Losing This Crowd

Nerd? I prefer intellectual badass ~ t-shirt seen on Second Street

Although I'm always excited about a new event in Richmond, I'm seasoned enough to know that often something that's wonderful the first year becomes something quite different in subsequent years. I know it's inevitable that word of mouth will make happenings more popular over time, but that doesn't mean it will necessarily remain my cup of tea.

Obviously, there are exceptions. Certainly the Folk Fest and InLight qualify because it will never matter how many thousands of people attend, I'm always going to be one of them.

But things like Flour, Fire and Fork? Nope, the first two years were fine, manageable and not so overcrowded that I felt like a number, but no more. Ditto the Brunswick Stew Festival. Unlike seven or eight years ago, we've reached critical mass with hip events and many have lost their luster for me.

But I'm always open to an inaugural event.

This is the first year of Maymont's Garden Glow, an idea inspired by the chief horticulturist seeing the beautifully lit autumn gardens during her first trip to Kyoto. Now Maymont's Japanese Garden has been re-imagined for night time with colored lighting highlighting trees, paths, ponds and structures, a feast for the eyes.

Walking from the parking lot to the Nature Center, a woman called out to us, saying, "It's beautiful! You're going to love it!" like she knew us.

But even before seeing the garden, I was having a splendid time en route. Mr. Wright and I had taken the rear-facing seats on the back of the golf cart, causing us to hang on with both hands to avoid being rattled out of the cart throughout the bumpy ride from the Nature Center to the Japanese Garden. Riding in an open air cart on a 70-degree night along Maymont's darkened walkways was nothing short of magical given the warmth and that you lost all sense of where in the city you were.

Less appealing was being let off with a cluster of people from our golf cart as well as the one behind us because it meant that we all entered the garden at the same time. Instinctively, Mr. Wright and I hung back - cue Wham! lyric, "I wish that we could lose this crowd" - allowing families with strollers and obvious slow movers to get ahead so we could enjoy the spectacle without having to suffer through stranger chatter.

The fact that it was a warm, still evening ensured that the ponds reflecting the trees and architecture had barely a ripple, making for a stunning mirror-like surface to amplify the effect. Some of the lights were the rotating multi-colored sort, so with a moment's pause, you could watch a scene change from brilliantly lit with a pink or orange light to subtly understated with blue or green.

In fact, my preference was for the simplest of lighting which allowed reflections of reality rather than colored versions, but that's just me.

Making our way around the darkened paths, we encountered guides and Maymont staff who graciously indicated the correct route to take to avoid the unpleasantness of overly bright lights. Because the lights were all positioned to be seen from a certain vantage point, reversing direction was a big no-no.

And because this is the 21st century, there were designated selfie stations for people to take advantage of extra light to capture their memory. Never mind that lingering at any point would have seared the memory into your brain, but we all know you can't post a memory on Instagram.

When we rounded a bend and came upon a magnificently-lit pond with trees along one side, a smiling young man asked if it was our first time around. It was, we shared, and he smiled on cue.

"I'm supposed to stop you and tell you to admire the reflection of the trees on the water," he intoned, gesturing with his arm toward the obvious. Although I dutifully looked and thanked him, once we got further along, I cracked wise about the guy's choice of words.

Really, he has to tell us he's supposed to stop us? Hilarious.

But it was even funnier on our second loop around when he asked again if it was our first loop. No, I told him, and you've already given us the "I'm supposed to stop you and tell you to admire the reflection of the trees on the water" speech, so we know what to do.

The look on his co-worker's face was priceless. "Dude, really, you couldn't dress it up a little more than that?" he asked, grinning at Mr. All Business. And I wasn't trying to get the guy in trouble, just to trying encourage more creativity in approaching people or at least realize that he should drop the part about being told to stop people. Pretty soon it was a group discussion.

The man at the center of it all had a defense at the ready, though. As we'd talked about his greeting technique, a crowd of a dozen or so people had gathered, all of them stopped and staring out at the reflection on the water. "See?" he said proudly. "It works!"

You can't argue with millennial logic.

The blue light-lit pathway was especially dark and we tested it by stepping a few feet off the pathway under the canopy of some evergreen trees. Although we were barely a yard off the path and facing it, it was as if we were invisible because people passed us by without so much as a glance over.

We could have been doing anything.

