"Whoa RVA. You probably have nothing better to than go to this lecture tonight. Sweet."
That gentle reminder was from Nelly, a Richmond musician currently on the road, referring to the Cornel West talk at VCU tonight. She must have posted it just after I left my apartment to walk over to the Seigel Center.
There, I joined a line that snaked the length of the building, overhearing comments as we filed into the auditorium such as, "I fell in love with him because he's chairman of the Democratic Socialists of America," and "I haven't contacted Bernie Sanders' campaign yet, but I need to because that's where he needs help: the South." The first came from a guy who appeared to be about 18, the second from an aging hippie who probably voted for LBJ.
Knowing I'd have to wait once seated, I'd brought a book, "The Thurber Carnival," a delightful collection of James Thurber's essays and drawings from 1932-49.
Let's just say it was jarring reading dated descriptors such as, "with a colored woman like Della" and "Mrs. Robertson, the aged colored washerwoman" as I'm awaiting the start of a lecture by a major black intellectual in a series entitled, "Race, Citizenry and Memory in the South."
But that was then and this is now.
The crowd was diverse and just kept growing until the moment West walked out (accompanied by the man who introduced him) and began bowing to massive applause and then a standing ovation. Before he'd said a word.
But of course, we knew he'd have plenty of interesting points to make and he did, using the cadences and occasionally the rhetoric of a preacher on the pulpit. Meanwhile, people kept showing up although 95% of those who arrived after West was already speaking looked to be students (obviously raised by wolves).
He began by warning us that, "I move with the spirit so I don't move in calendar time," before moving through a one-hour talk and another hour spent answering audience questions.
In between, the audience testified when he said something profound, clapped when he hit a nerve and generally gave themselves over to the gospel of Cornel. Okay, there was one girl who sat plastered against her seat back, eyes wide, as if affronted by the passion of his commentary, but she was the exception.
Music and especially jazz were woven into his analogies. Talking about how Hoover had kept track of the goings-on of black literary and art figures, he roared, "Ever kept track of John Coltrane? How are you going to keep track of a love supreme?"
He talked about the inaccurate black worlds Disney created in films. "Yes, Disney enriched my childhood. I had to deconstruct it later."
Beginning with a Socratic note, he challenged everyone to decide what kind of human they'll choose to be. Running through his points and anecdotes was an entreaty to invoke our collective memory and examine preconceived notions.
Referencing people from Donny Hathaway ("He did not need a pat on the back") to Curtis Mayfield to Martin Luther King, Jr ("55% of blacks disapproved of him when he died but he didn't care because that's who he was"), he explained, "We love Lincoln, not because he was always right, but because he was willing to grow."
In an hour, he managed to address white supremacy, ecology, the 1%, "vanilla" suburbs and "chocolate" neighborhoods and the commodification of churches ("Not the titillation of praise choirs looking for a record deal").
He of course got political, with comments about the milquetoast neo-liberalism of the Democratic party, the donor-based and the corporate sponsored Presidential candidates ("The problem with Brother Trump is...well, that's another lecture").
Over the course of the evening, he admitted to two things. First, being a redeemed sinner with gangster proclivities, or, as he said, "I"m not being evangelical tonight telling you to become a Christian - it is a good idea - but that's not what I was doing."
Secondly, that he'd choose Aretha over Beyonce (while MLK had been devoted to Mahalia Jackson).
I feel sure I'm not alone in saying that it's always satisfying to spend time listening to a smart, funny man.
Once the Q & A ended, lots of people rushed the floor, no doubt eager to touch the man or ask for an autograph. He was quickly surrounded by a crowd.
For what? Far better to absorb what the man was saying and apply that to your life going forward than fawn, kids. Just do it.
The truth is, Nelly, I could have been satisfied at that point. I'd gotten to hear a brilliant man rail against not just the staus quo for blacks, but also for women, Latinos, the working class and poor and the prison population.
My mind had been stimulated and I'd gotten to hear an excellent orator. But why not more?
Why not also go to Balliceaux for their first night with live music since closing at the beginning of the summer and just reopening two nights ago?
Why the hell not?
As I told several people tonight, I'm just happy to have one of my music venues back. I'd have felt the loss just as strongly if it had been Gallery 5 or Strange Matter that had closed for three months.
