Shaking It Like Mary Magdelene

Twas four days before Christmas and all through the Ward
The students had left and I was near bored

It's not that I didn't have plenty of work
But I wanted some fun, 'tho not at the Quirk

So Mac and I went to Rapp to fill up on nog
But the price of one nog left us slightly agog

As fans of Rap Session, we were sad to hear
It's no more, Rappahannock made it disappear

We savored ours slowly, then had to beat feet
Choosing to land at Lucy's on Second Street

Cesar salad, fried oysters and for us to share,
Non-meatballs and spaghetti squash, beyond compare

We licked the plate clean of chocolate mousse pie
Admired vintage decor, then said our goodbye

Next stop: the November to see "Sister Act"
The musical's gotten raves and that's a fact

Lines such as, "This must be how Protestants feel!"
Mocked religion and made us laugh with much zeal

Set in the seventies, so bell bottoms galore
Polyester jumpsuits had me me begging for more

A song like "I Could Be That Guy" made us swoon
But not quite as much as that big solstice moon

For a day that began with river and sun
It led to what Mac likes to call Christmas fun

For heathens, it's just about good company
The nog and the music, that's bonus, you see

Now I head out for more, but not in a sleigh
2019 just means more time for me to say

Happy whatever to all and to all, have a ball!
I know I am.

A Delicate Quickness

My parents weren't especially creative when naming me or my five sisters.

Family legend has it they resorted to combing through the phone book to find monikers for all their daughters and even then, the most exotic one they could come up with was Melanie.

But on a girls' night out last evening at Lucy's with Pru and Queen B, I learned what creative naming is. Discussing the antics of family members - something about a 14-year old marrying her cousin, a feat which should be illegal, but Queen B assured me she just changed her last name so it wouldn't be so obvious - that they mentioned name after name with a romantic bent: Mathilda, Lorna, Amelia, all a far cry from standard mid-century names like Karen, Cheryl and Nancy.

When I commented on the fancifulness of their family names, Pru admitted that they'd all come from literature, namely whatever romance her great-grandmother had been reading at the time. Of course a family of readers would pluck names from books.

I should have guessed.

"There was even a Nicodemus!" she shared. "Oh, but he was a cousin," Queen B explained dismissively. Apparently there were also several Elmers, including Queen B's terribly charming artist brother whom I've heard so much about.

Given how applause-worthy my meal was - a Fall hash of roasted sweet potatoes, parsnips  and celery root over beets and walnuts with a perfect poached egg on top was followed by roasted snapper over barley in leek and celery root cream sauce with green beans - it's amazing that I was even paying attention to the conversation. For a place with a focus on family-raised beef, it was easily one of the best pieces of fish I've had lately and that's not the Chateau de Brique Rose talking.

And while neither of my companions wanted dessert, I made sure they at least sampled my chocolate mousse pie before we dipped out. What did they think the three spoons were for?

It's a good thing we had a leisurely dinner, too, because once we got to the Firehouse Theatre, things got a little crazy when Pru's car keys were inadvertently locked in the trunk by yours truly. That we were parked along bustling Broad Street didn't help matters any since no one slowed down despite open car doors and me crouched in the street.

Only problem was, she was driving Beau's car, so it took the two of us a while to figure out where the trunk release button was and save the day.

Everything was made better, though, when Queen B and I headed inside and a woman standing nearby glanced over, saying, "You have great hair! Both of you!" I don't know about me, but Queen B is currently sporting purple hair and had already gotten a compliment leaving the restaurant, so she's used to hair praise.

As long as I evoke the '80s, I'm happy.

Inside, I'd been assigned my favorite seats in the second row, but the news of the day was that five people had been given seats onstage for "Songs from Bedlam," a play consisting of a series of monologues by "patients" at the infamous mental hospital during past centuries. The stage seating was inspired by the practice of the hospital charging admission for sane people to come in and watch the lunatics on display.

The first vignette involved a guy who spent every afternoon at the zoo, staring at the animal inmates and commenting on them. "The tigers are past caring, having been too long deprived of everything that matters to them...The fish are doomed, but separate."

That line alone evoked more sadness than I was prepared to handle. And, believe me, I'm not even thinking about tigers or fish in captivity. Another involved an alcoholic explaining the difficulty of having a disease everyone thinks is a choice.

Queen B and I found the production interesting, while Pru struggled with the characters. "They're supposed to be crazy?" she wondered. "I deal with people like that in my life every single day!"

I'm not sure, she may have been talking about me closing the trunk with the keys in them, among other idiocy she has to deal with. And you know what? I'm not even offended when someone calls me crazy.

I've been told there's no better excuse to do whatever the hell you want. Well, except changing your name and marrying your cousin. Even I wouldn't go there.

Between Jefferson and First

Today's lesson? Don't try to hide happiness.

When a favorite Gemini and I finally managed to meet for lunch - mind you, we've been trying to plan this since our birthdays in May - at Lucy's, the conversation necessarily started with her curious about my love life. Although she'd briefly met Mr. Wright back in May when we all wound up at the same restaurant, she needed details.

Trying to keep my giddiness under control, I started rambling calmly about him, about us, about things we'd done and places we'd gone, stopping only when she grabbed my arm. "Is there something bad about him or the relationship?" she asked, sounding concerned. "Why are you telling me this so matter-of-factly?"

Needless to say, gushing has become my usual M.O. when talking about this wonderful new phase of my life to anyone foolish enough to ask. But ever since Mac chided me about whining about the cold weather on the way to Folk Fest ("You have a man who loves you, so you don't get to complain about Fall!"), I've been trying to temper my over-the-top happiness.

I should have known a Gemini wouldn't let me get away with that crap.

As she devoured her salmon salad and I my shrimp po'boy salad, I proceeded to let loose with everything that's been happening in my life and how well it suits me. That, she told me, was what she wanted to hear.

Around the time the chocolate mousse pie with graham cracker crust showed up, we felt a presence behind us and looked up to find a familiar goateed face (writer/one of my former editors/radio host) standing behind our bar stools. "I'm here with P," he said. "Weren't you two here talking and eating last time we came here?" Not long after, when we went to leave, the duo were still standing at the door awaiting a free table. "Hey, weren't you two here last time we came here for lunch?" P inquired.

Geminis may be overly observant, but even we can't recall everyone who eats at the restaurants we do. We are, after all, concentrating on each other.

The subject of so much of my conversation showed up hours later for a J-Ward date that began by walking to Rogue for dinner. There, we took the only two available stools, only to hear the man to my left say, "Boy, they let anyone in here, don't they?"

There sat a local chef and now sommelier who's been off the radar for a hot minute, so, after introductions, I naturally asked what he had cooking. Giving me a pained look, he assured me he has something big in the works but legally can't say what it is yet. It was obvious the restraint he was displaying was wearing on him, so I assumed it was a matter of city incompetence or money shortages.

In any case, he assured me I'd know something soon.

Sipping Terre di San Venanzio Fortunato Prosecco while noshing on charred carrots jazzed up with harissa, yogurt, a generous amount of crumbled peanuts and capers followed by to-die-for sweet potato-filled cappalletti surrounded by broccoli rabe and caramelized pearl onions with dollops of ricotta, we left the chef to his ruminations. Meanwhile, Rogue's chef proffered a wave and smile from the far end of the bar.

When my chocolate cremeux with meringue stars, vanilla sponge cake and caramelized cinnamon ice cream with graham cracker crumbles arrived, I'd barely made a dent when the man to Mr. Wright's left elbowed him aside to ask of me, "What's that?"

I can't be the only woman impressed by a guy curious about a fabulous looking dessert, can I?

After selling the dessert hard, I polished mine off, suggested he order his own and we left to walk over to the November Theater for Cadence Theatre Company's production of "Between Riverside and Crazy." When the usher pointed out our seats, she said they were right in front of "this couple." Glancing at the couple, major figures in the local theater scene, I shouldn't have been surprised when they began cracking wise about the kind of people in the row in front of them.

Clearly everyone I know is a comedian.

The incredibly well-acted play, which won the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 2015, took us into the rent-controlled apartment of an older black retired cop on disability. His son, just released from jail and his girlfriend, live there too, along with a recovering addict. Everyone refers to him as "Pops" and appreciates his hard-won wisdom, even if he has been cranky since his wife died. He's also got a lawsuit pending against the department since it was a white cop who mistakenly shot him.

The dialog crackled with authenticity and not a few completely politically incorrect statements, but the play was most appealing because I had no idea where it was going. And I certainly didn't see Pops' sex scene coming,

No surprise for a recent Pulitzer winner, the play offered no answers about the state of modern life, but rather showed the good, the bad and the ugly and left the future in limbo, providing plenty to discuss with my willing partner, who saw shades of Redd Foxx's Sanford character in Pops.

This morning, at my yearly girl parts check-up, the nurse-practitioner's first question was whether anything was new. I assumed she meant health wise. Mid-exam, she asked the all-important question - "Are you involved in any domestic violence?" and I laughed out loud.

From there, I was off and blathering about this fascinating new person in my life. She stopped me only to complete the exam before asking what had happened next. She wanted all the intel and who was I to deny her a chirpy version? With a Q & A period (her idea).

I won't necessarily volunteer (although it's likely) to share my happiness, but if you ask, I will answer with many words, chirpy words.

Which I seem to have in spades these days. Not necessarily a bad thing, either.

Cheers, Big Ears

It's got to be pretty early in the morning before J-Ward rolls up the sidewalks.

The proof was everywhere when I got home at 1:43 on a breezy, 64-degree November night with signs of life buzzing all around. Next door, a woman is knocking at the front door. Double parked is a pizza delivery guy. A guy is walking down my side of the street, while on the other side, close to a dozen people are milling abut in front of house, red party cups in hand, as music plays from the porch.

Fortunately, I keep similar hours with the people on my block.

When I'd left my house at 5:15 to walk to Lucy's, my next door neighbor was sitting on his porch and called to me, "Hey, you look nice. Got a hot date? I bet you have a hot date." It is to laugh, but I nonetheless assured him I was merely meeting friends for dinner and a play and kept walking.