With up-lit trees, a lavender-lit wooden pagoda, an enormous light-covered mesh over a rock outcropping and a spotlighted waterfall, there was a lot to see, making repeat loops a necessity. Mother Nature contributed with occasional breezes dropping falling leaves, which only added to the drama of the scene. At one point, we settled on a stone bench just to take in the panorama.

When we finally finished our final loop it was less than half an hour to closing time. When we passed by some of Maymont's staff crowing about how well things had gone tonight given the large crowds, we paused. "Not one person has fallen!" a staffer said and considering how dark parts of the path were - as they should be for a light-based event -  that was really saying something.

A fine drizzle was just beginning to fall as we joined the queue to hop a golf cart for the ride back up the hill. We landed again on the far back seats of a golf cart that tried its best to get up some speed to make it up the hill without losing momentum, but sounded a little unsure about it. Mr Wright thought that given the cheerful mood on board, our night time travel by golf cart was reminiscent of Athens' Happy Train, albeit without souvlaki joints on every corner.

My first thought after experiencing Garden Glow was about how it will be different next year. Maymont has mentioned holding it in another of their gardens, say, the Italian gardens, but for an event inspired by a Japanese tradition, I don't see that working quite as well. But the notion of them trying to outdo this year in the same garden does hold a certain appeal.

I don't have to decide now whether Garden Glow will be a recurring event for me or whether once was sufficient. It's enough that I was there for the first, had a fine time and left with a head full of memories I can share. A year's a long time away.

Besides, as an intellectual badass, I like to keep things fast and loose.

As Happy as Clams at High Water

You might not know it to look at me, but I have something major in common with Lincoln.

Neither of us saw the end of "Our American Cousin," although his reason was far more tragic than mine.

The funny part is, when Quill Theater's production first ran last season as part of the historical staged reading series, the performance was stopped at the moment when Booth shot Lincoln. Brilliant, right?

Tonight's reprise performance at Maymont was going to be the entire play, so Mac and I showed up an hour in advance to find a suitable spot on the Carriage House lawn, only for it to start raining gently moments later.

We took refuge under cover with another woman and fell into a discussion about a news item I'd read today saying that after years of schools moving away from teaching cursive handwriting, many schools have gone back to teaching it.

Nuns everywhere are probably celebrating.

"But like Madonna and newspapers, cursive has displayed a gritty staying power, refusing to have its loop de loops and curlicues swept to the dustbin of handwriting history."

I told my friend that it was a Louisiana senator who'd heard from a surveyor that young people couldn't read the handwriting on old documents and been shocked enough to introduce legislation requiring cursive be taught in schools again.

The woman sitting near us then apologized for eavesdropping and joined the conversation. Seems she works at the Library of Virginia where they have an ongoing volunteer project where people can sign up to transcribe old letters in the collection.

And, yep, most of the people who do it are older because they can actually read cursive. So what happens next century, I wonder, when someone happens on a cache of old correspondence and there are no cursive readers left to translate?

But I digress.

Eventually, the rain tapered off, stage hands attempted to sweep the water off the stage and the popular 1858 play could commence, albeit without lights or amplification due to the weather.

The scant audience- we were among the few brave souls who'd come out despite the forecast - obliged by moving our chairs and blankets closer to the stage. Some of us kept our umbrella within easy reach.

Aside from the clear and present danger of seeing multiple actors slipping and sliding on the wet stage, the play was great fun and it became clear within a few minutes that it had to have been written by an Englishman. Naturally, the titular cousin was loud, coarse and vulgar, unaccustomed to bathing and a prodigious consumer of victuals and drink ("I'm as dry as a sap tree in August").

A country bumpkin, in other words, used to life in Brattleboro, Vermont, not the refined drawing room of Trenchard Manor, but an honest and decent man, if nothing else. And so American.

Liz Blake White was the ideal aristocratic daughter, Florence, entitled and dismissive of those she deemed beneath her, quick with asides and eye-rolling to the audience. Even the servants are surprised when she decides to be more than decorative and pleasant to advance the family cause.

You? Grave business? Why, I thought you never had any graver business than being very pretty, very amiable and very ready to be amused.

Nice work if you can get it.

Mac and I were feeling the pain of the women in the cast having to wear heavy hoop skirt dresses - anything for art, right?  - while we sat there in our minimal sundresses, gasping for oxygen like guppies flipped out of their bowls.

Just when things were getting good - what American could resist a sweet dairymaid making cheese and butter, a woman who should have been an heiress? - artistic director Jan Powell arrived in her rain slicker in front of the stage and killed the fun announced that more rain was on the way so the show was over.

