You know it takes a lot to lure me to the suburbs.
But that's exactly what I did when I headed to Chesterfield County in rush hour, during a thunderstorm and why? Because Modern Richmond was opening up a 1978 house originally designed by NOVA architect Joseph Boggs. And while Northern Virginia in general makes my skin crawl, I admit I was curious to see the house.
Besides being honored by the American Institute of Architects not once but twice - in 1978 and again in 2012 after a renovation - I was intrigued at seeing the state of modern architecture at a time when my top priority was college and clubs and not necessarily in that order.
Translation: I wasn't paying attention to residential architecture being built at that point and now I am.
Just as I was overcoming my distaste for the entitled-feeling neighborhood and the lackluster houses in general, I came to the one in question. Situated into a one acre lot that rose much higher in the back, it at least had character that I hadn't seen in other houses I'd passed.
Right away, I gave it points for the fish pond in an island in the driveway and the fact that the concrete walkway had been poured with an opening for a large, existing tree. Inside the house, I was struck by the large expanses of glass, the abundance of skylights, vaulted ceilings and clerestory windows (so Frank Lloyd Wright, but what did I expect?).
Standing near the kitchen, I overheard a woman tell her husband, "I don't know about those windows," referring to the rectangular windows located between the counters and the kitchen cabinets. "I'm good with them," her husband opined and kept walking.
Looking through one of the large expanses of glass - the windows were a mixture of the opening kind and not - several of us spotted a Mama deer and two babies just behind the plastic playhouse in the elevated backyard. I guess they have lots of nature in the county.
A narrow, carpeted spiral staircase seemed dated, but I gave it a few points for how it reminded me of climbing a lighthouse because of the extremely tight fit making my way up and down. At the top was what seemed to be a playroom with toys on shelves, although a full box of rolled up blueprints indicated otherwise. Bookshelves contained books on Gaudi, Impressionism and Frank Lloyd Wright, the latter no surprise.
After having been through a lot of Modern Richmond houses old and new over the years, this one fell somewhere in between the distinctive mid-century styles and the lackluster creativity of newer modern construction we've seen. Vintage details like cypress tongue and groove paneling on walls and ceiling certainly elevated this one.
I couldn't stay to hear the current owners talk, but on the way out, I ran into a gallerist I know coming up the driveway and we immediately bonded over the schlep from the city (she's in Church Hill), agreeing that the suburbs are not for us.
Happy to be headed back to my natural habitat, I made a bee-line for the Byrd to meet Mac for another pre-code movie from 1933, just like last week. This time, it was "Baby Face" with a young Barbara Stanwyck. In the introduction, Byrd manager Todd told us that this was a very salacious film for the time in that it showed a woman taking control of her own life. "nowadays, we call it reality TV," he joked.
Granted, she did it by sleeping her way to the top long before Madonna was a gleam in her Daddy's eye, but, come on, it was the Depression and a woman's options were limited. Except that the story used a kindly cobbler character to introduce our heroine to Nietzsche and his theory that all life is exploitation. He tells her to exploit herself by using men to get what she wants.
You never saw an Erie, Pennsylvania girl get the hang of using men so fast, resulting in fur coats, an expensive apartment and lots of bling. Along the way, one of her ex-lovers kills her present lover and then himself, so that gets a bit messy, but our girls keeps going anyway, landing a job in Paris and, ultimately, the grandson of the bank's founder. He's smitten and sends her a note at work: "Pick you up at 8. We are dining and dancing." A bit blunt, but a solid plan, if you ask me.
But it's still 1933, so ultimately, she tells him all she really wants is for it to say "Mrs." on her tombstone (aim higher, honey!), so he marries our little go-getter.
This pat Hollywood plot twist is how the studio placated the New York board of censors before it was allowed to screen there. Even so, he winds up shooting himself (this girl was rough on men's hearts), but he lives so there can be a happy ending.
You want to know how happy? He told her he wanted to buy her a house in New York City and one in Paris, which means she'd never have to live in the suburbs.
Now, that's true love, Nietzsche-style.
Showing posts with label modern richmond. Show all posts
Showing posts with label modern richmond. Show all posts
Thursday, June 20, 2019
Thursday, March 14, 2019
Got Your Pliers Right Here
Turns out I can date a house by its bathtub.
When Mac pointed to the unusually-sized square tub in the bathroom, she guessed its origins were the 1950s. Not so, I suggested, recognizing that size and style from a Northern Neck house I'd recently seen that had an identical tub. A house that had had bathrooms put in by its very rich new owner in 1932.
As a side note, I find it curious that I went a lifetime without ever seeing a square tub and I've now spotted two in three weeks.
Today's square tub was located in an International Style house (Richmond's first, it should be noted) in the Maymont neighborhood. Mac and I had walked by it many time (her especially because it's her 'hood) en route to Texas Beach, the difference being that this time we got to go in.
Thanks, Modern Richmond, for letting us be voyeurs.
As soon as we'd seen what house was being featured, we'd gotten tickets so we could ogle its interior. Like the master bedroom with two walls of windows looking out over the canal and river. And not just any windows, but the original casement windows that opened out.
All I'm saying is, if that was my bedroom, those windows would be open April through October and any 65+ degree day in between.
The house's current owners had combined a mix of old and new belongings. A vintage black telephone like the one in "Dial M for Murder" sat next to a computer screen. The sunny bedroom had a small, VCR TV much like the ones from the early '90s.
Mine was stolen the weekend I moved into my Floyd Avenue apartment, a convenient way to pull the plug.
Walking outside to the deck overlooking the river, Mac ran smack dab into the same stranger who'd been behind her in line at Lowe's in Short Pump last night. When the cashier's two pairs of scissors weren't able to cut the zip tie off the product, he'd offered to get pliers to help her remove it.
What are the chances their paths would cross again so soon? Or ever?
The former garage had been attached to the house and covered at some point, allowing for a raised dining room which could be seen through the windows near the kitchen. The flooring was the same as in NYC subway cars, so incredibly durable, although a pain-in-the-butt to install.The bathroom was drop dead gorgeous with a patterned red and black floor made of ruby glass and amethyst glass.
One of the owners who'd bought the house in 1987 and lived there for three decades gave a talk with lots of dirt about the house. It had been built in 1935-6 by Richmond architect George Edward Hoppe, Jr., an unfamiliar name I knew immediately I needed to go home and research.
So I'm a nerd and a voyeur.
Like how her husband had rented the house for $250 a month before he met her. How he'd finally convinced the owner to let him buy it for $52K in the late '80s - a gentleman's agreement with no actual documentation - only to have someone else offer the guy $92K. How the owner told the higher bidder he'd have to talk to her husband. Now, that's integrity.
During the ten-year renovation ("I now know how to use a Saws-all," she bragged), the couple knew one thing for sure: they were keeping the original windows, a wise move given how distinctive they are (that or the $30K cost to replace them all).
Also, they didn't need George Edward Hoppe, Jr. rolling around in his grave.
One of my favorite features was that while the roof was flat outside in keeping with the International Style, inside the roof was peaked, with beams visible. And although the house had originally been unpainted brick, it had long since been painted white, making for a striking contrast with all the foliage around it.
The couple who owns it now also spoke, gushing about how external feeling the house is during the day with all the un-curtained windows allowing in light and nature, but at night, it morphs into something internal feeling and cozy. Perched on a hill over the river, it was easy to imagine.
He pointed out that all the windows in the living room are at eye height to draw the eye outside. On the sun porch, the windows are at eye height when you're sitting down. Brilliant, George, that's all I can say.
"It's funny to live in a work of art," one of the owners admitted. "But that's what it feels like."
Walking out afterwards to my car, I spotted a friend coming down his walkway. From the screened porch above, his wife called out to me. It was the same couple I'd seen performing in their band last Wednesday at Capital Ale House. Their rock and roll aura was somewhat subdued. She was wearing yellow pants and filling a brand new yellow bird feeder and he was chatting with us about what we'd just seen.
But we couldn't chat for long because even though we'd already made a pit stop at 821 Cafe for a plate of my favorite black bean nachos, we had a movie to see at the Byrd.
Walking in, manager Todd announced, "There she is! Now we can start the movie," his kind of humor. Inside, buttered popcorn and Milk Duds procured, we settled in for 2011 film "Pariah" about a young black woman struggling to come out as a lesbian to herself and her family.
Tellingly, the woman who introduced the film. a familiar face from poetry and haiku readings, gave the most heartfelt of affirmations about it, saying, "Watching this film felt like the first time I saw myself on the big screen."
