine have just kicked in by now) because every song Bryan Ferry croons is instantly familiar and swoon-worthy.
Completely confident of my audience by then, I put on the Blow Monkeys' "Animal Magic," which causes one guest to '80s dance in his chair while another films the action. Hilarity ensues when the video shows him dancing while the younger guest next to him appears frozen motionless...or at least completely unmoved by the music.
I decide to close out with the Roches' 1979 debut album, mainly because a serious music geek recently said to me that if "Hammond Song" from that record came along today, the band would be huge and he's probably right.
What got my attention was that it was produced by Robert Fripp. Wow, just wow.
But looking at the album cover of the three sisters, all my youngest party guest can do is marvel at the vintage Adidas and Nikes the women are wearing on the cover. I've had that album for decades and never noticed their shoes.
Which brings us to our final point, which is that sometimes you entertain just to have fresh eyes on your life and fresh ears on your stories.
This Christmas, Mr. Hathaway, that's my goal.
Friday, October 14, 2016
Enthusiasm is the Electricity of Life
The dichotomy of Richmond, that's what all those national publications fail to mention when they're singing our praises.
It's living in a town where a terrific and historic photography show such as "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" results in a mini-Gordon Parks film festival, for which I immediately buy tickets.
But it's also arriving at the VMFA to find the misguided Sons of the Confederacy with their enormous Confederate flags standing on the corner in front of the museum as part of their endless protesting about the lost cause.
My first thought is what an unpleasant welcome they'll make for any black museum or film-goers, but it turns out they're just as unpleasant for me. Walking by three flag bearing, redneck-looking men to get to the steps, one looks me up and down, gives me a smarmy grin and says, "Hey, there, hot stuff" as if I might actually respond to him.
Negative.
It occurs to me that if all those national articles praising Richmond as a rising star and a shining example of the hip "new south" were to also mention this sort of nonsense, it might make for a far more realistic sense of this town.
Because, truthfully, it is all part of the flavor and color of who we are.
Inside the Cheek auditorium, I overhear some women behind me talking. One regrets not having read Parks' book "The Learning Tree" before seeing the film tonight. Another explains a friend's absence, saying she'll probably just watch the movie on Netflix.
The woman next to me shares that she's here because she'd read the book back in middle school and had just recently learned there was a film based on it. I'm amazed, but also older than she is, because I was certainly never assigned a black-penned book at that age.
The film is introduced as being the work of Renaissance man Parks, who not only wrote the screenplay, but directed, produced and wrote the music for it. Turns out it was also exceedingly difficult to locate, meaning that not seeing it tonight likely means not seeing it at all.
Shot on location in Fort Scott, the movie was the first by a black director in Hollywood, which makes me suddenly aware of how much was riding on what Parks did and how he did it with this film.
From the opening frame, the film was as gloriously Technicolor as you'd expect a major film to be in 1969. What I had a harder time reconciling was that although the film was set in the 1920s - straw boaters on the men's heads, candlestick phones - the women's clothing was pure late '60s with mini-dresses, low slung belts and knee socks.
Just as of the era was the young love montage, complete with teens feeding ducks and running hand in hand through sun-dappled fields in slow motion. Shades of Love's Baby Soft product commercials, for those who recall such things.
Judging by the fact that some people left during the screening, I'm guessing that they couldn't appreciate the particular nature of 1969 pacing, not to mention the overt sentimentality of how the story was told. To them I would say, consider what was at stake for the first black director's film.
Rather than join the curator-led gallery walk of the Parks exhibit afterward - in my own defense, I have seen it twice so far - I met my date in the atrium so we could scuttle upstairs for a glass of J. Mourat Rose before Amuse closed.
From there, we wandered over to Belmont Food Shop, running into my favorite mayoral candidate as we navigated a traffic circle on foot. "Stop writing nice things about me!" he joked.
Stop sharing my opinion? Never!
Although we were late arrivals, we were welcomed in to the fold of lingering diners and staff for dinner at the end of the bar while the usual '20s-era music played.
Continuing the evening's wine theme with a bottle of J. Mourat Rose, we began with gougeres and gizzard confit, followed by the bounty of the sea: crab and avocado, rare slices of tuna over frisee and seared scallops over squash and sausage.
When the chef finished up, he came out and joined us, providing an opportunity for me thank him for the surprise confit.
"My biggest stress in life is not enough duck fat," he explains semi-seriously.
It was while we were enjoying a fabulous butterscotch custard that a gentleman at the end of the bar brought out a 1989 bottle of wine for decanting, which the barkeep's research showed was one of only 13 left around.
Turning to those around him as the wine was poured into glasses for everyone in the room, the chef observed with a grin, "This is how we roll at Belmont Food Shop."
A deep garnet color, the nose on the Chateau Prieure-Lichine was earthy and full of dark fruit flavors, but its real beauty was with time, as the longer we sat, swirled and sipped, the more impressive the wine became.
That we'd accidentally happened into the generosity of a stranger only added to the pleasure of the wine. That such things happen as often as they do only adds to the running list of what's so wonderful about Richmond.
If I were writing those articles about our city, I'd mention such intimate attractions right along with the flamboyant flag wavers.
Because for better or for worse, all of it represents how we roll in Richmond.
It's living in a town where a terrific and historic photography show such as "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" results in a mini-Gordon Parks film festival, for which I immediately buy tickets.
But it's also arriving at the VMFA to find the misguided Sons of the Confederacy with their enormous Confederate flags standing on the corner in front of the museum as part of their endless protesting about the lost cause.
My first thought is what an unpleasant welcome they'll make for any black museum or film-goers, but it turns out they're just as unpleasant for me. Walking by three flag bearing, redneck-looking men to get to the steps, one looks me up and down, gives me a smarmy grin and says, "Hey, there, hot stuff" as if I might actually respond to him.
Negative.
