Sophisticated and Fabulous

If 30 people show up for your birthday party 5 minutes after it starts, you are popular.

I did not show up to the party then, or even during the entire first hour, but I had the best possible excuse: addressing my gross cultural illiteracy. More to the point, I was at the Bijou seeing "Donnie Darko" for the first time in the company of a friend who was just as illiterate.

All I can say is, praise be to the Bijou for upping my movie game just about every single weekend. I owe them a debt of gratitude.

Admittedly, I'd known for years that the 2002 indie film was one I needed to watch and the fact that this was a 15th anniversary restoration only sweetened the pot. But what truly sealed the deal was a friend telling me that when he saw it at 14, it had reordered in his mind what his notion of a film could be.

With no more information than that, we showed up for the weekend's final screening with just minutes to spare. In a testament to the busy weekend the theater had had with the film, they were completely out of popcorn, so for the first time I saw a movie at the Bijou without chomping through a bag of it as I watched.

What struck me immediately was the 1988 setting for the movie, which I hadn't anticipated. From the opening notes of Echo and the Bunnymen's "Under the Killing Moon" through Tears for Fears' "Head Over Heels" to the Church's "Under the Milky Way" to Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart," I wondered about the choice of year.

Was the era a favorite of the director? Surely we weren't already experiencing '80s nostalgia in 2002 or were we?

You're bitching but you're not a bitch.

Just as distinctive was seeing both Donnie and his father engrossed in reading books, as if suggesting that waaaay back in '88, people still found time to read. References to voting for Dukakis seemed tailor-made to nail a specific time period, as were those high-waisted pants the girls were wearing. It all felt very nostalgic.

You're weird. That was a compliment.

The movie was dark, with an overriding sense of emptiness and more sci-fi elements than I could get my head around immediately. And, yes, that's a compliment because although we discussed it as we walked back to my apartment, we didn't come close to parsing most of it.

Later, I found a message from him with a link to an article about the more scientific elements of time travel so I could better understand what had transpired, although I'm still a bit shaky on that. I feel flattered that he had enough faith in me to think I could read it and comprehend something so very scientific. As if.

So while I was late, once I'd corrected my cultural gap I was free to head to my friend's birthday party at Lulu's - closed tonight for her event - which was pretty much in full swing when I walked in. Barely through the door, I was enthusiastically greeted by the friendliest cool cat musical couple I know, then spotted the party girl's main squeeze across the bar and went to say hello after not seeing him for months while he was snowboarding out West.

We were barely finished saying hello when I turned to see with whom he'd been sitting and there was one of my very favorite guitarists/conversationalists/people of all time, a decade-long friend I hadn't seen in a whole year (for good reason it turns out) and who made my night by being there.

Sometimes it pays to click "going" when you're invited to an event.

Still, it was nothing short of a thrill to settle down next to him at the bar and pick up where we'd left off a year ago.

At his suggestion, I first loaded up a plate of Tio Pablo's offerings (you don't have to tell me twice to eat) fashioning a couple of chicken, black bean and onion tacos with tomatillo sauce to follow chips and guacamole and leave me energized for as much conversation as I could get.

We were soon joined by a music-lover who loves to combine travel with booty calls (she highly recommends the practice to me) and swore up and down she will never marry again. I always wonder about the ones who protest the loudest.

She also shared how she'd gotten into her first Cheap Trick concert (hint: it involved servicing a roadie) and how she'd be seeing them again this summer (ticket in hand this time). When she brought up Robyn Hitchcock, it was a flashback since I hadn't thought of him in eons - I first heard him in the '80s with his band the Egyptians - although my friend said he'd never listened to his music.

Once she left us to our own devices, we wasted no time in talking about the effects of music - old (Pantera, Van Halen) and new (Hiatus Kaioyte, Dirty Projectors) - on us as well as the need for soulful connections, one of those things that affect quality of life for certain people. What's the point of being friends if everything stays on the surface?

Our bar stool real estate meant that we could stay put and dive down multiple conversational rabbit holes all night while the killer well-chosen soundtrack played loudly overhead and people - the birthday girl, the drummer/music fanatic, the DJs) came to us to chat. I only had to move to score some dessert.

Agreeing that a year between conversations is excessive, I cited the uncertainty of life as a better reason to get together more frequently. For proof, I told him about the Maryland friend who'd meet me monthly in D.C. or Fredericksburg, not just because we wanted to keep up with each other, but because life is too short not to spend time with people who make you laugh and really listen to what you say.

