Come Down in Time

Once upon a time when I was in high school, Karma delivered my first boyfriend.

Actually, he was more of a hand-me-down, since he'd just come from being a close friend's boyfriend. After dumping her, he waited a few months and asked me out. Since he was older, already in college and had eyes like Paul McCartney, I accepted and we became an item.

Then he set about telling me what was acceptable in his world and what wasn't. Listening to Top 40 music had to stop. Only serious musicians were worthy of my ears and attention. An artist like Elton John, with his piano-based music, didn't have enough guitar cred to bother with. Period.

But because I was young and he was my first boyfriend, I went along with all of it. He never has to know that five years later, I saw EJ live and ate up every minute of it.

Fortunately, that malleable, young woman eventually realized she could make her own cultural decisions, ditched him and went on to have relationships with men who didn't try to shape her musical taste (okay, there was that one in the mid-90s, but he did introduce me to some musicians I'd never have heard of otherwise).

That's the only reason I can think of to explain why, when Holmes asked what we were going to listen to last night, the first words out of my mouth were, "Early Elton John."

The unexpected craving to hear the music from a young but seminal time in my life came out of nowhere.

All I know is that EJ wasn't on my mind when Holmes, Beloved and I sat down at the bar at Little Saint and ordered a Negroni for her and a bottle of Mont Gravet Rose for everyone. I wasn't thinking about music when I tucked into a bowl of chicken vegetable soup with a hint of heat. And nothing else was on my mind when I downed my fancy toast except the mashed avocado, bacon, spicy honey and tiny orange sections astride the grilled sourdough.

Like the moment in a film when everything freezes except the music, when Holmes' food arrived, Beloved looked at him incredulously and observed, "I never thought I'd see you ordering a kale and grits bowl!" She had a point since he's not exactly a mindful eater, but the bowl's contents - flash fried kale drizzled with honey, Autumn Olive pork, cheesy grits and, just to take it over the top, a runny egg with hot sauce - belied the wholesome-sounding descriptor.

Whew, she didn't have to worry that someone had abducted Holmes and replaced him with a healthy eater.

The dish was obscenely good, with bits of crispy kale shattering everywhere if you weren't careful. He couldn't even finish his egg salad toast because of licking the bowl on the kale and grits.

Meanwhile, Beloved's lavash-crusted flounder over parsnip puree and braised kale brought her great pleasure judging by the moans and eye-closings.

It was once we'd relocated to Homes' man-cave that my suggestion of early EJ was floated. Holmes was immediately on his feet in an attempt to locate as much Elton John as his collection would yield. "I don't know if I have the one..." he said, allowing me to respond, "Madman Across the Water?" By then he'd not only located it, but five others, including the eponymous "Elton John" from 1970, his second studio album.

For reference, that's the one that leads off with "Your Song," which, while it's been wildly overplayed, never seems to get tiresome. Maybe because it's a reminder of my best friend and her first love, who considered it their song.

One of the reasons I enjoy our basement record listening parties so much is that, without fail, we always look up what year the album came out. The point, of course, is to place the album in the context of our lives (or at least, the context of the memories of our lives). Like that time when Holmes put on British band Ace's "Five-A-Side" and the only too familiar strains of "How Long?" blared from his mega-speakers, my first question was, when?

1974, Holmes announced after picking up a magnifying glass from the pencil cup on the bar and zeroing in on the microscopic printing on the back of the album. Beloved and I looked at each other all grins, reminiscing that we were doing a lot of dancing in 1974.

But "Your Song" is from a 1970 album and I am practically positive that I never heard of Elton John or that song in 1970. "It didn't get played here until 1971," Holmes informs me, but I still can't believe I heard it that early.

Maybe I didn't discover it until after "Madman Across the Water" came out in 1971, because I definitely remember the instantly classic side one with "Tiny Dancer," "Levon," "Razorface" and "Madman Across the Water."

Twenty two minutes of pure piano pop perfection.

Holmes also had EJ's album "7-11-70," a live album that I'd never even known existed, despite it being his fifth album. We listened to some of "Tumbleweed Connection," which I learned was a concept album based on country and western themes.

To be honest, "Burn Down the Mission" was the only song I even recognized, while "Come Down in Time" had a similarly rapturous effect on Beloved as the lavash-crusted flounder had. She not only sang the words, but closed her eyes, the better to be transported back to 1970.

Beloved was most excited when she saw that he had a copy of the "Friends" soundtrack, a movie that had escaped my notice in 1971. She, on the other hand, recalled seeing it at the Capitol Theater, which was on Broad Street near the Science Museum, but since it was demolished long before I arrived here, I had no knowledge of it.