Sure, it beats a bullet to the back of the head, but it was still disappointing.

As usual, I was so very ready to continue being amused.

Jazz Hands and Birthday Pink

Sometimes you just have to cross people off your list.

So when I got offered tickets to the Richmond Jazz Fest at Maymont, I said yes so that I could cross two musicians off mine. I'd invited a friend to join me and since I was supplying the tickets, his job was to provide the picnic.

Given the changeable weather, we decided to cut our losses by arriving mid-day, hoping to miss at least some of the rain. We walked into Maymont about 3:45, just about the time the colorfully-clad Tiempo Libre took the stage.

It hadn't been that long since I'd seen them - March with the symphony- so I knew to expect high-energy Cuban music brought to us by classically trained musicians. I don't know how they did it, dancing and playing non-stop in the afternoon sun, but they even managed to make it look fun. Their set ended with a conga line and a long string of attendees snaking behind the lead singer, dancing in the grass.

During the break, we strolled over to the "bar" to get ID'd, buy tickets and finally (ta-da!) qualify to buy a bottle of wine. It wasn't an easy process, but sometimes you have to persevere for the cause.

Given the humidity, we opted for a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, taking it with us as we wandered through the craft area (lots of jewelry, something I don't wear) and the bistro area (lots of fried food with Mama Musu's and Croaker's Spot the only recognizable names) before returning to our chairs.

Not long after, Dr. John  and the Nite Trippers took the stage, thereby satisfying one of my must-see needs. The good doctor wore a hat over his trademark be-ribboned ponytail and got right down to business.

Four or five years ago, a friend had advised me that the only place to see Dr. John was in New Orleans, but I figured it was best not to wait indefinitely for that opportunity.

The man is, after all, 72 years old.

That said, he sounded exactly like he did when he first sang "Right Place, Wrong Time" in 1973.
He proved it by singing it tonight and as a guy sitting nearby observed, "If you closed your eyes, it was just like hearing it in the '70s."

The crowd today would know about the '70s, since it appeared that most of them came of age then.
In fact, at one point my friend looked at me and said that we were at the young edge of the average age, no small feat.

I would say that hearing Dr. John's distinctive gravel of a voice was a most satisfying experience as he tore up the skull-adorned piano in the muggy afternoon sun.

We decided to use the next break to eat, enjoying fried chicken and coleslaw with our Riesling while a gentle rain began to fall. No problem; along with other necessaries, I'd made sure to bring a small umbrella, if only to keep the raindrops out of my wine glass.

My planning skills are among the best.

At this point, many people began packing up to go while just as many arrived to set up camp. Depending on your taste, the main event had either just happened or was just about to.

Next up was another 72-year old, this one, Chick Corea, another musician I had to see for posterity's sake. His group, the Vigil, looked to be less than half his age and my friend noted that they might as well have been his "class."

His master class, maybe.

The man who was once part of Miles Davis' band in the '60s walked out looking easily 20 years younger than he was and proceeded to show the youngsters how it's done. With an almost constant smile, he showed his mastery, never dominating the sound, but always clearly the one driving the bus.

It's exciting to see someone of his age still so obviously enjoying what he does.

When their set ended, we decided to pack it in, both of us having already seen Michael McDonald.
You know, the great jazz artist, Michael McDonald. Yea, right.

Our original intent had been to make it to somewhere less populated after the music to watch the Perseid meteor shower, but the lingering cloud cover made that impossible. Instead we finished the evening at the late evening birthday party of a friend, drinking Rose from Provence, listening to Madonna and watching a Queen concert on a big screen.

One guest wore white pants and shirt, his glowing cell phone in his pocket beaming its light from his thigh. Another told me how much he liked my writing, citing a specific article I'd written almost six months ago.

Did I mention there was a smoke machine to set the birthday mood?

Yah mo B there, wherever the most fun can be found.

I only hope that's still the case when I'm 72.

A Tongue with a Tang

Oddly enough, it was my second time at Maymont in three days.

I'd been there Sunday to see the trees all dolled up in skirts.

I'm always curious to see how the VCU fashion students manage to make muslin look feminine on a tree, no easy challenge.

This year, they did it with a lot of red trim - rick rack, fuzzy balls and red stitching- but after the recent rain, most of the skirts looked kind of bedraggled.

But that was Sunday and tonight was something else entirely, with the skirts stripped off the trees and a stage set up on the carriage house lawn.