When I'd suggested Lucy's for dinner, I'd been unaware that Beau and Pru's Mom (who's currently sporting the most gorgeous purple hair) hadn't been there before, which is just short of amazing given how often they/we eat out. Luckily, we had plenty of time to introduce them to one of Jackson Ward's finest.

Beau likes to joke that he has protect himself from his all-female company - aka the intellectual dominatrices, a moniker the three of us are fine with - on outings such as this, but for the most part he handles it as well as can be expected for a mere male.

In the hands-on spirit of the conversation that was already flowing, we began with a bottle of Villa Wolf Rose of Pinot Noir and by sharing a righteous fondue of Boursin and Gorgonzola, into which we dipped fried cauliflower, apple slices and fried croutons. When our server came to check on our progress, Beau (who's been known to pun with impunity) told her to take the empty dish away because we were "fon-done."

He redeemed himself by suggesting a second bottle of Rose as we moved into entrees. Pru and I had both chosen the seared flounder over butternut squash puree with collards and housemade bacon in apple cider vinaigrette (some of the finest collards I've had in a while), while Beau went meatless with Non-Spaghetti and Meatballs (fried artichoke, spinach and avocado balls over sauteed spaghetti squash) and the Purple One had fettucine with braised short ribs.

All around us, Lucy's had gotten crazy busy with people hovering waiting for tables, while we were comfortably ensconced in our booth looking at a dessert menu and feeling no pressure to turn over our table to latecomers. We finished up with a flourless chocolate torte, apple crisp and a housemade ice cream sandwich that Beau attempted to eat with a fork until Pru set him straight about ice cream sandwich etiquette.

She and I used to assume that clueless people had been raised by wolves, but in some cases, it seems they merely lived in Ladysmith and thus had no access to basic civility practices.

We followed dinner with CAT Theatre's production of "Ripcord," a play about two nursing home roommates who try to best each other in terrible ways to win a bet and get the bed with the best sunlight and view. If this is old age, kill me now.

The play began with a warning that it contained mild profanity which had apparently already offended some attendees, although my guess would be that anyone offended doesn't see much theater in this town because that barn door was long ago flung open.

Surprisingly, the audience was probably half millennials, not a typical representation at the theater, with the exception of TheatreLAB. It was kind of refreshing to see. In the row in front of us was a guy with a loud, distinctive laugh who seemed to find almost everything funny and let loose at lines that no one else laughed at.

Some lines - "Why can't people be peculiar anymore?" - were funny, while others - "You're turning into an old lady" fell flat as the two women did awful things (tearing up a grandchild's painting, faking suicide, putting a bogus ad in the classifieds) to each other, presumably because they had nothing better to do. I did wonder if the fact that the play was written by a man had anything to do with how difficult it was to like either of the two unpleasant female characters.

Walking out afterwards, the weather was still as breezy and warm as when I'd first walked over to Lucy's, so it only made sense to head back to Pru's screened porch and see what happened. Intellectual dominatrices-led conversation, that's what happened.

When the wind kept turning on the motion sensor lights outside, Beau gave us a mini-science lesson about motion sensors versus heat sensors. Pru, somewhat of a science nerd herself, explained the theory of bio-mimicry and I did my best to understand. We also had a lesson on lake effect snow and Alberta Clippers, neither of which have much practical application in Richmond.

Discussing their shared bent for sciences, Beau asked Pru if she hadn't been good at biology. "I was exceptional," she deadpanned.

When Beau was found to be in error because of assumptions made, Pru threatened to cut him off. "Please don't take my assumption abilities away!" he pleaded.

Because it's all the news lately, we had to discuss all the men behaving badly, taking it further to the gradations of what men have been getting away with for centuries now. We reached a consensus that sticking an unwanted tongue down a woman's throat is not as bad as grabbing a woman by the you-know-what (incidentally, something that had happened to all three of the women on the porch. All. Three.), not that either needs to happen.

This topic went deep and Beau wasn't always able to participate fully since his gender was the one being skewered and he was quick to admit that there was no justification for bad behavior. But we had to acknowledge how times have changed and what was tolerated then is punishable now.

One of the most satisfying conversations began when Beau pointed out that what we'd been doing for the past three hours - sitting around sharing opinions, making a case for your beliefs, sharing experiences and lessons learned, positing ideas - had been exactly what he'd done in college. "But then I stopped doing it," he pondered. "And now I'm doing it again."

Why, I asked, would you ever stop sitting around exchanging ideas with friends? Trying to convince them of your point? Sharing a point of view they may not have considered? I prefer to live a life where that's business as usual.

Because any intellectual dominatrix will tell you the way to be exceptional is to be peculiar like that.

Endlessly Entertaining

You don't jump right into the Man Cave.

I'm sure you could, although it's the kind of place best approached in stages, preferably after a couple of stops. After imbibing has gotten underway. After multiple discussions have led to music and it becomes clear that only hearing can prove your point. After the restaurant you're in wants to close down.

Also because limited night time light is kindest to a basement under-dusted and overstuffed with old furniture, comic books both vintage and modern, and scads of records and CDs. A place well-stocked with wine and booze.

Better to begin the evening in full daylight, say at Saison market where our center table means everyone can find us drinking a bottle of Laurent Miguel Pere et Fils Rose.

A comedian friend is having a long form discussion of improv jumping off points with a fellow comedian (when she shares her idea, I remind her that using teen-aged journals has already been done...by them). A foodie friend says hello, telling me my dress looks like the colors of rainbow sherbet (a fact I can verify now that I keep rainbow sherbet in my freezer at all times). A favorite server comes over to see how our eclipse-watching trip went (she'd sold us the bottles of Rose that accompanied us to the beach).

Let's just say that if I was trying to have an illicit affair, I wouldn't go to Saison market because the chance of not running into a familiar face is slim to none. And as my Richmond grandmother liked to say, "Slim just left town."

We left there to meet Holmes and Beloved at Lucy's two blocks away. Holmes and I had both suggested Lucy's independently of each other, so we took it as a sign. Besides, who can't appreciate a restaurant that gets its beef from the co-owner's family farm on the Northern Neck?

As both Holmes and Beloved made orgasmic sounds about their specials of filet mignon, I reminded them why they tasted so good: happy cows. Having actually been to the farm and seen how cows spend their days there, I think it's safe to say they're loving life right up until they become a menu special.

But even non-bovine dishes got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from our booth, from burrata and local tomatoes in a pesto pistou (the dish tasted like summer in every bite) to farm fritters of corn, cheddar and scallions (although, to be fair, I rarely meet a fritter I don't love) to an arugula salad dotted with grapes, fennel and Gorgonzola. And for the former non-seafood eater, the local fish of the day special of mahi mahi with corn, tomato and black bean salsa kicked butts and took numbers.

It was while we were devouring desserts - a flourless chocolate torte and a housemade ice cream sandwich - that the topic of music kept coming up, hardly a surprise given that there were two musicians and two former disco devotees at the table.

Let's just say that viola jokes abounded. When I thanked Holmes for having gifted me with one of his four copies of the Brass Ring's "The Disadvantages of You," my current favorite album-to-dress-by, Beloved said they hadn't listened to it yet. Holmes begged to differ.

It seemed like the only way to clear the matter up was to head directly to the Man Cave, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. And we did.

It's the '70s all over again in the Man Cave, which boasts a Formica-covered bar to which we sidled up in four bar stools that may have seen better days.

Under the bar itself is shelving holding part of Holmes' record collection (all of which, by the way, dates to pre-1990) while the rest of the collection resides in a nearby room. But all his favorites are at an easy arm's length reach, on or under the Formica.

Vibes reigned supreme, first with the Brass Ring and then with Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass on the iconic "Whipped Cream and Other Delights," which happened to include the theme from "The Dating Game."

Beyond "A Taste of Honey," the latter spurred a conversation about how almost everyone's Dad had that album and we were all pretty sure it had a lot to do with the shaving cream-covered woman on the album cover.

Too harsh? Okay, maybe Dads were the target demographic for Americanized easy listening brass music back then and the cover played no role. As if.

The later the evening got (and the more Chateau d'Aqueria Tavel Rose consumed), the further afield the music got from our starting point.

Eager to show off his favorite cover of "Woodstock," Holmes played Matthew Southern Comfort doing it to universal approval. And while it's a Joni Mitchell song, no one was making a case for her version. But I also thought that it would be appropriate to play the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young cover since we'd all grown up hearing that as the standard.

When Holmes announced that "Deja Vu," the album with "Woodstock" was elsewhere, Beloved offered to track it down in the next room. When she seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time, he called out asking how she was doing in finding it.

"I found "Green Tambourine!" she called back, sounding pretty excited.

The look on his face was priceless, equal parts impatience (why can't others understand his filing system) and a reluctance to move (but with no choice since only he could save the day).

Shaking his head, he headed into the other room, muttering, "She's in the Byrds! She oughta be looking under Crosby!" And while he set off to assist, we never actually saw the record or got around to listening to it.

Such are the tangents and detours we inevitably take during these marathon listening parties where Beloved occasionally sits in as DJ. These days, with a savvy fourth added to our long-time trio, there's the added benefit of music trivia about pedal steel players and discussions about who played which guitars.

Unable to compete with their obscure knowledge, I nonetheless threw my two cents' worth in by sharing Joni Mitchell's inspiration for "Free Man in Paris" (David Geffen) while listening to "Court and Spark." Hey, it got me a few points.

During the course of the evening's fun, Holmes got two phone calls from friends, making me wonder who in the world calls a friend post 10:00 on a Friday night? For that matter, should cell phones even be allowed to disturb the zen of a place as frozen in time as the Man Cave?

And while we had no use for "The Dating Game," everyone there being quite happily paired up, we were left with one lingering musical question.

If a taste of honey isn't sweeter than wine, does that mean whipped cream and other delights are? Discuss.

The Last to Know

I made the woman I once aspired to marry want to turn on the waterworks tonight.

