My Christmas 2016 baptism by fire commenced today.
First up: a trip to the Northern Neck after an achingly short six hours' sleep to assist my ultra-organized parents with the first rumblings of the season, a morning endeavor that involved stuffing tiny glass ornaments into tiny stockings and then tying even tinier ornaments onto the stocking's ribbon hanger before putting a gift tag sticker on each.
It was just this side of mind-numbing, set to Christmas music, natch.
Post-lunch was spent on the third floor of their house - easily the most sweeping view of the Rappahannock river - digging through dusty boxes to locate tree essentials (stand, skirt, lights) among the scores of ancient brown cardboard boxes that hold their holiday artifacts.
And I'm not being unkind by calling them artifacts. The Smithsonian would.
I mean, we're talking about things such as the crumbling box that has for six decades held their manger scene, the one Mom bought at the Kresge in D.C. the year they married and the pieces of which still have the prices stamped on the bottom.
So you have some idea of what I was dealing with, Joseph and Mary are each marked 29 cents, but the baby in the manger is untarnished with anything so tawdry as a cost.
With glitter on my face and the ancient dust of Christmases past under my fingernails, I drove home into the setting sun for more holiday madness.
Having taken the advice of Comedy Coalition last week - "Wrap yourself in holiday cheer and get your tickets today before all comedy is outlawed forever" - I stood, ticket in hand, waiting on the sidewalk for Mac to pick me up for RVA Tonight's Christmas Spectacular.
After dinner in the service of my hired mouth, we joined the throngs at the Byrd Theater for an evening of comedy, interviews and music based on the saddest of holiday propositions: Santa isn't coming this year.
Holding up the Cheer-o-Meter, it was clear that we were dangerously low on holiday spirit after the events of that Tuesday in November that shall not be named.
Trying to bolster morale, co-host Matt told us that the good news was that NASA discovered 1200 new planets this year.
"So after the inauguration, we've got lots of options," host Beau Cribbs cracked from a set depicting his living room, right down to the band in the kitchen and the lurking elf near the Christmas tree.
When the point of the Christmas elf was questioned, Beau observed nonchalantly, "To normalize the idea of a surveillance state." Yikes.
Looking hard for more things we bid farewell to this year (besides the obvious: Prince, Bowie, Cohen), our hosts name-checked "American Idol" ("They saw America was dying, so they just went away"), Beau's liver and the first amendment.
Funny, not funny, right?
Guests kept showing up in Beau's living room, including mayor-elect Levar Stoney in a requisite awful red and white snowflake holiday sweater (and Levar Stoney socks given to him by his "team"), who good-naturedly answered Beau's burning question, "Can you describe what it felt like to kick Joe Morrissey's ass?"
After the theater erupted in laughter, applause and cheering, he explained that during the campaign, it was important for him to find ways to motivate himself. He found his way with, "I'm going to end this man's career."
When asked about former employer and mentor Terry McAuliffe and his role in all that, Levar didn't hesitate to kiss and tell. "He wasn't governor-ready when we got him. It took a lot of work."
Then it was back to his own debt.
"How many months do you have to do Jon Baliles' laundry? Asking for a friend," Beau wanted to know. "No laundry, I just had to take him to a few VCU basketball games." Lots of belly laughs at that since the pics were all over Facebook.
When asked if he'd been given any advice about his first year in office, Levar said he'd been advised not to try to do too much.
"I'm looking for some singles," he explained before realizing how that sounded. "I'm talking baseball here!" Laughter continued. "Don't go for home runs!" Applause. "I didn't mean that like that, either!"
Of course he didn't.
Holiday cheer arrived in many forms, from commercials for the Nog Bullet (for instantaneous egg nog) and an overly-complicated and frustrating board game, to everybody's favorite organist Bob Gulledge leading a singalong on the mighty Wurlitzer (flashback to every Christmas Eve of mine for the past 20 years, but obviously a novelty to many).
Even so, Beau was still not feeling it, so Matt suggested he sing his feelings, causing him to grab his guitar to sing "Blue Christmas," only to have songbird Natalie Prass walk out (looking absolutely fabulous in winter white palazzo pants and matching sweater) and join him onstage.
She was joined by Eric Slick, the drummer for Dr. Dog (and a solo artist as well), the two having met at the National.
He shared that Dr. Dog had just dropped a new album with all proceeds going to the Southern Poverty Law Center, which got enormous applause from the liberal-leaning crowd.
Natalie debuted her new self-penned holiday song, "Everyoneshavingfunbecauseitschristmas" - its profits are going to SPARC - and followed that by saying she'd do one we knew and proceeded to sing X-tina's "This Christmas," which helped get the Cheer-o-Meter to 99%. Finally.
When it ultimately hit the red zone, it was because the entire cast and band did "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," complete with sax solo, snow falling from the balcony and the jolly old elf marching down the aisle and taking the stage with the cast.
"Did we just save Christmas?" Beau asked incredulously and the crowd gave him his answer. Maybe we can still have a merry Christmas despite the Fascist waiting to take over our country!
It's practically a Christmas miracle.
Mac, also known as Miss Christmas, wasn't content to let our holiday-themed evening end there, so going home involved a drive-by to ogle the insane decorations on a house in Randolph followed by an attempt at the Christmas house in Oregon Hill, except they'd already pulled the plug for the evening so we were left to admire the sheer amount of plastic figures, but, alas, no lights.
Legend has it that Christmas is a big commercial racket. It's run by a big eastern syndicate, you know, and we've got 23 days before the first of the twelve days of Christmas even begins.
Ho-ho-ho, here's hoping they never outlaw comedy or music to get us through it.
Showing posts with label levar stoney. Show all posts
Showing posts with label levar stoney. Show all posts
Saturday, December 3, 2016
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Throwing Darts in Lovers' Eyes
When it's the last full day of sunlight before the dreaded return of Eastern Standard Time, a girl can't help but make the most of it.