But that got me to thinking that, for the most part, I have no memory of where I saw most of the films in my life before ten years ago when they built Movieland two miles from my apartment. Yes, I know I saw "Flashdance" at the West End Theater on L Street in D.C. and I have clear memories of seeing "Jaws" at the Riverdale Theater, but not a lot beyond that.

And here Beloved was recalling not only where she saw "Friends" in 1971, but totally digging hearing the title song and the new-to-me "Honey Roll" again.

Well, I want to say that I'm your Mister Funky
Singing this song is taking up your time
I did the donkey, now I'm your funky monkey
Sing it, children, sing it on your mind

Our 1971 selves took control as she and I looked at each other and cracked up at the funky monkey part. I think it's gonna be a long, long time before I've made up for all the EJ I missed out on.

Bossy boyfriends be damned, you can deny a young woman her Elton John, but eventually any Mona Lisa or Mad Hatter worth her salt is going to listen to whatever she wants to.

Turning back, she just laughs.

Anyone Can Spectate

If it turns out to be the last, it was a fine sendoff.

My default All Hallows' Eve plan for over a decade now has been All the Saints' Halloween parade and with rumors flying that this, the thirteenth, might well be the last for organizer Lilly, the urgency to be part of it was even stronger. Like every year, there was a funereal theme - funeral march for the patriarchy - but also an exultant one - a celebration of the divine feminine.

Don't even think about trying to stop me from being part of that tribute given how highly I think of my gender. Especially after a couple of glasses of Mont Gravet Rose. Gloriously warm weather didn't hurt, either.

Mac was back for her third year and Mr. Wright had signed on to have his Halloween parade cherry popped, so I made sure we were in Monroe Park by 6:30 so we could have first crack at choosing signs to carry. Once upon a time, aka the first few years of the parade, I dutifully carried one of the enormous puppets or banners, but I have since moved on to a more manageable sign and since I'm smart enough to show up early, I have that option.

Naturally, I've taught my acolytes to do the same.

Almost immediately, organizer Lilly wrapped me in her arms in a bear hug and thanked me for being there. "You came!" she laughed. Of course I did.

I was greeted by Jameson and Laney of Lobo Marino, both of whom were acting as parade marshals, telling people what was happening and encouraging them to participate. Laney roamed the side of the line of people, calling out, "Who wants to carry a puppet or banner? This parade is not a spectator sport!"

As one who has walked it shivering in frigid temperatures, perspired non-stop on humid, sweaty nights and everything in between, I can assure you that watching the parade is not the way to experience it. No, to fully embrace the spirit of the thing, you need to be part of the line of humanity - estimates were 2,000 participants last year and that's without spectators - that marches through Oregon Hill to cheers and people snapping photographs and videos from all sides.

Lilly walked by with a costumed mummy in tow, asking if anyone had seen the Zombie String Band, which we had, because they'd just walked by, blood dripping down their dead faces. Several of us indicated that they'd gone that-a-way and the mummy was whisked away.

Waiting for things to get started, a long-time museum friend sporting a snail head caught sight of me and ran over to chat. "Be careful I don't slime you!" she laughed, hugging me. "But lots of people will want to slime you. Be discerning!"

If Mr. Wright hadn't already been in place with Mac just ahead of the Trans Remembrance puppets in front of me, I'd have introduced her so she would stop worrying about me being approached by slimeballs.

Instead, I helped Jameson by handing him his elaborate, fringed mask, drum and drumsticks after he mounted a gigantic puppet on his shoulders and could no longer bend over. Gradually, the rest of the drums laying on the ground were claimed by others and I soon found myself positioned just ahead of what one drummer referred to as "Kind of like my high school drum line."

Jameson quickly amended that with, "A really strange drum line."

The black, coffin-shaped sign I chose read, "Here lies humanity: Death by patriarchy," and you'd better believe I not only held it high but, given my place in front of the drum line, also moved it in time to the beat, making for a parade essentially dancing the whole way.

When the parade cleared Monroe Park and turned on to Laurel Street, we were hit with a gusty wind blowing up from the river that about took down some of the biggest banners and puppets with its force. When what you're carrying is 12' tall, it essentially becomes a sail when the wind starts gusting. But people held on and righted their puppets so they could keep going and the wind settled down.

I have to admit, much as I love being part of the Halloween parade, I've never adjusted to the onslaught of picture taking, so I manage by holding my sign in front of my face and dancing it side to side to avoid eye contact with the cheering masses. It's a way of creating my own little world while surrounded by strangers, a stilt-walker and drunk people.