After months of not seeing each other, we met up at Laura Lee's for an evening of former bandmates, chicken wings and tomato salad and surprising revelations.

It was while we were digging deep on the scuttlebutt she'd heard about me that we were joined by the director of a certain museum. We offered him the comfort of either/both our laps, but instead he stood, sharing a host of anecdotes about the Monument Avenue public meeting last night, being interviewed by NPR and our illustrious mayor.

So. Much. Dirt.

Once she began digging for the scoop on my personal life, we decided to take our Gruner Veltliner and relocate to the patio for a more in-depth conversation that began with her telling me about a guy she'd been wanting to set me up with for months.

In what was surely a surprise to her, I shared that I'd skipped the matchmaking and made contact on my own back in early June. While she'd been dithering, I'd been getting acquainted.

She minced no words in her assessment: "See? When someone is interested, they show it," which was followed by a sly smile at her husband across the table. "Of course I showed it," he grinned. "I wasn't about to let you get away!"

Anybody got a tissue?

I'd barely gotten into the details of my new situation when she began welling up, saying, "I think I'm going to cry." In 9 years of friendship, I don't think I've ever made her so happy. Of course she had to remind me that everyone knew before her.

Only after we'd dished mightily did we turn to the other guests and join their conversation.

Her former bandmates, meanwhile, were a fascinating bunch who obliged with audio of the band's songs (including digs at the hair band-sounding guitar solo by the guitarist) and frequent references to the seismic shifts in their lives since then.

Because so much deep conversation requires sustenance, we noshed through General Tso's wings, fried oysters and heirloom tomato salad under a gorgeous blue evening sky. She and I were asked about our trip to Memphis and Oxford, Mississippi, dredging up memories of fire truck rides, the Stax Museum and every John Currance restaurant we visited.

Good times.

When I finally got up to go, it was with reluctance (who wants to walk away from four men and the woman of her dreams?) but I was double-booked and had no choice.

Truth be told, a friend from D.C. had also inquired about my dance card tonight, but I'd been unable to accommodate.

Act two involved a short walk with another friend to Jackson's, the new smokehouse and beer garden on Second Street. We made our way through a series of doorways to wind up on the patio, in this case, a high-walled space complete with smoker and fan to disperse the smoke and heat.

All I know is that when I left the restaurant, I reeked of smoke.

The four top at the next table were agog when our bottle of wine arrived because it was inserted into a stone wine tap at our table, the better to serve ourselves, we assumed. The only problem was that it didn't actually keep the wine chilled.

Ah, details.

While I listened to an annotated accounting of my friend's trip to D.C., we made a meal of chicken tacos (meh) and a rack of ribs with collard greens and mac and cheese, but only after our server had brought us samples of four types of barbecue sauce (sweet, spicy, sweet/spicy, smoked) to choose from to accompany our meals.

The walls of the patio may have been high, but the sky was the color of dark blue velvet with a lone star punctuating it and we gabbed about the upcoming Perseid meteor shower and the eclipse that has everyone planning trips south.

We had a nightcap at Lucy's, along with a brassy, loud-mouthed woman who earns a living as a shrimper and her crew, but they cleared out shortly, apologizing for their decibel level.

The owner talked about his upcoming trip to Mexico, the bartender showed off her white lace bolero ("I wear it over everything") and we drank Rose from Provence while having polite conversation of no consequence.

Some evenings begin with heartfelt admissions and end with innocuous blather.

And when it comes to the best dirt, someone has to be the last to know. You just hate for it to be the person who wanted it to happen all along. She swears she told me that, but she didn't.

The good news is, it happened. It finally happened.

The Longest Conversation

It only takes one strange mind to warrant comment.

I have to revel in a January day warm enough - 59 degrees by 11 a.m. - to wear shorts on my walk to the river and beyond.

As I pass two guys standing on the sidewalk downtown, one comments to the other in a singsong sotto voce, "Shake it up, shake it up." Am I? I wonder out loud to them.

"Yes, indeed, you are and that is not a complaint," one says with a smile.

I have to wave good-bye when I see a favorite chef loading up a U-Haul behind his truck as a prelude to driving to Tennessee today to start a new life.

There's a lot to be said for that kind of nerve.

I have to marvel when after interviewing an older woman, she calls me today to clarify something and during the course of the conversation asks, "Do you have a computer?"

Apparently telling her I had no cell phone meant that I was a complete Luddite and not just a partial one. Yes'm, I do.

I have to appreciate when sending postcards from San Francisco means I get thank-you emails in return.

...Back to the note on your postcard. I would say - unequivocally - that you and I could have a good time together just about anywhere. Two strange minds bent on exploration, growth and the quest for a hearty laugh (usually at someone else's expense), what a combination!

Guilty on all counts.

I don't have to, but I do order the same shrimp po' boy salad (while my lunch date orders her usual, the chicken bean salad), making us those women with the exact same order the last dozen times we've been at Lucy's together.

Judge all you want, but the combination of lightly breaded shrimp over leaf lettuce, avocado, red onions and cherry tomatoes under a blanket of 10,000 island dressing is easily one of the best meal salads in Richmond.

And why eat salad for lunch if not to follow it with chocolate mousse with brandied cherries and lightly-browned meringue while sharing industry gossip?

And we don't have to, but after eating, we sit in the car for an hour with the windows down dishing about all the stuff we didn't want to say in a bustling restaurant. "I'm getting all teary, I'm so proud of you," she tells me after I blather a while.

I laugh out loud when she uses "bougie" to describe herself and her reluctance to use her resources to create personal time, but I am just as proud of her as she is of me.

Much the way I laugh out loud at a friend's response when he emails asking for out-of-town dining advice. I share my research, but worry about suggesting a place I haven't been. Will I be out on my ear if it's a bad suggestion?

What if you lead me astray? I wouldn't worry.

Sounds like a solid basis for another combination friendship.

Venting, the New Normal

Star log: Day two of bizarre new world order.

Nothing could have made me happier than Mac messaging me shortly after I woke up asking if I wanted company on my walk today. I sure did and I knew just the route I wanted to take: over the Lee bridge.

I needed an uplift, literally and figuratively, and walking over the Belle Isle-spanning bridge provides just that. There's something about being that high over the river - distinctively deep blue today - and looking down on the treetops, shed rooves and railroad tracks that provides a bit of necessary perspective.

The river still shimmers in the sunlight, the loaded coal trains continue to chug eastward and from up there, nothing reflects the seismic shift in our lives. We spent well over five miles railing against an outcome we hadn't even considered, sharing with each other the tidbits we'd read and seen to compare notes.

"Thanks for letting me vent!" she said, hand on my shoulder in appreciation, after we finished vilifying all the stupid white people who'd swept this badly-coiffed reality star into our lives for the foreseeable future.

Her only regret was that I hadn't told her to bring money so we could stop at Sweet Fix and soothe our bruised hearts and minds with sugar.

My pleasure principle was exercised tonight at In Your Ear Studio for an evening involving two of my best uses for time: music and conversation. I'd have been there sooner but I'd mistakenly gone to Sound of Music (and not even the current location, but the former one on Broad Street) instead.

Fortunately for me, I have no problem asking strangers for assistance.

When I asked the two guys in the nearby Afrikanna shop for help, they both had ties to the musical community and pointed me in the direction of Shockoe Bottom instead. I didn't bother pointing out that I'd actually been there before, so I really should've known better.

Walking up to the studio, I was joined by a bartender friend and political junkie who immediately asked if I was ready to discuss the election. In a meaningful in-depth way, you mean? Not sure that I am.

The moment we were inside, we were directed to the studio doors that blocked us from where Yeni Nostalji had just begun their set of '60s Turkish covers and original songs. Lead singer Christina looked like a sultry '60s songstress in a tight black dress with the shoulders cut out and her long dark hair swept to the side, the better to cascade down one shoulder.

After the songs, she'd explain the Turkish lyrics and one involved a warning about how if you loved a woman, she was like a rose and if you love roses, you have to put up with the thorns.

"Amen!" one of her bandmates observed, although I won't say whether it was Vlad (he of the superb guitar faces) or Rey (stylishly '60s attired and a master on maracas) who recognized the wisdom of the translation.

For all I know, all the men in the room did.

Their set was only five songs long, but it was especially cool for me because as many times as I've seen this band, tonight I got to watch a lot of other people who hadn't seen them before and were blown away.

In fact, afterward, during the conversation and mingling part of the evening, I talked to the sound guy who laid it out. "I record all these shows, but it's always amazing when a band is this good and this easy and I just get to watch and appreciate."

The two of us spent a good amount of our social time talking about music, finding your life's passion and how it's the people in your life that matter, not dwelling on the potential horror of what may go wrong in the years to come until 2020.

The Man About Town introduced me to a young writer from VCU and we three did some medium-deep ruminating on what might change for women over the next four years.

Unlike me, she's never known a world where she didn't have certain protections as well as services available to her and I sensed that because of that, she wasn't nearly as worried about loss as I was.

I also met a copywriter, a whole different beast than what I am, but a person with an appreciation for words, written contact and a new fan of Yeni Nostlaji. Like me, he'd been happy to hear Christina say they were working on a new record of all-original music (and just as charmed when she said they were on "social media," purposely using finger quotes)

As I was walking out, it occurred to me how really lucky I am that I'd been invited to hear this gorgeous music in this acoustically-perfect room on this still-shaky night. Only a few familiar faces, but so much positive energy being given off.

My final stop was at Lucy's for dinner with a duo of Democrats a man and his sister-in-law a chef and an editor two steak eaters already embroiled in discussion of what has just happened to our country.

W agreed that surely one upside to all this turmoil will be a return to political activism on a wider level and more grass roots organization to address issues within our system.

Hoping to order something fast, I chose mussels in a broth of smoked paprika butter, garlic and white wine, but it was the one-two salt bomb of capers and crispy fried shallots on top followed by chocolate mousse with fresh whipped cream that gave me faith in sunny tomorrows to come.