It occurs to me that if all those national articles praising Richmond as a rising star and a shining example of the hip "new south" were to also mention this sort of nonsense, it might make for a far more realistic sense of this town.
Because, truthfully, it is all part of the flavor and color of who we are.
Inside the Cheek auditorium, I overhear some women behind me talking. One regrets not having read Parks' book "The Learning Tree" before seeing the film tonight. Another explains a friend's absence, saying she'll probably just watch the movie on Netflix.
The woman next to me shares that she's here because she'd read the book back in middle school and had just recently learned there was a film based on it. I'm amazed, but also older than she is, because I was certainly never assigned a black-penned book at that age.
The film is introduced as being the work of Renaissance man Parks, who not only wrote the screenplay, but directed, produced and wrote the music for it. Turns out it was also exceedingly difficult to locate, meaning that not seeing it tonight likely means not seeing it at all.
Shot on location in Fort Scott, the movie was the first by a black director in Hollywood, which makes me suddenly aware of how much was riding on what Parks did and how he did it with this film.
From the opening frame, the film was as gloriously Technicolor as you'd expect a major film to be in 1969. What I had a harder time reconciling was that although the film was set in the 1920s - straw boaters on the men's heads, candlestick phones - the women's clothing was pure late '60s with mini-dresses, low slung belts and knee socks.
Just as of the era was the young love montage, complete with teens feeding ducks and running hand in hand through sun-dappled fields in slow motion. Shades of Love's Baby Soft product commercials, for those who recall such things.
Judging by the fact that some people left during the screening, I'm guessing that they couldn't appreciate the particular nature of 1969 pacing, not to mention the overt sentimentality of how the story was told. To them I would say, consider what was at stake for the first black director's film.
Rather than join the curator-led gallery walk of the Parks exhibit afterward - in my own defense, I have seen it twice so far - I met my date in the atrium so we could scuttle upstairs for a glass of J. Mourat Rose before Amuse closed.
From there, we wandered over to Belmont Food Shop, running into my favorite mayoral candidate as we navigated a traffic circle on foot. "Stop writing nice things about me!" he joked.
Stop sharing my opinion? Never!
Although we were late arrivals, we were welcomed in to the fold of lingering diners and staff for dinner at the end of the bar while the usual '20s-era music played.
Continuing the evening's wine theme with a bottle of J. Mourat Rose, we began with gougeres and gizzard confit, followed by the bounty of the sea: crab and avocado, rare slices of tuna over frisee and seared scallops over squash and sausage.
When the chef finished up, he came out and joined us, providing an opportunity for me thank him for the surprise confit.
"My biggest stress in life is not enough duck fat," he explains semi-seriously.
It was while we were enjoying a fabulous butterscotch custard that a gentleman at the end of the bar brought out a 1989 bottle of wine for decanting, which the barkeep's research showed was one of only 13 left around.
Turning to those around him as the wine was poured into glasses for everyone in the room, the chef observed with a grin, "This is how we roll at Belmont Food Shop."
A deep garnet color, the nose on the Chateau Prieure-Lichine was earthy and full of dark fruit flavors, but its real beauty was with time, as the longer we sat, swirled and sipped, the more impressive the wine became.
That we'd accidentally happened into the generosity of a stranger only added to the pleasure of the wine. That such things happen as often as they do only adds to the running list of what's so wonderful about Richmond.
If I were writing those articles about our city, I'd mention such intimate attractions right along with the flamboyant flag wavers.
Because for better or for worse, all of it represents how we roll in Richmond.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Time to Play B-sides.
As my favorite man who wears high heels says, "The time is now. That's all you need to know."
The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.
Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.
The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.
What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?
All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.
He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.
Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.
You know, that old chestnut.
If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.
I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).
We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.
Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.
Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.
And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.
James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.
TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.
Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.
We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.
Cue next day.
Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.
Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.
I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).
Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.
Number 178, right here, folks.
After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.
It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.
Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.
Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."
No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.
During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail
The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.
"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.
A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.
Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.
The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.
But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.
Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.
Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.
It's practically poetic, right?
The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.
I totally dug it, not gonna lie.
With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.
What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?
Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.
The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.
Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.
The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.
What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?
All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.
He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.
Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.
You know, that old chestnut.
If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.
I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).
We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.
Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.
Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.
And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.
James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.
TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.
Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.
We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.
Cue next day.
Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.
Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.
I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).
Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.
Number 178, right here, folks.
After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.
It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.
Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.
Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."
No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.
During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail
The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.
"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.
A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.
Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.
The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.
But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.
Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.
Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.
It's practically poetic, right?
The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.
I totally dug it, not gonna lie.
With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.
What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?
Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
As Cloudy As I Wanna Be
Absinthe, it has been too long.
That was corrected at Amuse where I adjourned for dinner with friends I hadn't seen since December, met a deep-voiced Russian and marveled at a middle-aged couple who came in, sat down and proceeded to hold hands, stare into each other's eyes and talk non-stop for two hours.
It was wooing of the highest order and they were completely oblivious to everyone around them.
Meanwhile I wanted to hear about my friends' trip to Fort Lauderdale because they'd hit all the classic beach bars like Coconuts on the Intra-coastal Waterway and Elbo Room, where the classic "Where the Boys Are" was filmed.
I love me a good beach bar.
They wanted to hear about my trip to Sullivan's Island, mainly because he used to be a regular there in his youth because a close friend's family had a vintage cottage. We're talking about the kind of family who would pack up their entire household - including servants, and, yes, he actually said those words - and move to S.C. for three months every summer.
There's a lifestyle I could get used to.
And it wasn't just any old cottage, it was one that had separate servants' quarters that were air-conditioned, so the elderly members of the family had somewhere to stay if they should occasionally decide to come down.
The rest of the time, he and his buddies co-opted the space because it was air-conditioned and their cocaine would clump up in the moist beach humidity of the big house.