The movie had premiered at Sundance and won an award for its exquisite cinematography and we didn't have to get very far into it to see why. Add in the knockout performance of newcomer Adepero Oduye who played the woman and I was just sorry there weren't more people in attendance for the sensitively-acted and well-written story.
But then again, I can't worry about what others miss. It was enough to eat, ogle and watch with Mac and get her home at a reasonable hour since she'd been up since dawn. Maybe this is why people tell me they're exhausted being with me.
"This is the best Modern Richmond ever!" I heard a man tell someone on the deck of the Hoppe house. Later, during the talk, he repeated it to the entire room. Can't say that I agree and I've been to plenty.
But it was a fine introduction to a local architect and I'm living proof that that can be life-changing.
Oh, and I'll look up Hoppe, too.
When Mac pointed to the unusually-sized square tub in the bathroom, she guessed its origins were the 1950s. Not so, I suggested, recognizing that size and style from a Northern Neck house I'd recently seen that had an identical tub. A house that had had bathrooms put in by its very rich new owner in 1932.
As a side note, I find it curious that I went a lifetime without ever seeing a square tub and I've now spotted two in three weeks.
Today's square tub was located in an International Style house (Richmond's first, it should be noted) in the Maymont neighborhood. Mac and I had walked by it many time (her especially because it's her 'hood) en route to Texas Beach, the difference being that this time we got to go in.
Thanks, Modern Richmond, for letting us be voyeurs.
As soon as we'd seen what house was being featured, we'd gotten tickets so we could ogle its interior. Like the master bedroom with two walls of windows looking out over the canal and river. And not just any windows, but the original casement windows that opened out.
All I'm saying is, if that was my bedroom, those windows would be open April through October and any 65+ degree day in between.
The house's current owners had combined a mix of old and new belongings. A vintage black telephone like the one in "Dial M for Murder" sat next to a computer screen. The sunny bedroom had a small, VCR TV much like the ones from the early '90s.
Mine was stolen the weekend I moved into my Floyd Avenue apartment, a convenient way to pull the plug.
Walking outside to the deck overlooking the river, Mac ran smack dab into the same stranger who'd been behind her in line at Lowe's in Short Pump last night. When the cashier's two pairs of scissors weren't able to cut the zip tie off the product, he'd offered to get pliers to help her remove it.
What are the chances their paths would cross again so soon? Or ever?
The former garage had been attached to the house and covered at some point, allowing for a raised dining room which could be seen through the windows near the kitchen. The flooring was the same as in NYC subway cars, so incredibly durable, although a pain-in-the-butt to install.The bathroom was drop dead gorgeous with a patterned red and black floor made of ruby glass and amethyst glass.
One of the owners who'd bought the house in 1987 and lived there for three decades gave a talk with lots of dirt about the house. It had been built in 1935-6 by Richmond architect George Edward Hoppe, Jr., an unfamiliar name I knew immediately I needed to go home and research.
So I'm a nerd and a voyeur.
Like how her husband had rented the house for $250 a month before he met her. How he'd finally convinced the owner to let him buy it for $52K in the late '80s - a gentleman's agreement with no actual documentation - only to have someone else offer the guy $92K. How the owner told the higher bidder he'd have to talk to her husband. Now, that's integrity.
During the ten-year renovation ("I now know how to use a Saws-all," she bragged), the couple knew one thing for sure: they were keeping the original windows, a wise move given how distinctive they are (that or the $30K cost to replace them all).
Also, they didn't need George Edward Hoppe, Jr. rolling around in his grave.
One of my favorite features was that while the roof was flat outside in keeping with the International Style, inside the roof was peaked, with beams visible. And although the house had originally been unpainted brick, it had long since been painted white, making for a striking contrast with all the foliage around it.
The couple who owns it now also spoke, gushing about how external feeling the house is during the day with all the un-curtained windows allowing in light and nature, but at night, it morphs into something internal feeling and cozy. Perched on a hill over the river, it was easy to imagine.
He pointed out that all the windows in the living room are at eye height to draw the eye outside. On the sun porch, the windows are at eye height when you're sitting down. Brilliant, George, that's all I can say.
"It's funny to live in a work of art," one of the owners admitted. "But that's what it feels like."
Walking out afterwards to my car, I spotted a friend coming down his walkway. From the screened porch above, his wife called out to me. It was the same couple I'd seen performing in their band last Wednesday at Capital Ale House. Their rock and roll aura was somewhat subdued. She was wearing yellow pants and filling a brand new yellow bird feeder and he was chatting with us about what we'd just seen.
But we couldn't chat for long because even though we'd already made a pit stop at 821 Cafe for a plate of my favorite black bean nachos, we had a movie to see at the Byrd.
Walking in, manager Todd announced, "There she is! Now we can start the movie," his kind of humor. Inside, buttered popcorn and Milk Duds procured, we settled in for 2011 film "Pariah" about a young black woman struggling to come out as a lesbian to herself and her family.
Tellingly, the woman who introduced the film. a familiar face from poetry and haiku readings, gave the most heartfelt of affirmations about it, saying, "Watching this film felt like the first time I saw myself on the big screen."
The movie had premiered at Sundance and won an award for its exquisite cinematography and we didn't have to get very far into it to see why. Add in the knockout performance of newcomer Adepero Oduye who played the woman and I was just sorry there weren't more people in attendance for the sensitively-acted and well-written story.
But then again, I can't worry about what others miss. It was enough to eat, ogle and watch with Mac and get her home at a reasonable hour since she'd been up since dawn. Maybe this is why people tell me they're exhausted being with me.
"This is the best Modern Richmond ever!" I heard a man tell someone on the deck of the Hoppe house. Later, during the talk, he repeated it to the entire room. Can't say that I agree and I've been to plenty.
But it was a fine introduction to a local architect and I'm living proof that that can be life-changing.
Oh, and I'll look up Hoppe, too.
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
Pegboard and Yarmulkes
Tonight was all about the round and the Jewish.
Modern Richmond was opening the doors on the infamous round building at the corner of Thompson and Floyd and as a former Floyd Avenue denizen for 13 years, I was understandably curious about a place I've been by literally thousands of times.
Apparently so were a lot of other people, since I arrived at 5:34 (doors opened at 5:30) and found the 1954 round building, which had originally been built as medical offices, already getting crowded with fans of modernism.
Walking through that magnificent wooden door led to a semi-circular lobby with the original curved benches on one wall and a water feature facing it. At the moment, there's no water, just a curved blue mat to suggest water, but I heard someone say that Ellwood Thompson, the new owners of the building, are planning to restore the water feature. In front of the benches was a low coffee table that echoed the curves of the benches and wall and had been hand-crafted by the doctor's son.
It all looked like something from a '50s movie.
One guy walked in and immediately got a goofy grin on his face. "This was my doctor!" he shared, meaning he knew what it had looked like before ET had renovated it. I give ET credit, though, because they'd remained mostly faithful to the original design, as evidenced by some of the linoleum flooring and blue pegboard cabinet doors.
But easily the most fascinating part of the interior was the ephemera, all framed and hanging on the circular walls. A December 31, 1954 invoice from Laburnum Construction Corporation showing charges of $50,346.00. A drawing of a proposed addition (fortunately never executed) that looked likea growth three bubbles attached to the back of the building. Letters from architect to assistant about contract bids. And plenty of black and white photographs of the building and interior back when the surrounding trees were young and skinny.
Making my way through the back patio, I overheard a man ask the bartender in the event he used both his drink tickets (which came with the price of admission), would it be possible for him to buy more? Kind of makes you wonder how much he was enjoying modernism if he needed an alcohol drip, but I don't judge. In fact, when I got ready to leave, I found him chatting with a woman and without explanation, handed him my two drink tickets.
"What's this?" he said, confused but looking pleased. Heard you might need some more drinks, I told him, and I'm not using mine. In return, he gave me the full-on grateful stranger smile and I could leave, knowing I had done my good deed for the day. Or enabled a problem drinker, whichever.
After dropping off the car at home, I walked over to VCU Cabell Library for author Jonathan Sarna's lecture on his book, "Lincoln and the Jews." And if I thought Modern Richmond was crowded, you should've seen the overflow masses for the lecture. Additional chairs had to be brought out.
I found one of the very few single seats available and chatted up my seatmate, who, like me, came to Richmond 30 years ago, except after growing up in Michigan and living in New York City for years. Turns out he's a math professor on the medical campus with an interest in Jewish studies. For that matter, I spotted a handful of men wearing yarmulkes on a Wednesday evening. Two rows in front of me was the VCU religion and philosophy prof who used to live two doors down from me on Floyd Avenue.
It's all so inter-connected, isn't it?