It was Richmond Shakespeare's annual gift to the city, a free performance, this year of "The Tempest."

True, I'd seen this very same production as recently as the last week of March, the difference being this time it was free and outside.

Where better to see a play about a storm than under a breezy May Day sky?

I knew from attending the last two years that it's smart to arrive early and secure a good patch of lawn and planned accordingly.

My fellow Bard-lover and I made Garnett's our first stop, getting a salad, a sandwich and coconut cake to tide us over.

Our server suggested we take our goodies away in one of their picnic baskets and it seemed like too good an idea not to take advantage of it.

"Just bring it back tomorrow," she said, waving us off to have a good time.

It wasn't a tough assignment.

We got there early enough to place our chairs front and center and enjoy a leisurely meal under a sky that vacillated between sunny and overcast.

Looking around, I saw lots of families and lots familiar-faced actors.

When I got up to use the port-a-potties just before the show began, I heard my name called and found two friends lounging on a blanket.

They had all kinds of goodies laid out and she promptly handed me her box of Merlot, saying, "Have a drink! I've only had one sip."

If not May Day to share swill, then when?

We chatted about ways to defuse a protest (he was thinking pink frou-frou shorts and a pink Confederate flag would totally disarm the protesters at the Confederate chapel), a worthy topic on this, the day of international workers' protest.

Back in my chair, the play was about to begin when, at the last moment, a couple spread a blanket directly in front of us.

I was all ready to think rude things about latecomers taking prime positions when I recognized a friend.

A friend I'd convinced to come.

The play began moments later when the cloud cover dissipated and blue sky began to show under wispy cloud scraps.

Since I'd just seen "The Tempest" staged, it was fun this time to enjoy the audience's reaction to what they were seeing.

When Prospero referred to "the rotten carcass of a butt," a little boy near me snickered in delight.

He said butt!

Unlike last time, I also got to watch as the sound effects were made.

We were seated very near the guitarist, keyboardist (who also did percussion) and she who rattled the sheet of metal to make thunder.

The beauty of the outdoor setting was how the cast made the most of it, jumping down on to the grass and gesturing to trees and sky.

During intermission, another friend came over to say hello.

Just yesterday, I'd gotten a message from him asking me what I knew about "The Tempest" at Maymont.

Everything, I'd told him, giving him the lowdown.

I was pleased to see he'd heeded my advice and chanced it.

Even if he was responsible for plopping down right in front of me at 6:59.

He and his friend were enjoying the play and we all marveled at John Mincks' energy and athleticism playing the sprite Ariel.

Repeatedly, he'd come out of nowhere, jumping up and over the set or down onto the lawn and springing back up effortlessly.

"I could do all that jumping," Friend claimed, "But not all that popping back up. Too old."

Aren't we all?

That's why jumping and springing is best left to 20-year olds.

By the time the second act began, the sky was a pale gray and the bugs were flitting around the stage lights.

By now lots of people had donned hoodies and blankets were draped over legs and shoulders.

At one point, Stephano, Trinculo and Caliban jumped off the stage and took off through the sea of blankets and chairs, screaming like banshees to great hilarity.

I could have tripped Caliban if I'd wanted to, he was so close.

It might have been funny, but that trio had already provided so many pratfalls and so much physical humor, cracking up the younger members of the audience over and over again, that they didn't need my help to get laughs.

Instead I just kept my rotten carcass in my chair and enjoyed the gift of Shakespeare in the park.

I almost said butt.

Saucy and Audacious Eloquence

"No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May."

There was no rising involved, but early I did arrive for Richmond Shakespeare's free production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Maymont.

Doing so got me in the front row, as much as there were rows, where I found several blankets spread and a friendly couple already entrenched.

Like me, they'd attended last year's production and remembered how early and large the crowd had been.

Learning from our mistakes, we were having none of that this year.

Meanwhile, a couple of hawks circled overhead as we made introductions.

Ah, nature. That's why we go to Maymont, right?

With over an hour and a half until show time, I chatted with them, ate my picnic supper of fried chicken, legume and olive salad and watermelon and read.

I was not unique; looking around, most of the early arrivals were either eating or reading a book. I can't recall the last time I saw so many book readers in one place.

Coincidence? I think not.

Meanwhile the actors practiced their lines silently or sotto voice, ran around the stage flexing the stage boards or rehearsed songs.

"I am out of breath in this fond chase."