If there's a silver lining to having to deal with this nasty business, it's that I've adjusted to several very difficult things in my life, often alone, and at least this time, I'm in it with my friends and community.

Is it too soon to start singing "We Shall Overcome?"

Walking This Way All Day

Indulge me for a moment while I dream about this nearly perfect weather.

If there's a place that regularly has 80-degree days like today's as the norm for late October, can you please tell me where that magical place is? Days like this make me almost (but not quite) sorry that I slept until 11:00 because so little sunny time remains once I'm finally up.

After breakfast (okay, so it was 12:30), I walked to Carytown under an umbrella (once again fighting the stigma of parasol shame) to meet Pru, Beau and Burger for some classic Mel Brooks. I'd invited not one but two others, both of whom turned me down, only to learn at dinner last night that the trio had their own plans to attend.

Along the way, I pass a man on his front porch fluffing pillows. Asking why more people don't do the same, he answers, "I have no idea. They must not know how good a pillow smells after it's spent an afternoon outside."

This is a stranger who knows wise things. My pillows are immediately slated for a time-out on my balcony tomorrow.

My posse is waiting for me at the Byrd, Pru with assorted sizes of Tootsie Rolls in hand like the good friend that she is, to see "Young Frankenstein" and her first question once the lights go down and the title comes up is, "When's the last time you saw this movie?"

Answer: some time during the last millennium in a galaxy far, far away.

And though the film was made in 1974, period details make it seem older: a man's socks with garters, references to Tinker Toys and Ovaltine. College students actively engaged in class and not looking at their screens.

I'm nothing short of amazed at how many lines from this movie are not just part of standard pop culture references today, but are also family standards. When Igor tells Dr. Frankenstein, "Walk this way," I'm reminded of my Mom who uses this phrase before walking awkwardly nearly every time I visit.

For that matter, I have a sister who dredges up, "Two nasty-looking switches there but I'm not going to be the first," every time she sees a coupe of light switches next to each other. We all overuse, "Put ze candle back!" in my family to signify a bad choice and it's been 40 years.

"Taffeta, darling" was code for I'm all decked out, so don't mess with me (just ask any of the husbands in the family).

Favorite line: "Seven or eight quickies and then you're out with the boys to boast and brag. You better keep your mouth shut! Oh, I think I love him!"

Bottom line: "Young Frankenstein," despite just as much corny and '70s male humor as I recalled, holds up with some truly stellar performances, gorgeous black and white photography and the comedic script-writing chops of Brooks and Wilder.

That the screening was also a benefit for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society adds a layer of philanthropy to laughing with friends for two hours.

On the way home, I walk around a pizza delivery guy wearing a t-shirt, flannel pants and fuzzy slippers. I'm pretty sure he was delivering pies in his pjs in this glorious weather.

From an afternoon in Transylvania (where, I noted, all the townspeople had distinct British accents), it was on to an evening in Courtempierre, France (where vampires roam), two fitting nods to the season of slutty tacos (yes, a friend actually saw that costume).

Take it from someone who knows, the difference between the Silent Music Revival of 10 years ago and tonight's comes down to one thing: ear filler.

Where once a roll of toilet paper was torn, wadded and shared for earplugs, on the 10th anniversary, we had actual orange earplugs distributed to the capacity crowd.

Given my 9-year devotion to the SMR, I felt no shame in showing up way early and putting "reserved" cards on two chairs to hold places for tonight's 10th anniversary part one celebration.

Called out on it when we arrived, organizer Jameson laughed about it, confirming that he had no issue with me pulling rank to save seats (and not even comfortable seats, but those awful folding chairs at Gallery 5).

Long-time friendship has its privileges.

"Vampyr" from 1932 got a soundtrack courtesy of reunited noise-rock duo Navi, who managed to take an incredibly dark film and improvise to it magnificently, in part because Jameson had sped up the film by 21%, the better to marry it with the band's frenetic musical energy.

Sitting there for nearly an hour watching this classic horror film and its fabulous soundtrack, it was tough not to flash back to those early Silent Music Revivals with a fraction of the number of people and toilet paper in our ears to staunch the bleeding.

Like our grandparents having to walk uphill in a snowstorm five miles to get to school, some of us sat on hard store floors for nine years to make 2016's cushy-in-comparison SMR possible for those just now learning the pleasures of silent film set to local bands.

Feel free to thank me in person at part two of the 10th anniversary celebration come December.

Strolling from Gallery 5 afterward to Lucy's for a sandwich pop-up, we ran into two guy friends of mine just leaving and pumped them for recommendations. Inside, the place was nearly full-up with earnest-looking bearded types, a few more familiar faces and a smattering of Halloween costumes.

That's the beauty and/or problem with a Monday Halloween: the celebration starts Friday and rolls through for four consecutive nights, leaving broken glass on sidewalks and streets (at least here in J-Ward), shards of jack-o-lanterns everywhere and bits of costume (although I'm not entirely sure why I've also spotted two pairs of underwear) shed in the heat of the moment.

At some point, a person's bound to get tired of wearing a fake crown and toss it on the sidewalk, or so it would seem.

Tonight's sloppy sandwich pop-up provided the perfect late-night noshes - a manly Philly cheese steak and a more delicate but overloaded sensational seafood salad (and by that, I mean fake crab) sandwich dusted with flying fish roe inside a split hot dog roll - to accompany glasses of Rose and a dissection of the holes in the plot of "Vampyr."

After a stint at the bar watching the tail end of the World Series, we packed it in and headed out into the still-warm night, although the occasional rogue raindrop told us that a change of weather fronts was in the works. Sadly.

Mother Nature, put ze candle back!

Sunday: A Post-Electric Day

Rooting around Clay Street, that's what the pig was doing.

Walking over to The Basement for TheatreLAB's Roast and Toast, I came to a gray pig rooting around in the upturned dirt of a tiny front yard two blocks down the street.

Wait, a pig?

A guy was riding down the sidewalk on his bike, earbuds in, but that didn't stop me from tapping him on the shoulder to get his opinion on spotting a farm animal in J-Ward. He stopped, stared and looked at me incredulously. "It is a pig!"

Call us agog because we were.

From across the street, a woman called to ask if the pig was upsetting us. Please. It was easily the most unexpectedly charming thing I could have come upon strolling down the street and I told her so. She looked relieved.

Almost at the Basement, I fell into step with a woman who said hello and looked at my feet. "I like your toenail polish," she says of my silver polish, a leftover from a disco party I went to over a year ago but keep using. "It looks like you're really jammin'," she tells me.

Oh, honey, if you only knew.

At TheatreLAB, I found the usual theater suspects - during intermission a girl took selfies with her tongue stuck out Gene Simmons-style - along with breakfast items suited to a noon start to the party: mimosas, yogurt, fruit and granola and, most importantly, doughnuts. When I saw a young woman reach for yogurt, I let her know that doughnuts lurked just on the other side of the group of people next to us.

Putting her bowl back on the table, she looked at me incredulously. "Then why am I wasting my time with this?" she asked rhetorically. I'm here to help, kid.

Taking the stage, Deejay, Evan, Maggie and McLean proceeded to poke fun at everyone from theater critics to play choices to themselves. They played Pictionary with one theater's season, "Gay Family Feud" for another's and "Two Truths and a Lie" with yet a third.

No one was spared spoofing

Categories for Theater Jeopardy included "Actors drunk at other people's plays," "Name that Naked McLean Jessie play" and "Napping during Cat in the Hat Plays," a sweeping indictment of both CAT Theater and HATT Theater.

"Did anyone actually see that play?" our hosts joked. From the front row, a guy said, "I directed it." Ouch.

Such was the nature of all the barbs - sharply observed, honest whether politically correct or not and laugh-out-loud worthy - that eventually every theater type in this town had been skewered. It was easy to miss a crack still laughing from the last.

McLean's big announcement that she's off to DC to get her master's had her lamenting, "It's like I'm leaving just when we have money to finally pay ourselves!"

With visibly shaking hands trying to read from a piece of paper, creative director Deejay ("It's like I never spoke up here before") announced the new season, "Women at War," causing spontaneous applause because they'll all be women-directed performances. The Cellar series will all be one-woman shows.

From the back of the room, McLean had the afternoon's best line: "If all you guys just got disappointed hearing that, that's how it feels."

Right on, Sister Bogeywoman (look it up, kids).

Interspersed with announcements, we saw monologues from the upcoming plays, hearing from directors and actors.

Second best line: director Keri Womald, saying, "This company is the shit." I couldn't have said it better myself.

Walking home with the intent of checking on the neighborhood pig, I passed friends sitting outside enjoying beverages on this delightful afternoon. We spoke through the bars of their fence until they invited me in to chat about their experience at the new Quirk rooftop bar Friday night. Like me, they're hoping to make it a neighborhood stop during off hours when the mobs are elsewhere.

Expecting to impress them with my pig siting, I was thrown off when they said they'd seen someone with a pig on a leash in Abner Clay Park. He'd spotted it and called her over so he had a witness. Crazy.

Back at home, I dipped into today's Washington Post, out on my porch reading about a 70-year old who'd just this February had sex reassignment surgery after a lifetime of knowing he was a girl in a boy's body. Best of all, his wife of all those years was 100% behind him on it. It's gratifying to know that 70 is not to late to change your life and that love extends beyond a previously-defined set of genitals.

Taking advantage of the gorgeous day, I walked over to Cask Cafe late, late in the afternoon (early evening?) because Lucy's was doing a burger pop-up, grilling out behind the restaurant. So, yes, I was walking two miles to eat food from a nearby Jackson Ward restaurant.

Not the point.

Walking through campus, I complimented a student on a pair of high-waisted jean shorts that looked identical to a pair I had in 1979, but it was her friend in hip-hugger jeans who wanted to chat about how shallow young people today are.

"I listen to classic rock, like the stuff my parents listen to because I fell like all the current music is so shallow and meaningless. No one knows what came before them." She also thought that vintage fashion beat out today's mish-mash of trends encompassing the past half century, showing me the four pieces she'd just scored for $15 at a pop-up vintage shop. "Everything was better before we ruined it."