Bopst had booked Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess ("I love how her voice sounds like a 78 record. I wanna play scratching in the background," he says to me), a quartet of guitar, upright bass, clarinet/sax and washboard/cymbals, to re-inaugurate the back room and they were just beginning their first song when I went back there and found a place near the side.
Within moments, two couples were up and swing dancing, their perfectly synchronized moves an inspiration to the rest of us.
It's at least my third time seeing the band whose music is a pastiche of Dixieland, Tin Pan Alley and neo- bluegrass, with their secret weapon Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.
Once the band started "Old Fashioned Love," Bopst was on the floor in front of them, snapping pictures for the Internets (probably "Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess, Balliceaux, first set, NOW").
Near me, a guy slid his hand discreetly under the dress and up the leg of his girlfriend while continuing to look in her eyes and talk to her.
A barback returning from the side door by the stage where liquor is stored, two gallon bottles in each hand, did a nimble side step twice as he minced his way through the three couples dancing on the floor.
The lights were low, Jessy's voice was sultry and the band was swingin'.
Balliceaux was back to normal.
A very tall woman - maybe 5'10" or 11" - walked in wearing a cute dress and four-inch stilettos. Next time I saw her, the heels had been traded for white Keds and she was swing dancing.
During the band's second set, Jessy moved to the front of the stage to belt out a song without the mic, her voice carrying all the heartache of an old blues woman to the back of the room.
After another raucous number, she told her band, "Okay, let's do something easy. What's easy on that list?" Whatever it was, it got a few couples slow dancing.
Familiar faces dotted the crowd, all people I felt certain wanted to show their support for the return of live music: the organizer, the DJ, the former neighbor, the nattily-attired barkeep.
The last song was so fast-tempo that the three couples who staked out the floor were soon flummoxed. One stopped dancing and began clapping instead, another moved to the side and the third couple tore it up, changing out one partner for another throughout the fast part until all three were back to dancing with their partners by mid-song.
Yep, you read right. The evening was capped off with a dance-off to live music.
So, Nelly, don't worry. I went and heard Dr. West speak and then I went out for live music. I'm keeping the RVA flame burning in your absence. But come back soon because there is so much sweet stuff happening.
I just don't know how anyone had anything better to do tonight.
Showing posts with label jessy carolina and the hot mess. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jessy carolina and the hot mess. Show all posts
Friday, September 4, 2015
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Stay Outdoors and Spoon
Technically, it was work. But it didn't feel much like work.
A drive to Westmoreland County on a pitch perfect summer day to do an interview yielded the expected (music blaring, scenic views, an interesting subject) but also the funny (Plunk Farm Road?) and surprising.
While I expected his house to be on the water - he is an oyster gardener after all - I couldn't have imagined the splendor of the view stretching seven miles across the Potomac all the way to the green shores of Maryland.
Nor would I have been so presumptuous as to anticipate being offered oysters once I finished interviewing him.
Saying he'd pulled them from the river a few hours before, he excused himself to shuck them while I was left to languish on the screened porch watching birds diving for fish and waves rippling the shore.
He served them with locally made hot sauce in a Mason jar, a simple accompaniment to oysters so creamy and buttery they really needed nothing at all.
I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit I ate way more than he did.
After a leisurely drive back to the city, I took care of some e-mails before setting out for food.
I was hoping Supper was finally open, but alas, no, not that I wasn't perfectly happy at Lunch instead.
The place was jam packed with a large group celebrating a birthday - so singing and raucous laughter were involved - but fortunately there was a lone bar stool free and I nabbed it.
Next to me turned out to be an art educator visiting Richmond for a class and out of his element because his wife wasn't with him.
As it turned out, he lived on Grace Street from 1977 to 1980, having transferred from ODU to VCU and leaving with a degree in painting and printmaking.
"I didn't know then that you couldn't get a real job with that degree," he said chuckling, so he went back to become an art teacher. I think they warn the kids about that now.
Of course, he was thrilled with his food (although confused about the assemblage of chicken, pulled pork, bacon and cheddar, but that's just how Lunch rolls) as was I with my luncheonette salad with two fat, spicy crab cakes atop it.
A couple came in and sat down at the bar seconds after the stools were vacated and were soon drowning in far more food than they could ever eat. Rookie mistake, I told them.