I would advise getting more exercise or eating more fruit if you want to keep up.

The performance began with the announcement of where the facilities were and the information that, "The Port-a-Potties are over there, they just arrived and they're freshly done."

I think we can all agree that there is nothing quite like a freshly done portable toilet. I know I took advantage of them.

With that reassurance began the play about how the course of true love never does run smooth (and if it does, how concerned should we be?).

And especially in a comedy about people loving the wrong person.

Even more so when the entire cast is in pajamas and robes (and kudos to Hermia for her alluring peignoir).

"Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind."

If you ask me, they should teach that in Romance 101.

As if the misguided lovers weren't amusing enough, the ragtag group of amateur actors who are painfully rehearsing a play for the Duke's wedding provided non-stop hilarity.

When the dim Snug agrees to take on the role of the lion, his Cowardly Lion imitation was laugh-out-loud funny.

Quince's barely restrained impatience with his slow-witted associates was written all over his face and in every muscle of his tensed body, ensuring that we felt his pain.

"Mine ear is much enamored of thy note."

Puck was a bundle of red union-suited energy, mounting stools, bouncing around the stage and leaping off the end of it.

The surrounding trees and lawn were the ideal setting for a story that takes place in a fairy-inhabited woodland (well, except for the children climbing the nearby tree).

That said, I was glad I wasn't in pajamas since once the sun set, it was a tad cool out there in the grass.

"We cannot fight for love as men may do. We should be wooed and were not made to woo."

For me, the pleasure of this play, which I've seen performed many times, comes with the chemistry of the actors playing the three sets of lovers, all of whom shone tonight.

At intermission, we were instructed, "Please feel free to go wherever you want to now."

For me, that was straight to the ice cream truck for a double scoop of butter pecan while a couple of musicians played Paul Simon and Kenny Loggins tunes.

And, yes, someone called out, "Free Bird!" Is that book-reading crowd behavior, people?

All the mix-ups and tomfoolery of the first act were finally righted in the second (whew!) act so everybody ended up happy with their partner and the over-the-top Bottom and his band of actors put on their histrionic play.

That brought to a close this year's gift from Richmond Shakespeare and another fine evening of feuding fairies and love and madness.

"To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days."

Did they ever?

Tiffany Tour for One

There's nothing like a man in a red sweater and green corduroy pants to put a person in the Christmas spirit, especially factoring in an extravagantly-decorated Gilded Age mansion.

In further pursuit of seeing another of Virginia's magnificent Tiffany windows, I took the Maymont House Holiday tour this afternoon.

I reported to the basement door of the house, knocked for what seemed like forever and was finally admitted to the inner sanctum.

To my great delight, I was the only one who showed up for the tour at that hour, so mine was to be a personal tour.

"Interrupt me to ask whatever you want," he said, obviously having no idea whom he had taken on.

You know, I think I will, sir.

The funny part was that after paying, I was told to leave the basement and walk around to the front of the house to start my tour.

"We want you to enter as a guest would have," the ticket guy told me.

"As opposed to coming in the back way I did like a lowly servant?" I inquired.

Sheepishly, he said yes.

So around the porte-cochere I went and up through the grand entrance as if I were paying a call on Mrs. Dooley (which, by the way, was done on Wednesdays only from 1 to 5; so I was at least following social protocol with today's visit).

My knowledgeable guide began by warning me that the Victorians believed that if a little holiday decoration was good, a lot was even better.

The first floor rooms were effusively decorated with greenery, poinsettias, red ribbons, golden beading and such.

Add in the mahogany walls, stenciled ceilings, elaborate woodwork and fussy furniture and it was bordering on visual overload.

In the dining room, the table was set for Christmas dinner and the menu was heavy on protein with many elaborate courses.

It began with oysters and moved through Virginia ham, roasted turkey and dressing, duck with mixed lettuces and, a personal favorite, glazed sweetbreads (explained to me by my guide as not really bread at all).

I was struck by the enormity of the table's centrepiece only to be told that large arrangements were used to prevent glancing, much less conversation, across the table.

One spoke with the people on either side, but never to anyone else.

Some might see that as limiting, but it sounds like more of a challenge to me than anything.

Tiffany items were present throughout the house, including several gilded clocks and an elaborate dressing table and chair made of silver and tusks from the narwhal whale.

I found the set both strikingly beautiful and appalling distasteful for seeing part of four whales incorporated into the pieces.