You really can't beat '70s stories for sheer shock value...says the woman who's never laid eyes on coke. I am such a lame relic of that era.
Arriving pre-reservation, we took up residence in the mod green chairs at Amuse with a bottle of J. Mourat Collection Rosé and a cheese plate to tide us over while we discussed the local art on the walls and the man who looked like he was straight off of Hawaii 5-0.
We're in the home stretch for the Rodin exhibit, so Amuse was full up with last minute art lovers, but eventually we were seated. At the table next to us was a couple nonchalantly enjoying dinner when my companion looked over and noted, "That's Gary. We used to buy our records from him every Saturday at Willow Lawn."
Not being a native, Gary's record store meant nothing to me, although I recognized his date, a well-known modern dancer I've seen perform several times. When they got up to leave, we chatted with them, sharing our familiarity like old friends.
Over bouillabaisse with scallops, mussels and salmon, mussels with Surry ham, curry fried oysters and fries, we talked about their recent visit to Tay Ho Vietnamese Restaurant, the possible mayoral candidates (all of us would vote for Jon Baliles) and the unfortunate state of Cafe Diem's bathrooms.
"They were like Buckroe Beach in the '60s," my friend observed, cracking us up with references to bad turquoise.
Our late reservation meant that by the time we finished eating, three quarters of the room had cleared and, technically, Amuse was closed. Fortunately, the staff was understanding and when our server came to see what else we needed, didn't blink an eye when two of us asked for absinthe drips.
Even better, he brought the absinthe fountain over to the table so that we could control our own drips through the sugar cubes, making them as cloudy as we liked while the friend who abstained from the Green Fairy indulged in a classic Manhattan.
It was then, during the sipping portion of the evening, that one friend hilariously shared how in his youth, he'd pretended his last name was Finkelstein so that Jewish fathers would allow their daughters to date him. He justified it because his mother's maiden name had been Fink.
Between the absinthe and the story, we thought he was hilarious.
Eventually, though, all good museums must close and even devoted customers leave, so we adjourned to the sculpture garden first and then to hear music.
I'd run into a friend at Amuse who'd asked if I was going to Balliceaux tonight for the Girls Rock benefit with multiple DJs playing 45s, but my friend offered to show off his enormous new-to-him speakers and vintage 45 collection so I took him up on it.
Appropriately since it had been months since we'd heard music together, he began by pouring Rosé and playing several most excellent Bowie 45s: "Underground" from "Labyrinth," "Blue Jeans," "Ashes to Ashes," "Cat People" and, from a film I'd never heard of, "Absolute Beginners," each sounding more spectacular than the last on kick-ass speakers that came up to my waist.
Things took a cheesy turn when he pulled out Starship's "We Built This City, " but he assured us from teh next room that he could top that, and did with "Against All Odds," hyper-corny with a bare-chested Jeff Bridges on the front.
It was only in playing a Jeff Lynne-produced George Harrison 45 that he was able to redeem himself at all.
Explaining that waking up on a day like today made him want to play the Bangles' cover of "Hazy Shade of Winter," he did, justifying the 45 by saying it was the only way he could get the song without buying the soundtrack to a terrible movie.
We left 45s behind only when the estate sale queen pulled out her latest 50-cent find, the original Broadway cast recording of "Hair," skips and all, with its oh-so groovy 1968 song descriptions, as in, "Easy to Be Hard, a pop lament" or my long-time favorite, "Good Morning, Starshine," summed up as "twinkles, shines and glows...join in, flower children."
Oh, some of us joined in, alright, while he who abstained rolled his eyes at the nonsense lyrics of flower children.
Gliddy glup gloopy, nibby nabby noopy la la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba, nooby abba dabba
Tooby ooby walla, nooby abba dabba
Early morning singing song
And by early morning, we're talking e-a-r-l-y morning. Green fairy early.
Like sunrise at Buckroe Beach in the '60s, with none of the guilt of youth early.
That was corrected at Amuse where I adjourned for dinner with friends I hadn't seen since December, met a deep-voiced Russian and marveled at a middle-aged couple who came in, sat down and proceeded to hold hands, stare into each other's eyes and talk non-stop for two hours.
It was wooing of the highest order and they were completely oblivious to everyone around them.
Meanwhile I wanted to hear about my friends' trip to Fort Lauderdale because they'd hit all the classic beach bars like Coconuts on the Intra-coastal Waterway and Elbo Room, where the classic "Where the Boys Are" was filmed.
I love me a good beach bar.
They wanted to hear about my trip to Sullivan's Island, mainly because he used to be a regular there in his youth because a close friend's family had a vintage cottage. We're talking about the kind of family who would pack up their entire household - including servants, and, yes, he actually said those words - and move to S.C. for three months every summer.
There's a lifestyle I could get used to.
And it wasn't just any old cottage, it was one that had separate servants' quarters that were air-conditioned, so the elderly members of the family had somewhere to stay if they should occasionally decide to come down.
The rest of the time, he and his buddies co-opted the space because it was air-conditioned and their cocaine would clump up in the moist beach humidity of the big house.
You really can't beat '70s stories for sheer shock value...says the woman who's never laid eyes on coke. I am such a lame relic of that era.
Arriving pre-reservation, we took up residence in the mod green chairs at Amuse with a bottle of J. Mourat Collection Rosé and a cheese plate to tide us over while we discussed the local art on the walls and the man who looked like he was straight off of Hawaii 5-0.
We're in the home stretch for the Rodin exhibit, so Amuse was full up with last minute art lovers, but eventually we were seated. At the table next to us was a couple nonchalantly enjoying dinner when my companion looked over and noted, "That's Gary. We used to buy our records from him every Saturday at Willow Lawn."
Not being a native, Gary's record store meant nothing to me, although I recognized his date, a well-known modern dancer I've seen perform several times. When they got up to leave, we chatted with them, sharing our familiarity like old friends.
