Do I Know You?

It was a good night for random guys to talk to me.

Curious about what Harvard Graduate School of Design students might come up with, I went to the Virginia Center for Architecture for the opening of "Menokin Revealed."

You might not know what Menokin is, but I do, at least I have since attending a lecture at the Virginia Historical Society in 2012 given by David Brown who wrote a book about Menokin, a highly terraced 1769 home on the northern neck.

Recalling slides he'd shown of a house that had mostly collapsed on itself, I was curious to see what overly-educated students came up with for restoration ideas after spending four days on site.

Hardly surprisingly, with no budget parameters, the twelve students dreamed big, envisioning towers, catwalks, visitor centers, bridges and just about any other architectural features of which they could conceive.

As I was looking at one based on Native American "canopies," a man approached me and asked my name.

Turns out he's a trustee of the Menokin board and wanted to know if I knew where Menokin was.

He was surprised that I knew it was outside of Warsaw and I was surprised that he'd heard of my parents' tiny little crabbing village.

"If you live out there, you know where everything is," he assured me, asking if he could show me something.

"Something" turned out to be a scale model of the actual restoration that will be done to Menokin, which bears no resemblance to the students' visions.

Instead, they intend to take the pieces of the remaining walls, add supports and a roof and finish all the missing areas with glass walls. You'll once again be able to see the river over the treeline from the second floor.

Even better, paneling and furniture removed from the house 40 or so years ago when they realized it was falling apart will be returned to its rightful place and re-installed.

"I'd like to see a pavilion on the grounds, too," the trustee said. "Someplace that would make Menokin a cultural destination for the northern neck, a place the symphony could come and play."

Well, you know I was all about that idea and assured him that people like my parents would be, too.

By the time he'd finished showing me all the models and explaining everything, a good part of the crowd had left. I'd been so fascinated with hearing about the plans that I'd lost track of time and the opening was officially over.

Thanking my unexpected guide, I left for the VMFA's jazz cafe to see M. Law and the Modern Prophets of Jazz, mainly because I keep seeing the name at venues around town and knew nothing about them.

First surprise? M. Law is a woman (Mary Lawrence Hicks). Second, she plays trumpet. Third, Larry Branch, whose quartet I'd seen last week plays piano in this group.

Finding a place near enough to see and hear, it wasn't long before a guy walked by, winked and said hello, he'd be right back.

I was a little surprised at his boldness, until he came back from getting a beer and stopped to ask if I remembered him (um, no?). Gallery 5, a few weeks ago, yadda, yadda.

In my own defense, tonight he was wearing a sweater and that night he'd had on a bulky coat because G5's heat wasn't working so he looked different to me. Or maybe he just hadn't been that memorable, although I appreciate anyone who swings from Gallery 5 to VMFA's jazz cafe.

He invited me to join him at his table, but I was just fine where I was listening to the band's improvisational takes on standards as well as some interesting original material against a backdrop of people strolling through the still snow-covered sculpture garden.

M Law wasn't much for between-song patter, so one song followed another for non-stop music. I have to say, it's satisfying seeing a woman blow a horn, especially in a dress.

Once that ended, I went straight to Cafe 821 for eats, joining the throngs for thirsty Thursday.

From my bar stool, I had a constant clutch of people behind me, not just ogling the tap list (because they were all $2 off tonight) but discussing what to order with their friends.

After the fourth or fifth group, I could conclude that, for most guys anyway, the overriding factor in choosing a beer was the alcohol percentage.

They were all pretty bummed when the 10% stout keg tapped out and they had to make do with a 7% second choice.

Don't get me started on our over-saturated beer market.

Without such things to worry about, I savored the pleasures of a perfect plate of black bean nachos with punk music blaring loud enough to drown out the conversation of the rest of the room.

Until a guy sat down at the end of the bar, looked over, looked again, and asked if we had met.

Sure had. He'd been seated next to me during my fried chicken dinner at Saison recently, where we'd talked about the primal pleasures of eating with your fingers.

Funny the people who recall you when you show up elsewhere and out of context.

Leaving the thirsty hordes to their discounted rail drinks and beers, I moved on to Balliceaux for a terrific double bill of Way, Shape or Form followed by Annousheh.

Getting my hand stamped to go in, I happened into a conversation involving pools of vomit.