But because I'm not maintaining sight lines beyond the feet of the Trans Remembrance carriers in front of me so I don't step on their heels, I was occasionally jolted by a roller skating ghoul doing figure eights in my vicinity. Talk about an adrenaline rush, try having someone suddenly zip past you and your sign with no warning.

After the U-turn at the overlook on the river, we made our way back up Pine Street as I jumped ahead and joined Mac and Mr. Wright to see how they were holding up. You don't bring people to the parade and not make sure they're representing you well. Fortunately, they were.

It will be a shame if Lilly bows out of the parade after 13 years, although I certainly understand wanting to cede all that work making puppets, banners and signs and organizing thousands of people to someone new. If you ask me, her spark leading the parade - along with No BS Brass Band - is the heart and soul of Halloween in Richmond.

When we finally got to the lot where the parade ends, the three of us leaned on our signs to listen to No BS play some covers under the moonlight as those marching behind us continued to fill up the grassy lot.

If anything could be more satisfying than listening to "Thriller" played live on Halloween night followed by fireworks after walking my divine feminine self through Oregon Hill, it's not something I'm going to blog about.

And just for the record, the slime warning was unnecessary. No one messes with a dancing coffin.

Summer in the City

Summer has arrived on my balcony with the magic of my first moonflower blooming.

Just after July 4th, I did a double take when a friend - unhappy about July's heat - tried to cheer herself up, saying, "Summer is halfway over already!"

Clearly she's the type who measures Summer by Memorial to Labor Day parameters rather than by its feel. Granted, we're on the other side of the solstice and losing a little light every evening, but you can't convince me summer is half over already.

Even technically speaking (not my strong suit), we're just over a month into a three-month season, so the way I see it, we've got plenty of summer left to savor.

Just this morning, we'd been walking down by the river and spotted a couple setting up a hammock by the water's edge. When we walked past them after putting our legs in the water, the hammock was zipped shut on top and limbs were poking out on several sides. We didn't know what was going on inside the hammock, but we had a pretty good guess: summer shenanigans.

Just the kind of thing that should accompany moonflowers, nearly daily dunks in the river and the bounty of the season.

The latter was on full display on the menu at Dutch & Co., where the owner greeted us and commented on the Miramar show at Sub Rosa we'd all attended last week.

"That was just magical, wasn't it?" she mused before marveling at the cool things that go in in Richmond when you're not paying attention (or, as is often the case with restaurant types, when you're working). It was indeed a glorious experience.

And while tonight's lacked the dulcet tones of live music, the meal was superb, beginning with a special of a fried soft shell crab posed in mid-dance over a bowl of chilled corn bisque, slurped while sipping Mont Gravet Rose.

A neighborhood couple sat down next to us at the bar and we joked about people who need the privacy of sitting at a table. Not us, not them, we laughed. But their conversation once they turned back to each other centered entirely around their jobs and employers, resulting in boring work-speak for hours.

Don't call it a retreat, call it a workshop if you want corporate to pay for it. Don't take this wrong, but here's how you should handle that situation with an employee next time. Have you ever had to put together a report you knew no one would read?

While I'm inclined to think that food this good deserves more interesting subject matter, I also know that everyone's idea of sparkling conversation is different.

A favorite server came over to talk beach trips and before long, we were trading favorite places to eat when we're on the Outer Banks. I always appreciate hearing about places on the bypass, because I seldom discover them on my own.

Good-sized Ruby Salt oysters from the eastern shore provided the same salty mouthfeel as the waves that had smacked us in the face on our Sandbridge outing Monday. My date, who'd only had his first Old Salt a few weeks back, is showing great promise as a fellow oyster hound.

Even better, rather than a discussion of work while we devoured his mahi mahi with summer tomatoes, we took turns answering questions from a New York Times article explaining how the questions and answers are meant to encourage self-disclosure because mutual vulnerability fosters closeness.

You also get to hear some really great stories.

We traded answers right through a chocolate semifreddo with a mound of blackberries that managed to feel both indulgent and light as summer at the same time before taking the rest of the questions elsewhere to answer while listening to the Hues Corporation, the Chi-Lites and the Bluenotes.

What was interesting was that the 36 questions are meant to be asked in order and we didn't always do that, yet we managed to uncover all kinds of revelations we'd never have likely gotten to without the questions.

It was also impossible not to acknowledge that we might have answered some questions very differently 20 years ago.

Because what are the long days and warm nights of summer for if not to enjoy leisurely meals and outings while getting to know someone?

The way this optimist sees it, I've got months of summer magic and moonflowers left.