I could have warned them ahead of time, I probably should have, but there's no shame in leftovers. In fact, if they knew me, they'd thank me tomorrow.
Replete with oysters and crab (and, sadly, not enough room for hummingbird cake), it was time for music, namely NYC's Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess (whom I'd been wowed by back in April) at Balliceaux.
Part Dixieland, part Tin Pan Alley and part bluegrass, their secret weapon is Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.
It was a small crowd, no doubt Monday related, but it meant I had no trouble getting a good table and gradually more people arrived to help fill up the room. Not many familiar faces except songbird Allison and one of the many DJs I know.
Like last time, there was Jessy, the leader, who played washboard, cymbals and sang in a beautifully powerful voice, while three talented guys provided accompaniment: an upright bass player, a guitarist and a guy who played trombone and trumpet.
I remembered their cover of "Shine On, Harvest Moon" sung in her lovely, languid voice from last time and it was every bit the knockout it had been then.
This is the kind of band that brings out a dancing crowd and before long, a couple were showing off their moves to a Mills Brothers' song and the crowd's delight...and Jessy's.
"Feel free to move around and talk," she'd instructed us. "We want you to fun. We want you to have fun!"
A couple of women got up and danced together, matching each other's intricate steps like a mirror image and a lot of attention swept from the band to their fluid moves because they were so good.
Having been out dancing three times in the last ten days, I kept to my seat, but partially because there's a lot to be said for just watching someone so talented belt and play washboard.
After all, we'd been told to fun. I was just following instructions for a change.
A drive to Westmoreland County on a pitch perfect summer day to do an interview yielded the expected (music blaring, scenic views, an interesting subject) but also the funny (Plunk Farm Road?) and surprising.
While I expected his house to be on the water - he is an oyster gardener after all - I couldn't have imagined the splendor of the view stretching seven miles across the Potomac all the way to the green shores of Maryland.
Nor would I have been so presumptuous as to anticipate being offered oysters once I finished interviewing him.
Saying he'd pulled them from the river a few hours before, he excused himself to shuck them while I was left to languish on the screened porch watching birds diving for fish and waves rippling the shore.
He served them with locally made hot sauce in a Mason jar, a simple accompaniment to oysters so creamy and buttery they really needed nothing at all.
I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit I ate way more than he did.
After a leisurely drive back to the city, I took care of some e-mails before setting out for food.
I was hoping Supper was finally open, but alas, no, not that I wasn't perfectly happy at Lunch instead.
The place was jam packed with a large group celebrating a birthday - so singing and raucous laughter were involved - but fortunately there was a lone bar stool free and I nabbed it.
Next to me turned out to be an art educator visiting Richmond for a class and out of his element because his wife wasn't with him.
As it turned out, he lived on Grace Street from 1977 to 1980, having transferred from ODU to VCU and leaving with a degree in painting and printmaking.
"I didn't know then that you couldn't get a real job with that degree," he said chuckling, so he went back to become an art teacher. I think they warn the kids about that now.
Of course, he was thrilled with his food (although confused about the assemblage of chicken, pulled pork, bacon and cheddar, but that's just how Lunch rolls) as was I with my luncheonette salad with two fat, spicy crab cakes atop it.
A couple came in and sat down at the bar seconds after the stools were vacated and were soon drowning in far more food than they could ever eat. Rookie mistake, I told them.
I could have warned them ahead of time, I probably should have, but there's no shame in leftovers. In fact, if they knew me, they'd thank me tomorrow.
Replete with oysters and crab (and, sadly, not enough room for hummingbird cake), it was time for music, namely NYC's Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess (whom I'd been wowed by back in April) at Balliceaux.
Part Dixieland, part Tin Pan Alley and part bluegrass, their secret weapon is Jessy's voice, part little girl, part crooner and always full-bodied.
It was a small crowd, no doubt Monday related, but it meant I had no trouble getting a good table and gradually more people arrived to help fill up the room. Not many familiar faces except songbird Allison and one of the many DJs I know.
Like last time, there was Jessy, the leader, who played washboard, cymbals and sang in a beautifully powerful voice, while three talented guys provided accompaniment: an upright bass player, a guitarist and a guy who played trombone and trumpet.
I remembered their cover of "Shine On, Harvest Moon" sung in her lovely, languid voice from last time and it was every bit the knockout it had been then.