And then there was that 15' Tiffany window, which I was lucky enough to catch at an absolutely perfect moment.

"You're seeing it at its best, with the afternoon sun coming in, " my guide told me, knowing the real reason I'd come on his tour.

Hey, it was just the two of us for an hour, so we'd shared a lot by that point.

He'd already learned that I'd been raised a Catholic (like Major Dooley), so he said he felt comfortable explaining the New Testament imagery in the bottom third of the window (I have to presume he has an alternate tour for non-Christians).

What I hadn't mentioned was that I'm really a heathen, so I still had no idea what he was talking about.

But it was the upper portions in all their Art Nouveau splendor that I found most impressive.

That Art Deco desire to bring the outdoors in was perfectly represented with the twining grape vines and elegant non-representational forms.

I tried to imagine living in a house where I would see such a window every time I came up or down the stairs and couldn't.

Too big, too fussy, just too much.

But for a while this afternoon, it was the loveliest place to be...admiring Tiffany's handiwork in the sunlight with a terrific tour guide in green pants and a red sweater.

I could practically hear angels singing.

Seriously.

Please, I'm Trying to Learn Here

You know if I love noontime lectures, and I do, I'm bound to love noontime lectures where lunch is served even better. It was Maymont presenting this irresistible combination today and the topic du jour was Italian Renaissance Gardens. Art, history, food: score!

The event was held in the Garden House but walking through the grounds to get there on an overcast fall day was a treat in and of itself. There were groups of schoolchildren having lunch on blankets and chattering as happily as if it were a sunny warm day.

The landscape under the cloudy sky was monochromatic and certainly barer than my last warm-weather visit, but still a lovely sight to behold. I know two couples who had their first dates at Maymont and I'll bet that there are plenty of others who chose it for its bucolic (dare I say wooing?) charm.

The lunches came from A Sharper Palate and each was labeled with a picture of an animal: chicken, pig, turkey or "Med" for Mediterranean salad. A stranger recommended the smoked chicken salad and for dessert, I deliberated, but settled on the chocolate raspberry cake.

My smoked chicken salad sandwich had more heat than any chicken salad I'd ever had, making for an unexpectedly delicious surprise. The only downside was that it came with potato salad and I would have preferred fresh fruit.

It worked out well, though, because one of my tablemates (an architecture professor) had gotten fruit and offered to trade with me. He justified it by saying, "I had fruit for breakfast." (I don't care what your justification is, just take this potato salad off my hands. I mean, thanks.)

The lecture focused mainly on two Italian villas and their gardens. I love the notion of villas; what stressed city-dweller doesn't want a nearby house in the country in which you can cultivate your soul and have philosophical discussions outdoors?

Dr. Reuben Rainey had chosen his two favorite villas, Villa Medici Fiesole and Villa Lante, both with crisply defined outdoor rooms; the ceiling of these rooms was either the sky or a canopy of trees. I'd get philosophical too with the kind of views these places had.

Water features were popular and the Villa Lante had many "water jokes" where a spray would come out as you walked the path between buildings or up from benches as you sat. A sense of humor would have been required in the Renaissance, I think.

My favorite water feature by far was the enormous stone buffet table with the wine cooler carved out of the center to hold chilling water. But of course those Renaissance types knew how to drink well.

And, to my taste, plant well. Flowers were chosen in these gardens for scent more than anything else, which is exactly how I decide which flowers I prefer. If I can't smell it, all the beauty in the world is lost on me.

Chilled wine, garden rooms, fragrant flowers...if it weren't for villas being outside city limits I could almost have been, like, fer sure, a gnarly villa girl.

Like totally.

Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings Funk It Up

I went to the Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings show at Maymont with a couple of friends and my big pink blanket (GayRVA represents). Without a doubt, it was the most interactive show I've been to in ages, maybe ever. Beforehand the audience was told that Sharon likes a dancing crowd down in front and eager fans accommodated immediately (yes, Hunter, you dancing fool, I saw you front and center). Then the show started with Binky Griptite and the Dap Kings on stage priming the crowd for her arrival and she would have been worth waiting much, much longer for.

Early on, she pulled a guy onstage to dance while she sang and he did his best to keep up. After she found out his name was Chris, she asked if he had a girlfriend. When he said no, she responded, "Well, you will after tonight." He wasn't the last guy she invited up either.