Out of the mouths of babes.

The natives (students, mostly male) were restless as I walked up Cary Street past houses with porches crowded with guys smoking, drinking, bullshitting and playing loud music in the late afternoon sunshine.

Cask was buzzing with people, windows up and energy high. Lots of familiar faces - the woman I always see there who once bought a Fitz & the Tantrums ticket from me, the shorn beer geek, a favorite chef not long off a brunch shift, the uber-Mom and practiced server, the bearded and bubbly front of the house manager, the town's best bagel-maker - and plenty of raves for the massive burgers.

Hmm, pork bacon or housemade beef bacon? There's a first world problem for you.

A woman complimented my skort and then noticed my top, ecstatic when she realized it was a Spoon t-shirt. "Ohmygod, I saw them at [insert obscure club I never heard of] and they were a-maze-ing!" she gushed.

"You like Spoon?" she asks nonsensically. Are there people who wear band shirts but haven't seen the band? Recognizing a teachable moment, I shared exactly why they appeal to me: his distinctive voice, decidedly clever lyrics, the unaltered guitars so rare these days.

She high-fives me not once but twice about our shared admiration for Spoon. "You're a-maze-ing!" If she only knew.

It wasn't easy getting a bartender's attention to order, but the subsequent cheddar-dripping burger satisfied me into submission about the wait. Lucy's couldn't have asked for a better grilling out day or me a finer perch than the counter at the rolled up garage door facing the old depot and its pastiche of street art.

"I've decided not to worry anymore about first world problems," I overheard a young woman tell her friends. You'll be a much happier person for it, I told her and she lit up. "Really? I thought so! But it works, right?"

Please, let my life experience work for you and save yourself the trouble.

A woman showed up with sprigs of lilacs, my favorite flower, and questions about how best to do Mama J's, a subject on which I am an expert. The chef sat down next to me, bringing gossip about the rebirth of a classic restaurant and disdain for overly fussy food when the subject turned to sculptural Cesar salads.

It was fairly late in the game when I finally saw tonight's menu and realized I had ice cream sandwich options. How had I missed this? Not for me chocolate chip between sugar cookies (makes my teeth ache thinking about it) but I certainly couldn't resist housemade vanilla between thick, chewy chocolate cookies, now could I?

There's a reason it's the classic, the standard-bearer of all ice cream sandwiches.

Even when I'd polished that off, I stayed on, chatting with friends about the new film "Elvis and Nixon," about customers who don't feel bound by waiting for a hostess to seat them and how, unbelievably, some people have never gone to the Byrd Theater. I can only suggest reasons to correct that, I can't make them sit in those seats.

By the time I said my good-nights, the sun had slid into setting mode my back as I wandered back up Cary, far quieter now than it had been four hours earlier. For the record, I did not make a third visit to check on the local swine, secure in the knowledge that he's apparently a Clay Street fixture.

At home, a message awaited from hours earlier. "Leaving Norfolk now. I come bearing fresh oysters. Meet me at my house?"

There's a reason I wear this toenail polish, friend. Word on Broad Street is that I'm really jammin' so I'm bound to miss a last minute invitation here and there. Thank you for asking, though.

A great burger can make you cocky like that.

It's Alive

Pink is the color of love and happiness.

I gleaned this, not by spending close to two hours in the love and happiness room at Quirk Hotel, but by listening to a Ted talk (as in Ted Ukrop was talking) about the hotel's restoration and renovation, a talk punctuated by the clinking glasses of the cocktail party vibe in the room and a fire alarm.

Given the blase age we live in, it was hardly surprising that, mid-talk, when the excruciatingly loud alarm began sounding, not a soul moved. In fact, a well-dressed guy turned and said to no one in particular, "Funny how no one's making a move to leave."

Funny? It took some time for the Modern Richmond crowd to begrudgingly accept that there was the possibility that the hotel above us was in dire straits and begin shuffling up the stairs, through the smoky lobby and outside.

We never got any explanation, but the moment the alarm ceased, we dutifully filed back in to hear more about how Quirk came to be from Ted and the architect. Like how they researched old photos at the Valentine to see what the lobby originally looked like back when the Italianate building was a toney department store.

How the second floor windows on the east side are original and high up on the walls, in the Italian style, so steps were added to access the views. How flooring from the building next door was used to fashion cabinets, closets and counters. How you can see the racetrack and the Diamond from the rooftop bar because it's the tallest building in the area.

Our ultimate goal was going upstairs to see a room and a loft suite, both with fabulous windows, local artisan-made ice buckets and Virginia art in every room and hallway. Since the rooms cost $200 and $400 a night respectively, it'll likely be my last look at them.

Chatting with a stranger about where I lived and how I liked it (J-Ward, love it) because she's considering a move to the city, she asks, apropos of nothing, "Do you work?"

I think this is about the oddest question you could ask an able-bodied person over 18 and under 65. Do I work? Do I need to pay for shelter and transportation? Do I have living expenses? What the hell?

Yes, I work.

I also eat, both for hire, for pleasure and for sustenance, meaning my next stop was dinner at Lucy's with my favorite walker.

Ensconced at the bar with "On the Town" playing silently on the screen, I licked a bowl of bacon and lentil soup clean and followed it with a fried Brussels sprout and mesclun salad jazzed up with goat cheese and red onions while my companion found religion with Lucy's incomparable cheeseburger.

Shortly, in came the chef and barkeep of Metzger, waiting to meet friends, but happy to share the plans for their new Scott's Addition restaurant in the meantime. While it certainly sounds like it's going to be fun, I can't help but wonder about the wisdom of this mass stampede to such a small and impossibly trendy neighborhood.

Or perhaps I'm secretly envious that more business owners don't consider some of the empty buildings in Jackson Ward when looking for real estate.

But no matter. In front of us was flourless chocolate cake dripping with real whipped cream on a plate squiggled with caramel sauce, so my attention was diverted to more important things like maintaining my daily chocolate quota.

That quota, in fact, had been the subject of discussion earlier today while I was out on my walkabout.

"I see you're still out here strutting every day," says the business owner whose shop I'd passed for years, at least until construction fences forced me to the opposite side of the street.

He felt comfortable giving me a hard time because we'd officially met and chatted at a nearby restaurant I was reviewing when he'd spotted me in non-walking attire. I reminded him that I strut so I can abuse chocolate and put off looking my age.

"I need to get back to the gym more often,:" he said, picking up the gauntlet and running with it before tossing me a delightful compliment (coincidentally, the third reason I walk).

Chocolate needs met for the time, I bade my companion farewell and set out for UR and the annual Musicircus,a tribute to composer John Cage. Since the first one I attended back at the old Chop Suey Books in 2007, I've been devoted to the one-hour cacophony of sound.

Wandering through the concert hall, I was a bit surprised at the small crowd, but there hadn't been much press or even social media about it, so it wasn't entirely surprising. In hallways and practice rooms, the crowd happened on all kinds of music and musicians.

A four-piece fado group, the singer's lovely voice shaping the words of Portuguese longing. A guy playing acoustic guitar and singing the stirring "This Land is Your Land." A piano and drum combo perfectly in sync. Gamelan musicians. A killer guitarist playing lap steel. A familiar sax player, eyes closed, wailing alone in a room.

One of the most unique sound contributors was The Hat, reading from his unfinished novel, using his best actorly voices and hand gestures for dramatic effect.

My only complaint was that the whole point of the Musicircus is the blending of all the disparate music being made, but with such a large building, even the sound of 50+ musicians didn't always reach to the next performer.

It was only when I ran into the jazz critic that I was clued in to the additional musicians playing their hearts out in the basement. Down I went, only to be rewarded with the best bleeding of sound by far.

Just outside a stairwell were three members of No BS - Lance using nothing but a mic'd cymbal and a xylophone, Marcus and Reggie blowing horns - making a disproportionately large sound for three people.

Two favorites - Scott and Cameron - whom I'd seen recently in separate outfits were reunited (and it feels so good) and playing with trumpeter Bob. A noise group turned knobs and produced sound so loud it scared some people off. A guy playing a keyboard with earbuds in seemed to be in his own world.

Walking in on Brian and Pinson, both drummers except tonight Brian - the event's organizer all these years - was playing piano (what?), a favorite gallerist arched an eyebrow and leaned in, saying, "I see your blog is back alive."

Now there was an unexpected compliment. You just never know what instruments people play or who might be paying attention to your blog, do you?

Fittingly, my final stop was a large room with an eight-piece (guitar, bass, drums, congas, trumpet, piano, two saxes) rocking out to the point that the two guys listening were head banging while the grooviest of light shows swirled red, green and yellow on the ceiling and walls.

Needless to say, their raucous sound was bleeding out and down hallways in a manner that had to have had John Cage smiling, wherever he and partner Merce are right now.

With any luck, they're in a place with walls painted in Benjamin Moore's "Love and Happiness Pink," coincidentally, the color of half the rooms at Quirk Hotel.

If only painting it made it so. We strutting types figure that love and happiness are where you find them.

All Eyes on Cool Beans

Valentine's Day in the rear view mirror (with apologies for my tardiness):

It was a bittersweet walk to Dixie Donuts for their last day but since theirs are my favorite Richmond doughnuts by far, it was non-negotiable.

The cases looked a little depleted, but right in the center was a tray of pink and white Valentine's doughnuts with conversation heart wisdom written on them in icing - "Will you be mine?" and "XXOO" - so I ordered one sporting "You are cool beans"  and looked in vain for my fave.

About to settle for something else, I lucked out with my timing and a tray of chocolate chocolate doughnuts came out moments later, the chocolate icing still dripping off them. I ate it standing up at the window looking out on Carytown.

The owner made sure her staff knew that I'd walked all the way over from Jackson Ward - a 5 1/2 mile round trip - and they acted impressed, but what's a little walk for a fresh, oozing doughnut?

Walking back past the Lowe's on Broad Street, a man stopped me to ask why the flags were at half-mast. Clicking my brain into gear - or maybe just smacking it out of its sugar rush - I explained that a Supreme Court Justice had died yesterday and refrained from sharing my opinion of the deceased.