Promising to do my best, the one guy looked at me and said, "You don't seem like a pools of vomit kind of girl."

Thanks for noticing.

I'm not going to lie, I fell for Way, Shape or Form's prog-influenced indie pop with just enough post-rock to seal the deal last January when I first heard them, becoming a complete convert once I spoke to leader Troy afterwards and learning that we'd both been at the same Pinback, Tortoise and Minus the Bear shows.

No wonder I liked them so much given the overlap in our musical taste.

Joined by a friend who'd never heard them, I had the pleasure of hearing how much someone else was impressed with the jangley, syncopated guitars and odd time signatures.

It's always fun to introduce a fellow music-lover to a local band to whom I'm devoted.

And Annousheh, well, that's just guilty pop pleasure, 80s-sounding songs done '90s alternative style. radio-ready and delighting the crowd no end.

Plus instead of random guys, I got to talk to friends - the dance party enthusiast, the newly blond minimalist, the tango teacher, the brilliant bartender, the new WSoF fan - making for a fine finale to my evening.

Nothing guilty about the pleasures of the right kind of conversation paired with live music...especially absent pools of vomit.

No Fear Multi-Layered Reality

My favorite wine geek painter had an opening tonight.

Josh George, whom I'd just seen last weekend at an Austrian wine tasting at J. Emerson (my favorite being the Steininger Gruner Veltliner Sekt 2010, but the Steindorfer Blaufrankisch Alte Reben 2011 wasn't far behind), was opening his new show, "Micropolis," at Ghostprint Gallery tonight.

After getting cleaned up from my day at the river, I strolled the four blocks over to the gallery, garnering a compliment on the corner of Madison and Broad.

I'll never get tired of a stranger telling me I look beautiful, but deep down I know it's the dress, not me.

Coincidentally, a friend had posted on Facebook today, "A total stranger just complimented me on my dress! Awesome!"

Such is the power of the dress. I know not to take it for anything more.

Inside the gallery, I found a crowded room and Josh's latest series of mixed media works. He's the only artist I know who supplies the wine for his shows so that he can be sure it's up to his standards.

And for that, I like him all the more.

Combining things like paint, wine labels, wallpaper scraps, old maps and cut-up pictures, he layers everything to create his own reality.

I like to think I do the same, just with fewer artistic materials.

The 24 works varied in size but most dealt with NYC, Josh's former residence, with skyscrapers set in Manhattan valleys.

"A Mission Like No Other" showed two scenesters walking down the street, the likes of which probably walk down Broad Street every day.

If buying art was as easy as layaway and I could make a nominal payment a month until I owned  a Josh George painting, it is "Fear of an Urban Experience" I would covet.

The small but beautiful work boasted an array of light colored buildings with flags mounted on them flying in the breeze and a pink sky behind it all.

I was drawn to the wealth of detail in "Post-Harvest Handling," a painting depicting a woman taking things from the refrigerator.

Pattern was everywhere, on her top, her pants, her skin, even the interior walls of the refrigerator, which was stuffed with wine (natch), gourmet items and food of all kinds.

Everything wasn't about NYC, though, and RVA got its due in three small works depicting winsome bats after Josh had been amazed to see them at Byrd Park.

His story reminded me of a picnic at Byrd Park a few years ago with a friend and a Brooklyn transplant who had been transfixed when the bats began appearing at dusk.

We may be blase about our local bats, but apparently they're a big deal to New Yorkers.

I mentioned this to a tattoo artist at the opening and she said she and her husband had put up a bat house, hoping to attract bats to their yard.

When none materialized, her beloved had the brilliant idea to paint a female bat on the bat house, hoping to lure lusty bats in.

So far, nothing.

One of the bets moments came when I was looking at Josh's painting, "Everyone Should Strive to Have a Breakfast Nook," a small painting of a barely-awake-looking woman at a table with a cup of coffee and a window behind her with a fly on it.

Marveling at the detail of the fly, I soon realized it was an actual fly and sent it on its way.

Fly gone, I realized that if I couldn't afford the other painting, I'd be just as happy with this little beauty.

Someday I will own a Josh George, I hope.

I debated my options on my walk home and decided that the VMFA would suit me just fine.

It seemed like an ideal evening to sit on the deck while it's still warm and lovely and listen to whomever was playing at the Jazz Cafe.

