I'm Just a Girl

Making "The Taming of the Shrew" relevant for 21st century audiences is challenging and therein lies the rub.

I have seen the play produced every which way: set in the wild, wild west at an outdoor stage framing Roanoke Sound; set on a 1930s Hollywood movie set at a toney West End school; and as a staged reading where Petruchio lost his place in his script, causing Katarina to shrewishly shout, "Page 42!"

And while I have been a devoted audience member for gender-reversed stagings of many of the Bard's best - Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night, Hamlet, Midsummer Night's Dream and even Coriolanus - I had never seen a Shakespeare play done by an all-female cast. Until tonight.

Hallelujah and pass the estrogen.

With so much talent and so many girl parts on stage, it felt like a fitting production to follow the women's soccer team's world triumph. 2019, the year of girl power continues. Knowing that men had originally played all the women's parts in Shakespeare's time made it all the sweeter.

Foto Boy and I began the evening in the front tiki booth at My Noodle & Bar for dinner, scarfing my broccoli and chicken entree and his green curry tofu while he tried to cool down after a hot day spent holding a yard sale. Our server couldn't refill the blue water bottle on our table often enough.

Anticipating a sweaty evening at an outdoor stage - and because this wasn't my first Agecroft rodeo - I'd brought along fans for us both. For myself, I'd chosen a fan that doubled as a program from a 2013 Sycamore Rouge production of "Twelfth Night" in Petersburg. When I saw that the director of that production is now the artistic director of Quill and tonight's production manager and that the actress who'd played Viola would play tonight's Petruchio, it seemed like an inspired choice.

You can be sure I showed it to both of them before the night was over.

We found seats in the second row, only to wind up behind the three tallest people in attendance. When I told the guy in front of me that he won for best shirt - brown with leopard markings and bees embroidered on the front - he said I got the best lipstick award. Sharing that it's called Violetini, his response was, "Hello, Violetini."

Best summation of what we were about to see: "I know it's a problem play, but it can't be misogynistic with an all women cast, right?" Um, we'll see?

The show began, appropriately enough, with songs of female empowerment - "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar," "You Don't Own Me" and "I'm Just a Girl" - sung by the cast and accompanied by guitar, ukulele, kazoo and random compliments like, "You're so beautiful you could be an air hostess in the '60s."

Use thoughts and wits to win her

We were just getting into the set-up of the story, so it was well after Baptista tells his daughter Bianca's multiple suitors that she will not be married off until her shrewish sister Katarina gets hitched, yet not long past when Petruchio arrives looking "happily to wive and thrive as best I may" that there was a shout behind us because a woman in the audience had fainted.

All eyes turned to see.

After she came to in her seat, a cluster of doctors who just happened to be out for a night of Shakespeare, began gathering around her, suggesting she lay down on the ground for a bit. Eventually she stood and her date led her across the now-empty stage toward the building.

House manager Noah took to the stage, saying, "So, everybody hydrate! We'll resume in just a minute. Just ignore that ambulance out there. It's definitely not the first time this has happened."

Ah, the hazards of Shakespeare outdoors in July.

Waiting for the play to resume, the tall trio in front of us shared that the fainting was all their fault. Seems whenever they go out together, bad things happen to others. Sometimes it's minor, like somebody vomiting nearby and other times, like when they were at a restaurant for Cinqo de Mayo, somebody committed suicide by jumping off the balcony.

Foto Boy and I inched our chairs back away from these Typhoid Marys and hoped for the best.

When the play started up again, the brilliantly comedic Maggie Bavolack playing the aged Gremio observed, "I had forgotten my line anyway!" before taking up the script exactly where she'd left off. Not long after, as a small plane flew overhead, she improvised, "Hark! There's a plane!" and cracked up the entire audience. Like the talented comedienne she is, she waited for the laughs to die down before saying, "Hark! This gentleman is happily arrived" and then posing, hands under chin with a big smile.

I know she is an irksome, brawling scold 

Bianca Bryan was masterful as Petruchio, denying his bride Kate her creature comforts (food, sleep, clean clothing), but also hilarious, as when she showed up for their wedding wearing dirty pants with "Kiss me, Kate" embroidered on the back pockets.

For I am rough and woo not like a babe

During intermission, bottles of water were handed out for free and after claiming ours and pouring their contents into the large water bottles we'd brought, we strolled over to the stone patio to admire the waxing moon ahead of Tuesday's full moon.

Overheard on the way back to our seats: "You didn't tell me I needed to see movie before I came tonight!" to which her friend explained that "Kiss Me, Kate" was based on "Taming," not the other way around. I suppose reading it - even a synopsis - never occurred to the angry first-timer.

Act II began with the cast singing Adele's "Hello" followed by "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?" and "Tell Me Do You Love Me, Too?" and an extended kazoo solo by the actress playing Bianca. Petruchio and Kate then took the stage so he could serenade her with the greatest stalker song of all time, the Police's "Every Breath You Take" while she grimaced at the lyrics.

I'm with you, girl, that is so not a love song. Creepy, that's what it is.

For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich

Throughout the hot, sticky evening, Foto Boy and I marveled at the actors running, jumping and  stage fighting in layers of heavy men's clothing while we sweated in our minimal summer garb.

Director Chelsea Burke kept the thirteen talented women busy moving the story along with only a few of the actors being difficult to hear. Allison Paige Gilman shone as the small but mighty Tranio, her sense of comedic timing impressive, her face wildly expressive and her physicality fun to watch. Desiree Dabney turned the Hortensio role into something special with her asides and noises of upset and displeasure. Easily one of the best at nailing the Bard's cadences and projecting her voice to the fainting seats was Meg Carnahan as Biondello.

But truly, everyone shone (and not just from perspiration) and you could tell how much fun they were having with this all-female cast doing such a dated, chauvinistic play. Besides, I always tell myself that while Katarina appears to have been subdued, when they're alone she calls all the shots and Petruchio does her bidding willingly.

But that's just my take so I can enjoy it without feminist guilt.

Because of the delay - where's a fainting couch when you need one? - by the time we left Agecroft, it was time to head directly to the Basement for the piano bar known as the Ghost Light afterparty, which was in full swing when we walked in.

There were cast members from "Dance Nation" already with beverages in hand and soon some of the "Taming" cast showed up, along with theater types and lovers from all over town.

As host Matt (also part of that 2013 cast on my fan from Sycamore Rouge) proclaimed in between songs, "Through musical theater, we can do all things!" Evenings like this are proof of that, no?

We found room to stand at a table near the back with a great view and fine acoustics for songs sung by anyone who cared to get up there. Song choices always vary widely and yet still hue to millennial favorites with a surprise or two thrown in, a fact I know from all my years attending these after parties.

There's "Seasons of Love" from "Rent, a perennial singalong favorite with this crowd, but also "A Whole New World" because of the crowd's childhood nostalgia. A song from "The Fantasticks" because it's currently in production at the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen. Tonight we got a couple of unlikely choices: Radiohead's "Creep" and Elvis' "Blue Christmas."

When Foto Boy wondered aloud about the odder selections, I explained that there's no rhyme or reason to what you hear at Ghost Light. You come for the buzzy vibe, fabulous voices and to see what craziness might happen over the course of the evening.

Why, indeed. As the Bard so wisely put it, "Sit by my side and let the world slip; we shall never be younger." It's really that simple.

Truth be told, after a night at Agecroft, the air conditioning doesn't hurt either.

Off With Their Heads

When things don't go as planned, there's always cake.

Mac and I had a date to eat dinner in service of my hired mouth and then get our culture fix with a play. Simple enough.

Except that when we got to the restaurant I was supposed to be reviewing, it wasn't open. Oh, sure, the sign on the door said they were open daily until 10 but it was only 6:30 and the place was locked, closed up tight. The open sign hung dark and unlighted.

Could it have come and gone already?

Rather than ponder what was up, we got right back in the car and made a beeline for old faithful, My Noodle & Bar, and the front treehouse booth, where we both pretended to look at the menu when really, we both knew we'd be ordering the exact same thing we get every time we go. My same old broccoli and chicken and her same old chicken noodle soup.

Mind you, we do it only to make ourselves feel like we're not the creatures of habit that we clearly are. But then, didn't I read somewhere that most people order the exact same thing from their neighborhood Asian restaurant every single time they go?

Perhaps we are not so pathetic as I thought.

When my food arrived, it seemed somehow more meager a portion than it typically is, a fact confirmed when Mac looked across the table and asked, "Isn't that a smaller serving than usual?"

I know, I know, size shouldn't matter, but when you're hungry, it does. And it wasn't just me because once Mac got busy with her meal, she looked up with disappointment. "There's only one fish ball instead of two," she complained and as the resident chicken noodle soup expert, I didn't doubt she was correct.