First off was the necessary step of coalition-building for those of us still smarting over losing our prime candidate. Fellow Jon Baliles devotees had organized a public meeting for those of us interested in seeing what the Baliles-approved candidate had to say in an informal setting.
It helped that Jon was there to support Levar Stoney's cause, but the bigger news by far was Levar saying Jon will be part of his team, thus ensuring that a long-time resident with City Council experience will be there to help the relative newcomer best work with the little people.
The people like me.
Because if the next mayor thinks for a moment that this is still a complacent city where we sit back and the mayor calls the shots with no input from us, that mayor is sadly mistaken.
I'm counting on Jon to help Levar make the most of his shot, but in a way that is most beneficial to the city, not anyone's political agenda.
From campaign headquarters, it was barely a hop, skip and a jump for Mac and me to Hardywood for a last-minute Ethiopian show.
Ethiopian keyboard legend Girma Beyene (known for his major role as part of the '60s "swinging addis" era music scene) and D.C.'s Feedel Band were making a stop at an unlikely place (it's far from the first time I've seen Ethiopian music, but it's always been at Balliceaux) for a late afternoon show scented with the overpowering scent of hops and brewing beer.
Could there have been a lovelier way to spend 90 minutes than with the doors wide open listening to their engaging blend of funk, jazz and Ethiopian rhythms?
The septet- the grand old gentleman Beyene, drummer, bassist, sax, trombone, congas/percussion, keyboards - wound a sinuous web of dance music to a crowd heavy on musicians, world music fans and staff from WRIR.
Charismatic doesn't begin to describe Beyene, who joined the others onstage mid-song and completely captured this audience member's heart as he nonchalantly played the keyboard, sang and smiled, all the while making everything look effortless and enjoyable.
About as effortless and enjoyable as it was to dance in place the entire time they played.
This was a man who long ago gave up showboating. After gesturing to introduce the band members, he grins at us and says, "And me, Girma!" as if there was any doubt in the room.
Walking out, I ran into the town pariah and chatted about how typically Balliceaux a band like this was, a bittersweet moment. In the car, Mac and I tried to imagine a better use of our afternoon and came up empty.
Between Mac dropping me off and a friend I hadn't seen in well over a year coming to fetch me, I had an hour, or just long enough to notice I had a moonflower blooming on my balcony.
I guess tomorrow's will be blooming around 4. Le sigh.
Dinner at Acacia was fabulous in all the usual Acacia ways - middle eastern trance music set the vibe, well-crafted drinks from a master at the bar, the chef's wife visiting tables to engage and laugh. When my friend admitted difficulty in choosing his meal, she suggested a new way of looking at eating.
"When I eat here, I always want to try something new, but I can't give up the white anchovies, so I just have them for dessert." As far as I can see, there's no difference in that and a cheese plate for the final course.
As pretty as it was flavorful, a salad of celery root, Granny Smith apple slices, frisee, black garlic and cider mustard vinaigrette was my first course, followed by rockfish collar with Napa cabbage, pickled carrot and daikon in a Thai chili vinaigrette that I all but ate with my fingers.
While he worked down cauliflower soup and seared scallops with gnocchi in Parmesan butter sauce (I'm no pasta fan generally, but the Irish in me sings a different tune when it comes to potato-based gnocchi), we got to talking about albums because he has more than anyone I know and he's about to have to move them so the room can be painted.
Bragging about a recent find (an 8-record set of The Cars), he admitted to coveting the upcoming 13-disc Dylan boxed set with several songs from Dylan's electric band, of which, apparently, my friend has always been inordinately fond.
This no doubt has to do with Dylan's first album being the very first album he ever bought.
We talked long and hard about what the Internet has wrought. "For Europeans, South Americans and Americans, the Internet is the closest to free speech we've ever seen," he suggests, questioning why the more prudish types can't just avoid the nasty bits.
Neither of us could stand the mortification of the editorial in today's Washington Post about our pedophile and exhibitionist mayoral candidate ("So how can it be that the city seems poised to elect a creepy, ethically clueless embarrassment as its mayor?" the editors muse), making us sound like country bumpkin idiots for the possibility.
After a decent interval, we ate some more.
In order to take my perfectly healthy meal of salad and fish and send it directly to jail (do not pass Go, do not collect $200), I had no choice but to finish with chocolate cremeux - that would be dark chocolate and cream mounded into a semi-firm ball and adorned with strawberry fool - that would be chopped strawberries folded into whipped cream - and savor it as my arteries hardened at warp speed by the rapid influx of so much heavy cream.
We didn't so much walk out of Acacia as roll out.
Once he'd dropped me off, it was on to Vagabond for their first anniversary celebration in the Gypsy Room with Bowie tribute band Life on Mars playing.
Arriving in time to nab a prime bar stool, order a libation and eavesdrop on the staff ("Are you coming to my flute recital tomorrow?"), I also got their recap of last night ("He was so drunk he left his bike somewhere, walked all the way to Scott's Addition and back and now has no clue where his bike is. He looked at Google Maps to see where he walked and it was this crazy-ass route!").
Several of them were concerned because the schedule extended no further than tomorrow, but no one seemed to know how to make the appropriate person get it done. When they realized that Dweezil Zappa is playing the National tomorrow night, they began to question the staffing for it.
"If it gets wild, text me and I'll come in," one server said. Almost overhearing, the bartender asked what was up for tomorrow night since he's off and he, too, said he'd then wait for a text from her in case a crowd appeared.
I felt like I was witnessing the set-up for the barking chain of dogs in "101 Dalmatians."
Curious about what bands brought in what audiences, I asked one of the guys. Seems country brings in people who want a full meal first and come back for drinks afterward, while metal brings drinkers who don't eat. EDM attendees don't even show up to drink, I have it from the horse's mouth.
By then, people were sprawled on the couches, the bar was lined with sitters and the standing and a knot of ridiculously tall people had gathered at just the right place to block the view of me and the other short women behind them.