That turned out to be Flo King, a singer with a big voice and a crack backing band of trombone, sax, keys, bass and drum.

When I arrived, it was to a slow song and lots of people were dancing, or at the very least, swaying and necking.

The next song she sung in Spanish and a guy near me said it was called "Kiss Me," although I don't know that for sure.

I was impressed she was singing in Spanish and said so to another guy, who said she'd also sung in French earlier. Apparently the band's thing was romantic jazz standards.

No doubt that explained why there was a roomful of couples and me.

During the break, I ordered a glass of Primal Roots Red, a simple blend, to go with a dish of Homestead Creamery espresso chocolate chip.

The other women in the room had dates, I had ice cream, the best I could do tonight.

I took it out on the deck to enjoy in the soft evening air and within minutes a museum friend sat down and provided company for me, asking if I'd be at the 2 Street Festival this weekend (duh, of course) until the band restarted with a vengeance.

An instrumental version of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" brought Flo back up on the bandstand and she crooned "Am I Blue?"

But it was a bossa nova, "The Wave," that drew dancers back, and good dancers, too.

You can't deny, don't try to fight the rising sea
Don't fight the moon, the stars above and don't fight me

"What a Difference a Day Makes" was another clarion call to the slow dancers.

The band saved the swinging songs for last, and all of a sudden even I was getting asked to dance.

Politely declining, I watched a guy in a three-piece suit with pocket square and white bucks tear up the dance floor with his girl during "Route 66."

By then, it was long past closing time for the museum and the overhead lights came on to tell us to get out.

Many in the crowd, me included, headed out to the sculpture garden to continue conversations and the evening.

A young couple came up to me, I'm guessing because I was by myself, and asked me to take their picture by the water steps.

After shooting one, I asked if they wanted me to take another but they said they'd wait and see how it came out first.

What the what? Turns out I'd just used a 21st century Polaroid camera, an Instax mini, they said.

We watched the credit card-sized photo develop before our eyes, with them enthusing about the "awesome big Polaroids your generation used."

Yep, they really said that to me.

Am I blue about it? Pshaw.

Everyone should strive to have as much ice cream and slow dancing as I do.

The Thought That Counts

The thing to judge in any jazz artist is, does the man project and does he have ideas?

So said Miles Davis and if anyone should have an opinion on the subject, he would be the one.

I'd read in Chris Bopst's "Hear and Now" column that trumpeter Victor Haskins was having his senior recital tomorrow night, but here's the thing.

I already had plans for tomorrow.

So despite Bopst saying that Haskins had a tone reminiscent of Miles' modal explorations of the late '50s and early '60s, his "Kind of Blue" period, I was going to have to miss it.

So you can imagine my delight when I walked into the VMFA's jazz cafe tonight to find the Victor Haskins Quartet tearing it up.

But because we were late to the party, seats were scarce.

First we grabbed one all the way in the back but then another opened up two tables closer to the band.

Just after we moved, I ran into a friend with her baby in a sling and we chatted about the impressive Brazilian group we'd seen in a friend's living room last week, here.

Not long after getting settled there, WRIR's "Mr. Jazz" walked by on his way out, offering us his seats at a front table.

Score.

He was kind enough to introduce us to his table mate, who happened to be one of the forces behind the Richmond Jazz Society, meaning he was a font of information about the local jazz scene.

Since we'd arrived at the break, we listened as he regaled us with stories of jazz musicians the group has brought to town and how often big jazz names came here expecting a small town jazz scene, only to get their butts handed to them by a Richmond master.

He was full of terrific James "Saxsmo" Gates stories, whom I'd seen at, where else, the Richmond Jazz Society five or six years ago.

Soon Victor and his crew - Randall Pharr on bass, Alan Parker on guitar and Billy Williams on drums- went back to the business of music.

Playing original material from his new record, "The Truth" along with original arrangements of covers, we sat there being blown away by this young trumpeter who's about to graduate and probably leave to set the jazz world on fire.

I've seen him before and not just a few times because he usually plays with the RVA Big Band at Balliceaux on Monday nights.

But there he's playing Mingus and standards and tonight we got to hear not just his horn but his own compositions.

Safe to say that Miles would approve; the man projects and clearly he's got ideas.

And that's the truth.