This is the kind of band that brings out a dancing crowd and before long, a couple were showing off their moves to a Mills Brothers' song and the crowd's delight...and Jessy's.
"Feel free to move around and talk," she'd instructed us. "We want you to fun. We want you to have fun!"
A couple of women got up and danced together, matching each other's intricate steps like a mirror image and a lot of attention swept from the band to their fluid moves because they were so good.
Having been out dancing three times in the last ten days, I kept to my seat, but partially because there's a lot to be said for just watching someone so talented belt and play washboard.
After all, we'd been told to fun. I was just following instructions for a change.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Lunar Fairy Tale
It's a shame about the blood moon.
You look forward to something all week and then a little thing like a cloudy sky eliminates any chance of seeing the lunar eclipse and you have to adjust.
Make new plans and move on with your life.
So even though I'm not a steakhouse kind of a gal, when a friend invites me to dinner at Morton's the Steakhouse, I'm happy to go.
We ignore the cookie cutter looking dining room and sit at a bar table fronting Virginia Street so I don't have to see the TV.
When I ask for a glass of the Jean Luc Colombo Rose, the loud-voiced bartender tells me he can't serve it to me if I like Roses. Oddly enough, he will serve me a glass of white Zinfandel. I order a split of Prosecco instead.
The music is cheesy beyond belief, easy listening versions of songs like "Come Together" with its urgency stripped out of it, "The Girl from Ipanema" sounding like a deodorant commercial and Hall & Oates' "I Can't Go for That," minus its buoyancy.
Is this really what corporate types want to hear while they eat a $65 steak?
A woman arrives and takes a table near us, no big deal except that the bartender begins chatting her up (here on business, staying at the Omni, lives in Montreal) and her voice sounds like she was huffing helium before walking in. It's Betty Boop in the flesh.
It's a high-pitched squeaky thing that is almost as loud as the bartender's. There are moments when the two of them are talking across the room and I can't hear a word my friend is saying, despite the fact that he's a foot away.
I'm dying to turn around and ask her what business she's in with that distinctive voice, but my friend tells me not to and we move on to dinner.
He's invited me because he wants me to share a rib eye with him, mercifully the 16 ounce and not the behemoth 22 ounce. I insist on greenery to mitigate the inevitable artery clogging so we begin with chopped salads and have grilled asparagus with balsamic with the hunk o' meat.
The rib eye turns out to be a disappointment, full of fat and gristle and hardly befitting its price tag. My friend is clearly disappointed.
Although our server suggests key lime pie or carrot cake for dessert, he allows us to order chocolate layer cake instead, leading me to believe he doesn't feel as strongly about the cake as he did the Rose.
One bite in and my friend says, "Out of a box," and I have to admit there's nothing to recommend it except that it's got real whipped cream next to it and it is chocolate, albeit pretty average chocolate.
Fortunately, we have spent the time not just eating, but talking and catching up, so my trip to a steakhouse has not been a complete waste, even if it has confirmed what I already knew.
That said, years ago I enjoyed many excellent meals at The Palm in D.C. so I will at least allow that not all steakhouses are created equal. In fact, my friend assures me I would be wild about Butcher and Singer in Philly.
Perhaps.
He was ready to go home after dinner, but I moved on to Balliceaux to see NYC's Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess.
I got delayed when I ran into an acquaintance at the front bar who'd been wondering why his texts to me had come back to him. I reminded him that I am cell phone-less and thus un-textable.
Seems he'd recently smoked a rotisserie chicken after injecting it with bacon fat and had wanted to invite me over to enjoy it with other like-minded bacon fat lovers.
He put my number back in his phone and promised to call, not text, next time. By the time I got home tonight, he'd already left me a message to prove he had my number and would use it in the future.
That dilemma taken care of, I got a Cazadores and found a seat in the back room just as the band started up.
Jessy, the leader, played washboard, cymbals and sang in a beautifully powerful voice, while three bearded guys provided accompaniment: an upright bass player, a guitarist and a guy who played banjo, clarinet and sax.
When she sang "Shine On, Harvest Moon" in her lovely, languid voice, I think everyone in the room knew we were hearing something special.
"We drove up from Rock Hill, South Carolina today," Jessy said. "It's been a long day, so thanks for coming out on a Monday. It is Monday, right?" From there, they went on to discuss what song to play next. "We don't have a set list," she explained as if it mattered.