With the exception of singer Will Gorman, all the members of Life on Mars took the stage and began playing until he joined them, clad as the Thin White Duke adjusting his shirt cuffs and launching into "Station to Station."
It was an immensely satisfying moment, all the more so for the only other time I'd seen this band: January 8th of this year. The date was significant then because Bowie's new album was about to come out and Will exhorted us to go buy it.
The reality was that Bowie died January 10th, so the last time I saw Life on Mars, they were a band covering a living musician and tonight they were doing more of a memorial performance. Weird.
But no matter the state of Bowie, the band was incredibly tight-sounding and Gorman exhibited his stellar Bowie dance moves whether singing "Blue Jean," "China Girl" or showing off during extended guitar solos.
Looking around the dimly-lit, low-ceiling Gypsy Room, the singer commented on the red walls, glowing back bar and piano motif, calling it really classy. "We should be a jazz band," he quipped.
The band pared it down to a couple of acoustic guitars for "Starman" and "The Jean Genie," causing the staff near me to get apoplectic about it ("Is this gonna be an acoustic set? That's not gonna play here!") when actually it had been announced online that they'd do an acoustic set.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find the chef, providing an opportunity to congratulate him on his first year at Vagabond. Man, that went quickly.
Many in the crowd were devotees of Bowie and every time a song like "Ashes to Ashes" was announced, one of them would erupt into their own Bowie story of that song - when they first heard it, where they first bought it, the usual uber-fan one upping type nonsense.
The rest of the band returned and "Suffragette City" got dancers on the floor and the sweet scent of burning orange peel in the air as the bartender made a cocktail that required burnt orange.
Next to me, two guys wanted to chat, but when that song ended, the one interrupted, "Make a note, they killed it on that song!"
So far as I could tell, they killed it on all the songs. Clearly, they've played a lot of shows since I last saw them ten months ago when the devastatingly dashing David Bowie was still among us.
Walking out to leave, I got as far as the front door where smokers congregated when I ran into everyone's favorite Civil War historian/nerd and wound up in a three-way conversation with the manager of the restaurant at the center of the shit storm right now, when she just happened to walk up.
Life presents itself, people do thoughtless and stupid things and we all - the entire city - would be wise to use such openings to start better conversations about the big things that matter.
As long as we've got all these long, dark evenings ahead, we may as well put them to good use. Maybe by the time we get our daylight back, this city's house will be in order.
Leave it to Richmond to use the crazy-ass route to get there.
First off was the necessary step of coalition-building for those of us still smarting over losing our prime candidate. Fellow Jon Baliles devotees had organized a public meeting for those of us interested in seeing what the Baliles-approved candidate had to say in an informal setting.
It helped that Jon was there to support Levar Stoney's cause, but the bigger news by far was Levar saying Jon will be part of his team, thus ensuring that a long-time resident with City Council experience will be there to help the relative newcomer best work with the little people.
The people like me.
Because if the next mayor thinks for a moment that this is still a complacent city where we sit back and the mayor calls the shots with no input from us, that mayor is sadly mistaken.
I'm counting on Jon to help Levar make the most of his shot, but in a way that is most beneficial to the city, not anyone's political agenda.
From campaign headquarters, it was barely a hop, skip and a jump for Mac and me to Hardywood for a last-minute Ethiopian show.
Ethiopian keyboard legend Girma Beyene (known for his major role as part of the '60s "swinging addis" era music scene) and D.C.'s Feedel Band were making a stop at an unlikely place (it's far from the first time I've seen Ethiopian music, but it's always been at Balliceaux) for a late afternoon show scented with the overpowering scent of hops and brewing beer.
Could there have been a lovelier way to spend 90 minutes than with the doors wide open listening to their engaging blend of funk, jazz and Ethiopian rhythms?
The septet- the grand old gentleman Beyene, drummer, bassist, sax, trombone, congas/percussion, keyboards - wound a sinuous web of dance music to a crowd heavy on musicians, world music fans and staff from WRIR.
Charismatic doesn't begin to describe Beyene, who joined the others onstage mid-song and completely captured this audience member's heart as he nonchalantly played the keyboard, sang and smiled, all the while making everything look effortless and enjoyable.
About as effortless and enjoyable as it was to dance in place the entire time they played.
This was a man who long ago gave up showboating. After gesturing to introduce the band members, he grins at us and says, "And me, Girma!" as if there was any doubt in the room.
Walking out, I ran into the town pariah and chatted about how typically Balliceaux a band like this was, a bittersweet moment. In the car, Mac and I tried to imagine a better use of our afternoon and came up empty.
Between Mac dropping me off and a friend I hadn't seen in well over a year coming to fetch me, I had an hour, or just long enough to notice I had a moonflower blooming on my balcony.
I guess tomorrow's will be blooming around 4. Le sigh.
Dinner at Acacia was fabulous in all the usual Acacia ways - middle eastern trance music set the vibe, well-crafted drinks from a master at the bar, the chef's wife visiting tables to engage and laugh. When my friend admitted difficulty in choosing his meal, she suggested a new way of looking at eating.
"When I eat here, I always want to try something new, but I can't give up the white anchovies, so I just have them for dessert." As far as I can see, there's no difference in that and a cheese plate for the final course.
As pretty as it was flavorful, a salad of celery root, Granny Smith apple slices, frisee, black garlic and cider mustard vinaigrette was my first course, followed by rockfish collar with Napa cabbage, pickled carrot and daikon in a Thai chili vinaigrette that I all but ate with my fingers.
While he worked down cauliflower soup and seared scallops with gnocchi in Parmesan butter sauce (I'm no pasta fan generally, but the Irish in me sings a different tune when it comes to potato-based gnocchi), we got to talking about albums because he has more than anyone I know and he's about to have to move them so the room can be painted.
Bragging about a recent find (an 8-record set of The Cars), he admitted to coveting the upcoming 13-disc Dylan boxed set with several songs from Dylan's electric band, of which, apparently, my friend has always been inordinately fond.