Rather than focus on the failings of our favorite dishes, I suggested we adjourn to Garnett's to share a piece of cake and make everything better again, an easy sell considering even my sweet tooth takes a backseat to Mac's.

The funny part was, after that she told me that in one of the blogs she follows (besides mine, of course), the woman shared that she she avoids sweets. "And she has the most beautiful skin, I guess from not eating sugar," Mac concluded.

Well, we'll just have to make peace with the skin we have because there's no way either of us could be that disciplined. Or even want to, no matter how magnificent our complexions might get. Next topic.

Naming the dessert choices once we got to Garnett's, our server got only as far as "coconut cake with caramel and chocolate ganache" before we both gave her the look and she asked if she should stop right there. Ladies and germs, we have a winner.

Sharing a massive slice, I told Mac that the only way it could have been better was if it had been chocolate coconut cake with caramel and chocolate ganache. She rolled her eyes, so I'm not sure she agreed with me.

From there, it was back to J-Ward to leave the car and hoof it over to the Basement to see 5th Wall's production of "Lizzie, the Musical." Because nothing makes for good show tunes like the tale of a 19th century axe murderer.

Conceived of as a punk rock opera, the play got high marks from both of us for its all female cast (well, if you don't count the band led by the fabulous Starlet Knight, which allowed a couple of men in) and a lesbian love story subplot.

So. Much. Girlpower.

As for what drives Lizzie, that would be Daddy who visits her bedroom and takes what she shouldn't have to give. As if that isn't awful enough, he also kills her beloved birds and leaves them in a bloody sack. Meanwhile her sister is all riled up by their stepmother who has replaced the daughters in her new husband's will.

Knowing all that helps explain a lot when both parents wind up bloodied and dead like the pigeons.

Using mic stands as props they could throw, kick, flip and, yes, even sing into, the four characters - Lizzie Borden, her sister Emma, her lover Alice and the show's highlight, Bridget the Irish maid - pump their fists, flip their hair and generally convey full-on '80s riot grrrl style.

In fact, when Lizzie comes onstage in a red satin bustier and skirt after wielding her axe, intending to destroy evidence by burning her bloody clothes, the feeling is just this side of a #MeToo moment. Here is a woman who has zero shits to give.

That she's ultimately acquitted of the crime felt particularly satisfying given the years she'd had to suffer in silence. Because the more things change, the more they stay the same. Kudos, 5th Wall, for choosing such a timely topic.

Murder, girls kissing and coconut cake. What more can you ask of a Wednesday night girl date?

Bump and Lick

It may be a new land speed record. Mac and I crammed dinner and a play into two hours and 20 minutes.

We'd chosen My Noodle & Bar for speed and proximity (to the Firehouse Theater), only to have them let us down with the former.

Oh, our steamed dumplings showed up promptly enough, but it took forever for our entrees to arrive and by the time they did, we had about ten minutes to eat what we could, stuff the rest into boxes, pay our tabs and walk briskly around the corner to the theater, where we stashed our leftovers under the seats.

For those who claim that the problem with eating Asian food is that you're hungry an hour later, I can recommend this method of dining because it conveniently provides for a second meal an hour later, just when you're craving it most.

We were at the Firehouse Theatre for Nu Puppis' production of "One in Four," a new work that the group had created and first staged at the Capital Fringe Festival in D.C.  That it involves aliens is no surprise for a group whose mission is to cultivate the kind of culture required for life in space using performances on Earth.

Both Mac and I had been huge fans of Nu Puppis' satirical production of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" a few years back, so we were eager to see what fresh madness they'd come up with this time. Simple answer: more hilarity. "One in Four" concerned four aliens sent to earth to accomplish various tasks and somehow, some way, all ending up sharing an apartment in Portland with a perpetually locked front door.

Naturally, they're each trying to hide the fact that they're aliens and of course they're completely unaware that their new roommates are aliens, too. But, let's face it, who else totes around a bag of raw meat for which they're not sure of the purpose? Or carries around a stand-up cutout of Robin Williams? Or gets nipple rings? Oh, wait, never mind.

Presented under the Firehouse Fringe banner, the four young actors adeptly massaged the audience's funny bone with unexpected lines, physical humor, outrageous interactions and their standard greeting: a bump with the head on the other person's hand and then a full lick up the arm.

There were also inside theater jokes ("Hmm, how do I start this thing? I'm really bad at exposition.") and cheesy TV references (After pouring a bottle of water on a passed out guy's head, "I saw that on Full House! It should have worked." When a second bottle does nothing, "Damn you, Bob Saget!").

One of the group's strengths is the infinitely flexible body of Dixon Cashwell, who seems to be able to fold himself into the smallest possible configuration and bend in ways humans can't.

The aliens made observations on the human condition ("You can't be the only emotionally stunted person on the planet!") and cracked wise with millennial humor about multiple piercings and pink hair ("I just made a bunch of poor, hasty decisions, okay?").

Like naughty children, they used the unlikeliest word for a straight and a gay alien playing charades (She: "I never thought you'd get "vagina!'" He: "I don't normally.") and more winking inside jokes, like after a lovely two-woman rendition of "Danny Boy" ("Such a beautiful song...and in the public domain!").

And with enough exposure to each other trying to act human, there was the standard existentialist musings ("If I were smarter, this would be commentary.") while another character lay face down on the floor for the second time tonight.

The audience ate it up, laughing loud and long at almost every interaction, even when an actor was doing no more than yelling "Fuuuuuuck!" Shoot, I can hear that any time I want by just opening up my windows to the sounds of Jackson Ward.

Mac and I reserved our chortling for the truly funny bits, of which there were plenty, many of them so casually tossed off by the capable young cast that they became even more hilarious.

Since this is Sunday, here's my commentary. A great big "Yaas, queen!" for Nu Puppis, with leftover Thai afterward.

Enjoyed in record time, I might add.

If She Drinks Beer, She's a Keeper

Perhaps the problem is that I didn't get the hops gene.

Otherwise, why would I feel the need to observe that while I wouldn't want to say breweries have taken over Richmond, breweries have taken over Richmond.

And it's not just the sheer number of breweries - although that's got be way above the norm - but the fact that so many of Richmond's cultural events now take place at breweries. It's as if the only way to attract people is with beer.

So of my most interesting choices for culture tonight, there was storytelling at one brewery or opera at another. No kidding. I opted for the brewery where I saw Shakespeare most recently, since I've seen Shakespeare at both. Ridiculous, isn't it?

Three Notch'd Brewing Collab House was hosting a special edition of Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, held in conjunction with the Library of Virginia's exhibition "Teetotalers and Moonshiners: Prohibition in Virginia" (which I've not only seen, but attended a panel discussion about).

The theme was "Cheers, Beers and Tears" and tonight they were tapping the bourbon barrel-aged "Last Call," a beer which had been a collaboration between Three Notch'd and the Library. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but do you see what I mean about this town being beer-besotted?

Unlike with the Shakespeare performance, chairs had been set up for those who'd come, not for beer but to hear stories, and mine was near a barrel, on top of which rested an assortment of nerdy Library of Virginia stickers, two of which - "Got books?" and "I like big books and I cannot lie" - came home with me.

Since this was a one-off edition of Secretly Y'All, there were only five storytellers, although they each got a generous ten minutes instead of the usual seven. Initially, some of the hardcore beer geeks kept talking over the first storyteller, but eventually even most of them were sucked in by true tales being shared with strangers.

One woman told of her time working for Redhook Brewery in Seattle and how that went south once Anheuser-Busch bought them and harassment entered the equation. Another told of her moonshiner great-grandfather and the family's Appalachian roots, stressing that it was pronounced with a "ch" sound, not  "sh" ("That's like fingernails on a blackboard to us hillbillies") and trying to counter stereotypes ("We have our teeth, we wear shoes and some of us are educated").

The oldest of a large, fundamental Christian family told of her mother earning side money as a mystery shopper, which once involved her having to order an O'Doul's at the bar despite her fear of being kicked out of the church for drinking a fake beer. Instead, she was accused of coming on to a man (incidentally, her brother, so make that incest). The always reliable Mr. King told of his days as a private detective investigating moonshiners, most of whom, he assured us, would give you the shirt off their backs.

Closing out the evening was what amounted to a ringer, an older man from Botetourt County (which he pronounced "BOT-tot"), dressed in jeans and a green checkered shirt with red suspenders, speaking in a distinctive southwestern Virginia drawl.

Not sure about how much we city slickers knew, he first asked who'd heard of Botetourt (most) and who knew what a bender was (all). Alrighty, then, he could go on.

His story had to do with an old drunk known to go on three-week benders and how, as a young man of 20, he'd been asked to "babysit" the drunk, The benefit of this odd job was hearing the old guy's colorful moonshining stories from his younger years.

Tonight he told us one about three 'shiners who set up operation in South Carolina (because there was the least law presence there), buying cans from Continental Company in which to put their moonshine, and then slapping labels on the cans saying they contained tomatoes.