Eventually she invited a group of women on stage to shake their groove things and they were all completely into it (not to mention better dancers than the guys). As the song wound down, she had each dance her way off stage to the applause of the crowd. Local entrepreneur Marshe Wyche was last and milked her moment for all it was worth while the crowd ate it up.

Sharon Jones is a tiny woman with a big voice who showed the audience how it's done with a song that featured her doing the swim, the jerk, the mashed potato, the pony and a few other dances I've forgotten already. The Dap Kings were perfectly right on backing her up start to finish; it's no wonder Amy Winehouse's Back to Black CD grabbed so many ears.

Most of us stood throughout the performance, partly to see and partly because it was tough to sit still with a rocking r & b band like these guys on stage. The perfect early May weather only made things better; if you did lay down, the cloudless sky allowed for the perfect stargazing vantage point while the music floated over and around you.

As expected, I saw at least a dozen people I knew in the wildly diverse audience, although my friend and I had actually expected a much larger crowd, not that it was small by any means.
I'm just saying, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings on stage in the middle of Maymont on a warm spring evening is a pretty irresistible event, in my humble opinion.

Afterwards, I stopped by my neighborhood joint because I'd been asked to by a friend who had to work but wanted to hear all about the show. Then a couple of customers at the bar started asking questions about the band and the set-up and next thing I knew, I was doing a blow-by-blow for everyone's benefit. They all, it seemed, wanted to hear about the new R & B band kicking it old school.

I did my best to convey what I'd experienced, which I'll be the first to admit in no way resembled actually being there. Uncompromising funk needs to be felt, not described.

Sorry for even wasting the blog space in my feeble attempt to do so. Just go listen to "One Hundred Days" or "I Learned the Hard Way" and get back with me.

I've Always Been a Skirt Kind of Girl

We were both soaked by the time we got to our first stop at the Olio food cart at VCU.

Walking up Harrison to the compass, there was a flood of water coming from the alley beside the Pollak building and it was pooling at the curb.

Some idiot tore through the puddle sending a stream of dirty water all over the two of us.

The students on the steps of the building were wildly amused and we were drenched.

Luckily, the sunshine and breeze took care of most of it as we walked, but with shoes soaked through, I squeaked when I walked for a good while.

We'd had lunch at Olio before so I expected a taste delight, but it was even better than I knew.

First of all, the cart's iPod was playing O.D.B and that's not something you hear coming out of your typical VCU food cart, so we gave the cart guy props for that.

My friend got the special, a roasted pork sandwich with cheddar and ailoi and I got the Arc de Triomphe with roasted turkey, triple-creme brie and bacon.

He also ordered gazpacho and I got the corn and black bean salad.

Clutching our Olio bags and watching out for puddle jerks, we headed back to the car and drove to Maymont to join the throngs, having forgotten it was Easter break week and bound to be crowded.

We found a shady bench just inside the gates and tore into our meal.

The sandwiches were terrific, not just for the flavor combinations (triple creme anything makes me very happy), but for the bread.

Olio par-bakes the bread and then makes the sandwiches each morning; they then finish baking off the bread right there.

The heat coming out of that cart is sauna-like, but the results are so worth it.

Fresh baked bread takes a sandwich to a whole new level, not tasting grilled, but rather warm and crusty.

My cumin-infused salad was sublime and friend's gazpacho couldn't have tasted any fresher.

We walked off all that goodness by taking in the Tree Skirt Fashion Show put on by the VCU Sophomore Draping class.

Thirty-plus trees were draped in mostly muslin, some casual and apron-like, some fitted and Barbie-esque and many quite bridal-looking.

Trees of all sizes had been used, giving the effect of slender, young bodies, thicker, more matronly shapes and some downright fat trees with lumps.

Likewise, the skirts ranged from very basic to wildly creative and everything in between.

With many of the trees budding or in bloom, the state of the trees added a human element to the perception of trees as bodies.

My friend is a photographer so he shot trees and skirts from every possible angle, all the while encouraging the tree models with his comments like, "That's it, baby! You're working it. Billow some more."

No, he really said those things.

The skirts are only up through Friday but you can't go wrong with a walk through Maymont and the skirts are the perfect diversion on a sunny day.

After a while, I have to admit, I was getting partial to the shaded skirts, but that was partly the glare of the sun on muslin.

We stopped by the fountain on the way out just to feel the cooler air and were treated to the wind spraying the fountain all over us.

Somehow it felt like more of a treat than our first dousing.

How better to end my afternoon than with my second wet skirt of the day?