Sarna was as funny as a Borscht Belt comedian and as knowledgeable as one of the most prominent historians of American Judaism (which he is) should be and, as lecturers go, absolutely captivating to listen to.
He began by sharing a story of traveling to Jerusalem as a teen with his family and being gobsmacked at seeing a sign for Abraham Lincoln Street. His father stopped a passerby, asking who this man was, not that he didn't know but he wanted their story. The Israelite patiently explained to Sarna and his dad that Lincoln was a prominent Jew from America who'd made a huge contribution to the United Jewish appeal.
And that was only one of the times that Sarna had the audience laughing in between dropping fascinating historical facts on us.
He said that Lincoln's life span coincided with the rise of Jews on the American scene. That Richmond's Jewish community dates back to the American Revolution. That Abe was the most biblically-literate president in U.S. history and had a wicked wit evidenced in his writings
To prove Abe's affinity for the Jews, he showed us a chart detailing 120 of Abe's friends, acquaintances, appointees and the like who were Jewish. Hell, Sarna showed us an 1862 letter from Lincoln saying, "I believe I have not yet appointed a Hebrew" ("That was the first affirmative action!" he cracked) and then doing just that by making a Jew assistant quartermaster with the rank of captain.
But where Abe truly burned brightest in his efforts to be inclusive was with his appointment of the first Jew as military chaplain of a Jewish-led regiment. Only problem was the army turned the appointment down because the law stated that chaplains had to promote Christianity.
So what does Abe do but work behind the scenes to change the law and like a good politician, buries it in a bigger bill giving Union generals a raise because after all, who's not going to vote for that?
So that's right, non-Christians can serve as military chaplains solely because of a law Lincoln shaped. He also omitted any reference to this being a Christian nation in his Gettysburg Address, instead referring to us as one nation under god (any god), a fact which had Sarna making Wiccan jokes.
Talking about Abe's visit here after Richmond fell, he quipped, "You've heard of that, right?" and got a big laugh, but his point was to tell us that while here, Abe met with an important Jewish Richmonder, telling him that he wasn't going to persecute the south but let them off easy as part of his post-war reconstruction plan.
And when he was shot at Ford's Theater, it was a Jewish doctor who cleaned the wound and declared it fatal. It was then that he effectively rested his case: Abe had changed America with his rhetoric and actions concerning the Jewish population.
When the talk ended, Sarna began the Q & A by saying, "This is everything you always wanted to know about Abraham Lincoln and the Jews but were afraid to ask, so ask good questions," delighting the 50+ crowd who knew the reference.
After nothing but guys were given the microphone, he finally asked, "We've had three men ask questions. Are women allowed to ask?" and some female students finally got their turns.
No one wanted the Q & A to end, but the head librarian pointed out that we could probably do this all night (during which I'd expect to hear, "Thank you very much. I'm here all week, try the veal!") except it was time to move on to the reception.
There weren't nearly as many great jokes at the reception as there'd been during the history lecture, although one quip caught my ear: "Once you go Jew, nothing else will do."
I could just hear Sarna's inevitable response had he been standing there. "You've heard of that, right?"
Not until tonight, but it's never too late to learn. We'll call it Lincoln's legacy.
Modern Richmond was opening the doors on the infamous round building at the corner of Thompson and Floyd and as a former Floyd Avenue denizen for 13 years, I was understandably curious about a place I've been by literally thousands of times.
Apparently so were a lot of other people, since I arrived at 5:34 (doors opened at 5:30) and found the 1954 round building, which had originally been built as medical offices, already getting crowded with fans of modernism.
Walking through that magnificent wooden door led to a semi-circular lobby with the original curved benches on one wall and a water feature facing it. At the moment, there's no water, just a curved blue mat to suggest water, but I heard someone say that Ellwood Thompson, the new owners of the building, are planning to restore the water feature. In front of the benches was a low coffee table that echoed the curves of the benches and wall and had been hand-crafted by the doctor's son.
It all looked like something from a '50s movie.
One guy walked in and immediately got a goofy grin on his face. "This was my doctor!" he shared, meaning he knew what it had looked like before ET had renovated it. I give ET credit, though, because they'd remained mostly faithful to the original design, as evidenced by some of the linoleum flooring and blue pegboard cabinet doors.
But easily the most fascinating part of the interior was the ephemera, all framed and hanging on the circular walls. A December 31, 1954 invoice from Laburnum Construction Corporation showing charges of $50,346.00. A drawing of a proposed addition (fortunately never executed) that looked like
Making my way through the back patio, I overheard a man ask the bartender in the event he used both his drink tickets (which came with the price of admission), would it be possible for him to buy more? Kind of makes you wonder how much he was enjoying modernism if he needed an alcohol drip, but I don't judge. In fact, when I got ready to leave, I found him chatting with a woman and without explanation, handed him my two drink tickets.
"What's this?" he said, confused but looking pleased. Heard you might need some more drinks, I told him, and I'm not using mine. In return, he gave me the full-on grateful stranger smile and I could leave, knowing I had done my good deed for the day. Or enabled a problem drinker, whichever.
After dropping off the car at home, I walked over to VCU Cabell Library for author Jonathan Sarna's lecture on his book, "Lincoln and the Jews." And if I thought Modern Richmond was crowded, you should've seen the overflow masses for the lecture. Additional chairs had to be brought out.
I found one of the very few single seats available and chatted up my seatmate, who, like me, came to Richmond 30 years ago, except after growing up in Michigan and living in New York City for years. Turns out he's a math professor on the medical campus with an interest in Jewish studies. For that matter, I spotted a handful of men wearing yarmulkes on a Wednesday evening. Two rows in front of me was the VCU religion and philosophy prof who used to live two doors down from me on Floyd Avenue.
It's all so inter-connected, isn't it?
Sarna was as funny as a Borscht Belt comedian and as knowledgeable as one of the most prominent historians of American Judaism (which he is) should be and, as lecturers go, absolutely captivating to listen to.
He began by sharing a story of traveling to Jerusalem as a teen with his family and being gobsmacked at seeing a sign for Abraham Lincoln Street. His father stopped a passerby, asking who this man was, not that he didn't know but he wanted their story. The Israelite patiently explained to Sarna and his dad that Lincoln was a prominent Jew from America who'd made a huge contribution to the United Jewish appeal.
And that was only one of the times that Sarna had the audience laughing in between dropping fascinating historical facts on us.
He said that Lincoln's life span coincided with the rise of Jews on the American scene. That Richmond's Jewish community dates back to the American Revolution. That Abe was the most biblically-literate president in U.S. history and had a wicked wit evidenced in his writings
To prove Abe's affinity for the Jews, he showed us a chart detailing 120 of Abe's friends, acquaintances, appointees and the like who were Jewish. Hell, Sarna showed us an 1862 letter from Lincoln saying, "I believe I have not yet appointed a Hebrew" ("That was the first affirmative action!" he cracked) and then doing just that by making a Jew assistant quartermaster with the rank of captain.
But where Abe truly burned brightest in his efforts to be inclusive was with his appointment of the first Jew as military chaplain of a Jewish-led regiment. Only problem was the army turned the appointment down because the law stated that chaplains had to promote Christianity.
So what does Abe do but work behind the scenes to change the law and like a good politician, buries it in a bigger bill giving Union generals a raise because after all, who's not going to vote for that?
So that's right, non-Christians can serve as military chaplains solely because of a law Lincoln shaped. He also omitted any reference to this being a Christian nation in his Gettysburg Address, instead referring to us as one nation under god (any god), a fact which had Sarna making Wiccan jokes.
Talking about Abe's visit here after Richmond fell, he quipped, "You've heard of that, right?" and got a big laugh, but his point was to tell us that while here, Abe met with an important Jewish Richmonder, telling him that he wasn't going to persecute the south but let them off easy as part of his post-war reconstruction plan.
And when he was shot at Ford's Theater, it was a Jewish doctor who cleaned the wound and declared it fatal. It was then that he effectively rested his case: Abe had changed America with his rhetoric and actions concerning the Jewish population.
When the talk ended, Sarna began the Q & A by saying, "This is everything you always wanted to know about Abraham Lincoln and the Jews but were afraid to ask, so ask good questions," delighting the 50+ crowd who knew the reference.
After nothing but guys were given the microphone, he finally asked, "We've had three men ask questions. Are women allowed to ask?" and some female students finally got their turns.
No one wanted the Q & A to end, but the head librarian pointed out that we could probably do this all night (during which I'd expect to hear, "Thank you very much. I'm here all week, try the veal!") except it was time to move on to the reception.
There weren't nearly as many great jokes at the reception as there'd been during the history lecture, although one quip caught my ear: "Once you go Jew, nothing else will do."