Over bouillabaisse with scallops, mussels and salmon, mussels with Surry ham, curry fried oysters and fries, we talked about their recent visit to Tay Ho Vietnamese Restaurant, the possible mayoral candidates (all of us would vote for Jon Baliles) and the unfortunate state of Cafe Diem's bathrooms.
"They were like Buckroe Beach in the '60s," my friend observed, cracking us up with references to bad turquoise.
Our late reservation meant that by the time we finished eating, three quarters of the room had cleared and, technically, Amuse was closed. Fortunately, the staff was understanding and when our server came to see what else we needed, didn't blink an eye when two of us asked for absinthe drips.
Even better, he brought the absinthe fountain over to the table so that we could control our own drips through the sugar cubes, making them as cloudy as we liked while the friend who abstained from the Green Fairy indulged in a classic Manhattan.
It was then, during the sipping portion of the evening, that one friend hilariously shared how in his youth, he'd pretended his last name was Finkelstein so that Jewish fathers would allow their daughters to date him. He justified it because his mother's maiden name had been Fink.
Between the absinthe and the story, we thought he was hilarious.
Eventually, though, all good museums must close and even devoted customers leave, so we adjourned to the sculpture garden first and then to hear music.
I'd run into a friend at Amuse who'd asked if I was going to Balliceaux tonight for the Girls Rock benefit with multiple DJs playing 45s, but my friend offered to show off his enormous new-to-him speakers and vintage 45 collection so I took him up on it.
Appropriately since it had been months since we'd heard music together, he began by pouring Rosé and playing several most excellent Bowie 45s: "Underground" from "Labyrinth," "Blue Jeans," "Ashes to Ashes," "Cat People" and, from a film I'd never heard of, "Absolute Beginners," each sounding more spectacular than the last on kick-ass speakers that came up to my waist.
Things took a cheesy turn when he pulled out Starship's "We Built This City, " but he assured us from teh next room that he could top that, and did with "Against All Odds," hyper-corny with a bare-chested Jeff Bridges on the front.
It was only in playing a Jeff Lynne-produced George Harrison 45 that he was able to redeem himself at all.
Explaining that waking up on a day like today made him want to play the Bangles' cover of "Hazy Shade of Winter," he did, justifying the 45 by saying it was the only way he could get the song without buying the soundtrack to a terrible movie.
We left 45s behind only when the estate sale queen pulled out her latest 50-cent find, the original Broadway cast recording of "Hair," skips and all, with its oh-so groovy 1968 song descriptions, as in, "Easy to Be Hard, a pop lament" or my long-time favorite, "Good Morning, Starshine," summed up as "twinkles, shines and glows...join in, flower children."
Oh, some of us joined in, alright, while he who abstained rolled his eyes at the nonsense lyrics of flower children.
Gliddy glup gloopy, nibby nabby noopy la la la lo lo
Sabba sibby sabba, nooby abba dabba
Tooby ooby walla, nooby abba dabba
Early morning singing song
And by early morning, we're talking e-a-r-l-y morning. Green fairy early.
Like sunrise at Buckroe Beach in the '60s, with none of the guilt of youth early.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Walk Behind Me
When the French flag is flying over the Byrd Theater, I know it's time for my annual binge-watching.
While it was tough to abandon a sunny, 77-degree afternoon to enter the darkness of the Byrd Theater, no self-respecting French film lover would do otherwise.
Given that it was the first day of the festival, what surprised me was that it wasn't more crowded, although 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon isn't ideal for the 9 to 5 set.
As the first film of the day, it came closest to starting when it claimed it would. If there is one thing the French Film Festival is not, it's punctual about starting.
"Do you know why you're special?" Peter, the FFF organizer, asked of us about the film borrowed from the British Film Institute. "You're about to see the only 35 mm copy with English subtitles of this movie in the world."
I'll be the first to admit that I get a kick out of knowing that sort of thing,
The film was Francois Truffaut's "Day for Night" and considering I'd only seen one Truffaut movie in my entire life ("Wild Child"), I figured I owed it to myself to be there to see the cinematographer and stunt coordinator of the film introduce it.
When the film started, I was immediately reminded of how much I enjoy watching movies on film and not video. I love the look of film.
The 1973 film was about a director (Truffaut acting) making a film (maybe that's why it won the Oscar for best foreign film) and starred Jacqueline Bisset, an actress I'd forgotten all about, but remember all the guys being hot for at the time.
It had plenty of very French moments - "Walk in front of me so I can look at your behind" - as well as a story that involved everyone falling into bed with everyone else oh-so casually. Or maybe that was more of a '70s moment like a package arriving in brown paper tied up with string.
"Do you think women are magical?" one immature guy asks his co-workers. "Some are and some are not," he's told by a woman. By a man, it's, "No, but their legs are because they wear skirts and we wear pants."
I already had an inkling of that.
When filming on the movie within a movie ends, it's with one character's simple conclusion: "My sweet, my darling, you're wonderful. We all need that." Do we ever, none more so than those who don't get it much.
So now I've seen my second Truffaut film, enjoyed it immensely and realize I need to see more.
Walking out of the theater, the air was almost as soft and warm as when I'd walked in, although we were on our way to sunset.Still, it was a treat to not be the slightest bit chilly going outside.
Having taken a pass on the next French offering, I headed straight to the Valentine for the opening of "Beard Wars," a brilliantly curated new exhibit.
Making my way through a crowd that included some of the most awe-inspiring beards you can imagine, I found myself in front of a wall of photographs both new (by the multi-talented Terry Brown) and old (no doubt from the collection).
On the left hand side of each was a Civil War general with a picture and a description of the man and what he was known for. On the right hand side, a picture of a Richmond guy with a very similar beard and a bit about him.
I knew we had some world-class beards in this town (hence the Richmond Beard and 'Stache League) but I have to say there were some magnificent match-ups.