Probably too soon, but I already have a favorite death joke: Antonin Scalia requested cremation in his will, but millions of women will meet tomorrow to discuss if that's really best for his body.

 Sorry, it made me laugh.

My favorite Valentine came in the mail  from Holmes and Beloved. Addressed "To Karen aka "ff" (Holmes refers to me as Femme Fatale), it read, "You're a charmer, Valentine" and was surrounded by figures from "Toy Story."

It wouldn't be Valentine's Day without Holmes' annual miniature missive reminding me of the February swaps back in elementary school. And unlike back then, no one told him he had to give me one.

Mid-afternoon, I called a friend to see what he was doing and while he claimed to be "chilling," he sounded a little down, so I insisted he come pick me up for lunch and some chatter.

We wound up having a blast, meeting a group of 20 or so strangers who'd driven up from Virginia Beach for a group lunch and welcomed us into their party, for which we became the official photographers.

Let's just say when he dropped me off, he was in a far sunnier mood than the one he'd arrived in, no surprise since he once told me, "You act just like a drug on my mood" and fortunately, he wasn't referring to heroin.

And because everyone wants her friends to think of her as some kind of drug.

Over the course of two restaurants - Camden's and Lucy's - I met two couples celebrating not just Valentine's Day but also their anniversary. The ones who'd been married 31 years were the cutest because he admitted without hesitation, "We like to be together all the time" while she nodded and smiled ear to ear.

Not sure I could do the "all the time" part, but I am in awe of long-time, still-happy couples (like my parents) and wonder what they had that I didn't. It's not just luck, is it?

The other couple had gotten married last year at Lucy's, so tonight's Valentine's dinner was particularly evocative of last year's festivities, albeit with more strangers than friends. They were adorable, too, dressed to impress (each other, no doubt), one in a red sweater and blue tie and the other in a blue sweater and red tie.

It began snowing while we were eating duck breast and goat cheese polenta at Lucy's and listening to the Lord Huron Pandora station which focused on earnest-sounding male songwriters. For my money, any station that works in St. Lucia's "All Eyes on You" on such a determinedly romantic day is fine by me.

Cause I hope 
We will never have to take back
What we said in the night
I hope that I will always have
All eyes on you

Sounds romantic to me, but what do I know?

Thrill Me

You know how sometimes you get a feeling like someone is going to spring big news on you?

Apparently that was the friend I invited to lunch at Lucy's, who came convinced I was going to announce I was getting married. She was wrong, but the lunch was mighty good.

So was the dinner, but that was solo and at Bistro 27 where the new chef, an alum of Heritage, Rogue Gentlemen and Six Burner, has revamped the menu most appealingly.

This is very good news for me since it's within spitting distance of my apartment a neighborhood joint and I'm a big fan of eating.

I could have hit repeat on pan-seared fresh artichokes and pancetta with olive oil and baguette, or an even more unique starter, baguette slices spread with chocolate, orange liqueur, sea salt, orange zest and tarragon, both savored while observing costumed revelers shambling down Broad Street.

The bartender tried to impress me with his Halloween costume - the briefest of gym shorts, tube socks, a white boy 'fro wig and striped headband - which sounded suspiciously like a '70s basketball player. He seemed to expect me to be appalled, but I let him know I actually preferred shorter shorts on basketball players back in the day.

Michael Jordan ruined that for everyone, male and female, who likes men's legs.

You know how sometimes you need to appeal to your mind and not just your mouth?

My high culture came courtesy of the VMFA where they were showing "Enough to Live On: The Arts of the WPA" to a sold out crowd that was just a little long in the tooth.

And I'm not being judgmental. People who were alive when FDR was president were asked to raise their hands and it was a decent number of people.

They were the ones who'd had a president cool enough - never mind the cocktail and cigarette holder in hand in so many of his photographs - to say things like, "My administration will be remembered not for its relief but for its art."

Because I'm fascinated by that era when the government took on the responsibility of keeping artists employed during the worst depression in our country's history, this documentary was right up my alley.

Fact: Sometimes jobs for the sake of jobs is exactly what this country needs. Hello 2008.

Or, as someone dead said, how can a finished citizen be made in an artless world? It's stirring to learn that we were once a culture who though that the way to rebuild society after widespread financial ruin was through sharing the experience of art.

Forget amber waves of grain, I'm talking murals in post offices and libraries.

But of course, it wasn't just muralists. There was the Federal Theater Project and the Federal Music Project and my personal favorite, the Federal Writers' Project. Even when times are good, there's never any shortage of unemployed actors, musicians and writers, no?

I would have loved to have been part of the America Eats Project, chronicling regional cuisine. Or part of the oral history project that transcribed the memories of slaves and their children, who were rapidly dying out at that point.

The brilliance of the government sending out photographers to document the misery of subsistence farmers and the rural poor during the Dust Bowl years in order to determine how to best address the problem seems inconceivable now.

And you know what else does? The poster division of the Federal Art Project, all those nameless graphic artists who created the posters that conveyed messages to the American people and inspired them to action, to a collective purpose.

That kind of cultural uplifting is unthinkable in the 21st century, when we don't want our government telling us what to think or do.

By the time I walked out of there, I was inspired to learn more about the many facets of that era, to read more about the intricacies of how a creative class was kept afloat through a period that could have ended our country's artistic output.

So naturally I had to follow that with schlock, and not just any schlock, but an '80s homage to B movies, slasher films, zombie flicks and science fiction, all rolled into one big-haired, campy package.

And because Movie Club Richmond was showing it at Hardywood, I'd be watching it to the unappealing stench of hops.

The trade off was I ran into a favorite Beer Betty and thoroughly enjoyed commiserating over the gross incompetence of a shared idiot.

You know how sometimes you get a feeling that something you would have passed by at one time might be far more appealing at another? "Night of the Creeps," which I obviously ignored in 1986, was calling my name tonight.

What began on sorority row in 1959 ("I'll even let you fondle my dress!") quickly moved to pledge week 1986 ("What is this, a homicide or a bad B-movie?"), a time apparently just as politically incorrect as it was corny.

Need proof? A hardened cop who repeatedly answers the phone and greets people with, "Thrill me." An Asian character made to appear like a simple-minded twit. Humor at the expense of a handicapped student. Bathroom wall graffiti reading, "Stryper Rules." Gratuitous female nudity with distinct tan lines and decidedly un-augmented breasts. A "PARTY" sign in a dorm room, because college boys need reminders to party.

So. Much. Bad. '80s. Music.

Also, surprisingly funny, often suspenseful, disgustingly gory and a veritable fashion show of hideous formal dresses of the era. I'd just about blocked them out until being reminded tonight. Impossible for the audience not to talk back to ("Wait, did the dog call the police?").

Let's put it this way: I can see why "Night of the Creeps" has become a cult classic. Not sure I could have seen that in '86, but there it was tonight.

So deliberately bad that it was good. Or, as the late, great FDR said, "It is fun to be in the same decade with you."

All except the Stryper part.

Any Kind of Fool Could See

I've long been firmly in the Foodist Colony camp. Hell, I'd wear their t-shirt if they had one.

The needy get food from the food bank, the artists pay forward good karma and people such as me get a new piece of art to live with. What's not to support?

I'd been to two such events in the past seven years, one at the short-lived Thanky Space on Brook Road and another put together by VCU students in a rented building on Main Street. Today I got my third piece of art paid for with cans - tuna fish, soup, peanut butter - to add to my walls and increase my pleasure in looking at them.

A last minute brunch invitation had me scurrying (as much as you can scurry whislt carrying a bag with 19 cans in it) over to 1708 Gallery right at noon to submit cans, ogle prints and make my selection.

The invitation had been appealingly groovy: "Pick whatever time you're going to arrive and then don't be late. Be true to your own time." I am the first to arrive so the volunteers work out their process on me as we figure it out together.

As my cans are considered for their worth, I admire the wooden crates that have been designed with orange lettering on one end proclaiming, "Foodist Colony," the handiwork of organizer Travis Robertson.

Then it's on to the art. Not surprisingly, several prints catch my eye. I look long and hard because I want to choose something that will still give me daily pleasure years from now - much like considering a mate - before deciding on Travis' clean red, green and black image.

I'm drawn to its brilliant colors, line work and symbolism. It's also the second of Travis' works I've bought, the first one scooped up at an early Jonny Z Festival and now framed and residing whimsically between two sunny windows in my living room.

Interestingly enough, that older print is also done in shades of red, green and black. But that one isn't hand-signed or numbered (16/35) like this one is. Sometimes a girl wants authentication.

By the time I walk out with my empty bag and coveted print in my hand, 1708 is filling up with bag and box-toting art lovers, including a former gallerist and artist who says, "If I'd been out of town for this, I'd have flown home for it."

We bond over our love for Travis' Foodist Colony before I set off to meet my brunch date.

Breakfast for him and lunch for me was attempted at Perly's (mobbed) and eaten at Lucy's (never disappoints), where bacon doughnut holes got us started while Player's "Baby Come Back" crooned overhead. Hello, '70s AM radio.

Young women at the bar next to us sipped successive mimosas as they discussed the hazards of saying yes too often to one's boss. "Um, no thanks, I do not want to go to another festival tonight." It must be tough being on the fast track career-wise. I certainly wouldn't know.

The '80s arrived when "Billie Jean" inexplicably followed Player, accompanying a lumberjack-sized special of fried softshell over grits with eggs on top, providing me with more than I could eat and that was after requesting just one egg instead of two.

Sopping up the last of the yolk with buttered wheat toast, it was time for me to go home and get some work done. New art procured? Oh, yes. Donation to food bank made? Check. Mid-day meal savored? Yup.

True to my own time? Always. Pride at being part of the Foodist Colony? Immeasurable.

Broadly Speaking

Broad Appetit, you're getting tedious.

With each year that you crow about the plethora of participants - "a record-breaking 75 restaurants" this year, you claim- are we not supposed to notice the amount of "filler" fair food options such as gyros and fries taking up space? Or the absence of some past favorites like Acacia and Magpie?