I could just hear Sarna's inevitable response had he been standing there. "You've heard of that, right?"
Not until tonight, but it's never too late to learn. We'll call it Lincoln's legacy.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Looking and Sounding Fab
You didn't have to grow up in a rancher or split level, but it definitely upped the sense of deja vu if you had.
Modern Richmond was doing a pop-up of a 1960 split level in Maymont and by pop-up, that meant no one was going to speak about the house built by local architect Louis Stephenson, which is what usually happens at these events.
But visitors were welcome to traipse through - sans shoes, as usual - all four levels and marvel at its near-museum state and period-appropriate furniture.
Because I'd also grown up in a house built in 1960, there was a hella lot to relate to for me, along with plenty I couldn't because this was a custom built house (ahem, intercoms in every room) and my parents' house was just another suburban tract house.
Walking toward it just as a light rain began, my first impression was pure Brady Bunch; it just had that look with a wall of windows in the front, a shared balcony spanning several bedrooms and blue and white diamond panels next to the front door.
Apparently the original owner had recently died and her children are selling off the family homestead, so we were treated to a staged house using - with the exception of some living room pieces - the owner's mid-century modern furnishings.
See: diamond-shaped mirror over the dining room credenza.
In the downstairs rec-room, I was immediately at home with the wood paneling but my Dad's modest Formica bar couldn't compare to the extensive curved bar with alternating blue and yellow stools and we sure didn't have a fireplace in our rec room.
In the entrance way was possibly the grooviest element of the entire house: a Nutone built-into-the-wall stereo/high-fidelity/radio/intercom system that consisted of four units including reel to reel player and turntable, each jutting from the wall in brown and gold glory.
Even the kitchen had a long stretch of windows, but also an amoeba-shaped built-in table, a tall cabinet with pegboard lining ("My grandparents had the same thing," Mac observed) and, wonder of wonders, a Hot Point range with a knob labeled "Supermatic" (we hadn't a clue) and where the fourth burner (electric, of course, this was 1960 and gas was old-fashioned) was actually a deep fryer.
As in, a hole where the burner would've been with a fry basket resting inside, their very own built-in Fry Daddy.
Praise be the days before we were collectively nagged about eating fried food.
Hardly surprisingly, nearby on the counter was a metal grease can with inside strainer exactly like the one my Mom had had, except hers had looked a little greasier than this one.
You know, because cooking for a family of eight, it was probably hard to have nice things.
The oven, just so you know, was that distinctive shade of aqua that defined the late '50s and early '60s and hanging it from its lower oven was a cloth tea towel with a 1967 calendar on it.
Classic stuff, I tell you.
In the dining room, atop a Danish modern-looking sideboard was an electric Presto-Pride percolator with settings spanning "mild" to "strong."
In my house, the percolator was always set on "strong" and the boys my sisters and I brought home judged by whether they drank their coffee black.
Upstairs, I opened a closet that still held linens and assorted junk, only to find a small red volume, Peg Bracken's "On Getting Old for the First Time," and while the title wasn't familiar, the author was.
My favorite grandmother was a huge fan of Bracken's smart-assed writings on cooking and housekeeping and even had a copy of her "I Hate to Cook" book. As a kid, I recall reading some of her articles and thinking she was hilarious.
Stir and let cook five minutes while you light a cigarette and stare sullenly at the sink.
Come on, she was Betty Friedan with a cocktail and without the sermonizing.
In one of the upstairs bathrooms, we were delighted when Mac discovered a shiny, stainless steel square over the sink that, when touched, swiveled to reveal a hidden toothbrush and glass holder.
Above it was a generously-sized medicine cabinet ("They don't put these in houses anymore," Mac commented with disdain) with more than enough room for cold cream, cake mascara and Dexedrine.
The four bedrooms were not only familiar for their compact size, but a reminder that our notion of personal space has grown way out of proportion. You should've seen the tiny rooms I shared with another sister.
Honestly, how much bedroom does one kid - or even two - really need?
More than once, we heard other guests saying some variation of the same thing: "This place is like a museum" and "This is all so familiar."
By the time we left, my head was firmly planted in the '60s, exactly the right place to be to go see the documentary, "The Beatles Eight Days a Week: The Touring Years" at Movieland with others of an age.
I hadn't become a Beatles fan until the '70s, so there was plenty I didn't know and hadn't seen.
Because it was a Ron Howard-directed project, I was counting on great archival footage and obscure finds, and that's exactly what we got. Beatles obsessives might have seen some of this stuff before, but a lot of it was fresh to me.
The sheer joyfulness of the early performances and how well they managed to sing despite non-stop screaming offered a glimpse into the bizzaro world they more or less created.
Since the documentary only told the story of a very specific period - essentially 1961-66, although it ended with the 1969 rooftop concert - it didn't deal with a lot of the band's deeper issues, just the steamroller effect of Beatlemania and how it wore the four lads down eventually.
In one fairly early sequence, the band introduces itself.
I'm Paul and I play bass guitar. I'm George and I play solo guitar. I'm John and I play better guitar.
No friendly rivalry there or anything.
It was fascinating hearing a young Paul insist that they wouldn't play the Gator Bowl in Jacksonville if the concert hall was segregated and seeing the contract where that was stipulated, but the really impressive part was hearing that from then on, stadium shows were no longer segregated for anyone.
As a history lesson, I learned that they took flak when a concert in Japan was planned for Budokan because it was a scared place. My first thought was that apparently the Japanese got over that by 1978 when Cheap Trick recorded an entire album there.
What mainly came across was what a lark the band considered the whole experience, at least at first. When a reporter asks Paul about the Beatles' affect on the culture, Paul corrects him, saying they weren't culture, they were just a good laugh.
And they were, at press conferences and interviews, using bad puns, quick quips and sarcasm to make the endless round of press stops not only tolerable but fun for them.
During a recording session, John tells George Martin, "Keep that take! It sounded fab!"
One thing that surprised me was that in the present day interviews with Paul and Ringo, it was Ringo who came across more robustly and less old man-sounding.
When the film ended, we got a surprise screening of the Beatles historic 30-minute set at Shea Stadium, but not the scream-filled audio I'd heard before but a remastered version that put the band's vocals high in the mix and the endless screaming far in the background.
That alone was worth hearing, if nothing else than for the marvel of how these guys managed to stay in tune when they couldn't hear each other at all. Ringo used to watch Paul and John's backsides to know when a song ended.
But my main takeaway was what a pivotal period in women's liberation the arrival of the Beatles was. Watching those girls in the audience swoon shamelessly, cry with desire for these log-haired lads and all but climax in their seats had to be an empowering thing after the buttoned-up Eisenhower years.
It's like they were conveying, we are sexual creatures and we will display that in public if we want to.
Do you want to know a secret? Staring at a guy's backside beats the hell out of staring sullenly at a sink.
We've come a long way, baby, from aqua ovens.
Modern Richmond was doing a pop-up of a 1960 split level in Maymont and by pop-up, that meant no one was going to speak about the house built by local architect Louis Stephenson, which is what usually happens at these events.
But visitors were welcome to traipse through - sans shoes, as usual - all four levels and marvel at its near-museum state and period-appropriate furniture.
Because I'd also grown up in a house built in 1960, there was a hella lot to relate to for me, along with plenty I couldn't because this was a custom built house (ahem, intercoms in every room) and my parents' house was just another suburban tract house.
Walking toward it just as a light rain began, my first impression was pure Brady Bunch; it just had that look with a wall of windows in the front, a shared balcony spanning several bedrooms and blue and white diamond panels next to the front door.
Apparently the original owner had recently died and her children are selling off the family homestead, so we were treated to a staged house using - with the exception of some living room pieces - the owner's mid-century modern furnishings.
See: diamond-shaped mirror over the dining room credenza.
In the downstairs rec-room, I was immediately at home with the wood paneling but my Dad's modest Formica bar couldn't compare to the extensive curved bar with alternating blue and yellow stools and we sure didn't have a fireplace in our rec room.
In the entrance way was possibly the grooviest element of the entire house: a Nutone built-into-the-wall stereo/high-fidelity/radio/intercom system that consisted of four units including reel to reel player and turntable, each jutting from the wall in brown and gold glory.
Even the kitchen had a long stretch of windows, but also an amoeba-shaped built-in table, a tall cabinet with pegboard lining ("My grandparents had the same thing," Mac observed) and, wonder of wonders, a Hot Point range with a knob labeled "Supermatic" (we hadn't a clue) and where the fourth burner (electric, of course, this was 1960 and gas was old-fashioned) was actually a deep fryer.
As in, a hole where the burner would've been with a fry basket resting inside, their very own built-in Fry Daddy.