One guy's wife asked him to shave his beard because it was scratchy and he compromised by shaving his chin, leaving his mustache, mutton chops and side beard, also knows as "friendly mutton chops." Friendly to the wife, I suppose. See? I was learning new things.
Another guy had come out at the First Annual Mid-Atlantic Beard and 'Stache Competition, figuring it was the best way to show people how he self-identified. Well done.
Midway through the show, I ran into a photographer friend, IPA in hand, and chatted with her long enough to learn that she checks my blog any time she runs into me to see if she merits a mention. This is that.
Yet another said he first grew facial hair when he hit puberty because he hates to shave. Hate, he repeated in case we weren't clear on that. One used his nipple-length beard as a conversation starter. Curly, straight, gray, red, blond and brunette. One guy's mustache was wider than his face.
There were also on display four shaving mugs and a rare silver-plated mustache cup (to keep your beverage out of your 'stache) from the collection.
Turning from the cups, I almost ran into a guy with mutton chops and a fabulous handlebar mustache handing off his beer - complete with straw - to his mother. She and I chatted for a bit and I joked that her son should have brought a mustache cup so he wouldn't have to use a straw. "I offered to bring mine for him but he said no," she claimed. So much for my joke.
Turns out her son has a sponsorship from a facial hair grooming product company, meaning his visage has appeared in a British sporting magazine and he's gone to Austin to compete in beard competitions on the company's dime.
Who knew facial hair had such big payoffs?
In case you can't tell, I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit and a big part of that was because of how it had been curated with the generals for comparison. It was like a cultural lesson in the similarities in facial hair between now and 150 years ago.
Leaving the show, I walked past three bearded guys shooting the breeze in parking lot. Two of them had beards past their arm pits. It truly was impressive.
Back in Carytown, I dropped by Secco for a glass of J. Mourat Collection Rose and a hilarious story. As a guy is leaving Secco, his friend spots him from across the street, yelling to ask what in the world he's doing at a wine bar.
"This where bitches be at!" he hollers from Secco's front door all the way across Cary Street. The owner is thinking of having that screened on t-shorts for the staff. I seconded the motion.
From there, I went on to admire photographs of a friend's mother from the '60s, '70s and '80s. What a stylish creature she had been despite a cigarette frequently in hand. Some were even taken in Paris, making them an ideal prelude to my next stop: more French film.
The crowd for "The Return of Martin Guerre" was half the size of the one for the 7:00 film, but I guess that's to be expected on a school night when you're talking about a film that doesn't start until after 9 p.m.
Introduced by its director, Daniel Vigne, the film appealed to me because it was one of a handful of the films that made up my first exposure to foreign films and I still recall being moved by it, partly because it had been based on a true story.
Something that struck me tonight that would not have occurred to me in 1982 was that it was a film about identity theft in the 16th century. How au courant a theme is that? And, get this, the village where the story took place faded back into obscurity after the notoriety of the film, only to grab the headlines again four years ago because a terrorist cell was discovered there.
Mon dieu, it was fascinating to see Gerard Depardieu young (34) and not as big as a whale like he was in "My Afternoons with Margueritte," which I also saw at the FFF.
Just as compelling was how much more relatively realistically the 16th century was portrayed in 1982 than it would be now. People's clothing looked dirty and hand-sewn. If the actress who played Martin Guerre's wife had on any make-up at all, it was undetectable. It's ridiculous to see a woman playing a peasant and see that she's wearing mascara or even the palest of lipstick.
That said, I don't buy Martin returning from fighting wars after nine years with a bowl-cut haircut. Seems unlikely.
What I particularly enjoyed was watching the love story unfold between the Martin pretender and the neglected wife of the real Martin. The actors conveyed a very touching and sensual relationship.
Being totally engrossed in the film, I couldn't have been more surprised when the two women in my row got up and left an hour into the film. What, you don't like a well-acted true story, shot in a real medieval village and scripted to use words like 'calumny'?
Be gone, ladies. Obviously we're not cut from the same cloth.
Your legs must not be as magical as mine.
While it was tough to abandon a sunny, 77-degree afternoon to enter the darkness of the Byrd Theater, no self-respecting French film lover would do otherwise.
Given that it was the first day of the festival, what surprised me was that it wasn't more crowded, although 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon isn't ideal for the 9 to 5 set.
As the first film of the day, it came closest to starting when it claimed it would. If there is one thing the French Film Festival is not, it's punctual about starting.
"Do you know why you're special?" Peter, the FFF organizer, asked of us about the film borrowed from the British Film Institute. "You're about to see the only 35 mm copy with English subtitles of this movie in the world."
I'll be the first to admit that I get a kick out of knowing that sort of thing,
The film was Francois Truffaut's "Day for Night" and considering I'd only seen one Truffaut movie in my entire life ("Wild Child"), I figured I owed it to myself to be there to see the cinematographer and stunt coordinator of the film introduce it.
When the film started, I was immediately reminded of how much I enjoy watching movies on film and not video. I love the look of film.
The 1973 film was about a director (Truffaut acting) making a film (maybe that's why it won the Oscar for best foreign film) and starred Jacqueline Bisset, an actress I'd forgotten all about, but remember all the guys being hot for at the time.
It had plenty of very French moments - "Walk in front of me so I can look at your behind" - as well as a story that involved everyone falling into bed with everyone else oh-so casually. Or maybe that was more of a '70s moment like a package arriving in brown paper tied up with string.
"Do you think women are magical?" one immature guy asks his co-workers. "Some are and some are not," he's told by a woman. By a man, it's, "No, but their legs are because they wear skirts and we wear pants."
I already had an inkling of that.
When filming on the movie within a movie ends, it's with one character's simple conclusion: "My sweet, my darling, you're wonderful. We all need that." Do we ever, none more so than those who don't get it much.
So now I've seen my second Truffaut film, enjoyed it immensely and realize I need to see more.