They shipped the cans north on trucks to distributors in Philly, Pittsburgh, NYC and Chicago, and eventually got so bold as to ship on trains, at which point Continental got worried and stopped supplying cans rather than risk a lawsuit.

And don't you know those moonshiners were smart enough to close up shop, take all that money they'd earned, move back to Botetourt and buy farms to live out their lives on?

Kind of gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling, doesn't it, although if you were drinking "Last Call," that feeling could be nothing more than the 8.5% APV.

So another hop-scented cultural evening came to a close without my lips getting anywhere near a beer.

But with the temperature still hovering in the '70s, it only made sense to stop for a bite on the way home and My Noodle & Bar had their front door wide open and the booth closest to the door available.

As if that weren't enough, a guy was folded into the highest perch above the booths, first playing an accordion and then a violin. The way I see it, if you're going to indulge in steamed dumplings and broccoli with chicken while the soft November night air wafts in, how better than with someone bowing a violin for your aural enjoyment?

After a first date a few years back, the guy emailed me about how fascinating he'd found me, but saying point blank, "If you drank beer, you'd be perfect."

But I don't. Got beer? No. I like wine and I cannot lie.

Reckless Thoughts

It was chilly, no doubt about it, but it was a magical evening to sit outside and listen to sad songs.

There aren't many people who could entice me to the bowels of southside - don't ask me where, I was in no man's land from German School Road on - but Jonathan Vassar and the Badlands have that power over me.

Maybe it's because my appreciation for Jonathan dates back to those first Listening Rooms back in the dark ages of 2009, before Richmond was an "it" town. It didn't hurt that our hostess had invited me to her other house shows, albeit when she was living a quarter mile away in Monroe Ward, and I knew she always creates an exceptional environment for artists to play in.

But mainly it's the wonderful memories I have of a 2010 show that Jonathan and the Speckled Bird had done one evening over on Grace Street, when they'd played music to accompany watching scores of chimney swifts swoop and swerve as they settled down for the night. It had also happened in October and been chilly enough that some of us had to huddle under covers to watch and listen.

Tonight was huddle redux. So with chair, blanket and shawl, I joined friends and strangers for an evening of music outdoors under a blue velvet sky with only a few stars punctuating it.

First came seasonally-appropriate red wine and socializing, which took an unexpected turn not long after Jonathan's sweet dog Dolly began alternating eating grass and vomiting.

Our hostess shared that her former tenants had decided to put down cheap wooden flooring (and poorly, too) over the hardwood floors in one bedroom, prompting someone to observe, "He probably murdered someone and wanted to cover up the blood."

Or the sperm, someone else conjectured. Or blood and sperm, posited another. What our hostess needed was luminol to detect bloodstains, we agreed, like what police use at a crime scene.

While it seemed like a hell of a tangent, we weren't though yet. My former Jackson Ward neighbor said that she'd love to do CSI work, that she'd always been attracted to that sort of thing (a fact confirmed by her friend since age 12), but had also considered being a vet were it not for all the math.

Then she casually mentioned she currently has two fox paws packed in salt in her refrigerator. Naturally, this led to a discussion of why (she plans to integrate them into a sculpture) and how she became interested in tanning but it turned out to be more challenging than she expected.

Her first attempt involved a road kill squirrel. "I cut him too far up the butt," she explained nonchalantly and we roared with laughter. Seems she did a better with the fox that yielded the paws currently in cold storage next to the milk.

Tragic as it was that this conversation had to wind down, the band was ready to begin playing, so I fetched my chair and set up camp between two girlfriends, both singers, and both dating back to the Listening Room days. Dolly was just left of my feet.

With Jonathan on guitar and harmonica, Curtis on pedal steel and Nate on upright bass and harmonies, the trio began with "Oklahoma Rose," with the sound of the instruments wafting on the crisp night air. You could practically see the sustained notes of the pedal steel hanging in front of us and winding their way around the audience.

The visuals, too, were lovely, with the band playing against a backdrop of the brick of the house with candles lining the window sills and twinkle lights strung on potted plants, the deck, the instrument cases, just about everywhere.

For that matter, Jonathan and Nate had a string of lights in their chest pockets, sort of like a lighted pocket square for the occasion.

Songs like "You are Gone" were beautiful and sad - Jonathan doesn't write any other kind - and soon people swayed and moved their heads or leaned into each other as they sat on chairs and blankets around the back yard.

A guy near me passed out hand warmers and I slid one into my glove. Yes, gloves. No judging.

Jonathan said that they were playing the same set they'd played last month at the Bristol Rhythm and Roots Reunion, where he'd been amazed to learn that Bristol's Main Street separates Virginia and Tennessee. Since I'd only learned that fact last month at a moonshine lecture, I could relate.

"If you see a look of pain on my face," he warned us, "It's because my beard got caught in my harmonica holder." Ouch.

Referring to the song, "What I Talk About When I Talk About Us," he joked, "That's as jammy as we get," providing Nate - the bagel-maker extraordinaire who's about to open his own bagel shop - an opening for a bagel joke (he tried).

A song such as "Darken My Door" sounds like it'll be terribly sad, but a lyric like, "Please darken my door, just to be sure that you're nigh" sounds pretty romantic to me. Other times - "When things fall apart, don't let it harden your heart" - he sounded downright hopeful.

We kept it so close to the chest
I always had to second guess

The show had originally been scheduled for last week and been canceled because of a forecast for rain (which never materialized), so Jonathan thanked us for showing up this week despite the chill. "It was too hot last week!" a friend called out, but I disagreed just as vocally. I'd rather be hot.

She who was swaddled next to me concurred. "I could have worn something cuter last week!"

"This feels like fall!" one of the men said, as if that were a good thing.

The band announced that their final song would be "The Truth," after which Jonathan thanked our hostess and said it had been a lot of fun playing these songs and a nearby dog began barking relentlessly, causing Dolly to sit up and stare into the darkness.

I think back to way back when 
All it took was the mention of your name
Change is the only thing that stays the same
It's the only thing

For me, there was no more sublime way to be reminded of that than with music, surrounded by lovers and other strangers outside on an autumn night.

Nevermind the blood stains inside the house.

Smokin' in the Dorm Room

If you're of an age, you know where you were.

Over dinner at My Noodle & Bar, Mac and I talked about where we'd been the morning of September 11 when we heard the news. She'd heard it on NPR on the way to work while I'd already been at work when the art director came into my office to say that a plane has hit the World Trade Center.

Of course, this being 2001, I immediately assumed that it was some horrible accident. Despite not being a television watcher, at his suggestion I'd followed him into his office to find a tiny TV showing the burning building.

And as I watched, the second plane hit. That was all I needed to get up, walk back into my office and get back to work. I'm not the kind of person who needs to see horror and in those few moments, I'd already seen something I wished I hadn't.

Mid-day, I'd left the office to go to the nearby seafood joint for a shrimp salad sandwich, which I took back to my apartment on Floyd Avenue and ate on the screened porch listening to NPR while trying to process the shift in the world under my feet.

I recall looking at the sky and wondering how it could look so normal.

Because I'm not a TV person, I did not tune in to see any more footage of the attacks then or later. Sure, I saw pictures in the Washington Post and I read thousands of words about what had happened, but I consciously avoided TVs.

Only today, 16 years later, did I see a photograph apparently known as "falling man" and it's not an image I wanted to see. I'd read plenty about people who'd fallen or jumped to their death that day, but I could have lived out my life without seeing an actual photo of it.

Tough as the events that day had been to process as an adult, they were nearly impossible for newly-arrived college students to grasp and that was the basis of "September Morning," a just-released film that made its L.A. premiere Friday.

After a minute of silence for those lost in the attacks, the lights went down as Mac and I scarfed through the holy grail of movie snacks: buttered popcorn and Milk Duds.

Director Ryan Frost had just started classes at University of Richmond when the attacks happened and his script was a result of how he and his posse handled such a momentous event at the tender age of 18.

No surprise, it involved pizza, alcohol and cigarettes, plus endless trivial freshmen discussion of sex, SAT scores, divorced parents, religion, fate and genital size over the course of September 11th into September 12th.

And while the students never said exactly what school they were attening (although they did admit it was no one's first choice for college), the spider on the dorm room wall (near the beige Trimline phone) made it pretty clear to locals it was UR.

In the Q & A with the director after the film, he admitted he'd had the set designed to mimic his UR dorm, complete with bay window.

My biggest complaint with the film was how self-aware these 18-year old were made to sound. Do I believe that freshmen talk about how they were the center of their parents' world? Nope. Or that an 18-year old guy is going to tell his buddies that nothing will change because of a terrorist act? I do not.

That said, I can see how by the age of 30 when he wrote the script, that those lines of dialog seemed necessary to further the theme. But don't try to convince me that any UR kid pontificated about how they really didn't know each other, despite the tragedy-induced closeness they felt that night.