Then he moved to Key West and we don't get that pleasure anymore, so I'm all for gathering ye friendship rosebuds while ye may. Let's talk about what's on our minds, everything and nothing, while we can, shall we?

And in what could only be a sign from the universe, as soon as I got in the car, the first song I heard on the radio was Robyn Hitchcock's "I Want to Tell You About What I Want" from his new (and 21st) album.

You know me, I'll happily tell you about what I want. Just ask, then settle in for the answer and a whole lot of laughter.

You Are Dreaming

Holiday hustle and bustle, my ass. I'm losing track of where I've been and what's still left to do.

One thing that got crossed off my to-do list was a sunny road trip to Williamsburg for research.

There I meet a restaurant owner whose son is having his reception there tonight (I spot the large silver sparkly letters spelling out "Mr. and Mr." through the doors of the charming enclosed patio), making her a bit harried trying to find enough time to be both mother of the bride in full preparation mode and a restaurant owner.

Three guys in a British pub argue vehemently about the proper ingredients for chili while I eat a bowl of the house black bean and beef chili and eavesdrop. A local walking by advises me, suggesting I try an osteria because, "You can't beat it for the money." I like how the plastic enclosure on the patio is so heavy it looks like old-fashioned wavy glass (cue Ye Olde Paul's Deli).

It's been a good week for timely train rides and a belly dancer with undulating hips and a sword balanced on her head.

When I say I'm going to Lulu's for a band, everyone at Pizza Tonight is surprised to learn they occasionally do weekend live music, but when I mosey over for The League of Space Pirates 3rd annual "There's No Winter in Space" non-denominational holiday special, no one is surprised to see a heathen like me in attendance.

Besides, I'm all about celebrating the winter solstice or anything to bring on even an extra minute of daylight every day. Let guitar and bass duo Flashlight Tag sing it into being so and I will watch.

I've noticed I make it difficult for some people. Walking briskly past a guy on Broad Street, he asks if he can walk with me. I assure him he can't keep up. "I would try!" he insists, then proves he can't. Walking towards GWAR bar with a fellow film and music enthusiast, I hear from behind me, "You're walking too fast for a guy with a sore foot."

Surely it's okay to razz a 42-year old about already having old man-itis, isn't it?

I hope all the photographers I know are capturing Mother Nature's rare December pageantry. Every day I pass rose bushes covered in fragrant flowers. Entire hedges of pink and white azaleas are in full bloom around the Siegel Center. In my own yard, I currently have dianthus, daisies and geraniums blooming. A musician friend and I spend time marveling at now meaningless traditional rules of what to plant when.

Best rapper line comes from local Noah-O, who, when he spots a plastic squirt gun on the stage, leans down and exclaims, "Oh, shit, I'm not a rapper without this," and tucks it in his waistband.

I'm inordinately happy to be told that my Style Weekly piece on the Historical Society's new "Dressing Downtown Abbey" exhibit is up and getting good reads. The way some of us see it, beautiful dresses never go out of style.

Nor, apparently, do cool threads. The members of a band covering vintage '60s and '70s music dress like it's 1967. I'm particularly taken with the white and gray striped bell bottoms the guitarist is wearing, but they're all looking pretty groovy singing "Dance to the Music" as people do.

Three days, four bands, the poetry of a pie with Calbrese and a glass of Sangiovese, late night fried bologna served on the bartender's penultimate shift and the distinct pleasure of listening to my now-functional car CD player and specifically, my favorite Swedish export, the Shout Out Louds.

Unbeknownst to anyone, it was their "Time Left for Love" that provided the name for this blog.

The rumor said it was a serial killer
But they got hit by a Caterpillar
You know the engine was still on
I smashed a window, I could go on...

And on, as you may have noticed. Keep up if you can.

Rolling Round till Long after Dark.

On the cabin calendar, it was called a festival.

Three women, including the cabin dweller, had made plans to get together after running into each other at Lamplighter a while back and jabbering for 20 minutes spontaneously. It was decided then that we needed a longer conversation and one accompanied by wine.

The cabin dweller immediately put it on her family calendar, noting it with our names and the word "fest," which her husband took to mean an actual festival. Husbands are so cute.

I arrived first at Metzger and took a seat at the bar, where the bartender looked at me quizzically and asked my name. Because he used to bartend at Gallery 5, he'd recognized me at once. And while it was way brighter there than at G5, his face was familiar to me, too.

Waiting for my friends to arrive, I listened to the vintage soul of Mr. Finewine playing and chatted with him like an old friend.