Walking out of the theater, the air was almost as soft and warm as when I'd walked in, although we were on our way to sunset.Still, it was a treat to not be the slightest bit chilly going outside.
Having taken a pass on the next French offering, I headed straight to the Valentine for the opening of "Beard Wars," a brilliantly curated new exhibit.
Making my way through a crowd that included some of the most awe-inspiring beards you can imagine, I found myself in front of a wall of photographs both new (by the multi-talented Terry Brown) and old (no doubt from the collection).
On the left hand side of each was a Civil War general with a picture and a description of the man and what he was known for. On the right hand side, a picture of a Richmond guy with a very similar beard and a bit about him.
I knew we had some world-class beards in this town (hence the Richmond Beard and 'Stache League) but I have to say there were some magnificent match-ups.
One guy's wife asked him to shave his beard because it was scratchy and he compromised by shaving his chin, leaving his mustache, mutton chops and side beard, also knows as "friendly mutton chops." Friendly to the wife, I suppose. See? I was learning new things.
Another guy had come out at the First Annual Mid-Atlantic Beard and 'Stache Competition, figuring it was the best way to show people how he self-identified. Well done.
Midway through the show, I ran into a photographer friend, IPA in hand, and chatted with her long enough to learn that she checks my blog any time she runs into me to see if she merits a mention. This is that.
Yet another said he first grew facial hair when he hit puberty because he hates to shave. Hate, he repeated in case we weren't clear on that. One used his nipple-length beard as a conversation starter. Curly, straight, gray, red, blond and brunette. One guy's mustache was wider than his face.
There were also on display four shaving mugs and a rare silver-plated mustache cup (to keep your beverage out of your 'stache) from the collection.
Turning from the cups, I almost ran into a guy with mutton chops and a fabulous handlebar mustache handing off his beer - complete with straw - to his mother. She and I chatted for a bit and I joked that her son should have brought a mustache cup so he wouldn't have to use a straw. "I offered to bring mine for him but he said no," she claimed. So much for my joke.
Turns out her son has a sponsorship from a facial hair grooming product company, meaning his visage has appeared in a British sporting magazine and he's gone to Austin to compete in beard competitions on the company's dime.
Who knew facial hair had such big payoffs?
In case you can't tell, I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit and a big part of that was because of how it had been curated with the generals for comparison. It was like a cultural lesson in the similarities in facial hair between now and 150 years ago.
Leaving the show, I walked past three bearded guys shooting the breeze in parking lot. Two of them had beards past their arm pits. It truly was impressive.
Back in Carytown, I dropped by Secco for a glass of J. Mourat Collection Rose and a hilarious story. As a guy is leaving Secco, his friend spots him from across the street, yelling to ask what in the world he's doing at a wine bar.
"This where bitches be at!" he hollers from Secco's front door all the way across Cary Street. The owner is thinking of having that screened on t-shorts for the staff. I seconded the motion.
From there, I went on to admire photographs of a friend's mother from the '60s, '70s and '80s. What a stylish creature she had been despite a cigarette frequently in hand. Some were even taken in Paris, making them an ideal prelude to my next stop: more French film.
The crowd for "The Return of Martin Guerre" was half the size of the one for the 7:00 film, but I guess that's to be expected on a school night when you're talking about a film that doesn't start until after 9 p.m.
Introduced by its director, Daniel Vigne, the film appealed to me because it was one of a handful of the films that made up my first exposure to foreign films and I still recall being moved by it, partly because it had been based on a true story.
Something that struck me tonight that would not have occurred to me in 1982 was that it was a film about identity theft in the 16th century. How au courant a theme is that? And, get this, the village where the story took place faded back into obscurity after the notoriety of the film, only to grab the headlines again four years ago because a terrorist cell was discovered there.
Mon dieu, it was fascinating to see Gerard Depardieu young (34) and not as big as a whale like he was in "My Afternoons with Margueritte," which I also saw at the FFF.
Just as compelling was how much more relatively realistically the 16th century was portrayed in 1982 than it would be now. People's clothing looked dirty and hand-sewn. If the actress who played Martin Guerre's wife had on any make-up at all, it was undetectable. It's ridiculous to see a woman playing a peasant and see that she's wearing mascara or even the palest of lipstick.
That said, I don't buy Martin returning from fighting wars after nine years with a bowl-cut haircut. Seems unlikely.
What I particularly enjoyed was watching the love story unfold between the Martin pretender and the neglected wife of the real Martin. The actors conveyed a very touching and sensual relationship.
Being totally engrossed in the film, I couldn't have been more surprised when the two women in my row got up and left an hour into the film. What, you don't like a well-acted true story, shot in a real medieval village and scripted to use words like 'calumny'?
Be gone, ladies. Obviously we're not cut from the same cloth.
Your legs must not be as magical as mine.
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Is That So Difficult?
Life is too short to sit still.
The Library of Virginia was hosting Calvin Schermerhorn discussing "Solomon Northup and the Tragic Voyage of the Orleans." Yes, the same Solomon Northup as depicted in "12 Years A Slave."
After parking in the garage, I rode upstairs in the elevator with an attractive man who looked at me quizzically and asked, "There is a lecture here tonight, right?" Reassuring him, I shared that I'd asked the parking lot attendant the same question.
The proof was upstairs where the room was just about full for a Friday night lecture.
Using maps, vintage pictures of Richmond and plenty of photos from the movie, Schermerhorn took us from Spring 1841 in Richmond through Northup's boat ride to New Orleans.
His point was showing that human trafficking then was not so different than now, except prices have risen (Solomon was sold for a mere $650).
Showing bills of lading with slaves listed as chattel, noting their aliases (because free men were being sold as slaves), height and color (Northup was listed as "yellow" because of his European and African ancestry), he wove a tale of how men were systematically broken down and resigned to being enslaved.