But my main takeaway was about how inherently different those 18-year old kids were than 18-year olds today.

Today's freshmen have a better sense of how awful the world can be (hell, they're living through the most disturbing administration in history, all the while trying to rack up "likes"), so I doubt they could be as affected as the class of 2005 had been.

And that's a tragedy in its own way, but hopefully we'll never have to find out.

If It Sells, It Smells

Vaginacore. That's a thing.

If there was one takeaway from tonight, it was that vaginacore is a musical genre. I'm not even sure how that could surprise me, but it does.

My evening began at My Noodle & Bar, where the door was open to the beautiful night and the music was set to pure '90s: Alannis Morrisette, Soul Asylum, Spin Doctors. You could practically smell the flannel shirts and not in a good way.

I'd barely taken a stool for dinner when I heard my name called. In between the new decor of glass bottles holding herbs and greens along the bar (I like it), I could see Mac on the other side. It was strangely weird since we've never run into each other out before.

Behind me, conversation flew between the occupants of a table of eight.

Doesn't everyone go to Target on Saturdays?
He's got the handwriting of a 32-year old woman!
Got it! I'll send copies to you.

When their food began arriving, no one touched it. It was only once the older looking man said a prolonged grace in a language I didn't recognize that people began to pick up their chopsticks and eat.

Meanwhile, I had a documentary to make at 8:00, so when the bartender asked me if I wanted anything besides water, I declined. Funny, but he laid the drink menu back in front of me anyway.

"In case you change your mind," he says. "That no didn't sound very confident." Cheeky devil.

A group of 4 sat down at the corner of the bar (I pegged them for medical students) and began discussing what to order for dinner. When the bartender answered their question about making a dish as spicy as requested, it threw them into a collective tizzy.

"Now I have to read the whole menu all over again cause I didn't bother reading the hot ones!" one young woman whined as the others nodded. Her friend was too busy looking at her phone when their order was being taken to give hers, but you can believe the once off the phone, she wanted her order taken pronto.

It doesn't work that way, Snowflake.

Because I'd arrived right as the restaurant had filled up, the kitchen was immediately slammed and my broccoli and chicken entree took a while to show up. On the positive side, its tardy arrival gave me an excuse to "gobble like a field hand," as Mammy told Scarlet in "Gone With the Wind," once it did.

Since I was running behind, I was happy to see the organizer of tonight's documentary screening of "Turn It Around: The Story of East Bay Punk" standing outside the Visual Arts Center when I pulled up. Surely if he was out here, the movie hadn't begun inside.

"Thanks for coming, Karen," he said as I walked inside. Just doing my part for punk, I assured him.

Upstairs, I found the expected group of aging punk rockers I always encounter at punk-related events. Plenty of familiar faces, although not many I know by name.

Two I did know were newlyweds, but he and I also share a love of shoegaze and reverb, so we dished on the new Slowdive album when I stopped to say hello.

Narrated by Iggy Pop, who brought both attitude and gravitas to the reading, the film was a pretty in-depth look at the music scene that sprung up across the bay from San Francisco beginning in 1981. Plenty of archival footage fleshed out the many talking heads, who had aged at various rates, if you know what I mean.

Musician after musician explained to the camera that punk music was their thing not just because they loved its energy but also because it f*cked with people. One guy pegged it as so compelling because it was all these young people singing with such despair.

The film went deep into the scene - it was over 2 1/2 hours long - but moved as quickly as a punk song so it never felt laborious. It had to be detailed to get to all the many bands and offshoots of punk.

En route to the bathroom at intermission, I ran into the musician and nerd who shares my passion for history, poetry and all things intellectual. Being a post-punk musician now, he was most stoked about the upcoming part of the film that dealt with 1987 to 1994, the years when he'd discovered this music.

When we got to talking about our summers, he shared that his had been overtaken by his two latest projects: reading all the Southern Gothic novels he could lay his hands on and watching all the Woody Allen movies he'd never seen.

As he explained it, he really hadn't had time to do much else besides those two things.

But when his face really lighted up was when he told me that directly after the film tonight, he was leaving for Corolla and bringing Cormac McCarthy's "Blood Meridian" along with his swimsuit and suntan lotion.

Sounds like an epic beach read to me.

It was some time during the part of the film about 1987 - "when punk became safe for little kids and girls" - that I began to hear overblown Yanni-like music playing softly behind me in sharp contrast to the screaming on the screen.

I looked around several times, and every time the movie had a quiet moment (there was, needless to say, a lot of hardcore thrashing to be heard) I became more certain somebody needed to turn something off.

Only once others began glaring at her did she bother to check her purse and turn off the volume on her phone. Some aging punkers are still learning their technology, it seems.

There were so many great punk band names like Kamala and the Karnivores mentioned, but it would be hard to top the Yeastie Girlz because, well, because they named themselves the Yeastie Girlz. They not only had a message, they "played" tampons on stage to songs like "Ovary Action."

I'm telling you kids, it was a more creative time.

And, yes, as you might expect, they fall under the heading of vaginacore. Just doing my part to get the word out.

Nowhere to Hide

Is it wrong to covet someone's go-go boots?

Knee high, shiny white and about the grooviest thing you could possibly wear to sing back-up on songs by the likes of the Ronettes, these were go-go boots for the ages. You couldn't try to look bad dancing in them.

Janet, the friend who was looking fabulous in them, was part of the Shangri-Lords, a band I hadn't seen since they last memorably performed at a pool party in August 2014. That night, members of the band had jumped in the pool mid-song and then - wait for it - climbed out and finished the song.

Needless to say, when I heard they were playing at Hardywood tonight, I planned my evening around it.

Eager to share the thrills I knew they'd deliver, I invited a fellow music-lover of the appropriate age to appreciate a band that covers girl group songs. That would be girl group songs sung by a male singer, but that's also sort of the point.

We started at My Noodle and Bar for a quick dinner fueled by everyone's favorite picnic wine, J. Mourat Rose, listening to the oddest soundtrack, which ranged from Tame Impala and Animal Collective to Aretha to, worst of all, 80s-era Yes.

Luckily the food and wine were good enough to make up for the latter.

We got to Hardywood just as the band was taking the stage to get the dance party started. Singer Michael had done it up right in a silver sequined blazer which he shed after only a few songs ("It's not the heat, it's the humidity!" he joked) to reveal an embroidered black shirt.

The moment they started "Be My Baby," with Janet on castanets, the crowd began to sing and/or dance along, although no one could beat back-up singers Janet and Lindsey for smooth moves. Someone had been practicing their choreography.

By the time they got to "Nowhere to Run," people were screaming and flailing with abandon, sort of like children at the beach. This is a band that's all about the fun.

When they did Leslie Gore's proto-feminist "You Don't Own Me," easily half the woman in the room began singing along, yours truly included. The woman in front of me belted it out to her date while using him as a pole to dance against.

You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Do't tie me down cause I'd never stay

I don't tell you what to say
Oh, I don't tell you what to do
So just let me be myself'
That's all I ask of you

Just after it ended, the woman behind me leaned over and noted, "Most subtle coming-out song in history!" True enough.

The Shangri-Lords' momentum went out of control on "You Keep Me Hanging On," as Michael incorporated hand gestures the Supremes would have been proud of. And don't get me started on the masterful "whoa, whoa, whoas" coming from the back-up singers. Priceless.

You say you still care for me
But your heart and soul needs to be free
And now that you got your freedom, you wanna still hold on to me
You don't want me for yourself, so let me find somebody else

Set me free, why dontcha, babe
Get outta my life, why dontcha babe
Cause you don't really love me
You just keep me hangin on

There was one song that required Janet to shriek melodically on cue and my date and I marveled at her ability to do it repeatedly. You can't teach a person that kind of talent, kids, they're just born with it.

But then, she's also a wizard with go-go maintenance. Just yesterday, she'd posted, "Pro tip: magic erasers are pretty good at getting scuffs off white vinyl go-go boots."

If only I had a pair to scuff. Some girls have talent and all the luck.

Company Charm

If you're going to hang out with someone who's still getting his feet wet in the Richmond scene, it only makes sense to offer up a wide variety of experiences.

If you're going to start by going to Garnett's for lunch, go late.

Even on a Sunday afternoon, regulars know that the more traditional lunch hours tend to be the busiest, but when you don't plan to arrive until 1:30ish, you can anticipate soon having the dining room to yourself. Completely.

You can also expect the servers to be gracious enough to tailor the soundtrack to the remaining guests' taste (or, perhaps, era? hmm...) and in this case, the result was vintage soul: Al Green, Marvin Gaye and the like. Whether the wine pours got more generous or they just felt that way because of the wide-ranging conversation, I really can't say.

In any case, it was an ideal setting for a discussion  of how some people can sleep to music or read and watch TV and the consensus, at our table at least, was that music and reading are all-encompassing and not meant to be multi-tasked.