Once the women walked in, we took a table in the corner, turning a crowded 4-top into a generous 3-top. The musician had just come from an acupuncture appointment and said she had no guilt about reversing the good done there with lots of high-fat food and wine. The artist was stoked about leaving for her hometown of Philly in the morning to give a talk at her alma mater and see her sister.

While it took us ages to decide on libations (Zweigelt and a savory caraway-inflected cocktail called the North Waves finally ), choosing food was a snap.

First, briny Blue Point oysters and a story about how the musician's mother didn't start eating them until she was 50. Now she owns her own oyster glove and shucking knife. With age comes wisdom.

Since three options were offered on the meat and cheese plate, I suggested we each make a choice. Mine was the housemade liverwurst with the artist picking stinky Reblechon because we were promised notes of barnyard (which came across more like someone opened the barn door and you got a whiff of it on the finish than actually licking the barnyard floor) and the musician went with the earthy sheep's milk Ossau Iraty.

We could not have made better selections both in terms of taste and how stinky they made our breath, meaningless for me but they both had husbands to go home to.

That liverwurst was truly a thing of beauty, something everyone who thinks they don't like liverwurst should try (and preferably before age 50) before they write it off entirely.

Since the artist is fairly newly married, I wanted to hear her met-cute story, which involved frequent visits to 8 1/2 where he worked. Seems he didn't get up his nerve to ask her out until a show where the band he, the musician and her husband were playing.

She said he asked her to join the band for a meal after the show. "He stood over me and a molecule dropped in my nose," was how she explained their fateful meeting. She couldn't do dinner that night, but a couple of well-placed e-mails and they became an item.

What struck me about her phrasing was how she'd said he stood over her, easy to imagine because he's about a foot taller. I told them about the years I dated a guy who was 6'5" and twice women came up to me and told me I was wasting a tall guy.

We tried to think of a crushing reply to such rudeness and by the end of the meal, they'd come up with, "It's a small tall woman who needs a tall man." Is it any wonder I think they're brilliant?

In deference to the artist's Jewish roots (and our love for it), we had to have the chicken liver mousse with fennel jam (that jam a masterpiece on its own) and on the side, roasted brussels sprouts with chili flakes. Both were killer and twice a server tried to remove the dishes when a bite remained on each and we united to send her on her way.

It's interesting, I've known these two friends for five or six years, but our contact is always limited to events. Once the artist and I got a drink before a show at her studio, but even that was no more than 20 minutes. Tonight was our longest conversation ever.

And so wide-ranging! Current events, work/life balance, women's choices and, of course, past loves.

The artist told us a wryly funny story about meeting a German lumberjack/carpenter at an artists' retreat. Since she was on her way to Berlin and he was headed home afterwards, he invited her to his house in, naturally, a national park.

With all the romantic expectations of relative youth, she went. They made a lovely meal and talked and then her showed her the minimalist bed where she would sleep. Alone.

"It had a wooden pillow," she lamented. Needless to say, not a thing happened and not because she hadn't been open to it.

You can take the man out of the woods and all that.

Dessert was rum cake with chestnut semifreddo, almond crunch and caramel sauce, a choice made by my friends while I was in the loo, and while I'd have gravitated to the chocolate, that semifreddo was everything a dessert should be in terms of flavor profiles and textural contrasts.

Just as we were finishing up, the smiling scooter queen was at my side saying hello. She'd spotted me across the crowded dining room and waited until we finished eating to stop by. Her man was working the post-hardcore show at the National and she was out with a girlfriend, helping her flirt.

I should think I'd be excellent at helping a friend with that.

Both she and the musician had wanted to know where I was headed next, because they presumed I'd have later plans. As it happened, I did.

The week before Christmas, a stranger had contacted me about some purloined flower bulbs that had shown up on his stoop. Rather than just taking them, he'd tracked me down and returned them to me so I could plant them in my garden.

That was when I'd learned he was a drummer and about some of the bands he played in. Tonight one of those bands, NrG Krysys was playing at Lulu's.

I lucked into a great parking space and made my way along treacherously icy sidewalks to Lulu's, where the guy taking my money at the door warned me that two of the band members were out sick.

When my bulb savior spotted me on the far bar stool and came over to chat, he told me the same, promising it would be entertaining at the very least.

It was that and so much more. The band clearly has a dedicated following who kept pouring in from the frigid cold to grab a drink, dance and watch the band.