And what about the layout? You'd expect that more participants would mean the festival would extend another block or two instead of practically stacking booths on top of each other, with lines winding into each other and confusion about whether or not a person is in line for the desired place.

More than one person mentioned the need for a separate lane for those with strollers and dogs, two demographics that snarl foot traffic and seem oblivious to the back-ups they're causing. Why do people even bring small children to an event like this? All the ones I saw looked sunburnt, sweaty and miserable as their parents tried to cajole them into eating something the kid didn't want.

Since I'd not even been up an hour when I got to Broad Street at 11 a.m., I began with Lucy's corn fritters with jalapeno sour cream, not exactly breakfast but at least a distant cousin of doughnuts, and a hot, crispy and flavorful start to the day.

Amour had the ideal brunch dish: savory ham, mushroom and duck bechamel crepes and a vegetable crepe for good measure. The owner looked particularly dapper cooking crepes in a beret and I know he was wishing he could pour me a glass of French cider to pair with my crepes.

At Comfort, I had a drumstick of fried chicken with butterbean honey and a side of strawberry/rhubarb slaw, a slaw that tasted like May. As I sat in the shade eating, a mother tried unsuccessfully to convince her two youngsters that they wanted the fried chicken, which they both refused with hands over their mouths. Dad left in search of cheese pizza.

Family Meal, Brian Voltaggio's new spot at Willow Lawn (which I've yet to visit as I'm not especially attracted to eating with families), was offering deviled egg samples, so I nabbed one, enjoying the mixture of yolk, cream cheese, hot sauce and Dijon mustard with bacon on top.

Curious about the FeedMore Community Kitchen booth, I selected mesquite-marinated southern fried pork spareribs with spicy maple glaze and watermelon slaw. Honestly, I have no need for my ribs to be fried, but that slaw was one of the highlights of the day, peppery, refreshing and packed with complementary flavors.

After five savory dishes, I was ready for sweet and found it at the new Belle & James booth, a place that won't even open for a couple more months. They were giving away t-shirts to early customers, so I chose the tank top along with a piece of chocolate and buttermilk layer cake with buttercream frosting, a multi-layered treat that tasted like my Richmond grandma used to make.

Making my way through the mass of humanity was not without its humorous moments.

At the Mosaic booth, they had a yard-high red blown glass bottle adorning their table, causing a young man near me to observe to his buddy, "Check out that bong."

I passed two different women wheeling their little dogs around in strollers, more reason for that separate lane, just so normal people don't have to see such nonsense.

Wine drinkers could choose from Wine on Tap's various selections (not one was Virginia wine) and for the truly tasteless brave there was a tent for wine slushies, but of course the longest lines by a mile were for the breweries, all of which were from Virginia. Anyone else notice this disparity in local liquid sourcing?

After four laps, I'd only seen a handful of familiar faces beyond those working the booths and I was full enough. I still had half a piece of cake left, so I got a new fork and took the cake to one of the volunteers on the side street that leads to my house who seemed thrilled to have it.

There, that's done.

Back home, I changed into my new Belle & James tank top, shorts and Nikes and made my way through the endless neighborhood traffic jam (so many suburbanites trying desperately to parallel park in Jackson Ward) to escape for a 5 1/2-mile walk to Chapel Island, a welcome respite for the mayhem on Broad Street.

Don't get me wrong, I had several very tasty dishes and at $3 a pop, the price is right. But the truth is, despite living two blocks off of Broad Street, I only bother with this event because I have to, because I write about food and need to be there.

I saw that a friend just posted from Broad Appetit, saying, "Enjoyed this so much more a couple of years ago when it was smaller and not as crazy."

What he said. Where's the suggestion box?

Listen 'Til the End

Ask me and I'm yours.

A friend had tickets for Ira Glass, part of the UR Modlin series at Centerstage, and needed a date. Always happy to substitute for a husband, I walked over in the last of the evening sunlight so she wouldn't have to pick me up.

I was greeted by a couple of friends loitering near the entrance, promising to meet up with one for dinner and discussing mac and cheese devotion with the other. Behind them was my date, waiting for me.

Turns out we had terrific seats in the sixth row of a sold out theater, hardly a surprise since she'd gotten the tickets months ago. We got busy catching up about her toddler who has developed a devotion to Taylor Swift's videos, although she noted that he prefers her early work.

I thought that was hilarious.

Not Ira Glass hilarious, but then I readily admit to being partial to a handsome middle-aged man with a big brain and outstanding sense of humor.

Our beloved Ira took the stage in darkness saying, "The thing you have to understand is it's radio." Major laughter.

He kept on talking on a darkened stage, admitting that he'd wanted to do the entire show in darkness but UR wouldn't let him. "Seeing people in the stories is overrated."

Once the lights were up, he began a brief history of "This American Life," saying that it was the first NPR show that you didn't listen to because it made you a better person.

He talked a lot about the power of humor (something he had in abundance) using some of his past broadcasts, such as the a story about the war in Afghanistan.that began with an interview with the woman whose job it was to refill the vending machines aboard an aircraft carrier. All day.

Cracking himself up, he shared a story about a high school student who bought weed for the new girl at school only to have her turn out to be a cop. The punchline of that story was that Ira had had it turned into a musical, parts of which we heard. The lyrics came straight from the student's dialog.

That Ira is brilliant.

A fair amount of time and discussion was spent on "vocal fry," a manner of speaking common to young women these days. The problem is how offensive older listeners find it with NPR receiving scads of complaints after using younger journalists with the distinctive register.

The story concludes with a respected linguist alluding to the evolution of language and saying, "It only bothers old people." Funny, but complaints to NPR about vocal fry dried up as soon as that story ran.

That said, my friend found their voices lacking authority and professionalism and I thought they sounded like teen-aged twits, which makes us both old.

Roaming the stage as he talked, Ira explained structuring a story (much like a good detective novel), using a broadcast about a New Zealand girl who'd been bitten by a shark as an example of knowing the outcome of the story but not the good part of the story (cue narrative suspense).

Wanna know Ira's goal? It's that if you tune into his show, you won't be able to turn it off until the end.

I about lost it when he talked about how his parents didn't want him to go into public radio. "They wanted me to be a doctor. Why? Because we're Jews."

Demonstrating his parents' sense of humor, he said they took out a classified ad in the Baltimore Sun advertising a job for him. Leaning toward the audience, he said, "Classified ads, they were like Craig's List printed on paper and delivered to your house." Not sure if the UR students got it or not.

He posited that the "topic sentence industrial complex" was responsible for story structure not being taught in schools. To a language nerd, that kind of comment makes a girl swoon.

We got a lesson in the FCC and obscenity - you can call someone a dick once, but not four times in a story- and in Ira's opinion, a child hearing an obscene word "doesn't turn him into a criminal or a UR student," although he offered no proof of this.

His point that radio is an empathy machine that shows "us" what it's like to be "them" was well argued.

During the Q & A, a wanna-be journalism student asked him what she should do and he suggested she make work whether she gets paid for it or not (I see this as unlikely but it's true) and to keep plugging even when she's no good.

As an example, he played a clip from his seventh year in radio when he was 27. "This is to show you that I sucked," he said and he did. His story was boring and went nowhere, but he then proceeded to retell it to us in a livelier, more interesting manner, more like the Ira we know today.

Proof positive that even the mighty handsome Ira had to develop his talent and voice. But them don't we all?

After over two hours, Ira said goodnight and my date and I headed to Lucy's to talk.

When the bartender spread out menus - wine, cocktails, food - in front of us, the owner came up behind him. "Are you thinking of ordering food?" she asked. Um, no?

"Good, because if you did, I think the kitchen guys might start crying." Well they certainly didn't need that after a busy night.

Instead we sipped the crisp and lovely Famille Perrin Rose while rehashing our love fest with Ira. She showed me some of her favorite podcasts.

A guy came up to the bar to ask a question about cider, looked at me and thought he knew me. I'd thought the same about him but couldn't place him. Aha, Valentine's Day, that was it. His memory got more points than mine.

My date and I outlasted all the other tables before she announced, "I'm going to sleep good tonight."

Spoken like a true vocal fry hater.

Words Remind You of Someone

Poetry should always be the precursor to discussing romance.

Nothing could have suited me better today than waking up to an invitation to a poetry reading. With the exception of a man I barely knew reciting "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose" to me a couple of weeks ago, it had been far too long since I'd heard poetry read.

Sometimes you need more than a snippet from a stranger.

Walking in to Reynolds Gallery was bittersweet since it was the first time since owner Bev Reynolds had died that I'd been in. But she was certainly there in spirit because, as it turned out, she was the one who'd originally asked the poet to read at the gallery last August.

But poets are busy people who apparently put off readings and Elizabeth Seydel Morgan was only now getting around to it.

The female energy in the crowded room was fabulous with all kinds of talented women - painters, poets, gallerists - taking up the folding chairs in the gallery around me with the men scattered throughout like tapioca balls in bubble tea.

After being introduced as Buffy rather than Elizabeth, the elegant woman spoke (with a former teacher's ability to project vocally) to the crowd before the reading, allowing the tardy to find seats as she made observations.

"My poet friends are coming in late of course," she said, smiling. "All my artist friends were early or on time." Explaining that she didn't believe in poetry going on too long, she warned us matter-of-factly that, "I stop when the eyes glaze over." This crowd definitely didn't look like she had anything to worry about.

She compared her latest book, "Spans: New and Selected Poems" to an artist's retrospective covering work over the course of a career, saying she'd chosen the name because the poems spanned so many periods of her life.

Before reading an early one, What's the Most Elvis Ever Weighed? she explained that the first stanza took place when he was fat (260 pounds) and the second in 1956. "I brought the proof in case anyone doesn't believe me. It's in the back."

I never saw the proof but the second stanza was about a backstage visit with a friend to talk to Elvis who opened a Coca Cola (pronounced CoCola like the Atlanta native she was) with his key ring and shared it with the girls.