If you're going to leave the city for the Lilly Pad Cafe on an afternoon when the Pinewood Boys are playing, you'd best bring your luck.

We came in from the back door because that's the new entrance now that they've fenced off the outside "patio" - and I use that word loosely because it's really more of a concrete slab - and joined the line at the bar waiting for service.

I couldn't have been more surprised when one of the bartenders recognized me and welcomed me back (we have a guitar player in common) or less surprised when the wine we ordered came straight out of a 1.5 liter bottle of Woodbridge Chardonnay.

Meanwhile, even though the chalkboard behind the bar clearly stated, "No buckets after 4!" I know I saw at least half a dozen fluorescent plastic buckets full of canned beer pushed across the bar and scooped up by thirsty/drunk customers headed outside for music.

It wasn't my first Lilly Pad rodeo or even my first time hearing live music there but never have I seen the place so thoroughly packed, with people occupying every square inch and plenty of them standing around for lack of a place to sit.

That's where the luck comes in and I wasn't shy about scouting for unused chairs at otherwise full tables and dragging them to a shady spot near the stage. Voila! The first time visitor I'd brought along now had a front row seat for the Pinewood Boys and a river view, although, like the musician that he is, he commented on the dobro being played before even noticing the water.

Best of all, there was a stellar breeze and that, combined with our shady spot, made for the best possible introduction for a newbie to a particular kind of Richmond summer pleasure.

I heard my name a second time when a food friend and her husband walked by en route to the bar. When she commented on the large crowd, I said I'd never seen it so crazy, which is how I discovered that they live barely a mile away.

"We don't usually come on Sundays for that reason but it was such a nice day!" she explained. The temptation of the Pad must be mighty when it's so convenient.

Not everyone has all their teeth at the Lilly Pad and the percentage of smokers is unusually high even for tobacco-loving Richmond, but this was the first time I ever saw someone come in with a firearm tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

When the band began playing "Will the Circle Be Unbroken," my musician companion, a pro, remarked that that usually meant it was the last song and I, a Lilly Pad pro, let him know that we should now be alert to the status of the wooden gliders.

Yes, they were both currently occupied, but I knew chances were good a lot of the crowd would head out once the band stopped playing.

The music hadn't been switched over to classic rock radio for more than a handful of songs when I spotted and we scored one of the gliders and made ourselves at home. From there, we had far better views of the incoming and outgoing boat traffic, including the snack boat, its lighted "open" sign still on even once it tied up at the dock.

We watched people arrive in their boats, climb up on the dock to pull on jeans or shorts and t-shirts over their bathing suits (the sign on the door of the Lilly Pad is quite firm: shirts and shoes required for service) and wander over for a beer or a bucket.

Our decision to sit facing west meant we had spectacular sunset views over the river and only after admiring the dramatic sky for a while had the sense to turn around and see the moon making its way up the still-blue sky. Before the sun even fully set, one of the servers stuck his head out of the door and hollered, "Last call!" but we weren't the only ones who stayed put until our glasses were empty.

If you're going to head back to the city for dinner and you're still trying to ensure a memorable experience, My Noodle's dining rooms provides charm few first-timers can resist and food reliably fresh and delicious.

We got the far tiki booth - the one without the curtain for privacy - near the sound system which poured forth two hours worth of gems ranging from Roxy Music to Nirvana unplugged while we devoured dumplings, inhaled entrees and sipped a Rittenhouse Rye cocktail.

If you're going to sum up a 10 1/2 hour Sunday, consider the delight of the first-timer (seemingly extensive), the multiple soundtracks live and recorded (consistently enjoyable) and the number of weapons brandished (zero).

Bonus points awarded for eating the sandwich named after me. A bon vivant always notices.

To Wow, To Stun, To Amaze

Where do you get your validation from?

Citing my minimal Facebook postings and complete absence on Instagram and Twitter as leaving me without a platform with which to know when people think well of me, a good friend posed that question the other day.

Before I could even formulate a clever response, her husband did it for me. "She was old enough when all this nonsense started to already be confident about who she was, so she doesn't need validation."

Okay, I might not have thought of framing it that way, but that's as good an answer as any.

Of course I feel gratified that people read my blog, but when I stop writing it, I know life will go on. Like most people, I appreciate a compliment, although much more so from someone close than a stranger, but I'll take what I can get.

I don't know if it's true of everyone, but I've always been happiest when I felt validated, especially on an emotional level. Maybe it's the Gemini in me, but nothing validates me like conversation with the people I care about most...except laughter with those same people.

And maybe that's it. I've been accused of being able to talk to a brick wall (untrue, by the way), but maybe my tendency to talk to anyone within conversational distance is nothing more than a desire for validation.

If I talk to them, if I can get them engaged and smiling, maybe even chuckling at something I say, I feel like I've accomplished something. It's a real world "like."

Waiting at the bar for Chinese food, I struck up a conversation with a young guy eating dinner after he smiled when I gave the bartender my order. In no time, we knew what each other did, shared opinions on city versus beach living and discussed the ease of recording music in 2017.

As I was paying, he handed me a tiny purple card printed with the words, "I love you," smiling and saying, "In case no one has told you that today." Corny? Maybe. Sweet? Certainly. Then he left.

Because some days, validation comes from the most unlikely places.

No Friday I'm in Love

Everyone who's not making their list is mocking those who are.

When the first one popped up in my feed, I thought it was an amusing game: here are 10 concerts X has been to and one is a lie. Which one?

Friends would scan the list looking for unlikely shows and try to guess which was the lie, thus allowing the poster to not only brag about when and where they'd seen the shows, but, in some cases, dazzle with how many times.

The opposing camp saw the whole game as a way for "hipsters to humble brag" about the obscure and unlikely shows they'd seen and get attention on Facebook.

Because I have scores of music-loving friends, I saw many, many lists. Because I don't often post on Facebook (not to mention having multiple interviews and deadlines and plans every night), I did not. But I could have.

1. Cher
2. The Raconteurs
3. Al Green
4. Interpol
5. My Chemical Romance
6. The Cure
7. Hall and Oates
8. My Bloody Valentine
9. Paul McCartney & Wings
10. Lynyrd Skynyrd

For that matter, I could make a list of plays I've seen, with one I haven't.

1. Pacific Overtures
2. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
3. Thieves
4. The Odd Couple
5. Hello, Dolly!
6. Sweeney Todd
7. Hedwig and the Angry Inch
8. Porgy and Bess
9. Arcadia
10. A Kid Like Jake

Hint: that last one I saw tonight at Richmond Triangle Players and while it wasn't quite as emotionally-wrenching as last night's "Dry Land," it was a close second.

Watching an entitled Manhattan mother (and her easy-going husband who somehow put up with her) agonize, rail and refuse to accept reality over getting her gender-variant 4-year old into the best possible private school - with no concern for what was best for the child - was disconcerting at best and appalling at worst.

Like good theater should, it made me feel something, mostly revulsion for people who choose to parent and shouldn't.

As my companion and I were leaving the theater, we stopped to commiserate with friends who'd also seen consecutive nights of heavy theater. For entertainment, it was a lot to process.

"Your next play should be a musical like "Hello, Dolly!" with Bette Midler," my friend decided as we walked out. Well, that would be a first for me.

Now you know.

Living for the Possibilities

Despite my Mom's predilection for it, I find worrying a waste of time.

Last night, I went to bed feeling guilty - which is first cousins with worry - knowing I had two play tickets for tonight and no date, although not for lack of asking. This morning, I woke up to a friend's message announcing that he was a bachelor for the weekend because his fiancee was out of town.

Woo hoo! My invitation was immediate.

If you're buying, I'm flying. Can I buy you some supper?

See? the universe seemed to be chiding me. Brief as it had been, all that late night obsessing was for naught. Lesson reinforced.

Like a good date, he gave me my choice of restaurants and I wanted My Noodle, preferably in a booth with a curtain. I got both. Like past men I have taken there, he fell in love with the green curry I highly recommended and the server seconded. Win/win.

Walking down Lombardy, we passed a long-time friend of mine who never even saw me, necessitating a brief dressing down on the sidewalk. I got home to a message with the subject line: "I'm an ass." He's not, just apparently oblivious, but now there's an apology (or perhaps guilt?) drink in it for me.

And I had on the fuchsia lace tights, too, so I wasn't all that easy to miss.

Tonight's gorgeous weather made the walk to Virginia Repertory downright delightful and we arrived early enough to have plenty of time for conversation before "The End of War" began.

We were only a few minutes into his dissertation on all the sex he got before his girlfriend left for the weekend when we noticed there was a man onstage, moving about on the incredibly immersive set of a bombed-out Berlin circa 1945.

But wait, there were still 15 minutes to curtain. What was up?