Since it was my first time, I've got no idea who was missing because they had two guitarists, a bassist, drummer and keyboard player tonight. I think everybody but the drummer sang, always a plus.

"Hi, we're NrG Krysys Crisis. Two of our members are sick, but it's going to be all right," one of the guitarists said. I liked his can-do attitude.

By the second song, people were up and dancing uninhibitedly. Every time my server walked through the room, she did a little dance along the way to participate.

I had to applaud the band's song choices when I heard killer songs like Sly and the Family Stones' "Family Affair" or the barely-familiar after so long Kool and the Gang's "Hollywood Swinging."

During James Brown's "Hot Pants," the guitarist said in his most seductive voice, "Ladies, we like hot pants for one reason: what you see is what you get." Very nice, a double reference there.

War's classic "All Day" brought out the harmonies and the harmonica, not to mention a longing for the beach, picnics and rolling in the grass mentioned in the song. I bet it's been decades since I last heard that one.

After much instrument switching, they played T Rex's "Bang a Gong," which resulted in a packed dance floor. The song was so raucous that a wine glass danced off the back bar and threw itself to the floor. Luckily, neither bartender was back there at the time. Still, it was very rock and roll.

Oddly enough, it was a '70s song about cheating (Ace's "How Long") that finally got couples slow-dancing and groping. Go figure.

After that, the band began calling for Lulu's owner Paul to join them ("Don't pretend you can't hear me calling your name") and he did, his black turtleneck in sharp contrast to the band's wildly flowered shirts. Taking on the bass, he played "Working in a Coal Mine" with another guest vocalist who'd been standing at the end of the bar.

It wasn't even a one-time shot because Paul stayed up there and sang the Drifters' "Sweets for My Sweet" to close out the set.

There's a distinct pleasure in watching a restaurant owner showing off another skill set. He looked pretty natural at it from where I sat. As did the drummer, obviously as in his element behind the kit as I'd seen him in his garden.

Sort of like me at an estrogen festival or watching a band. What you see is what you get.

Unexpected Chocolates and Men

The best nights always end up being about the people you meet.

It started out as just another couple date, albeit with one of my favorite couples.

I dressed cute because my friend always gives me bonus points for doing so and because I never know when it will pay off.

We'd tried to make a reservation at the bar for dinner at Bistro M, but  they said they didn't take bar reservations.

Too bad, because Acacia, Amuse and Bonvenu all happily take bar reservations.

We lucked on to three stools, but only after after a duo slid down. I recognized our server from Lemaire, accused him of moonlighting and had my hunch confirmed.

We began with the Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc because they were out of my friend's first choice, the Wild Rock.

The fact that they have an ABC off license means that people are enjoying a wine for dinner and then buying it to take home, making for a reduced stock for other diners. That's a good thing.

One of our bartenders was of the Tom Cruise variety, slinging mixing cups and doing showy things totally unnecessary for customers like us. I wanted to write him off immediately.

He was a poli-sci masters student with LA and NYC bar experience and a tad pretty for my taste, but he provided decent conversation.

For starters, we had the deep fried pork with Sriracha, kale and green onions, the salad nicoise, and the New Zealand mussels on bacon with Great Northern beans, garlic and tomatoes with white wine basil cream sauce.

As many times as I have had mussels, this was my first time with beans and I am happy to say I loved the combination.

The cream broth was nothing short of obscene and it was good that they only gave me three slices of crusty bread with which to sop it up or I' d have kept going till the bowl was dry.

As I queried of the bartender, "Who doesn't like deep-fried pork?" especially with Sriracha for heat to balance the fat.

The spiciness of this one was reminiscent of the heat of Hunan dishes or Thai food.

The Nicoise salad had everything except the tuna, with capers, olives, eggs and greens and, at $5, a steal.

Since they were out of my choice, the Kanu Chenin Blanc from South Africa, we settled on the Vina Nora Albarino, a worthy substitute.

Dinner came in the form of tonight's special, a mixed grill (lamb chops, chicken sausage and a giant pawn), molasses marinated Muscovy duck breast and portabella steak with Bernaise and crabmeat, all superb.

We listened to the dessert selections, but since not one of them included chocolate, we demurred out loud, enumerating our reasons.

Moving on to another bottle of  Albarino, we were very surprised to be have an array of chocolates from the Bistro's market unexpedtedly laid out before us. Our chiseled bartender had seen to our chocolate needs unbidden.

Appropriate points given.