From Monk to Minimalism

I can only be the poster child for doing things by myself for so long before I crave friends.

Tonight's odyssey began at the VMFA for their weekly Jazz Cafe, tonight featuring Monk's Playground, a quartet that re-imagines Thelonious Monk's music for an electric guitar-led group.

I hadn't been to the Jazz cafe in months so I was  surprised that it wasn't nearly as mobbed as it had been last winter. More options at this time of year, I suppose.

But I found a seat and settled in to listen to the group's interpretations of Monk with a crowd clearly more familiar with him than I. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the music a lot; I just lacked familiarity with it.

I'd be the first to admit that about all I know of the great composer/pianist is that he's the second most recorded jazz composer and he only wrote seventy-some songs.

As a bonus, the sun was slowly setting behind the Pauley Center (the former Home for Confederate Women), making for a stunning  visual to accompany the seminal music. I didn't get that last winter.

A couple of sets in, I was getting hungry, so I drove the few blocks to Acacia for dinner. The barely populated bar had plenty of room for me and there was a new bartender in place.

After a taste, I chose the J. Mourat "Collection" Rose, an elegantly dry pink wine made from Cabernet Franc, Negrette and Pinot Noir to sip while making my food choices.

I was reminded that Chef Dale had driven to the river to get softshells yesterday, but decided to go more in a tasting direction.

Starting with the tempura-fried squash blossoms with chive mascarpone was a choice as seasonally appropriate and short-lived as softshells.

I love when squash are flowering and begin showing up on menus all over town. The delicate flower is really about the tempura and the mascarpone was decadently rich and flavorful. I came this close to ordering another plate of them.

Instead, I tried the fried wontons over seaweed salad. The crispy wontons were filled to bursting with a flavorful mixture of chicken and cabbage, much enhanced by the seaweed and accompanying honey/soy sauce. I was two for two.

I decided to end on a richer note, choosing the rabbit raviolis with roasted mushrooms in a rabbit jus. Three good-sized hat-looking pillows contained the delicate-tasting shredded rabbit which sang when dipped in the jus.

For dessert I had more Rose while the bartender and I discussed the best brunch spots because it's the only meal he and his girlfriend can eat out together due to their nighttime schedules.

That led to a discussion of cooking eggs, a subject on which he was passionate. For whatever reason, not everyone in the business can do eggs well, much to his disgust (he's a former cook). I have a good friend who says the same thing.

We finally wound up our discussion so that I could go to Sprout for a show where I knew I'd see all kinds of friends and hear some interesting music.

And the friends were there and I even made a new one. A girl introduced herself saying, "Have we not met officially? I feel like I see you everywhere."

That's a line I've heard literally dozens of times, causing others around me to nod in acknowledgement.

One of the bearded ones piped up with, "Karen! She's everywhere you should be!" I appreciate a good smart-assed comment when I hear one.

I couldn't have asked for a better musical start to the night than recent transplant Nelly Kate, a girl capable of a dense sound thanks to her looping abilities.

She sang, she played guitar, she banged on a wooden box, she scratched said box and it all became part of a bigger whole.

Her experimental pop and little girl voice made for an entrancing sound and I was sorry her set was so short. Hopefully now that she's in RVA, we'll see her play out more often.

Broken Fences were from Pittsburgh and their sound was more folky, with two guitars and a male and female voice.

At times, their songs put me in mind of old English folk songs like "Greensleeves" or "Black is the Color." There was no denying that they made pretty music.

Last up was the dynamic duo of Jonathan Vassar and David Shultz of Ophelia (minus bass and drums) and tonight the focus was on David.

He did some of his own material, they did a couple of Ophelia songs and he closed with a Paul Simon cover, as the adoring crowd yelled encouragement.

Good as the music was, one of the unexpected pleasures of the evening was the return of a favorite couple who've been  traveling since February.

They got back early and it was great to see them and talk to them after their absence. As she said, "It's so great not to have to be nice to new people all the time now that we're home."

And isn't that what friends are for, so that you don't have to be nice all the time?

Nobody would believe it if I tried it anyway.

Digging the Accents

Go to two stellar shows, one cool, one hot and you will meet charming, handsome men from other countries. I know this only because I went and I did.