Interrupting his mention of the third time in 12 hours, I pointed to the man, raising my eyebrows. "He's either part of the show or psychotic," my friend surmised. Since we were in the second row, if the guy were to pull out a gun and begin spraying, we'd have been prime targets.

Since my friend is bigger than I am, I inquired if it would be okay for me to use him as a shield if such a thing went down. Without missing a beat, he whined, "Aww, but I'm getting laid a lot, so I've got more to live for."

Truth. That's the hardest I've laughed in weeks.

It was also the best possible thing to do before a very serious play about the hard choices people - embattled Russian soldiers, a desperate German woman, her adult daughter who was a female cellist with little empathy and a Jewish man hidden in a cellar - make in wartime.

At intermission, my friend had a slightly stricken look. "Just a little light Friday night entertainment," he quipped.

I can't say enough good about the sobering effect of the set or the projections of bombings, concentration camps and the general mayhem of war, even the eerie hues projected to convey mood. They were as much a character of the play as the actors.

And speaking of them, Nick Aliff nailed his part as a Russian killing machine so entrenched in the non-stop slaughter that he begins to see the ghosts of all his victims and eventually decides once they arrive in Berlin that he just needs the war to stop.

Tragically, as his comrade-in-arms points out, one war ends and the next one begins immediately (sort of like meals at my mother's house).

Which is exactly why my friend is brilliant for getting laid as much as possible right now. No telling what's on the horizon.

But I can tell you this much: whatever it is, I'm not worrying about it.

Don't Even Think

Sundays are a marathon, not a sprint.

It took asking five people to join my hired mouth for brunch before I was successful, the effort pretty much encompassing the shank of the afternoon but also leaving us utterly stuffed. I don't think there's any question that Richmond's first Black Restaurant Week has been a resounding success.

By that point, I had half an hour before Mac was showing up to walk with me to Movieland to see "Get Out," a feat we'd attempted Tuesday at 7 only to be told they were sold out until 10.

Today's 4:30 show was about 95% full and that's with a screening almost every hour. You make me proud, Richmond.

People who know me well had warned me about how difficult a movie like this would be for someone like me (that means someone who avoids suspense, thrillers and horror films), but everything I'd read made it crystal clear that this was a movie white people needed to see, if only to be completely unsettled.

You don't even know.

The best part was that the audience reacted as one, united in their reactions to not only the skulduggery of the bad guys, but the blatant racism of supposedly "nice" characters. That we had to watch the inevitable bad choices of people in horror movies - why does anyone go outside alone in the middle of the night?  - only allowed us to cheer loudly together when evil got its comeuppance.

And yet, near the end when carnage is everywhere and a siren is heard, there was collective breath-holding by the entire audience for fear that whatever law enforcement showed up would misconstrue the situation and our young black, male hero would pay the price.

Happily, art did not imitate life.

Kudos to first time director Jordan Peele for instead going comedic. But that he so seamlessly blends genres and still manages to make some biting social critiques all but guarantees he's a director worth knowing and one we'll see much more from.

Walking out of the theater a little after 7 to blue skies and sunshine felt like a March gift, yet I heard a woman complaining to her companions, "I don't care about later light. I hate losing an hour of sleep! Give me my hour back."

Perhaps that lost hour of sleep is what made her crabby. I know I hate to miss any of my nightly 9 hours.

We had dinner - entrees of homey wonton soup and chicken and broccoli in brown sauce, with limeades - at My Noodle & Bar, comfortably ensconced in the very last tree-house booth, the electric fireplace flickering away nearby. Sure, real is preferable but warmth is warmth, even if it's fake fire when it's 30 degrees outside.

In the booth next to us, a young woman referred to the man she was talking to repeatedly as Benjamin. When they got up to leave, she apologized, saying she'd forgotten his name was really Brandon. He smiled politely, but you know he noticed every time.

Mac dropped me home with just enough time to change clothes and walk over to Strange Matter for a show where $1 of every ticket was going to Planned Parenthood, meaning I could listen to live music and support the cause. Win/win.

Opener Grass Panther was set up and just starting to play on the floor in front of the stage when I got there. Since crowds tend to be smaller for the opening band, I always enjoy it when a band is playing at eye level like that.

Most of their songs have a fierce energy to them, but for one, singer Michael suggested we slow dance with someone "or make a new friend," but I contented myself with swaying in place. Even that seemed unusual for Grass Panther.

I'd expected to see more familiar faces than I did, but a few represented: the prof, the ad man, the roadie, the guitarist, with someone attributing the small numbers in general to Spring Break just winding down. All I know is that walking over tonight, I'd seen scads more people than I've been seeing lately on campus.

Louisville's Twin Limb was a psychedelic dream pop trio: singer/accordion player, drummer/singer (both female) and a guy on guitar with a decidedly post-punk bent, which probably sounds far less compelling than they actually were.

Most obvious about their sound was a languid Beach House-like quality, but the accordionist had a voice that echoed that of Johnette Napolitano of Concrete Blond, all wail and beauty and when she and the drummer harmonized or traded vocals back and forth, it was nothing short of exquisite.

It occurred to me that this was the kind of talented, quirky band that would have played Balliceaux before it closed and everyone there would've known they were seeing something extraordinary. Tonight's mostly male crowd certainly seemed entranced.

After their set, a guy came up to me and asked if the band that had just played was Strand of Oaks. Nope, I told him and he went away looking perplexed.

A friend came over to chat about headliner Strand of Oaks and it turned out we'd both seen the band on their 2015 tour, me at S'Matter and he in Italy at a free festival. On a beach. With the XX. Doesn't seem fair to me.

Since we'd both last seen the band, leader Timothy had gotten his marriage together and stopped being so miserable about life, resulting in a new sound on his latest album, which probably explains why he led with "Radio Kids" from it.

After he finished singing it, he exhorted the crowd to come closer. "What's all this about?" he said, circling his hand over empty space near the stage. "Come on up here. I got no one to sing to." So we all moved so he could sing "Shut-in." Telling the drummer he had a good beat, he launched into the driving rhythm of "Heal" and it was like the '70s all over again.

Between songs he expressed appreciation for Green Panther, corrected himself to Grass Panther and said they didn't seem like the kind of precious band who'd get upset over a mistake.

"And Twin Limb, man! They should be playing opera halls or the halls of Valhalla! That's a cheap ticket getting to see them. We're still a $10 ticket, but you got all that, too. Richmond, you're lucky!" You know it, man.

By the time they played the anthemic "Goshen '97," it was midnight and the marathon was over. My only regret was that it hadn't been on a beach in Italy.

Bet I could have made a new friend there.

Tonight I'm Going to Dance

I've always found the Elbys a bit...Masturbatorial. The scene is good, but these felt like RVA giving itself a handjob without seeing what's really going on.

I think the phrase you're looking for is circle jerk.

So opined Facebook. After opting out last year, I gave the Elbys another shot last night, also breaking form by going with a date, albeit a couple date who'd spared no expense to outfit themselves in the evening's theme: the speakeasy era.

Overheard in the ladies' room during the soiree: "I can't believe I bought a hundred dollar dress and ended up wearing a $30 one."

Honey, you still got me beat by $30.

The best I could do was reaching to the very back of my closet and pulling out a black beaded dress I'd originally bought in 1997 for the first Library of Virginia Literary Awards and worn only once since. My only real effort, and it was minor, was crafting a stole of sorts from a fringed dress Pru had donated to the cause, tying a beaded choker around my neck and (gasp) putting on my mother's jade earrings.

I met a woman wearing a fabulous floor-length shell pink beaded dress and when I raved about it, she admitted it had been purchased as her wedding dress - "We dated for five straight years and I finally asked him if he was ever going to propose or did I have to?" - and now she's determined to wear it as much as possible.

As beautiful as it looked on her, I could understand why.

Some people's ensembles got the era right but not the day part. It was, after all, an evening affair, meaning that period bathing costumes (there were multiple) seemed a tad out of place. Not so all the fur stoles, headbands, fascinators, boas and of course, flasks.

Sitting in the theater waiting for the awards ceremony to begin, Pru commented that she'd ended up behind the tallest person in the theater. "And the brightest!" she whispered, alluding to the man's flamingo-colored blazer.

I overheard the group behind me discussing the nominees. When one pointed out that Mama J's gets nominated every year but she'd never been to it, her friend agreed, suggesting they make a date.

But it was when one asked, "Is it in Jackson Ward or Church Hill?" that I knew my intervention was required. Turning around in my seat (and no doubt dislocating a bead or two in the process), I brought the trio up to speed, answering their questions on what to order at Mama J's and the best and worst times to go, noticing midway through that the woman to my right was nodding as I spoke.

Have you been, I asked her rhetorically since why else would she be nodding in agreement. "Yes and you're right about all of it."

Nota Bene's owner Victoria took the very first award for Best New Restaurant, sounding honestly caught of guard by the win in a category with some supremely strong contenders: Laura Lee's, Shagbark and Spoonbread.