But it was during the Q & A that things got good. Several black audience members made the point that enslavement was kidnapping, a point that Schermerhorn agreed with. He admitted that he'd been contacted by Northup's relatives but hadn't been in touch.
And, lo and behold, the next woman who stands up says she's a third generation descendant of Solomon Northup and part of the effort to establish a foundation to honor his legacy.
You can imagine how surprised our lecturer was at this surprise guest. Several black audience members challenged her on whether she felt herself to be black or white given how white she looked.
Admirably, she acknowledged being raised with a strong sense of Solomon's legacy but self-identified as white.
So that was a totally unexpected part of tonight's history lesson. Having seen "12 Years a Slave" and been moved by its tragic story, it was equally as moving to hear from a descendant of the man depicted.
Pays to go to history lectures, kids. Keep that in mind.
But it's Friday night and we can't be serious all the time, so my next stop was UR for their International Film series, tonight showing "Land Ho!"
A man I'd never seen before stood in front of the audience and said, "Paul's not here, so this is a comedy and it actually has some funny stuff in it. Enjoy!"
With people calling out, "Speech, speech!" sarcastically, he started the film.
An Icelandic-American film that premiered at Sundance, the charming story was nothing more than two 60-something men on an extended vacation in Iceland. As a bonus for me, there were plenty of scenes in Reykjavik restaurants featuring beautiful food and winking at the top tier food scene that exists there.
Oddly enough, the film had subtitles despite all the characters speaking in English.
The extrovert was divorced, recently retired as a doctor and bored for company and the introvert widowed, then divorced and retired from banking with no money. Strange bedfellows, indeed.
The former doctor, with his thick southern accent, penchant for pot (when he offers it to his friend, he declines, saying, "I haven't smoked pot since the '70s." Incredulously doc responds, "The 1970s?") and lusty nature was hilarious ("This is so good it's like angels pissing on your tongue"). His ex-brother-in-law was more cautious and tentative about everything.
As they make their way around Iceland, enjoying a disco ("We're the oldest people here. By a lot!"), being drenched by a double cascade waterfall (truly beautiful), seeing a geyser explode twice (I jumped the first time) and talking about life's letdowns (hey, shit happens), they both find themselves happier.
When they pop Jiffy Pop together over an open fire while camping, it got a big laugh from the mostly older audience.
The former banker would like another relationship and defines it as wanting someone "to talk about the news with, have a cup of tea with, eat breakfast with and sleep with. Is that so difficult?"
You want my opinion on that? Harder than you'd think, my friend.
But it's the pot-smoking ex-doctor who continually pushes the limits of his friend's patience, suggesting walks at night (they wind up lost in the darkness), driving through ponds (because they can), quizzing a honeymooning couple ("How many times have you hit the mat so far?") and generally being goofy ("I think I need a doobie-nator right now"). His friend finally loses his patience with him, asking why he always has to be doing something.
Because life is too short, he insists, to sit still.
After the movie, I met Holmes and Lovey for a short walk to Belmont Food Shop to quell our grumbling stomachs. I'd been craving the late night cook's plate and they'd never even heard of it.
Sometimes it's my duty to educate.
We began with a bottle of Sainte Eulalie 2013 Rose while Satchmo played overhead. The other tables were mostly winding down, so one by one they wandered out into the night while our evening was just beginning.
After hearing my order, Holmes took my advice and got a cook's plate for the two of them as well, none of us knowing what might be on it. In the meantime, he ordered Espolon, which arrived looking sophisticated in a champagne coupe.
Have one, he suggested. While I admired the presentation, I required food before tequila. Like magic, our cook's plates arrived.
The pieces of slate held lamb belly confit, fresh tuna poached in olive oil and duck gizzards, along with frisee salad, pickled veggies, crusty bread, buttered radishes and celery salad, the makings of a rich and wonderful meal.
I have been devoted to this cook's plate since Belmont Food Shop first opened. You never know what's going to be on it and you're never disappointed with what shows up. Lovey swore she'd never eat gizzards and ate several. Such is the power of the cook's plate.
Next came a cheese course: Pecorino, Maytag Bleu and triple cream Delice de Bourgogne with Marcona almonds and dried fruit, honey, bread and crackers, accompanied by J. Mourat Collection Rose in a unique bottle that resembled an old-time medicine bottle.
Meanwhile, I heard about a wake the couple had recently attended at a home with a fabulous art collection. Besides a Picasso and Dali, they had a painting of Pat and Julie Nixon, their faces expertly depicted and both with their naked breasts showing. It sounded like the highlight of a home filled with art.
Everyone talked at once. We heard about Belmont finally getting the permits to start hosting events, such as a recent Petersburg restaurant clan party, in their other room. Discussion ensued about how to get people to try things like heart, cheeks and tail. It sounds like their patio opening is just around the corner.
Ah, patio season, I await your arrival.
Despite Lovey's purported disdain for butterscotch, I insisted we try butterscotch pot de creme along with the expected chocolate silk pie and darned if she didn't become a convert right in front of our eyes. First gizzards, now butterscotch. It was a big night for our girl.
Holmes couldn't resist a chuckle when he asked where I'd been before dinner. He seemed to think it was funny that I'd begun with a slavery lecture before moving on to an Icelandic aging comedy. That I'd wound up sipping pink and eating belly surprised him not at all.
Stop moving and you die. It's not just me. Look at sharks.
The Library of Virginia was hosting Calvin Schermerhorn discussing "Solomon Northup and the Tragic Voyage of the Orleans." Yes, the same Solomon Northup as depicted in "12 Years A Slave."
After parking in the garage, I rode upstairs in the elevator with an attractive man who looked at me quizzically and asked, "There is a lecture here tonight, right?" Reassuring him, I shared that I'd asked the parking lot attendant the same question.
The proof was upstairs where the room was just about full for a Friday night lecture.