This no doubt has to do with Dylan's first album being the very first album he ever bought.
We talked long and hard about what the Internet has wrought. "For Europeans, South Americans and Americans, the Internet is the closest to free speech we've ever seen," he suggests, questioning why the more prudish types can't just avoid the nasty bits.
Neither of us could stand the mortification of the editorial in today's Washington Post about our pedophile and exhibitionist mayoral candidate ("So how can it be that the city seems poised to elect a creepy, ethically clueless embarrassment as its mayor?" the editors muse), making us sound like country bumpkin idiots for the possibility.
After a decent interval, we ate some more.
In order to take my perfectly healthy meal of salad and fish and send it directly to jail (do not pass Go, do not collect $200), I had no choice but to finish with chocolate cremeux - that would be dark chocolate and cream mounded into a semi-firm ball and adorned with strawberry fool - that would be chopped strawberries folded into whipped cream - and savor it as my arteries hardened at warp speed by the rapid influx of so much heavy cream.
We didn't so much walk out of Acacia as roll out.
Once he'd dropped me off, it was on to Vagabond for their first anniversary celebration in the Gypsy Room with Bowie tribute band Life on Mars playing.
Arriving in time to nab a prime bar stool, order a libation and eavesdrop on the staff ("Are you coming to my flute recital tomorrow?"), I also got their recap of last night ("He was so drunk he left his bike somewhere, walked all the way to Scott's Addition and back and now has no clue where his bike is. He looked at Google Maps to see where he walked and it was this crazy-ass route!").
Several of them were concerned because the schedule extended no further than tomorrow, but no one seemed to know how to make the appropriate person get it done. When they realized that Dweezil Zappa is playing the National tomorrow night, they began to question the staffing for it.
"If it gets wild, text me and I'll come in," one server said. Almost overhearing, the bartender asked what was up for tomorrow night since he's off and he, too, said he'd then wait for a text from her in case a crowd appeared.
I felt like I was witnessing the set-up for the barking chain of dogs in "101 Dalmatians."
Curious about what bands brought in what audiences, I asked one of the guys. Seems country brings in people who want a full meal first and come back for drinks afterward, while metal brings drinkers who don't eat. EDM attendees don't even show up to drink, I have it from the horse's mouth.
By then, people were sprawled on the couches, the bar was lined with sitters and the standing and a knot of ridiculously tall people had gathered at just the right place to block the view of me and the other short women behind them.
With the exception of singer Will Gorman, all the members of Life on Mars took the stage and began playing until he joined them, clad as the Thin White Duke adjusting his shirt cuffs and launching into "Station to Station."
It was an immensely satisfying moment, all the more so for the only other time I'd seen this band: January 8th of this year. The date was significant then because Bowie's new album was about to come out and Will exhorted us to go buy it.
The reality was that Bowie died January 10th, so the last time I saw Life on Mars, they were a band covering a living musician and tonight they were doing more of a memorial performance. Weird.
But no matter the state of Bowie, the band was incredibly tight-sounding and Gorman exhibited his stellar Bowie dance moves whether singing "Blue Jean," "China Girl" or showing off during extended guitar solos.
Looking around the dimly-lit, low-ceiling Gypsy Room, the singer commented on the red walls, glowing back bar and piano motif, calling it really classy. "We should be a jazz band," he quipped.
The band pared it down to a couple of acoustic guitars for "Starman" and "The Jean Genie," causing the staff near me to get apoplectic about it ("Is this gonna be an acoustic set? That's not gonna play here!") when actually it had been announced online that they'd do an acoustic set.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find the chef, providing an opportunity to congratulate him on his first year at Vagabond. Man, that went quickly.
Many in the crowd were devotees of Bowie and every time a song like "Ashes to Ashes" was announced, one of them would erupt into their own Bowie story of that song - when they first heard it, where they first bought it, the usual uber-fan one upping type nonsense.
The rest of the band returned and "Suffragette City" got dancers on the floor and the sweet scent of burning orange peel in the air as the bartender made a cocktail that required burnt orange.
Next to me, two guys wanted to chat, but when that song ended, the one interrupted, "Make a note, they killed it on that song!"
So far as I could tell, they killed it on all the songs. Clearly, they've played a lot of shows since I last saw them ten months ago when the devastatingly dashing David Bowie was still among us.
Walking out to leave, I got as far as the front door where smokers congregated when I ran into everyone's favorite Civil War historian/nerd and wound up in a three-way conversation with the manager of the restaurant at the center of the shit storm right now, when she just happened to walk up.
Life presents itself, people do thoughtless and stupid things and we all - the entire city - would be wise to use such openings to start better conversations about the big things that matter.
As long as we've got all these long, dark evenings ahead, we may as well put them to good use. Maybe by the time we get our daylight back, this city's house will be in order.
Leave it to Richmond to use the crazy-ass route to get there.
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Get on the Bus
Some people get it and some people don't.
I rearranged my plans so I wouldn't miss any of tonight's "Create the Vote: A Mayoral Forum on Tapping RVA's Creative Culture," not because I hadn't just seen a mayoral forum less than two weeks ago (I had) but because the issue of growing Richmond's creative culture worries me.
You can be sure I don't want to hear candidates talking about making us over into the next Austin or Portland or, inexplicably, New Orleans, not because there's anything wrong with those places but because the thought of Richmond becoming like any of them depresses me.
When moderator Michael Paul Williams asked the six-person panel of Baliles, Berry, Junes, Morrissey, Stoney and Williams, "What's it going to take to get us to the next level?" the all-important answer came from a familiar voice in the audience.
"We are there!" community activist and musician Laney Sullivan called out, putting into words exactly what I had been thinking.
Granted, our schools aren't there and we'd do future generations a real service if we could finally fix them and put into place more art-based cirriculums to ensure that creativity is encouraged from childhood.
But the creativity of our scene, to my way of thinking, needs no self-aggrandizement, no grand scale advertising campaign, no push to have more branded events.