Starting at the VMFA for the Jazz Cafe, I found a nearly full room and no available tables, which wasn't the least bit surprising because the Brian Jones Quartet was playing. As many times as I've seen Jones play and in as many configurations as I've seen, he never ceases to impress.

Tonight's stellar show was courtesy of Jones on drums, J.C. Kuhl on tenor sax, Daniel Clarke on keys and Randall Pharr on upright bass.

I love watching these guys play; Pharr is always smiling, unlike a lot of oh-so serious bass players, Clarke's delight is tangible and they tend to crack up when one or the other of them goes off on a particularly colorful improvisation.

I propped myself up on a wall near the band, but it wasn't long before a nearby couple offered me one of the spare chairs at their table. They also invited the guy standing next to me but he bowed out saying, "I can't. I'm holding up the wall." Not sure, but I think he was afraid I'd bite.

My new-found seat afforded me a close-up view of the band, who whipped through a varied repertoire, including Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis' "Blue in Green," the classic "Bye, Bye, Blackbird" and the surprising "Eleanor Rigby."

Jones came over to say hello during one of the breaks and I commented that in all the times I've seen him play, this was the first time I'd seen him in a button-down shirt. "I can clean up," he laughed. And well, I might add, admiring his all-black ensemble.

They did three sets for the devoted crowd. When the bewitching hour of 9:00 rolled around, Jones said, "We're going to play one more. Not sure what it's going to be, though."

By the time they finished, the museum was closed and the security people couldn't usher us out quickly enough.

It was a short drive to Balliceaux for No BS Brass Band's show and I mercifully arrived before the hordes. Taking up a seat at the front bar, I ordered the chai-infused chocolate pate and a Zin blend and settled in to discuss the bartender's recent visit to DC and Zatinya.

As the No BS musicians began to straggle in, I was about to move my headquarters to the back room when I felt a tap on the shoulder and my favorite Brazilian chef appeared.

In all the years I've known him, I've never once run into him out at night, so I couldn't have been more surprised...or pleased with the company.

He asked what I was drinking, ordered two more and we began a spirited discussion of going out versus staying in. Eventually his lovely wife arrived, followed closely by all kinds of interesting friends to whom she introduced me.

I met a scientist-type from Colombia, a Spaniard recently relocated from NYC and a host of other characters, almost all of whom had recently read my piece in Style. It was an interesting starting point for conversation with strangers.

In what seemed to be almost a violation of fire code, people continued to arrive and I quickly realized how lucky I was to be ensconced on a bar stool and off the beaten path.

The people around me were constant targets for the moving crowds, being jostled and knocked into at every turn.

One thing that soon became apparent was how many of the attendees were first-timers. I heard an awful lot of people say, "I heard these shows are amazing" or "These guys are supposed to be great" as they made their way to the back room.

By the time No BS finally started playing, I knew there was no way I was going to join the masses in the back room, much as I would have liked a view of the band playing.

More than a few people I knew tried it, only to come back shaking their heads in amazement at the sheer mass of humanity sweating back there. One guy came back glistening with sweat and saying, "I need water!"

I didn't even try. I had a host of interesting conversationalists to choose from; a guy told me about his non-fiction writing classes, another about his acclimation to RVA, one had just opened an online store, a photographer wanted to buy me a drink, and another told me about the light shows he designs for his drumming friend. I chatted with three different restaurant owners. All compelling enough discussions to justify staying put.

The down side was that it wasn't always easy to hear the No BS show, but since the stairs were packed with people, there wasn't much I could do about it. Luckily I periodically got an earful, so I didn't feel like I was missing out completely.

Besides, the party (and it was a party) going on up front was amazing; lots of smart people, witty conversation, mingling and requests for my card. I went for music and got social intercourse.

No complaints from this camp.

No Way to Keep the Beat

It's my week to catch up with everybody after the holidays. Tonight it was a former work buddy and we met at Xtra's, just to see what it had to offer in the evenings, since I'd only had lunch there.

It was pretty empty when we arrived but continued to fill up steadily, despite 30-plus year-old music. When I walked into a Journey song, I kind of felt like the tone was set, if you know what I mean.

On the other hand, the wine list was varied and very much suited to my taste. Any list that carries two Charles Smith wines is fine in my book (Boom Boom Syrah, yum, yum) plus they had several South African choices.

Wanting to start white given the evening ahead, I ordered the Graham Beck unoaked Chardonnay (twice), surprising even myself.