Along about that time, a friend of my friend's showed up and he turned out to be a Rocketts landing resident. He joined us for some Sharecroppers Pinot Noir and conversation.

He asked for the abridged version of my life since I arrived in RVA and I delivered. I always love seeing people's reactions to my come-here story and subsequent neighborhood shifts.

Outside, it was starting to sprinkle as we left, a weather event so wonderful that we lingered outside to enjoy it.

We moved on to Julep's, where a private party was in full swing, so we ended up at Lulu's for our nightcap with the new friend.

He ordered a bottle of the Heron Pinot Noir, nicely balanced and not too alcoholic, key at this point in the evening.

Next to me turned out to be a music lover so I enjoyed conversation with him on any  number of shows in Richmond, both recent and from days gone by. We'd been to many of the same shows.

He tried to make a case for his frequency in going out, but finally acknowledged that he couldn't hold a candle to me.

On the table were Bon Iver, Lucinda Williams, Carol King, The Eagles, Toad the Wet Sprocket and Springsteen. I can discuss them all, but my preferences are public record here.

Still, it's a real treat to meet somebody who's into discussing music non-stop with me and this guy did.

By the time we left Lulu's, Shockoe Bottom was in full swing with girls in short tight skirts (shorter even than mine), high heels (4 and 5 inches) and police everywhere.

That's always the right time to beat feet for J-Ward (me) and points beyond (my friends).

Meeting two new people in one night is plenty.  As it is, there are only seven nights in the week.

No one can say I'm not putting myself out there, even if it is within the comfort of a couple date.

Digging for Date Details

With spring fever hitting Richmonders hard today, my friend and I knew better than to think we'd be able to eat outside given our delayed start on lunch.

So we went to Lulu's toward the end of lunch hour, knowing we'd be assured of an indoor seat. We'd gotten such a late start because my friend had spent the morning dozing off and on because of a recent cold. I'd finally called him around 12:45 wondering if our plans were still on.

Given the short period between him getting out of bed and our arrival at the restaurant, the first thing he asked for was coffee. Our server, who had pink flowers in her hair ("I'm not a real blond and the flowers are from the Dollar Store" she informed us), inquired if he wanted sugar.

He requested the packets of fakeness instead. "He's trying to hurry up and get cancer," I told her, because I always tease him about using that crap. "Aren't we all?" she smirked. Um, not really.

He ordered the beer-battered fish and chips with mashed peas and I got the house-smoked chicken, mixed greens, avocados, toasted pecan salad with citrus-herb vinaigrette, knowing full well that my friend would share his fried goodness.

My salad was both more and less than stated. The greens weren't mixed but they were all pea shoots, something I love. And it was full of unbilled citrus segments, both orange and grapefruit. It was a perfect meal for a 75-degree day.

Friend's fish and chips were beautifully battered and fried up and I gladly gobbled up the three proffered pieces. Apropos of nothing, a nearby bar sitter shared a joke with us about male and female brains (let's just say it had to do with the male brain calling to the female from south of the belt line).

From that opening, my friend segued into what I'd been up to lately. I rambled off a few of the more interesting things I'd done recently while he gazed at me expectantly. "So what have you been up to?" I asked in return.

"What about your all-day DATE?" he about burst out, referring to the other day, here. Ah, so he'd read my blog and was testing me to see if I was going to share the "details not forthcoming" parts. "Where'd you go? How did you like him? Did you kiss?'" You know, the stuff girlfriends are supposed to ask you.

I guess I should just be satisfied that he reads the blog in between our lunch outings, which have gotten far less frequent now that's in love and cohabitating with a terrific woman.

When our flower-bedecked server asked if we wanted dessert, we did the standard comedy routine where he shook his head yes and I shook mine no. "Since when don't you want dessert?" he asked. Okay, we'll look.

Nothing caught our eye, although my friend had been coveting the Twizzlers our server had next to the register. When she asked if we wanted something, I told her that my friend wanted some of her Twizzlers.

And don't you know when she brought him his second cup of coffee, she brought a ramekin full of Twizzler bits too? I'm not a fan, but he insisted I have one. Biting into what felt like soft plastic, I asked him, "What exactly do you like about these things?"

"The waxiness," he beamed. "And how artificial they taste." Our server overheard and came over to high-five him on that one.

"I love the waxiness, too!" The nearest comparison they could come up with was wax lips, but both agreed that Twizzlers have the advantage because, "You can't swallow wax lips."

While some people were lunching in the sunshine, I was watching a convention of Twizzler nerds. God, I love my life.