That's not who Richmond is and I pray (despite being a card-carrying heathen) that it's not what future mayors plan to wrestle our offbeat little DIY city into becoming.
Sorry, Jack Berry, but we're not a South by Southwest kind of a town and calling local arts groups "avant garde" makes you sound like Grandpa shaking his fist at some new-fangled sprinkler.
Tsk, task, Lawrence Williams, you haven't been inside the November Theater- a bastion of the local art scene - since you were 3 years old and it was still segregated?
And, really, Bobby Junes, it's not the folk concert but the Folk Fest you claimed to attend, albeit only on the non-rainy days of the event.
I'll admit I'm bothered, Levar Stoney, when you say that the mayor should be creative about bringing in money for the arts because I wonder if that means more backing from Dominion Power and others with questionable practices.
As for you, Joe Morrissey, I accept tonight's apology for your stupidity 27 years ago in voting against art you considered obscene at 1708 Gallery, but I can't accept a 57-year old man preying on a 17-year old employee.
What I can embrace is Jon Balile's statement that the creative community should be used to make city decisions. He's right because they are the people responsible for moving the scene forward and making Richmond the highly desirable place touted by everyone from the New York Times to USA Today.
The forum took place in front of the set for Virginia Repertory's production of "1776," providing a suitably political but, more importantly, creative backdrop for tonight's discussion. Even the timer sound that alerted candidates that they'd run on too long was a military-sounding drum roll.
Despite everything going off without a hitch, the format was deeply flawed.
Every question began at one end of the row of candidates or the other, meaning that Baliles and Williams had the unenviable task of answering two questions in a row every single time and not one of the other candidates - Berry, Junes, Morrissey and Stoney - ever had to be first out of the gate with their thoughts.
Is the audience as impressed with you when all you do is piggyback on your predecessors' answers? They are not.
I emphatically agree with Baliles that our homegrown creative spirit is what the city needs to get behind. While not quite as masterfully metaphoric as Prince's "Little Red Corvette," his comment drove the point home well. "The city needs to get out of the way and let the creative community drive the bus."
The funny part is, he had to be saying that for the benefit of audience members who aren't regularly involved in the local scene.
Because anyone who is participating knows that, in essence, the creatives have already been reshaping Richmond from the butt of jokes (How many Richmonders does it take to change a light bulb or, well, anything? A dozen: one to change the bulb and 11 to talk about how great the old bulb, or way of doing things, was) to a vibrant, inclusive scene that welcomes anyone wanting to be part of it.
Creatives of all kinds - artists, brewers, musicians, filmmakers, chefs, muralists, bartenders, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers - have been driving the bus for at least the past five or six years, whether the mainstream population was noticing or not.
I say that as someone who's not only been participating, but documenting the scene for 7 years Look back at my blog posts from 2009 or 2010 and you'll see a steady increase in the sheer number, much less the variety and quality, of offerings of every kind in Richmond.
All brought to life by passionate people who loved this city and wanted to contribute in a way that was meaningful to them and, as it turned out, to a whole lot more people they didn't even know.
Next level? We don't need no stinkin' next level when it comes to the creative community. We're there.
Wouldn't it be grand to elect Jon Baliles and have a mayor willing to gas up the bus and keep it in good repair so the real talent can continue driving it?
I rearranged my plans so I wouldn't miss any of tonight's "Create the Vote: A Mayoral Forum on Tapping RVA's Creative Culture," not because I hadn't just seen a mayoral forum less than two weeks ago (I had) but because the issue of growing Richmond's creative culture worries me.
You can be sure I don't want to hear candidates talking about making us over into the next Austin or Portland or, inexplicably, New Orleans, not because there's anything wrong with those places but because the thought of Richmond becoming like any of them depresses me.
When moderator Michael Paul Williams asked the six-person panel of Baliles, Berry, Junes, Morrissey, Stoney and Williams, "What's it going to take to get us to the next level?" the all-important answer came from a familiar voice in the audience.
"We are there!" community activist and musician Laney Sullivan called out, putting into words exactly what I had been thinking.
Granted, our schools aren't there and we'd do future generations a real service if we could finally fix them and put into place more art-based cirriculums to ensure that creativity is encouraged from childhood.
But the creativity of our scene, to my way of thinking, needs no self-aggrandizement, no grand scale advertising campaign, no push to have more branded events.
That's not who Richmond is and I pray (despite being a card-carrying heathen) that it's not what future mayors plan to wrestle our offbeat little DIY city into becoming.
Sorry, Jack Berry, but we're not a South by Southwest kind of a town and calling local arts groups "avant garde" makes you sound like Grandpa shaking his fist at some new-fangled sprinkler.
Tsk, task, Lawrence Williams, you haven't been inside the November Theater- a bastion of the local art scene - since you were 3 years old and it was still segregated?
And, really, Bobby Junes, it's not the folk concert but the Folk Fest you claimed to attend, albeit only on the non-rainy days of the event.
I'll admit I'm bothered, Levar Stoney, when you say that the mayor should be creative about bringing in money for the arts because I wonder if that means more backing from Dominion Power and others with questionable practices.
As for you, Joe Morrissey, I accept tonight's apology for your stupidity 27 years ago in voting against art you considered obscene at 1708 Gallery, but I can't accept a 57-year old man preying on a 17-year old employee.
What I can embrace is Jon Balile's statement that the creative community should be used to make city decisions. He's right because they are the people responsible for moving the scene forward and making Richmond the highly desirable place touted by everyone from the New York Times to USA Today.
The forum took place in front of the set for Virginia Repertory's production of "1776," providing a suitably political but, more importantly, creative backdrop for tonight's discussion. Even the timer sound that alerted candidates that they'd run on too long was a military-sounding drum roll.
Despite everything going off without a hitch, the format was deeply flawed.
Every question began at one end of the row of candidates or the other, meaning that Baliles and Williams had the unenviable task of answering two questions in a row every single time and not one of the other candidates - Berry, Junes, Morrissey and Stoney - ever had to be first out of the gate with their thoughts.