My friend had summoned our meeting because he was seeking guidance from me about some new job responsibilities with which he's not entirely comfortable. I understood his concern, but could offer no real solace since I think it's a bad idea for both his personal and professional selves.

He wailed when I didn't offer the direction he was so desperately seeking from me. I got the sense that I was supposed to make everything better for him and didn't. Hey, a bad idea is a bad idea, no matter how it's couched.

We munched on fish taquitos (grilled mah-mahi, carrots, cabbage, and cilantro wrapped in spring roll wrappers and fried, with roasted pineapple vinaigrette), causing my friend to recommend 7-11's taquitos after my next late night of partying.

Duly noted and filed, I told him, except I don't eat at chains, much less ones with gas stations and lottery tickets.

Like all my other friends lately, he had to know what was up in my personal life and he didn't hesitate to offer criticism of my nerve and suggestions for improvement in the future. Everybody knows how to carry on better than I do, or so they think.

I left him strolling down Cary Street and went to the museum for the Jazz Cafe; the Lawrence Olds Quartet was playing and there's nothing wrong with some old-school jazz and blues standards on a Thursday night.

The crowd was so different from a few weeks ago when I was there for Hotel X. Tonight was a mix of an older crowd and a much younger swing-dancing crowd.

Two girls next to me were in the latter group; I overheard one say, "And then when he starts twirling you, there's just no way to keep the beat," while the other nodded seriously in agreement. Yea, I knew that.

Olds' voice is deep and silky smooth and he was backed by guitar, keys and upright bass. Both crowds kept the dance floor hopping all evening and most dancers ended every song with a low dip, not something you see every day (hair-brushing-floor-low). I was sure this one guy was going to drop the girl, but he heaved mightily and brought her back up, thank goodness.

There was a cool swing vibe going on and I stayed and listened for a good while before leaving to do the art thing. The new exhibit "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" was open, so I took the time to see it and compare it to the concurrent UR exhibit I'd seen last week.

Like that one, it contained a wealth of imagery of both battles and the daily life of a soldier. "Drumming Out a Coward" taught me what the phrase "drumming out" meant.

In addition to the coward having his sword broken and his buttons and rank ripped off his uniform, he wore a neck sign saying "coward" as the drummers marched him out of camp. Now I know.

A drawing of "Crow's Nest Signal Station" at Dutch Gap showed an elaborate treehouse-like contraption that wound its way up a tree with a series of ladders; it would have been the delight of any adventurous child.

I found "Negro Worship in the South" fascinating because there had been a similar drawing in the UR exhibit, except that this one was done post-war, so the blacks had been emancipated. They looked far more dignified and less cartoonish than they'd been depicted in the earlier drawing I'd seen.

After the security guard had warned me that the museum was closing in fifteen minutes, then five minutes and then just keep hovering about, I finally left him locking doors as he wished me a good evening. I can take a hint.

It wasn't very late, so I decided to stop by Six Burner and arrived to a pretty dead room - one booth occupied, one bar regular, and a server's girlfriend.

Bartender Josh greeted me with, "You're the first real customer I've had all night." He said it had been really slow, but graciously poured me a glass of wine and cranked the music up.

I asked if the kitchen was still open and he went to check, coming back to say, "Sorry, nothing but stainless steel back there. I guess they gave up cause it was so slow." It was okay, I told him, conversation and wine were enough.

Server T. spotted me and came over to ask, "Aren't you usually in here a little earlier? Where you been?" I gave him the rundown and he put me in my place with, "Squeezed us in, huh?" Ooh, I love places where the staff verbally abuses the customers.

Chef Philip came out dressed to go and stood at the far end of the bar smiling at me. "I see you eating everywhere," he said. "I saw you at Comfort Sunday." Josh kindly pointed out that I wanted to eat his food tonight but the kitchen had been closed. He winced. I felt better.

While listening to an NYC artist Josh is currently recording, we discussed poetic men who have a way with words, the realities of fatherhood ("It used to be martinis at a bar after work and now it's canned beer in a cup"), and the beauty of capturing everyday sounds.

By then, I was starting to feel as guilty about keeping Josh as I had about the security guard, so I said my goodnights.

Hey, what happened to Thursday being the new Friday anyway? Come on, weekend.