Chef of the year David Shannon looked magnificent accepting his award in black leather pants and stylish motorcycle jacket, but when he thanked his boyfriend for his patience with restaurant hours, Mr. Flamingo Jacket turned to his Republican-looking friend, rolling his eyes and making a disgusted face.

Knowing their thoughts on a matter which was none of their business only made it all the sweeter when David's restaurant L'Opossum won Restaurant of the Year at the end.

Earlier, while complimenting David's ensemble, I'd commented about how fun it is to see all the restaurant people out on the same night. He likened it to prom, but I couldn't relate since I hadn't gone to mine. Curious about his, he laughed and admitted that since he couldn't go with his boyfriend, they'd each gotten fake dates and gone as a foursome.

I told him how impressed I was that they'd gotten beards for prom and not just any prom, but one themed "Stairway to Heaven."

Now that I've been to Reservoir Distillery for a tasting, I could appreciate why they won Local Food or Beverage Product of the Year for their Rye Whiskey. When Triple Crossing Brewing Company won Brewery of the Year, I whispered to Pru that I'd been there several times and she looked at me like I had two heads.

For jazz, darling, solely for jazz.

Strong women corrected alternative facts. Before the award for Wine Program of the Year was announced, the hosts read from the judges' opinion, praising the winner for its global wine program. When Secco won, owner Julia wasted no time in correcting that statement. "Our wine list is not global, it's European."

Personally, I think the judge should have noticed that in the first place, but that's just me.

For the first time, the room where the party was held downstairs was large enough to accommodate all the attendees, although, as is standard at the Elbys, there were not enough bars set up. At one point, I counted 30+ people in line to get a glass of wine, meaning you may as well get in line again as soon as you get your first glass.

I call that a flawed system.

We made the food rounds, danced a little and as per usual with the Elbys, food and drink runs out in short order and everyone cuts out for an afterparty where the real fun happens. And, this year, the compliments.

Our group had decided on My Noodle for karaoke and as a restaurant owner I've known for 20 years and I headed to the garage side by side, he marveled at how much time had passed since we first met during the grunge era. It was when he said, "You're even more attractive now than when we met!" that I was reminded why it's good to have old friends.

My Noodle was already hopping and a song I didn't recognize was being sung only slightly off key by a couple when we walked in and the bartender squinted his eyes at me, saying, "I know you." In no time, we were handed shots of Plantation Barbados 5 Year Rum, coincidentally by the guy who'd dated the woman in the pink wedding dress for five years before proposing.

The bartender I knew came from behind the bar to enthusiastically belt out Neil Diamond's "America" - I happen to know that Beau knew every word to that song - and I'm guessing by his polished perfromance that it wasn't his first time doing it, either.

When he finished showing off, he crafted cocktails for our group, mine a tequila, vermouth, pineapple and lime combo that appealed to a tequila-loving friend who ordered a repeat.

Other Elbys refugees arrived and before long the place was a wonderfully warm mass of humanity dancing, drinking, talking and flirting. At one point, I felt someone rhythmically bumping up against me and turned to see a woman using my backside to get my attention. It worked.

Our tweeting dictator wannabe would've hated how diverse the crowd was. I know I danced with no fewer than four successful immigrants and who knows what was going on with everybody else?

A guy who asked me to dance waited till we were on the so-called dance floor before assuring me that he and his wife have an open relationship, so he'd love to meet up with me away from the crowds.

I'm not going to lie, the dancing was great, but it was becoming clear that either the restaurant community is sex-starved or the Elbys make people horny.

Hardly surprising when you begin an evening in masturbatorial mode.

Whiskey Me Up, Up and Away

Today was that rare day that began and ended with whiskey.

Just as I was psyching myself up to head out into the 25 mph-winds and brave temperatures that felt like mid-30s, I got an email from a friend.

I know it is cold, but I may have to walk over there for a free toddler scoop.

"There" was the new Gelati Celesti on Boulevard and don't let the informational tone of her message fool you, she was testing the water to see if I was game. And why not? Today's weather stood in sharp contrast to the past two days of blissful warmth and a little incentive to head out was much appreciated.

Except that nothing could've prepared me for walking due west into hard gusting winds that felt like an enormous ghost hand pushing me back every step of the way. It seemed to take forever, but eventually I spotted bobbing balloons tied to a mint green stool and a steady flow of people into the new space.

Following that distinctly sweet smell of waffle cones baking on the iron, I walked into a typical long, deep Richmond space that managed to convey "ice cream parlor" and "updated industrial" simultaneously.

On the far back wall was a grid of colorful ice cream scoopers of various ages, a fascinating history lesson of a basic culinary tool. Old quart glass milk bottles housed the lighting hung from the ceiling while tables and counters with stools of various shades provided plenty of space for people to linger with their gelato.

Mac and I got in line to consider flavors and that, of course, was the challenging part. It's so easy for me to default to their chocolate decadence as I've done for decades, but, hold on, there were Scott's Addition collaborations to consider.

Of course there were.

We tasted the Buskey Cider hard cider sorbet, finding it a bit more bracingly alcoholic than we were ready for. On the other hand, Reservoir Distillery's "Whiskey Me Away" gelato had a more subtle kick mitigated by obscenely rich cream to keep the booze taste in check.

My first thought was that it reminded me of really good whiskey-based eggnog, a flavor profile of which I'm exceedingly fond.

In the end, we shared mango sorbetto and the uber-rich whiskey gelato while sitting on stools facing Boulevard and watching people stream in for free gelato on opening day despite the frigid temps.

But without a doubt, my whiskey curiosity had been aroused.

Not content to start the day with local whiskey without learning more about it, come time to swap emails about tonight's plans, I suggested beginning a friendly evening with a trip to the source, Reservoir Distillery, for a tasting.

As a devotee of tequila, my whiskey knowledge is admittedly lacking, so our server's in-depth explanations about grains - wheat for whiskey, corn for bourbon and rye for rye whiskey - aging and size of barrels were a boon for me, providing a decent primer on spirits being entirely crafted in Scott's Addition.

Unlike, say, certain West Virginia distilleries who buy spirits and then doctor/age them and call them hand-crafted, each Reservoir bottle comes with a handwritten label showing the batch and date - catnip, no doubt, to brown liquor small batch geeks, of which I happen to know several.

I know it was cold out tonight, but my friend was kicking off a long weekend away and how better to shift his mindset than with whiskey?

The way I see it, that he had to be up at 5 a.m. to hit the road was completely irrelevant at 6 p.m. tonight.

Midway through the tasting, I heard my name called and turned to see a familiar face and avid bike polo player I hadn't seen in eons, looking as cheerful and easy-going as ever, maybe in part due to working at a distillery.

When he came through a second time smiling with ear buds embedded, I couldn't help but ask what he was listening to out of sheer nosiness curiosity. Talib Kewli, it turns out, is fine accompaniment for distilling work.

This not being my first rodeo, I'd made sure to allow a full hour for us to taste through Reservoir's offerings - "It's not a race," my friend insisted though his first whiskey was long gone and I still had half a glass - but not so the couple who arrived ten minutes before closing for a full tasting, having come on the suggestion of a nearby brewery (probably to get rid of them).

Let's just say that their pours were not accompanied by the same raft of information or Q & A period after each tasting as ours had been. When you're there to learn, kids, you allow sufficient time for a full lesson.

Hanging on the wall in front of us was a scrawled chalkboard message reading, "The Most Dangerous Bar in the World," an acknowledgement of the abundance of metal electrical boxes, exposed cords and nasty-looking switches that made up the back bar, something along the lines of "Young Frankenstein."

You gotta love a distillery with a sense of humor.

Rye always reminds me of that line in "The Big Sleep" where Bogart works his magic on the book shop girl by saying, "I got a bottle of pretty good rye in my pocket," and before you know it, she's pulling down the "Closed" shade on the shop door and smiling.

Such is the power of rye, our final tasting of the 100 proof evening. Pretty good would be faint praise.

We powered through the wind for a few blocks to Supper, which was mobbed with a wait list, deciding instead to drive to My Noodle in search of sustenance to soak up three rounds of local brown liquid.

All the treehouse booths were occupied so we didn't hesitate to accept the hostess' offer of the highest perch, a tiny table next to the DJ set-up (playing Real Estate, Tame Impala), affording us an uncommon birds-eye view of booth tops, lanterns and parasols strung from the ceiling and a straight shot to the bartender whom we recognized as having served us at Sabai two nights ago.

Bless your heart, Richmond, you're just so stinkin' small sometimes.

Not so our appetites, especially after a distilled start to the evening, nor the conversational range which reliably covers a wide range of randomness - tonight from Foals to clothing labels to small victories at work - and occasional reminders about how people communicate.