Praise be the days before we were collectively nagged about eating fried food.
Hardly surprisingly, nearby on the counter was a metal grease can with inside strainer exactly like the one my Mom had had, except hers had looked a little greasier than this one.
You know, because cooking for a family of eight, it was probably hard to have nice things.
The oven, just so you know, was that distinctive shade of aqua that defined the late '50s and early '60s and hanging it from its lower oven was a cloth tea towel with a 1967 calendar on it.
Classic stuff, I tell you.
In the dining room, atop a Danish modern-looking sideboard was an electric Presto-Pride percolator with settings spanning "mild" to "strong."
In my house, the percolator was always set on "strong" and the boys my sisters and I brought home judged by whether they drank their coffee black.
Upstairs, I opened a closet that still held linens and assorted junk, only to find a small red volume, Peg Bracken's "On Getting Old for the First Time," and while the title wasn't familiar, the author was.
My favorite grandmother was a huge fan of Bracken's smart-assed writings on cooking and housekeeping and even had a copy of her "I Hate to Cook" book. As a kid, I recall reading some of her articles and thinking she was hilarious.
Stir and let cook five minutes while you light a cigarette and stare sullenly at the sink.
Come on, she was Betty Friedan with a cocktail and without the sermonizing.
In one of the upstairs bathrooms, we were delighted when Mac discovered a shiny, stainless steel square over the sink that, when touched, swiveled to reveal a hidden toothbrush and glass holder.
Above it was a generously-sized medicine cabinet ("They don't put these in houses anymore," Mac commented with disdain) with more than enough room for cold cream, cake mascara and Dexedrine.
The four bedrooms were not only familiar for their compact size, but a reminder that our notion of personal space has grown way out of proportion. You should've seen the tiny rooms I shared with another sister.
Honestly, how much bedroom does one kid - or even two - really need?
More than once, we heard other guests saying some variation of the same thing: "This place is like a museum" and "This is all so familiar."
By the time we left, my head was firmly planted in the '60s, exactly the right place to be to go see the documentary, "The Beatles Eight Days a Week: The Touring Years" at Movieland with others of an age.
I hadn't become a Beatles fan until the '70s, so there was plenty I didn't know and hadn't seen.
Because it was a Ron Howard-directed project, I was counting on great archival footage and obscure finds, and that's exactly what we got. Beatles obsessives might have seen some of this stuff before, but a lot of it was fresh to me.
The sheer joyfulness of the early performances and how well they managed to sing despite non-stop screaming offered a glimpse into the bizzaro world they more or less created.
Since the documentary only told the story of a very specific period - essentially 1961-66, although it ended with the 1969 rooftop concert - it didn't deal with a lot of the band's deeper issues, just the steamroller effect of Beatlemania and how it wore the four lads down eventually.
In one fairly early sequence, the band introduces itself.
I'm Paul and I play bass guitar. I'm George and I play solo guitar. I'm John and I play better guitar.
No friendly rivalry there or anything.
It was fascinating hearing a young Paul insist that they wouldn't play the Gator Bowl in Jacksonville if the concert hall was segregated and seeing the contract where that was stipulated, but the really impressive part was hearing that from then on, stadium shows were no longer segregated for anyone.
As a history lesson, I learned that they took flak when a concert in Japan was planned for Budokan because it was a scared place. My first thought was that apparently the Japanese got over that by 1978 when Cheap Trick recorded an entire album there.
What mainly came across was what a lark the band considered the whole experience, at least at first. When a reporter asks Paul about the Beatles' affect on the culture, Paul corrects him, saying they weren't culture, they were just a good laugh.
And they were, at press conferences and interviews, using bad puns, quick quips and sarcasm to make the endless round of press stops not only tolerable but fun for them.
During a recording session, John tells George Martin, "Keep that take! It sounded fab!"
One thing that surprised me was that in the present day interviews with Paul and Ringo, it was Ringo who came across more robustly and less old man-sounding.
When the film ended, we got a surprise screening of the Beatles historic 30-minute set at Shea Stadium, but not the scream-filled audio I'd heard before but a remastered version that put the band's vocals high in the mix and the endless screaming far in the background.
That alone was worth hearing, if nothing else than for the marvel of how these guys managed to stay in tune when they couldn't hear each other at all. Ringo used to watch Paul and John's backsides to know when a song ended.
But my main takeaway was what a pivotal period in women's liberation the arrival of the Beatles was. Watching those girls in the audience swoon shamelessly, cry with desire for these log-haired lads and all but climax in their seats had to be an empowering thing after the buttoned-up Eisenhower years.
It's like they were conveying, we are sexual creatures and we will display that in public if we want to.
Do you want to know a secret? Staring at a guy's backside beats the hell out of staring sullenly at a sink.
We've come a long way, baby, from aqua ovens.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
This, Sir, Is an Outrage
Sometimes the universe gives you a sign, good or bad, about what's to come.
Musician Jason Webley said that when he picks up his accordion, he knows by how heavy it feels what kind of performance he'll have that night.
When I'm driving over the Huguenot Bridge in the later afternoon glow of the impending sunset and Prince's 1992 song "7" comes on - a song I adore but haven't heard in years, I'd wager - I can pretty much feel that it's going to be a fine night.
My destination was a 1949 house on Southside built by Richmond architect Bud Hyland, a student of Frank Lloyd Wright, open tonight for a Modern Richmond tour. The narrow street was already teeming with traffic when I joined the fracas, but a low-key gent suggested I back up and take a nearby driveway spot.
"Think you can back up that far? he asks me, one step short of mansplaining.
I got this, buddy. Backed, turned around and on my way to a more civilized street to park, another guy who'd watched me called out, "That's some good driving!" as if surprised. Please.
Walking back to the house felt like walking through a rain forest, buggy, muggy and near the river, so different than the city streets I'd just left behind in Jackson Ward.
But it was worth it to check out the house which, while built in '49, felt like the granddaddy to all those '60s and '70s tract houses with its wood-paneled walls (cypress, no less), infrequent doors and expansive windows to bring the outdoors in.
And what outdoors it was: a pond, a sloping hill, an 80-year old Dogwod tree with impressive undergrowth, just the kind of problematic location Wright relished. Its coolest feature (mercifully, the wall to wall shag carpeting had been ripped up years ago) was a 1950 Cubist-inspired fresco by VCU artist Jewett Campbell over the entrance to my favorite room, the screened porch.
The former garage had been turned into a weaving studio with three looms and a straw basket filled with multi-colored balls of yarn, a look I recall copying for my own bedroom when I was in college, not that I knitted or wove.
People streamed in for a look-see, demonstrating the fabulous flow of the house, evident when one of the organizers said that they'd never expected to get so many people in the house. Referring to the monthly Modern Richmond tours, she said, "This is the one night a month folks can imagine they're in Los Angeles."
I could imagine it but I couldn't imagine wanting it to be permanent.
Check, please.
Amour welcomed me into its bar during my break between culture with happy hour small plates and a glass of Terrasse du Midi Rose.
Saying yes happily to everything on the happy hour board, I was rewarded with a petite crepe piled high with duck confit in garlic butter, a Croque Madame with a quail egg astride and the owner's grandmother's potato pancake with applesauce recipe fried up golden brown and crispy.
Discussing the new rules of civility whereby potential employees can't be bothered calling in to alert staff to their no-show, a nearby millennial picked up the thread of our conversation and said in all seriousness, "Yea, what's wrong with my generation? They've got no worth ethic at all."
Best guesses were bandied about - too much coddling, no parental limits, meaningless sports trophies - and before long, someone else reminisced about mowing lawns to save up to buy a Nintendo when he knew his parents never would.
Somehow, we have bred out of our youth any willingness to mow or shovel snow for the sake of earning unreported income.
It's a crying shame, I tell you, and delicate Rose-poached pear with strawberries went a long way to taking my mind off the crisis at hand.
I left Amour for Gallery 5 because singer/storyteller Jason Webley was back after a five year hiatus, an intended break which he began by explaining had been compromised almost from the beginning. First friends wanted him to play, then he was offered money, then he was going to be in town (or nearby) anyway and, before long, hiatus was code for working musician.
Jason not only had a knack for (as he called it) long-winded storytelling but thoroughly enjoyed it, too, so he warned us early to keep him in check, not allowing too much music or too many stories. That's like putting the patients in charge of the asylum, don't you think?
Come on, it had been announced late, promoted almost not at all and still a solid and appreciative crowd had shown up on a random Wednesday for a show that wasn't even supposed to start until 9ish.