Is the audience as impressed with you when all you do is piggyback on your predecessors' answers? They are not.
I emphatically agree with Baliles that our homegrown creative spirit is what the city needs to get behind. While not quite as masterfully metaphoric as Prince's "Little Red Corvette," his comment drove the point home well. "The city needs to get out of the way and let the creative community drive the bus."
The funny part is, he had to be saying that for the benefit of audience members who aren't regularly involved in the local scene.
Because anyone who is participating knows that, in essence, the creatives have already been reshaping Richmond from the butt of jokes (How many Richmonders does it take to change a light bulb or, well, anything? A dozen: one to change the bulb and 11 to talk about how great the old bulb, or way of doing things, was) to a vibrant, inclusive scene that welcomes anyone wanting to be part of it.
Creatives of all kinds - artists, brewers, musicians, filmmakers, chefs, muralists, bartenders, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers - have been driving the bus for at least the past five or six years, whether the mainstream population was noticing or not.
I say that as someone who's not only been participating, but documenting the scene for 7 years Look back at my blog posts from 2009 or 2010 and you'll see a steady increase in the sheer number, much less the variety and quality, of offerings of every kind in Richmond.
All brought to life by passionate people who loved this city and wanted to contribute in a way that was meaningful to them and, as it turned out, to a whole lot more people they didn't even know.
Next level? We don't need no stinkin' next level when it comes to the creative community. We're there.
Wouldn't it be grand to elect Jon Baliles and have a mayor willing to gas up the bus and keep it in good repair so the real talent can continue driving it?
Thursday, September 29, 2016
We Built This City
The Presidential debate's got nothing on the Richmond Mayorathon.
Did the Clinton/Trump shindig begin with the director of a top ten museum clutching a doll representing "The Scream" while bragging about the upcoming Edvard Munch/Jasper Johns show? I'm afraid it didn't.
Did the national event have not one but two women moderators? It did not. Nor did it have a moderator who repeatedly called out candidates who rambled without answering the question, although she wasn't consistent about it, letting some people off the hook.
Did the prez debate begin with each candidate walking out to his or her own self-selected theme song? I don't think so and although some choices were regrettably trite - "I am the Champion, "Fight Song" or ~shudder~ Dave Matthews Band - it established early on that Richmond was doing this debate thing in our usual DIY way.
Did the unpleasant big business candidate in Monday's debate get showered in a spontaneous chorus of "boos" from the crowd when he went self-servingly off-topic in the very first question of the evening like RVA's unpleasant big business candidate did tonight? No such luck.
Did the main event have a pedophile on the dais main-splaining about how, despite being known as a fighter, he works well with others to accomplish things? Um, nope.
Well, did the televised debate have a candidate who would answer a question about the city's defects by saying, "The biggest weakness is Miss Mosby not being mayor" or fake pout because she wasn't getting enough applause?
And am I the only voter concerned about a would-be mayor referring to herself in the third person?
You don't think Monday's moderator would have had the balls to pull a speed round titled "Team of Rivals" and ask each candidate to say what person running they'd pick to be part of their team and in what capacity, do you?
Or have a candidate so clueless he would respond, "I'd pick a name out of a hat" when asked to choose a specific person, or another who could - with a straight face, mind you - refer to corporate pimp Berry as a "fine southern gentleman"?
It is to laugh.
Where tonight's local version of democracy in action aligned with the all-important Presidential debate was that there was clearly one candidate who'd prepared scrupulously to talk issues and past record and, best of all, even bring humor to the table while others were known to traffic in run-on sentences, platitudes and meaningless rah-rah.
On the subject of transit and how to sell regional transit to the counties, Jon Baliles pointed to the Broad Street corridor labeled in purple on the map and said, "We need to convince the people along the purple route that bus is not a four-letter word."
Boom. And, make no mistake, by "people," he means NIMBY-type white people.
Asked about increasing the city's walkability and bikability, Baliles reminded the sold-out crowd that, "Everyone knows Richmonders are equally bad at walking, biking and driving." Affirmations like we were in church abounded.
Even when reminiscing about the James when he was a boy growing up in Stratford Hills, he managed to elicit a laugh when he said, "Back then, you didn't go in the river for fear you'd grow a second head."
No, where the Presidential debate and Richmond's Mayorathon dovetailed was that any sentient voter could plainly see there was only one viable option to lead. Even the other candidates knew it.
When asked about who they'd want on their team if elected, three of them chose Baliles. Duh. Let's hope Richmond voters in five districts are that savvy in November.
Next to me was a couple who moved to the Fan from London two weeks ago with a table and chairs ("It's a long story," they said in unison when I asked), yet here they were, out trying to learn about the people who want to run their adopted city.
Leaning in, he asked me, "We're new here. Is there a runoff if no one candidate gets at east 50% of the vote?"
I explained that if no candidate gets a majority in at least 5 of the 9 districts, there most certainly is a runoff and he seemed satisfied with that as we exited the auditorium.
Using the warm, humid and breezy night that we agreed felt like beach weather as an excuse, Mac and I ditched the post-debate reception at the museum for the greener pastures of Meadow and Park, where we could hear Janis Joplin blaring from Garnett's open windows and doors from a block away.
Inside, the air was every bit as beach-like as outside, but the music was even more enjoyable at close range and we could sup and sip while rehashing Richmond's political spectacle and the folly of a proposed riverfront project to turn the wilderness of one of our favorite walking destinations, Chapel Island, into a manicured, concrete "park."
Our sense of being at peace with the world eating strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting in the soft night air while Jefferson Airplane blared only encouraged us to believe that yes, we can elect a mayor who will move Richmond forward without selling out or diluting what makes this place so distinctive and livable.
He's only got one head, but tonight proved that was plenty. Baliles is our guy. Even the Londoners said so.
Did the Clinton/Trump shindig begin with the director of a top ten museum clutching a doll representing "The Scream" while bragging about the upcoming Edvard Munch/Jasper Johns show? I'm afraid it didn't.