They did "Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," compelling two couples to take the floor and begin expertly swing dancing.
Warning us that we were about to see a small disaster because they didn't know all the words so they'd have to whistle instead, they began Louie Armstrong's "Struttin' with Some Barbecue" with whistling until the sax kicked in and the room began applauding.
Earlier I'd noticed that the guy nearest me had no shoes on during their set but when they took a break after a song about a dead girlfriend, he found shoes and went up to meet the band, along with a bunch of the dancers who wanted not only to buy the band's CDs, but get them autographed as well.
I just stayed where I was and watched, resulting in a man coming up to me and saying, "Anyone who watches so intently must be a musician." You hate to disappoint people, but I had to admit that I don't have a musical bone in my body, that I'm just a big fan of music.
"Well, you must be a true fan because you're not drinking," he observed, pointing to the glass of water next to me. I pulled my empty Cazadores glass out from under my chair and admitted to Prosecco at dinner.
He told me he'd just eaten at Dinmor and I asked if he meant Dinamo. Affirmative. Seems he'd been driving down Cary Street and spotted it and gone in, knowing nothing about it, but thoroughly enjoying his squid ink fettuccine with calamari and shrimp.
The band returned and he took the seat next to me. A girl with a trombone appeared and sat down next to the stage.
Jessy introduced her as Martha, saying she was a new friend they'd met outside during the break and she happened to have her trombone with her so they'd invited her to sit in.
The banjo player gave her the key and they began playing "Louisiana Fairy Tale," and then invited her to move her chair up on stage with them.
"It's like a promotion," Mr. Dinamo said.
It was while they were playing "Chinatown" that he leaned over and pointed out that Martha was playing off-key. I asked him if he thought she knew that. "She's ultra-confident if she does," he said.
While the band was trying to decide what to play next, Jessy commented on how large the crowd was for a Monday night. "None of these people have to go to work tomorrow," my new friend said before asking me what I do.
He was tickled with my response because he's a scientist turned writer who's five years into writing a book about people and why they do the things they do. "If I send you a few chapters, will you rip it apart for me?" he wanted to know.
If it's as mediocre as my steakhouse dinner, I'll be glad to.
The Hot Mess closed with a spirited rendition of "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby" with poor Martha still off key but with everyone -musicians and audience- clearly having a fine time on a Monday night.
Plenty good enough to make up for missing the blood moon. And no, sir, I don't mean maybe.
You look forward to something all week and then a little thing like a cloudy sky eliminates any chance of seeing the lunar eclipse and you have to adjust.
Make new plans and move on with your life.
So even though I'm not a steakhouse kind of a gal, when a friend invites me to dinner at Morton's the Steakhouse, I'm happy to go.
We ignore the cookie cutter looking dining room and sit at a bar table fronting Virginia Street so I don't have to see the TV.
When I ask for a glass of the Jean Luc Colombo Rose, the loud-voiced bartender tells me he can't serve it to me if I like Roses. Oddly enough, he will serve me a glass of white Zinfandel. I order a split of Prosecco instead.
The music is cheesy beyond belief, easy listening versions of songs like "Come Together" with its urgency stripped out of it, "The Girl from Ipanema" sounding like a deodorant commercial and Hall & Oates' "I Can't Go for That," minus its buoyancy.
Is this really what corporate types want to hear while they eat a $65 steak?
A woman arrives and takes a table near us, no big deal except that the bartender begins chatting her up (here on business, staying at the Omni, lives in Montreal) and her voice sounds like she was huffing helium before walking in. It's Betty Boop in the flesh.
It's a high-pitched squeaky thing that is almost as loud as the bartender's. There are moments when the two of them are talking across the room and I can't hear a word my friend is saying, despite the fact that he's a foot away.
I'm dying to turn around and ask her what business she's in with that distinctive voice, but my friend tells me not to and we move on to dinner.
He's invited me because he wants me to share a rib eye with him, mercifully the 16 ounce and not the behemoth 22 ounce. I insist on greenery to mitigate the inevitable artery clogging so we begin with chopped salads and have grilled asparagus with balsamic with the hunk o' meat.
The rib eye turns out to be a disappointment, full of fat and gristle and hardly befitting its price tag. My friend is clearly disappointed.