When Jason referred to getting older, a woman near me called out, asking how old he was. "43, how old are you?" Jason called back. She was 42 in a few months, but she also admitted, "Sorry, I heard that question in my brain and I don't know how it got out."
Sucking us into another story, this one was about kissing a beautiful girl on the railroad tracks while a train whizzed by on an adjacent track. "I'll never have a better first kiss."Just when I was thinking he'd hit a personal best, he said later that night they danced in a parking lot.
Now that's a night of high romance.
He took second place in a street performance contest after that and the two went to Bali together except by then she'd made up with her creepy boyfriend, so it was a platonic week during which he wrote a song which he now performed for us.
So, you see, the introductions to the songs were easily as long as the songs, but that's just how Jason rolls and a big part of why most people were there.
In the absolute pinnacle of a stellar show, he slid in a slow burn cover of Prince's "Purple Rain" during one of his songs, although most of the crowd didn't even recognize it until about ten lines in, a fact which only gives more weight to our earlier concerns about certain generational failings.
For heavens' sake, I can let it slide if you don't know the words to "7" (although I did better than I'd have expected), but we should all know "Purple Rain" by this point, right?
Jason agreeably played his accordion and stamped his feet for percussion and before long, many of us were dancing along to songs about pork goulash until all of a sudden he was notified he had sixteen minutes left and needed to decide how to use it.
His choice was a song about a candlelit march to a cemetery's pyramid, then a final closer that had people dancing tavern-style around him on the floor to a song about the need to relax.
That's some good advice. And if not, how about we smoke them all with our intellect and our savoir faire?
Gotcha.
Musician Jason Webley said that when he picks up his accordion, he knows by how heavy it feels what kind of performance he'll have that night.
When I'm driving over the Huguenot Bridge in the later afternoon glow of the impending sunset and Prince's 1992 song "7" comes on - a song I adore but haven't heard in years, I'd wager - I can pretty much feel that it's going to be a fine night.
My destination was a 1949 house on Southside built by Richmond architect Bud Hyland, a student of Frank Lloyd Wright, open tonight for a Modern Richmond tour. The narrow street was already teeming with traffic when I joined the fracas, but a low-key gent suggested I back up and take a nearby driveway spot.
"Think you can back up that far? he asks me, one step short of mansplaining.
I got this, buddy. Backed, turned around and on my way to a more civilized street to park, another guy who'd watched me called out, "That's some good driving!" as if surprised. Please.
Walking back to the house felt like walking through a rain forest, buggy, muggy and near the river, so different than the city streets I'd just left behind in Jackson Ward.
But it was worth it to check out the house which, while built in '49, felt like the granddaddy to all those '60s and '70s tract houses with its wood-paneled walls (cypress, no less), infrequent doors and expansive windows to bring the outdoors in.
And what outdoors it was: a pond, a sloping hill, an 80-year old Dogwod tree with impressive undergrowth, just the kind of problematic location Wright relished. Its coolest feature (mercifully, the wall to wall shag carpeting had been ripped up years ago) was a 1950 Cubist-inspired fresco by VCU artist Jewett Campbell over the entrance to my favorite room, the screened porch.
The former garage had been turned into a weaving studio with three looms and a straw basket filled with multi-colored balls of yarn, a look I recall copying for my own bedroom when I was in college, not that I knitted or wove.
People streamed in for a look-see, demonstrating the fabulous flow of the house, evident when one of the organizers said that they'd never expected to get so many people in the house. Referring to the monthly Modern Richmond tours, she said, "This is the one night a month folks can imagine they're in Los Angeles."
I could imagine it but I couldn't imagine wanting it to be permanent.
Check, please.
Amour welcomed me into its bar during my break between culture with happy hour small plates and a glass of Terrasse du Midi Rose.
Saying yes happily to everything on the happy hour board, I was rewarded with a petite crepe piled high with duck confit in garlic butter, a Croque Madame with a quail egg astride and the owner's grandmother's potato pancake with applesauce recipe fried up golden brown and crispy.
Discussing the new rules of civility whereby potential employees can't be bothered calling in to alert staff to their no-show, a nearby millennial picked up the thread of our conversation and said in all seriousness, "Yea, what's wrong with my generation? They've got no worth ethic at all."
Best guesses were bandied about - too much coddling, no parental limits, meaningless sports trophies - and before long, someone else reminisced about mowing lawns to save up to buy a Nintendo when he knew his parents never would.
Somehow, we have bred out of our youth any willingness to mow or shovel snow for the sake of earning unreported income.
It's a crying shame, I tell you, and delicate Rose-poached pear with strawberries went a long way to taking my mind off the crisis at hand.
I left Amour for Gallery 5 because singer/storyteller Jason Webley was back after a five year hiatus, an intended break which he began by explaining had been compromised almost from the beginning. First friends wanted him to play, then he was offered money, then he was going to be in town (or nearby) anyway and, before long, hiatus was code for working musician.
Jason not only had a knack for (as he called it) long-winded storytelling but thoroughly enjoyed it, too, so he warned us early to keep him in check, not allowing too much music or too many stories. That's like putting the patients in charge of the asylum, don't you think?
Come on, it had been announced late, promoted almost not at all and still a solid and appreciative crowd had shown up on a random Wednesday for a show that wasn't even supposed to start until 9ish.
When Jason referred to getting older, a woman near me called out, asking how old he was. "43, how old are you?" Jason called back. She was 42 in a few months, but she also admitted, "Sorry, I heard that question in my brain and I don't know how it got out."
Sucking us into another story, this one was about kissing a beautiful girl on the railroad tracks while a train whizzed by on an adjacent track. "I'll never have a better first kiss."Just when I was thinking he'd hit a personal best, he said later that night they danced in a parking lot.
Now that's a night of high romance.
He took second place in a street performance contest after that and the two went to Bali together except by then she'd made up with her creepy boyfriend, so it was a platonic week during which he wrote a song which he now performed for us.
So, you see, the introductions to the songs were easily as long as the songs, but that's just how Jason rolls and a big part of why most people were there.
In the absolute pinnacle of a stellar show, he slid in a slow burn cover of Prince's "Purple Rain" during one of his songs, although most of the crowd didn't even recognize it until about ten lines in, a fact which only gives more weight to our earlier concerns about certain generational failings.
For heavens' sake, I can let it slide if you don't know the words to "7" (although I did better than I'd have expected), but we should all know "Purple Rain" by this point, right?
Jason agreeably played his accordion and stamped his feet for percussion and before long, many of us were dancing along to songs about pork goulash until all of a sudden he was notified he had sixteen minutes left and needed to decide how to use it.
His choice was a song about a candlelit march to a cemetery's pyramid, then a final closer that had people dancing tavern-style around him on the floor to a song about the need to relax.
That's some good advice. And if not, how about we smoke them all with our intellect and our savoir faire?
Gotcha.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
The Light, the Heat
It's 4/20. We know you're hungry!
~ sign outside the Village Cafe
Today is 4/20 (smiley face)
~ sign outside Rumors Boutique
A 420 Carol
~ tonight's show at Comedy Coalition Theater
With all that in mind, it only made sense to start the evening in a split level, just the kind of house where kids probably smoked pot to escape their southside ennui.
The occasion was another Designmonth RVA event, this one at a 1954 house on Riverside Drive that has been renovated from a suburban-looking cliche to what the architects referred to as "West coast modern," which involved re-imagining it by removing the split level and replacing it with an enormous vertical addition, moving the garage to the front and putting a massive garage rooftop patio atop it.
Besides more bedrooms than I can recall, it had a home brewing room (see: drain in center of floor), a closet that ran the length of thee master suite and was wide enough for a couch and gorgeous old azaleas in full bloom crowding the back deck.
One of the Modern Richmond crew referred to Riverside Drive as "Mulholland Drive Richmond" because of its view sheds and distinctly mid-century architecture. Driving out, I saw several houses that supported that theory.
Headed back to the Fan for dinner, I couldn't help but notice how much better at being pedestrians the VCU students are at this point. It's a shame, but by the time we train them in the art of walking around in a city, it's the end of the school year. Pity.
Today's warm yet dry weather meant that the top of the blue Dutch door at Garnett's was open, the screen door keeping bugs on their side of it, but allowing soft evening air to waft in.
The only two seats open in the lively restaurant were at the counter and we took them.
The two women behind us were discussing experiences with men in bars, a couple was enjoying a bottle of Early Mountain Rose as part of the date night deal and a young couple with twin babies was trying to have a meal despite two vocal babies.
When our server took a small hotel pan filled with boiling water to their table, it was to put a baby bottle in it to warm the milk. Impressed with her ingenuity, I complimented her on such cleverness. "Yea, I was pretty proud of that," she grinned. "I used to babysit a lot."