Did the national event have not one but two women moderators? It did not. Nor did it have a moderator who repeatedly called out candidates who rambled without answering the question, although she wasn't consistent about it, letting some people off the hook.
Did the prez debate begin with each candidate walking out to his or her own self-selected theme song? I don't think so and although some choices were regrettably trite - "I am the Champion, "Fight Song" or ~shudder~ Dave Matthews Band - it established early on that Richmond was doing this debate thing in our usual DIY way.
Did the unpleasant big business candidate in Monday's debate get showered in a spontaneous chorus of "boos" from the crowd when he went self-servingly off-topic in the very first question of the evening like RVA's unpleasant big business candidate did tonight? No such luck.
Did the main event have a pedophile on the dais main-splaining about how, despite being known as a fighter, he works well with others to accomplish things? Um, nope.
Well, did the televised debate have a candidate who would answer a question about the city's defects by saying, "The biggest weakness is Miss Mosby not being mayor" or fake pout because she wasn't getting enough applause?
And am I the only voter concerned about a would-be mayor referring to herself in the third person?
You don't think Monday's moderator would have had the balls to pull a speed round titled "Team of Rivals" and ask each candidate to say what person running they'd pick to be part of their team and in what capacity, do you?
Or have a candidate so clueless he would respond, "I'd pick a name out of a hat" when asked to choose a specific person, or another who could - with a straight face, mind you - refer to corporate pimp Berry as a "fine southern gentleman"?
It is to laugh.
Where tonight's local version of democracy in action aligned with the all-important Presidential debate was that there was clearly one candidate who'd prepared scrupulously to talk issues and past record and, best of all, even bring humor to the table while others were known to traffic in run-on sentences, platitudes and meaningless rah-rah.
On the subject of transit and how to sell regional transit to the counties, Jon Baliles pointed to the Broad Street corridor labeled in purple on the map and said, "We need to convince the people along the purple route that bus is not a four-letter word."
Boom. And, make no mistake, by "people," he means NIMBY-type white people.
Asked about increasing the city's walkability and bikability, Baliles reminded the sold-out crowd that, "Everyone knows Richmonders are equally bad at walking, biking and driving." Affirmations like we were in church abounded.
Even when reminiscing about the James when he was a boy growing up in Stratford Hills, he managed to elicit a laugh when he said, "Back then, you didn't go in the river for fear you'd grow a second head."
No, where the Presidential debate and Richmond's Mayorathon dovetailed was that any sentient voter could plainly see there was only one viable option to lead. Even the other candidates knew it.
When asked about who they'd want on their team if elected, three of them chose Baliles. Duh. Let's hope Richmond voters in five districts are that savvy in November.
Next to me was a couple who moved to the Fan from London two weeks ago with a table and chairs ("It's a long story," they said in unison when I asked), yet here they were, out trying to learn about the people who want to run their adopted city.
Leaning in, he asked me, "We're new here. Is there a runoff if no one candidate gets at east 50% of the vote?"
I explained that if no candidate gets a majority in at least 5 of the 9 districts, there most certainly is a runoff and he seemed satisfied with that as we exited the auditorium.
Using the warm, humid and breezy night that we agreed felt like beach weather as an excuse, Mac and I ditched the post-debate reception at the museum for the greener pastures of Meadow and Park, where we could hear Janis Joplin blaring from Garnett's open windows and doors from a block away.
Inside, the air was every bit as beach-like as outside, but the music was even more enjoyable at close range and we could sup and sip while rehashing Richmond's political spectacle and the folly of a proposed riverfront project to turn the wilderness of one of our favorite walking destinations, Chapel Island, into a manicured, concrete "park."
Our sense of being at peace with the world eating strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting in the soft night air while Jefferson Airplane blared only encouraged us to believe that yes, we can elect a mayor who will move Richmond forward without selling out or diluting what makes this place so distinctive and livable.
He's only got one head, but tonight proved that was plenty. Baliles is our guy. Even the Londoners said so.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
Into the Great Wide Open
The things you miss when you have a social life every night.
There's the luxury of listening to country songwriter Brent Cobb who, I learn, hails from Ellaville, Georgia ("There's 1609 people where I'm from") on the radio telling his life story between singing songs from his new album.
The fact that I'd never heard of Brent only made hearing all this the more satisfying.
His life includes admitted worship of Shooter Jennings' attitude and Tom Petty's songwriting chops ("His songs seem simple because it's so conversational, because Tom Petty sings it like he says it") and makes for pretty entertaining listening as I putter about doing further trip preparation minutiae that will allow me to cross things off one of my many lists.
Like watering plants, choosing books and locating accessories. In what girlfriends would expect to be the unlikeliest of scenarios, I fashion a necklace out of one I'd created a couple years ago for a disco-themed party. Tonight, it lost the '70s flower and returned to its initial funky charm, albeit with some lengthening for a different look.
But all gainful activity pauses when Ray Charles' instrumental version of "One Mint Julep" comes on, not because I'd ever heard it before but because between its oh-so-'60s rhythms and beatnik-cool horn section, it is aural perfection that obliterates my capacity to do anything but wish I could samba or cha cha cha around sleek mid-century modern furniture in a Manhattan apartment.
As I'm grooving by the front windows, I glance down when I hear wailing. The Dad and sister of one of my young downstairs neighbors has kindly come to help the recent graduate move out, the mistake being that Dad left the driving and thus the parking to daughter, who has managed to park only after adding a fresh pole-shaped dent to the trunk and bumper.
It's a nice deep dent, too.
Standing next to the pole that managed to jump out at the back of the car, she whines, "I don't know how I did that!" to which I think, clearly there's much you don't know since the parking space could have accommodated a Chrysler as big as a whale and you struggled with your little entry-level Hyundai.
She tries the trunk, which no longer opens with the new pole imprint folding it into itself. Dad, meanwhile, is apoplectic, exchanging with her heated words in Spanish about her egregious error in judgement.