I don't imagine you'd ever forget that soda.

Some time after she read A Sun Lover's Book about afternoons spent with sun-warmed books read in a tree platform, we heard the door open and without missing a beat or looking up, she said, "If it's Ron Smith, don't let him in."

It was and as he sat in the only remaining available chair in the front row, she shared that, "Ron is the poet laureate of Virginia." So while he wasn't punctual, he got a pass because of his presumed talent.

From The Party Before the Party came the line, "I was a grown-up in a sundress," an imagery that I no doubt find appealing because I am unapologetically that grown-up all summer long. Given all her lilac imagery, she also sounded like as big a fan of the fragrant flowers as I am.

Sunset on Eastern Beaches (not that there is such a thing except in Key West, she pointed out) was directed at those who loved the Outer Banks ("Our faces glow with sun we cannot see") but also referenced Tuscany ("Fired horizon hushed us into silence").

Listening to the poems was like following along with the journey of her life as various issues presented themselves with age. "This is the most jagged grief," she wrote in Lost Without Ceremony. About friends who'd downsized and moved out of their homes, she wrote The Owner is Leaving This House, an elegy to the gradual removal of belongings from one house to a new space.

Keeping to the elegiac theme, she read poems about poisoning and shutters, but also said to laughter, "They're elegiac but not wallowing. I'm trying to encourage you to buy my book."

Fittingly, she closed with, "This is my last poem. Pay attention," an ode to her listeners and a wish that in the poetry, "Some word I said reminded you of someone." The last line was yet another reminder that this was the last poem, in case we'd missed it. I don't think anyone had.

More than once she checked to make sure our eyes weren't glazing over and the first time she tried to stop reading, the crowd got vocal yelling for her to keep going, which she did. Don't try to tell me poetry lovers can't get rowdy.

With the reading officially ended, I took the collective female energy in the room and left to go meet a friend for dinner. Why surround yourself with so much life experience and not put it to good use?

Friend and I had made these plans weeks ago, both of us committing to the date so nothing could interfere. Two weeks ago at Lucy's, he'd told me he was intending to ask an interesting woman he'd just met out. Tonight we were going to reconvene at Lucy's to discuss what had transpired since.

After telling me it had taken him a few days to get up the nerve to first message her after we'd talked, he admitted when he finally had done it, it had been at 6 a.m. when he woke up. Before he lost his nerve.

Brilliant, I told him, surprising him. Getting a message with a time stamp like that tells a woman you are thinking of her at an unusual time. "Just don't do it at 3 a.m., right?" he guessed.

Sharing a meat and cheese plate (flank steak to die for), Lucy's big bowl of comfort (also known as beef stew with duchess potatoes) and winter salad (kale, brussels sprouts, pine nuts, lemon vinaigrette and arguably the finest kale salad in all of Richmond), I heard from my friend about their getting-to-know-each-other process.

By the second date, he found himself watching her smile and looking forward to the sight of it. At a Super Bowl party, she insisted that he sit closer than the arm of the couch, patting the seat cushion next to her. Everything was going beautifully.

"But I have a conundrum," he said. "What do I do about Valentine's Day?" A holiday admittedly fraught with danger even for those beyond the third date, I understood his dilemma. Things are going well, but you never want to overstep bounds. On the other hand, she seems interested and he doesn't want to underplay it if doing something would make her happy.

Summoning the wisdom of the ages, I made a suggestion when he said that he may have to work that night anyway. Perfect, I told him.

By being obligated for the big event, he is free to invite her to do something mid-day, a time period that doesn't carry the same romantic weight as evening. If it were me, I advised, I'd invite her to brunch or lunch that Saturday. Have a lovely meal, spend some quality time with her and go off to work.

Even better, stop by Mongrel and get one of those pithy Valentine's Day cards that address this situation. While I guarantee it was a woman who wrote them, I think they swing both ways.

I know we're not like together or anything but it felt weird to just not say anything so I got you this card. It's no big deal. It doesn't really mean anything. There isn't even a heart on it. So basically, it's a card saying hi. Forget it.

To my thinking, if she isn't won over by the charm of a mid-day meal and a self-deprecating card, she probably isn't worth the trouble. Lilacs can come later.

Now he thinks I'm the brilliant one. He gave me all kinds of thanks for the terrific dating advice. Given that my romances have spanned multiple periods in my life, I should have a little bit of experience on the subject.

Most importantly, friend, never stop watching her smile. That's romantic.

Everybody Was Around

My last minute change of mind paid off in spades.

The film sounded depressing, bluegrass wasn't calling to me, so why not spend a rainy, cold evening enjoying dinner in the neighborhood? Maybe I could even dig up some company.

Heading out for a bite. Are you around?

If you don't mind that I haven't showered today, because they haven't turned my hot water on yet!?!

Hell, I didn't care if he hadn't showered all week, I was just happy (and surprised) that I could message him at 7:15 on a Friday night and hear back that he'd meet me in 20 minutes.

Arriving at Lucy's, I found the tables full and the bar with one lone guest, an older gentleman eating dinner. Naturally, I took the bar stool right next to him and he seemed pleased for the company.

Within minutes, we were marveling at the coincidence. He lives in Montross, half an hour from where my parents live on the Northern Neck. Not only that, but in 1954, he and his father had surveyed my parents' small village, a place most people have never heard of.

While he ate (and raved about) his "non-spaghetti and meatballs," we discussed a host of topics: going to Redskins' games, that he'd had a double bourbon at his hotel before coming over (he doesn't like blended whiskeys) and that he was in town for the Episcopal Council, which he explained they are now calling the Episcopal Convention "so it doesn't sound so Civil War-like."

His affinity for bourbon and whiskey was, he said, a direct result of his Scottish heritage and when he learned mine was Irish, he chided me in a thick brogue for not having a drink in front of me. Given my Irish roots, he strongly suggested I try Redbreast 12 Year Single Pot Whiskey.

When I asked him if he knew that tomorrow is Robert Burns' birthday, he stood up and began reciting to me in a loud, clear voice.

My love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June
My love is like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune

Since it's not every day that a man recites poetry to me, I thanked him profusely and asked how it was he knew the entire poem. He said he used to recite it to his wife when he was courting her 48 years ago.

You can't help but compliment a man, not only his romanticism but on such a long, successful relationship, but I was also curious about why theirs had worked.

"I told my wife I had loved several women before I met her, but I'd never liked one as much as I liked her." No doubt about it, the man had a way with words.

We had plenty of time for more because my friend had called the restaurant to have the bartender let me know he had misplaced his wallet and was running behind. "Running behind a good-looking woman, probably!" my new friend cracked.

"Smelly and tardy," the bartender, who knew my friend well, joked.

I was surrounded by comedians.

But he did arrived shortly thereafter, in time to meet my Scottish-blooded friend and bid him farewell as his cab back to the hotel arrived. "Get her a drink, will you?" he asked of my friend. "She needs some whiskey!"

What I needed was food, so our first order of business was ordering. We both agree that the meat and cheese plate is the most unique in town (on tonight's was medium-rare skirt steak, toothsome and flavorful) and added to that the 404 pickle-brined chicken wings and the winter salad of kale, fried Brussels sprouts, toasted pine nuts and lemon vinaigrette, a combination so good we agreed it was crave-worthy.

Since it had been months since we'd gotten together, we chewed and caught up at the same time (sorry, Miss Manners). I knew he'd moved into the house he'd bought (hence the lack of hot water) but wanted details of progress.

The kegerator is hooked up and functional, he informed me. He already foresees summer parties with white wine in it and friends like me in attendance.

Maybe it was while he was telling me about his dating life (upcoming) or perhaps when I was hearing about the architectural detour his job may take that I heard two familiar voices behind me and a favorite couple showed up to take the two stools next to me. "Your bangs look perfect!" he joked instead of his usual comment on their length.

I'd wished for company and it was coming out of the woodwork tonight.

They offered me a glass of their Rose (why not?) and took our recommendation on the meat and cheese plate (the sounds of pleasure coming from her were reminiscent of "When Harry Met Sally") while my friend and I went back to our conversation.

He was interrupted and asked to look up and provide the VCU game score (they won) while explaining to me that his generation feels compelled to Facebook stalk someone before they date them. Call me old school, but I consider this tragic.

It was relevant because he was soliciting my advice on which restaurant best suits a first date. He didn't want anyplace near her house because she probably already goes to them regularly. He didn't want a place where he knows most of the staff. And he didn't want to risk certain Ethnic cuisines in case she was a picky eater.

Although, I say go for it. He was telling me that he once took a girl out to a trendy place only to learn she didn't eat beef, most vegetables or anything much besides chicken breasts. "Once she told me that, the date was pretty much over," he said, grimacing. I'm with him on that one.

When we turned our attention back to the newly arrived couple, they gave us their thoughts on what works and doesn't in the Devil's Triangle, how much they want to eat at Perly's and why they didn't go to the Jewish Food Festival (parking issues last year).

Then they graciously shared their apple crisp a la mode with us while Holmes explained about disco-era Rolling Stones songs to all of us and questioned why he never hears his favorite Steve Miller song ("Space Cowboy") played. Some questions have no answers.

It wasn't long after that all three of my friends began packing up to pack it in after early wake-up calls and full days at work. Hugs all around while I went over to chat with another favorite couple at the end of the bar and the others headed out into the rainy night.

I stood with my coat on as we talked, until finally they insisted I sit down, have more wine and chat for real. Why not? My day had gotten a late start and I had no place to be.

So many unsolved mysteries! Why would a restaurant with a focus on catering not participate in bridal fairs? How important is it for a restaurant to have someone focused on social media? Do people really pay off concierges at hotels? How many flasks are too many?

Next thing I knew, it was almost midnight and the place was closing down.

And to think I began this evening thinking I was going to go sit in a darkened theater by myself. I'd have missed so much: poetry, compliments, sarcasm. Advice on whiskey and a steady stream of friends.

'Twould have been a waste...of bangs and all those conversations I apparently had inside of me.