Before we'd even finished our salads, we ordered double chocolate cake and the check because we knew "A 420 Carol" was starting soon. Walking by Gallery 5 to Coalition Theater, the throbbing sounds of a punk show reverberated out while black-clad and deliberately disaffected-looking kids milled about outside smoking cigarettes. It could have been 1982.
Ah, youth.
Using the characters and premise from RCC's recent improvised series "High There" about a guy who inherits a head shop from his stoner Uncle Jim, tonight's special edition focused on owner Jonathan's indifference to the high holy day for potheads while his staff wants to close up and experience Bongzilla, the $11,000 bong that's the shop's centerpiece.
Ho, ho, ho, Merry Spliffness and good luck finding the true meaning of 4/20 and all that.
The staff wants to close the shop and party while he wants a good night's sleep (early morning meeting) while they keep the shop open for the expected 4/20 consumers. Further complicating things is that it's his anniversary and all his wife wants is to celebrate that ("He is a boner, but tonight, he should be my boner").
But, of course, Jonathan's sleep is interrupted repeatedly through the night, beginning with the Bob Marley poster on his wall coming to life as the ghost of Uncle Jim, complete with long multi-colored dreadlocks and lots of beads.
"Every mistake I made, I put a bead in my hair," Marley tells Jonathan. So glad that's not a universal rule.
Poor Jonathan, all he wants to do is sleep - "My mellow is 18 hours of sleep a night. Don't harsh my mellow!" - but all Uncle Jim has done is prepare him for a series of ghost visitors to keep him up.
The ghost of 4/20 past showed him how much fun he used to be, frequently using "Full House" analogies, reminding him of nights capped by a group sing of Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," while the ghost of 4/20 present, wearing Redskins pajamas and stuffing jalapeno potato chips in his gob, wanted to know why he wasn't celebrating 4/20.
"Because I'm sleepy and I want my store to be profitable tonight?" he asked. In the voice of Moses, host of 4/20 present thundered, "Oh, what have you become?" and proceeded to show poor Jonathan how dull the party was downstairs without him.
An ongoing source of laughter was how none of the ghosts could remember their role, always identifying themselves as the "ghost of Christmas, I mean 4/20 past, present or whatever." Sounds to me like ghosts are freelancers who take whatever jobs they can.
You wear as many hats as you need to to make rent.
Wearing black satin elbow-length opera gloves ("These gloves feel amazing right now" said the first-time satin wearer) and a black shroud, the ghost of 4/20 future points out Jonathan's grave marker and shares that if he doesn't change, his High There shop will wind up becoming a Blimpie's when he's gone.
"Which would be perfect if Blimpie's came back," Future opined, momentarily unconcerned about Jonathan's fate for the sake of a good sub.
Laugh-out-loud improvised moments were constant, including a Matthew Broderick/Godzilla reference even some of the actors didn't get ("Huh?") but was quickly explained. Once Jonathan realizes that he really does have a wonderful life, he tells his girlfriend, "It's our anniversary! Roll me into a blunt and smoke me like one of your French girls."
That was the cue for the staff to toast each other with blunts and begin singing "In Your Eyes" again.
The end, except not really, because the sound guy immediately cues up the real "In Your Eyes" and everyone in the audience went out on a high note, possibly even hungry, definitely not harshed.
And my mellow? Nine hours of sleep a night. Yea, I'm pretty proud of that.
~ sign outside the Village Cafe
Today is 4/20 (smiley face)
~ sign outside Rumors Boutique
A 420 Carol
~ tonight's show at Comedy Coalition Theater
With all that in mind, it only made sense to start the evening in a split level, just the kind of house where kids probably smoked pot to escape their southside ennui.
The occasion was another Designmonth RVA event, this one at a 1954 house on Riverside Drive that has been renovated from a suburban-looking cliche to what the architects referred to as "West coast modern," which involved re-imagining it by removing the split level and replacing it with an enormous vertical addition, moving the garage to the front and putting a massive garage rooftop patio atop it.
Besides more bedrooms than I can recall, it had a home brewing room (see: drain in center of floor), a closet that ran the length of thee master suite and was wide enough for a couch and gorgeous old azaleas in full bloom crowding the back deck.
One of the Modern Richmond crew referred to Riverside Drive as "Mulholland Drive Richmond" because of its view sheds and distinctly mid-century architecture. Driving out, I saw several houses that supported that theory.
Headed back to the Fan for dinner, I couldn't help but notice how much better at being pedestrians the VCU students are at this point. It's a shame, but by the time we train them in the art of walking around in a city, it's the end of the school year. Pity.
Today's warm yet dry weather meant that the top of the blue Dutch door at Garnett's was open, the screen door keeping bugs on their side of it, but allowing soft evening air to waft in.
The only two seats open in the lively restaurant were at the counter and we took them.
The two women behind us were discussing experiences with men in bars, a couple was enjoying a bottle of Early Mountain Rose as part of the date night deal and a young couple with twin babies was trying to have a meal despite two vocal babies.
When our server took a small hotel pan filled with boiling water to their table, it was to put a baby bottle in it to warm the milk. Impressed with her ingenuity, I complimented her on such cleverness. "Yea, I was pretty proud of that," she grinned. "I used to babysit a lot."
Before we'd even finished our salads, we ordered double chocolate cake and the check because we knew "A 420 Carol" was starting soon. Walking by Gallery 5 to Coalition Theater, the throbbing sounds of a punk show reverberated out while black-clad and deliberately disaffected-looking kids milled about outside smoking cigarettes. It could have been 1982.
Ah, youth.
Using the characters and premise from RCC's recent improvised series "High There" about a guy who inherits a head shop from his stoner Uncle Jim, tonight's special edition focused on owner Jonathan's indifference to the high holy day for potheads while his staff wants to close up and experience Bongzilla, the $11,000 bong that's the shop's centerpiece.
Ho, ho, ho, Merry Spliffness and good luck finding the true meaning of 4/20 and all that.
The staff wants to close the shop and party while he wants a good night's sleep (early morning meeting) while they keep the shop open for the expected 4/20 consumers. Further complicating things is that it's his anniversary and all his wife wants is to celebrate that ("He is a boner, but tonight, he should be my boner").
But, of course, Jonathan's sleep is interrupted repeatedly through the night, beginning with the Bob Marley poster on his wall coming to life as the ghost of Uncle Jim, complete with long multi-colored dreadlocks and lots of beads.
"Every mistake I made, I put a bead in my hair," Marley tells Jonathan. So glad that's not a universal rule.
Poor Jonathan, all he wants to do is sleep - "My mellow is 18 hours of sleep a night. Don't harsh my mellow!" - but all Uncle Jim has done is prepare him for a series of ghost visitors to keep him up.
The ghost of 4/20 past showed him how much fun he used to be, frequently using "Full House" analogies, reminding him of nights capped by a group sing of Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," while the ghost of 4/20 present, wearing Redskins pajamas and stuffing jalapeno potato chips in his gob, wanted to know why he wasn't celebrating 4/20.
"Because I'm sleepy and I want my store to be profitable tonight?" he asked. In the voice of Moses, host of 4/20 present thundered, "Oh, what have you become?" and proceeded to show poor Jonathan how dull the party was downstairs without him.
An ongoing source of laughter was how none of the ghosts could remember their role, always identifying themselves as the "ghost of Christmas, I mean 4/20 past, present or whatever." Sounds to me like ghosts are freelancers who take whatever jobs they can.
You wear as many hats as you need to to make rent.
Wearing black satin elbow-length opera gloves ("These gloves feel amazing right now" said the first-time satin wearer) and a black shroud, the ghost of 4/20 future points out Jonathan's grave marker and shares that if he doesn't change, his High There shop will wind up becoming a Blimpie's when he's gone.
"Which would be perfect if Blimpie's came back," Future opined, momentarily unconcerned about Jonathan's fate for the sake of a good sub.
Laugh-out-loud improvised moments were constant, including a Matthew Broderick/Godzilla reference even some of the actors didn't get ("Huh?") but was quickly explained. Once Jonathan realizes that he really does have a wonderful life, he tells his girlfriend, "It's our anniversary! Roll me into a blunt and smoke me like one of your French girls."
That was the cue for the staff to toast each other with blunts and begin singing "In Your Eyes" again.
The end, except not really, because the sound guy immediately cues up the real "In Your Eyes" and everyone in the audience went out on a high note, possibly even hungry, definitely not harshed.
And my mellow? Nine hours of sleep a night. Yea, I'm pretty proud of that.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Changing the Minds of Pretenders
Who doesn't enjoy seeing inside other people's houses?