A simple trip to pick up your brother and look what you've done, his rapid-fire words and fierce scowl seem to say. Brother and friends come out and much excitable conversation unfolds. Clearly we have a situation on Clay Street.
Who knew there was so much drama right in front of my house on a Wednesday night? Certainly not me since I'm gone every night.
Later, when I come downstairs to go to the basement, I find a smiling man on the front porch, eager to introduce himself as Levar Stoney, former Commonwealth's secretary and recent addition to the mayoral race, the fourth I've met so far. Levar clarifies that he is the first in his family to graduate high school, much less college.
That's bootstraps right there.
So on a sunny summer evening at a time when I'd usually be out and about, we stand - he on the porch, me on the sidewalk - chatting genially about the next mayor addressing the deplorable school situation so we will stop losing families to the 'burbs once their tykes are school age.
Levar apologizes for his relative youth - 35 - but I point out that one need only be 35 to be President, so if it's apparently not too young for that job...
The funny part is, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I think about this fact for the first time probably since Civics class and wonder holy hell, why would we even consider putting a 35-year old in charge of the free world?
I mean, 35 was old when the Constitution was written, so the age represented a far more evolved person than would be likely today.
For heaven's sake, it recently made news that for the first time in 130 years, Americans 18-34 are more likely to live with Mom and Dad than in any other living situation. Come on, millennials, what happened to good old-fashioned living in sin, or better yet, in a group house with other minimum wage lifelong students and artist types?
Really, Mom and Dad were the only choice?
I'm inclined to think that theoretically there should be more years between moving out of your parents' basement and into the White House than one. Let's say a minimum of ten and if we have to adjust the preamble to allow for delayed adolescence/arrested development, I say do it.
For that matter, are we even producing 35-year olds capable of running a country? Seems doubtful.
But that will have to be a discussion for another day since between phone conversations, hemming dresses and attempting to pack lightly, I have bigger fish to fry. Preferably a nice skate wing in brown butter with capers.
For now, a simple bon voyage will do.
There's the luxury of listening to country songwriter Brent Cobb who, I learn, hails from Ellaville, Georgia ("There's 1609 people where I'm from") on the radio telling his life story between singing songs from his new album.
The fact that I'd never heard of Brent only made hearing all this the more satisfying.
His life includes admitted worship of Shooter Jennings' attitude and Tom Petty's songwriting chops ("His songs seem simple because it's so conversational, because Tom Petty sings it like he says it") and makes for pretty entertaining listening as I putter about doing further trip preparation minutiae that will allow me to cross things off one of my many lists.
Like watering plants, choosing books and locating accessories. In what girlfriends would expect to be the unlikeliest of scenarios, I fashion a necklace out of one I'd created a couple years ago for a disco-themed party. Tonight, it lost the '70s flower and returned to its initial funky charm, albeit with some lengthening for a different look.
But all gainful activity pauses when Ray Charles' instrumental version of "One Mint Julep" comes on, not because I'd ever heard it before but because between its oh-so-'60s rhythms and beatnik-cool horn section, it is aural perfection that obliterates my capacity to do anything but wish I could samba or cha cha cha around sleek mid-century modern furniture in a Manhattan apartment.
As I'm grooving by the front windows, I glance down when I hear wailing. The Dad and sister of one of my young downstairs neighbors has kindly come to help the recent graduate move out, the mistake being that Dad left the driving and thus the parking to daughter, who has managed to park only after adding a fresh pole-shaped dent to the trunk and bumper.
It's a nice deep dent, too.
Standing next to the pole that managed to jump out at the back of the car, she whines, "I don't know how I did that!" to which I think, clearly there's much you don't know since the parking space could have accommodated a Chrysler as big as a whale and you struggled with your little entry-level Hyundai.
She tries the trunk, which no longer opens with the new pole imprint folding it into itself. Dad, meanwhile, is apoplectic, exchanging with her heated words in Spanish about her egregious error in judgement.
A simple trip to pick up your brother and look what you've done, his rapid-fire words and fierce scowl seem to say. Brother and friends come out and much excitable conversation unfolds. Clearly we have a situation on Clay Street.
Who knew there was so much drama right in front of my house on a Wednesday night? Certainly not me since I'm gone every night.
Later, when I come downstairs to go to the basement, I find a smiling man on the front porch, eager to introduce himself as Levar Stoney, former Commonwealth's secretary and recent addition to the mayoral race, the fourth I've met so far. Levar clarifies that he is the first in his family to graduate high school, much less college.
That's bootstraps right there.
So on a sunny summer evening at a time when I'd usually be out and about, we stand - he on the porch, me on the sidewalk - chatting genially about the next mayor addressing the deplorable school situation so we will stop losing families to the 'burbs once their tykes are school age.
Levar apologizes for his relative youth - 35 - but I point out that one need only be 35 to be President, so if it's apparently not too young for that job...
The funny part is, as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I think about this fact for the first time probably since Civics class and wonder holy hell, why would we even consider putting a 35-year old in charge of the free world?
I mean, 35 was old when the Constitution was written, so the age represented a far more evolved person than would be likely today.
For heaven's sake, it recently made news that for the first time in 130 years, Americans 18-34 are more likely to live with Mom and Dad than in any other living situation. Come on, millennials, what happened to good old-fashioned living in sin, or better yet, in a group house with other minimum wage lifelong students and artist types?
Really, Mom and Dad were the only choice?
I'm inclined to think that theoretically there should be more years between moving out of your parents' basement and into the White House than one. Let's say a minimum of ten and if we have to adjust the preamble to allow for delayed adolescence/arrested development, I say do it.
For that matter, are we even producing 35-year olds capable of running a country? Seems doubtful.
But that will have to be a discussion for another day since between phone conversations, hemming dresses and attempting to pack lightly, I have bigger fish to fry. Preferably a nice skate wing in brown butter with capers.
For now, a simple bon voyage will do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