Although our server suggests key lime pie or carrot cake for dessert, he allows us to order chocolate layer cake instead, leading me to believe he doesn't feel as strongly about the cake as he did the Rose.
One bite in and my friend says, "Out of a box," and I have to admit there's nothing to recommend it except that it's got real whipped cream next to it and it is chocolate, albeit pretty average chocolate.
Fortunately, we have spent the time not just eating, but talking and catching up, so my trip to a steakhouse has not been a complete waste, even if it has confirmed what I already knew.
That said, years ago I enjoyed many excellent meals at The Palm in D.C. so I will at least allow that not all steakhouses are created equal. In fact, my friend assures me I would be wild about Butcher and Singer in Philly.
Perhaps.
He was ready to go home after dinner, but I moved on to Balliceaux to see NYC's Jessy Carolina and the Hot Mess.
I got delayed when I ran into an acquaintance at the front bar who'd been wondering why his texts to me had come back to him. I reminded him that I am cell phone-less and thus un-textable.
Seems he'd recently smoked a rotisserie chicken after injecting it with bacon fat and had wanted to invite me over to enjoy it with other like-minded bacon fat lovers.
He put my number back in his phone and promised to call, not text, next time. By the time I got home tonight, he'd already left me a message to prove he had my number and would use it in the future.
That dilemma taken care of, I got a Cazadores and found a seat in the back room just as the band started up.
Jessy, the leader, played washboard, cymbals and sang in a beautifully powerful voice, while three bearded guys provided accompaniment: an upright bass player, a guitarist and a guy who played banjo, clarinet and sax.
When she sang "Shine On, Harvest Moon" in her lovely, languid voice, I think everyone in the room knew we were hearing something special.
"We drove up from Rock Hill, South Carolina today," Jessy said. "It's been a long day, so thanks for coming out on a Monday. It is Monday, right?" From there, they went on to discuss what song to play next. "We don't have a set list," she explained as if it mattered.
They did "Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," compelling two couples to take the floor and begin expertly swing dancing.
Warning us that we were about to see a small disaster because they didn't know all the words so they'd have to whistle instead, they began Louie Armstrong's "Struttin' with Some Barbecue" with whistling until the sax kicked in and the room began applauding.
Earlier I'd noticed that the guy nearest me had no shoes on during their set but when they took a break after a song about a dead girlfriend, he found shoes and went up to meet the band, along with a bunch of the dancers who wanted not only to buy the band's CDs, but get them autographed as well.
I just stayed where I was and watched, resulting in a man coming up to me and saying, "Anyone who watches so intently must be a musician." You hate to disappoint people, but I had to admit that I don't have a musical bone in my body, that I'm just a big fan of music.
"Well, you must be a true fan because you're not drinking," he observed, pointing to the glass of water next to me. I pulled my empty Cazadores glass out from under my chair and admitted to Prosecco at dinner.
He told me he'd just eaten at Dinmor and I asked if he meant Dinamo. Affirmative. Seems he'd been driving down Cary Street and spotted it and gone in, knowing nothing about it, but thoroughly enjoying his squid ink fettuccine with calamari and shrimp.
The band returned and he took the seat next to me. A girl with a trombone appeared and sat down next to the stage.
Jessy introduced her as Martha, saying she was a new friend they'd met outside during the break and she happened to have her trombone with her so they'd invited her to sit in.
The banjo player gave her the key and they began playing "Louisiana Fairy Tale," and then invited her to move her chair up on stage with them.
"It's like a promotion," Mr. Dinamo said.
It was while they were playing "Chinatown" that he leaned over and pointed out that Martha was playing off-key. I asked him if he thought she knew that. "She's ultra-confident if she does," he said.
While the band was trying to decide what to play next, Jessy commented on how large the crowd was for a Monday night. "None of these people have to go to work tomorrow," my new friend said before asking me what I do.
He was tickled with my response because he's a scientist turned writer who's five years into writing a book about people and why they do the things they do. "If I send you a few chapters, will you rip it apart for me?" he wanted to know.
If it's as mediocre as my steakhouse dinner, I'll be glad to.
The Hot Mess closed with a spirited rendition of "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby" with poor Martha still off key but with everyone -musicians and audience- clearly having a fine time on a Monday night.
Plenty good enough to make up for missing the blood moon. And no, sir, I don't mean maybe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