Using maps, vintage pictures of Richmond and plenty of photos from the movie, Schermerhorn took us from Spring 1841 in Richmond through Northup's boat ride to New Orleans.
His point was showing that human trafficking then was not so different than now, except prices have risen (Solomon was sold for a mere $650).
Showing bills of lading with slaves listed as chattel, noting their aliases (because free men were being sold as slaves), height and color (Northup was listed as "yellow" because of his European and African ancestry), he wove a tale of how men were systematically broken down and resigned to being enslaved.
But it was during the Q & A that things got good. Several black audience members made the point that enslavement was kidnapping, a point that Schermerhorn agreed with. He admitted that he'd been contacted by Northup's relatives but hadn't been in touch.
And, lo and behold, the next woman who stands up says she's a third generation descendant of Solomon Northup and part of the effort to establish a foundation to honor his legacy.
You can imagine how surprised our lecturer was at this surprise guest. Several black audience members challenged her on whether she felt herself to be black or white given how white she looked.
Admirably, she acknowledged being raised with a strong sense of Solomon's legacy but self-identified as white.
So that was a totally unexpected part of tonight's history lesson. Having seen "12 Years a Slave" and been moved by its tragic story, it was equally as moving to hear from a descendant of the man depicted.
Pays to go to history lectures, kids. Keep that in mind.
But it's Friday night and we can't be serious all the time, so my next stop was UR for their International Film series, tonight showing "Land Ho!"
A man I'd never seen before stood in front of the audience and said, "Paul's not here, so this is a comedy and it actually has some funny stuff in it. Enjoy!"
With people calling out, "Speech, speech!" sarcastically, he started the film.
An Icelandic-American film that premiered at Sundance, the charming story was nothing more than two 60-something men on an extended vacation in Iceland. As a bonus for me, there were plenty of scenes in Reykjavik restaurants featuring beautiful food and winking at the top tier food scene that exists there.
Oddly enough, the film had subtitles despite all the characters speaking in English.
The extrovert was divorced, recently retired as a doctor and bored for company and the introvert widowed, then divorced and retired from banking with no money. Strange bedfellows, indeed.
The former doctor, with his thick southern accent, penchant for pot (when he offers it to his friend, he declines, saying, "I haven't smoked pot since the '70s." Incredulously doc responds, "The 1970s?") and lusty nature was hilarious ("This is so good it's like angels pissing on your tongue"). His ex-brother-in-law was more cautious and tentative about everything.
As they make their way around Iceland, enjoying a disco ("We're the oldest people here. By a lot!"), being drenched by a double cascade waterfall (truly beautiful), seeing a geyser explode twice (I jumped the first time) and talking about life's letdowns (hey, shit happens), they both find themselves happier.
When they pop Jiffy Pop together over an open fire while camping, it got a big laugh from the mostly older audience.
The former banker would like another relationship and defines it as wanting someone "to talk about the news with, have a cup of tea with, eat breakfast with and sleep with. Is that so difficult?"
You want my opinion on that? Harder than you'd think, my friend.
But it's the pot-smoking ex-doctor who continually pushes the limits of his friend's patience, suggesting walks at night (they wind up lost in the darkness), driving through ponds (because they can), quizzing a honeymooning couple ("How many times have you hit the mat so far?") and generally being goofy ("I think I need a doobie-nator right now"). His friend finally loses his patience with him, asking why he always has to be doing something.
Because life is too short, he insists, to sit still.
After the movie, I met Holmes and Lovey for a short walk to Belmont Food Shop to quell our grumbling stomachs. I'd been craving the late night cook's plate and they'd never even heard of it.
Sometimes it's my duty to educate.
We began with a bottle of Sainte Eulalie 2013 Rose while Satchmo played overhead. The other tables were mostly winding down, so one by one they wandered out into the night while our evening was just beginning.
After hearing my order, Holmes took my advice and got a cook's plate for the two of them as well, none of us knowing what might be on it. In the meantime, he ordered Espolon, which arrived looking sophisticated in a champagne coupe.
Have one, he suggested. While I admired the presentation, I required food before tequila. Like magic, our cook's plates arrived.
The pieces of slate held lamb belly confit, fresh tuna poached in olive oil and duck gizzards, along with frisee salad, pickled veggies, crusty bread, buttered radishes and celery salad, the makings of a rich and wonderful meal.
I have been devoted to this cook's plate since Belmont Food Shop first opened. You never know what's going to be on it and you're never disappointed with what shows up. Lovey swore she'd never eat gizzards and ate several. Such is the power of the cook's plate.
Next came a cheese course: Pecorino, Maytag Bleu and triple cream Delice de Bourgogne with Marcona almonds and dried fruit, honey, bread and crackers, accompanied by J. Mourat Collection Rose in a unique bottle that resembled an old-time medicine bottle.
Meanwhile, I heard about a wake the couple had recently attended at a home with a fabulous art collection. Besides a Picasso and Dali, they had a painting of Pat and Julie Nixon, their faces expertly depicted and both with their naked breasts showing. It sounded like the highlight of a home filled with art.
Everyone talked at once. We heard about Belmont finally getting the permits to start hosting events, such as a recent Petersburg restaurant clan party, in their other room. Discussion ensued about how to get people to try things like heart, cheeks and tail. It sounds like their patio opening is just around the corner.
Ah, patio season, I await your arrival.
Despite Lovey's purported disdain for butterscotch, I insisted we try butterscotch pot de creme along with the expected chocolate silk pie and darned if she didn't become a convert right in front of our eyes. First gizzards, now butterscotch. It was a big night for our girl.
Holmes couldn't resist a chuckle when he asked where I'd been before dinner. He seemed to think it was funny that I'd begun with a slavery lecture before moving on to an Icelandic aging comedy. That I'd wound up sipping pink and eating belly surprised him not at all.
Stop moving and you die. It's not just me. Look at sharks.
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