Walking Monument Avenue today with another avid pedestrian discussing architecture - Ionic versus Corinthian columns, servants' porches, Italianate facades - I pointed out certain houses I had experience in.
For starters, there was the former Symphony Designer House I'd toured with a friend, and the one-time doctor's office I'd gone to for years and the recently-purchased and eccentrically-decorated manse of a woman who shares my name and the sprawling apartment with a butler's pantry and maid's room that a former boyfriend had lived in.
"So basically, you've been in half the houses on Monument Avenue," my companion ribbed as we walked.
It was a good launching point for tonight's adventure, a tour courtesy of Modern Richmond of a recently-constructed house on Leigh Street in Jackson Ward.
I know the couple who owns it - I've interviewed the one and the other and I have had rendezvous at any number of local eating establishments - so I'd heard construction details for the past couple of years, but this was a chance to see.
Rule #1: remove your shoes or sheathe them in disposable booties at the front porch. I had no problem padding barefoot throughout.
Because the house was built on such a narrow lot, it was too close to the property lines to allow windows on the sides, so the architects cleverly solved the natural light issue with a massive skylight bisecting the center of the house that goes down three floors to the kitchen.
A hearth of light and shadow, so to speak. I was equally impressed that there were opening windows on the front and back of the house.
The most striking features were the two glass bridges on the second and third floors, looking down into the kitchen. Nearly everybody had a moment of trepidation before crossing them - it's not often you walk on glass and look through to floors below - and some people were superstitious enough to wait until no one else was on them to cross.
As far as I was concerned, having on a dress while 100 people stood below me was far more of a concern, although the novelty of bare feet on glass more than made up for any modesty concerns.
Equally as impressive as the walkways was the couple's 300-piece art collection placed throughout and displayed beautifully. The simplicity of the house's design and the subtly gray walls (a color called "Big Chill") lent itself to be the framework for so much art.
As long as I'd been watching this house be built, it was gratifying to finally see the inside and backyard, even if it was as crowded as moving through the "Breakfast at Tiffany's" cocktail party.
After the Q & A period with the owners and architects, I meandered up Adams, where an apartment window was wide open and speakers facing out to the street were blaring Earth, Wind and Fire's "September." It was just the kind of gorgeous, warm evening where you'd want to hear something exactly like that.
My destination was Bistro 27 for some dessert. My backside had barely hit the stool when in walks an architecture critic I'd just recently seen at the opening of the Virginia Historical Society's new seating exhibition ("So have you written it up yet?") and I suddenly had company.
His panties were in a wad about how bad traffic on Broad Street has gotten at rush hour, but he also gave me a little neighborhood history while he was at it. By the time my chocolate torte was history, it was time for him to leave for his weekly date with friends to watch "Survivor," but not because he cares about the characters. Oh, no.
Seems this group of his used to play poker on Wednesday nights but they gave that up so the could watch "Survivor" instead...and bet on who gets voted off. I wished him good luck and left for Gallery 5.
It was a good night for female voices, first with my latest crush Dazeases, a one-woman musical powerhouse who sings emotionally-charged songs to her pre-recorded sound tracks, allowing her to emote and pantomime as she sings in a voice that could destroy you with its honesty and intensity.
Dressed in a chemise and sheer robe, she almost forgot to do her most radio-friendly song, "Sad College Kids," then destroyed the audience with it and acknowledged, "Now I'm a sad college graduate." As if.
Next came the female-fronted Blanks with husky-voiced Jessica out front and under-the-weather Zoe on cello and everything from debut songs ("No one's ever heard this one except the band") to classics like "Tidal Wave" to Ween covers ("They're one of my favorite bands," Jessica shared) on their set list.
Headlining tonight was Brooklyn's Teen, all clad in red and all arriving intent on engaging the crowd with their '80s-sounding take on synth pop and well-honed musicianship.
Some of us were particularly enamored with having three females who sang, while others of us were satisfied because it was all so dancey in a way that's instantly familiar because we already danced to it in the '80s.
Using fuzzed-out keys, driving rhythm section and the occasional frenetic guitar, the band delivered sassy pop music with a lead singer with a terrific voice, strong stage presence and fabulous harmonies.
I was far from the only one happily dancing in place to their energetic sound.
Although in all likelihood, I was the only one who'd walked over glass bridges, discussed Eames chairs and pointed out strangers' houses beforehand.
Want to bet on it?
Walking Monument Avenue today with another avid pedestrian discussing architecture - Ionic versus Corinthian columns, servants' porches, Italianate facades - I pointed out certain houses I had experience in.
For starters, there was the former Symphony Designer House I'd toured with a friend, and the one-time doctor's office I'd gone to for years and the recently-purchased and eccentrically-decorated manse of a woman who shares my name and the sprawling apartment with a butler's pantry and maid's room that a former boyfriend had lived in.
"So basically, you've been in half the houses on Monument Avenue," my companion ribbed as we walked.
It was a good launching point for tonight's adventure, a tour courtesy of Modern Richmond of a recently-constructed house on Leigh Street in Jackson Ward.
I know the couple who owns it - I've interviewed the one and the other and I have had rendezvous at any number of local eating establishments - so I'd heard construction details for the past couple of years, but this was a chance to see.
Rule #1: remove your shoes or sheathe them in disposable booties at the front porch. I had no problem padding barefoot throughout.
Because the house was built on such a narrow lot, it was too close to the property lines to allow windows on the sides, so the architects cleverly solved the natural light issue with a massive skylight bisecting the center of the house that goes down three floors to the kitchen.
A hearth of light and shadow, so to speak. I was equally impressed that there were opening windows on the front and back of the house.
The most striking features were the two glass bridges on the second and third floors, looking down into the kitchen. Nearly everybody had a moment of trepidation before crossing them - it's not often you walk on glass and look through to floors below - and some people were superstitious enough to wait until no one else was on them to cross.
As far as I was concerned, having on a dress while 100 people stood below me was far more of a concern, although the novelty of bare feet on glass more than made up for any modesty concerns.
Equally as impressive as the walkways was the couple's 300-piece art collection placed throughout and displayed beautifully. The simplicity of the house's design and the subtly gray walls (a color called "Big Chill") lent itself to be the framework for so much art.
As long as I'd been watching this house be built, it was gratifying to finally see the inside and backyard, even if it was as crowded as moving through the "Breakfast at Tiffany's" cocktail party.
After the Q & A period with the owners and architects, I meandered up Adams, where an apartment window was wide open and speakers facing out to the street were blaring Earth, Wind and Fire's "September." It was just the kind of gorgeous, warm evening where you'd want to hear something exactly like that.
My destination was Bistro 27 for some dessert. My backside had barely hit the stool when in walks an architecture critic I'd just recently seen at the opening of the Virginia Historical Society's new seating exhibition ("So have you written it up yet?") and I suddenly had company.
His panties were in a wad about how bad traffic on Broad Street has gotten at rush hour, but he also gave me a little neighborhood history while he was at it. By the time my chocolate torte was history, it was time for him to leave for his weekly date with friends to watch "Survivor," but not because he cares about the characters. Oh, no.
Seems this group of his used to play poker on Wednesday nights but they gave that up so the could watch "Survivor" instead...and bet on who gets voted off. I wished him good luck and left for Gallery 5.
It was a good night for female voices, first with my latest crush Dazeases, a one-woman musical powerhouse who sings emotionally-charged songs to her pre-recorded sound tracks, allowing her to emote and pantomime as she sings in a voice that could destroy you with its honesty and intensity.
Dressed in a chemise and sheer robe, she almost forgot to do her most radio-friendly song, "Sad College Kids," then destroyed the audience with it and acknowledged, "Now I'm a sad college graduate." As if.
Next came the female-fronted Blanks with husky-voiced Jessica out front and under-the-weather Zoe on cello and everything from debut songs ("No one's ever heard this one except the band") to classics like "Tidal Wave" to Ween covers ("They're one of my favorite bands," Jessica shared) on their set list.
Headlining tonight was Brooklyn's Teen, all clad in red and all arriving intent on engaging the crowd with their '80s-sounding take on synth pop and well-honed musicianship.
Some of us were particularly enamored with having three females who sang, while others of us were satisfied because it was all so dancey in a way that's instantly familiar because we already danced to it in the '80s.
Using fuzzed-out keys, driving rhythm section and the occasional frenetic guitar, the band delivered sassy pop music with a lead singer with a terrific voice, strong stage presence and fabulous harmonies.
I was far from the only one happily dancing in place to their energetic sound.
Although in all likelihood, I was the only one who'd walked over glass bridges, discussed Eames chairs and pointed out strangers' houses beforehand.
Want to bet on it?
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