We're both fans of the here and now and when that's not possible, the written word is everything as far as I'm concerned. And if it's laced with a strong dose of humor and a little rye on a day that began with whiskey gelato, even better.

Basically, it was a night devoted to nothing more than saying hi to a friend in February at the most dangerous bar in the world. Not a big deal.

Because what are friends for if not for talking?

Is Good Enough?

Well, I certainly didn't see that coming.

The stated game plan was to discuss our 2017 resolutions. But, like every other get-together I've had this week, it was more about re-establishing contact after two weeks of holiday interruption, and if there were unstated goals, well, no one was talking about that.

Deferring to me to come up with a game plan ("I haven't looked at what's happening this week. If you know about something good - you've had great suggestions before - I'm happy to let you select"), I shared what I'd intended to do before hearing from him: go to Susan Worsham's opening at Candela Gallery.

Just like that, we had a plan. I was standing in front of one of Susan's multi-layered and metaphoric photographs when I felt a presence next to me and the evening was off and running as we made our way through the crowded galleries to talk about each picture.

My attraction to Susan's work is all about the attitude. Even the name of the show - "By the Grace of God" - is a testament to her sunny disposition and willingness to stop every single time she sees the makings of a photograph in nature or life. Not later, not come back to it. Now.

Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.

Like me, she doesn't hesitate to approach strangers, ask questions and press until she gets the affirmative answer she wants, a strategy that works as well with friendships as art.

By the time we'd made the rounds discussing what attracted us about the work, it was time to claim our seats in the overflowing room for the artist's talk.

Susan is such a disarming speaker and she quickly charmed the room with stories of how she got photos, how nerdy she could be begging people to let her take their image and stressing just how few photography classes she took before setting off to document the beautiful moments in life.

Because that, quite simply, is her goal.

To a student or aspiring photographer of any age, she had to have been positively inspiring with her message of making the time and effort to shoot no matter how indolent or uninspired they might feel.

"Photography is the only thing that keeps me from being lazy," she insisted with a huge red-lipsticked smile on her face.

Suitably artfully inspired - not that I wasn't already constantly on the lookout for the beauty in life or as Pru likes to say, "You and your flippin' silver linings!" - we made our way to My Noodle & Bar, which was packed despite the cold weather.

I'd say scoring one of the tiki huts there as our lair for dinner counts as a good thing, while using both the curtain separating us from the next booth as well as hanging our coats on hooks next to us to create the proper level of privacy provided an ideal setting for the latest installment of our ongoing conversation.

And because our booth was in the direct line of the door and the masses of cold air that poured in every time it opened and, let's get real here, I am so not built for winter.

Since it was his first time, I was pleased at how much he enjoyed his My Noodle dish while I got my standard broccoli and chicken order from my favorite server, who didn't even let me get the words out before she parroted back the rest of my order in a familiar, sing song voice.

There's a lot to be said for being a regular and having people know you.

In some ways, that was the topic of our wide-ranging conversation as he shared his adventures down south and I mine out west and we dug deep into what we hope to accomplish in 2017. His to-do list is longer, but we also had some overlap in one category, which could make things interesting.

By the time we left there, we'd both dropped some surprising news, had our usual back and forth ribbing about why he always feels the need to remind me he can't stay out late and decided we needed to make one more stop anyway.

Graffiato's won the imaginary toss.

Whistlepig Rye ignited a lively conversation with our affable bartender, who was more than happy to discuss brown spirits and distinctive distillation methods with my friend while I took mental notes. A girl never knows when whiskey knowledge will come in handy.

By the time they'd reached a consensus on what my date would drink, he got his pour and the bartender headed up the bar to assist others. Several minutes later, he returned, looking stricken because he'd never so much as inquired what I might want.

Accompanying his sincere-sounding apology was an overly generous pour of Barboursville Rose, his solicitous attention to my water glass for the remainder of the night and, when I inquired about last call half pours, his willingness to accommodate both brown and pink.

Willingness was in the air as the nature of friendships was parsed, advice about the opposite sex was offered and new boundaries were tentatively approached. Forward progress seems to be the natural result of the best ongoing conversations.

Miss an opportunity and it may be missed for good.

Free the Luddites

From today's highlight reel:

A walk through the Capitol grounds down to the street art gallery of the old power plant, along the canal walk to Brown's Island, a U-turn to walk the pipeline west to east, followed by east to west (the rapids incredibly high and strong after all the recent rain) and finally over to the T Pot bridge.

Not necessarily because I needed to walk the T Pot for the fifth time in eight days, though I certainly had every intention of doing so, but because I had a date with a drone. Well, me and dozens of others who showed up at the specified time to line the railing, smile and wave like beauty queens as the drone hovered in front of us for what felt like forever given the cloudy sky and cold breezes whipping over the water.

Our group portrait benefited from the enormous flock of birds who took to the sky behind us moments before the red-eyed drone showed up to capture man's aluminum accomplishment set against nature's sepia-toned background.

There was even a dash of the political when a couple of rafters appeared, anchored and unfurled a spray-painted "Free the James" sign directly in front of us. The scuttlebutt was that it involved dams and fish spawning, but it certainly added an au courant air to the group photo.

I'm hoping my distinctive hat will make me easier to pick out once they send us all the photo, which someone claimed was destined for the Times Dispatch archives, but we all know is really destined for Facebook, at least for 95% of the participants.

Don't look at me.

Although it involved no technology, another walk this afternoon was pretty wonderful, too, mainly because of the little beagle I have been given access and leash privileges to. We've been making eyes at each other for months and now we're consummating our relationship in public.

My attentions mean that his artistic mistress doesn't have to hurry home from the studio at inconvenient intervals and I've got a velvet-eared companion every time I feel like stretching my legs in the 'hood.

When we got back this afternoon, I gave him a treat, said adieu and, I swear, he gave me a look that said he knew I'd be back for more.

Damn beagle, of course he's right.

In what surely must be one of the most glacially slow-moving friendships on record, a computer geek professorial type I met 15 or 16 years ago - who'd contacted me last summer about having an actual conversation to solidify our Facebook friend status - finally made that happen by taking up residence across the table from me at My Noodle & Bar.

The way I see it, if I'm friends with you on Facebook, we should be able to carry on a conversation in the real world, especially given the hefty number of people we have in common. Turns out that it was that photo I posted of myself in front of a vintage VW bus that spoke to him, mainly because he still has his and uses it for an annual trek to the Everglades to hang out with old friends.

Volkswagen: helping hippie types make friends since the '60s. Who'd have thought a Luddite and a techie could find common ground at a subterranean pan-Asian joint, even with a Cool Hand Luke mocktail?

The highlight, though, was most definitely when he looked me square in the eye with disbelief and inquired, "Are you a Luddite?"

Sure am. I guarantee you I was the sole person on the T Pot bridge without a cell phone today.

I like to think that, despite being captured by a drone, my soul remains intact. Now, whether I show up in the photo or not remains to be seen.

Ginger Ale for Two

Some people I know have a "dressing drink" but I'm of the opinion that the "dressing soundtrack" is even more essential...and occasionally educational, too.

Tonight's began with hearing the Carpenters do a husky-voiced cover of "Masquerade," a song I'd always associated with George Benson, at least up until I read those Leon Russell obituaries last week and discovered it's his song, which only means now I need to hear his version.

And so the tangents began...

Listening to Karen Carpenter had me recalling a Chrissie Hynde interview from the 90s(?) where she was saying how much she idolized Karen's breath control and singing ability and tried to imitate it, a musical homage that made sense to me the moment I read it.

And sensibly is how you make your pre-theater dinner plans to ensure making an 8:00 curtain.

I never tire of taking first-timers to My Noodle and watching the look of delight on their faces when they experience the semi-privacy of the multi-level tiki booths. That they can also dish up a green curry to he who swears that he's never had a decent green curry in this town speaks volumes.

The schizophrenic soundtrack - Benny Goodman to the XX - won points with the music obsessive, while the fake fireplace just looked silly, but there's no question, I made another convert.

Of course, some would call me an idiot for turning so many people on to my fave neighborhood Chinese joint, but to share is divine, no?

My date was surprised to hear that Heritage Ensemble Theatre Company's production of "Ceremonies in Dark Old Men" was happening at Pine Camp because his only memory of it was 20 years ago and all he recalled were sports fields.

And now? Galleries, classrooms, an auditorium. Just goes to show some people don't get out quite often enough.

We got there early enough to have a good blather first, although we didn't get to the really juicy subjects until three minutes before curtain, leaving an unknown ending for the listener when a key anecdote had to be curtailed abruptly.

Cards on the table, please.

Given the small Thursday crowd, we had our pick of seats for the Pulitzer Prize-nominated 1969 play, a classic from the Harlem Renaissance according to the program. Set in 1958, it reminded me of "A Raisin in the Sun" with the same sort of characters and issues of striving and surviving.

That's how you won her. Kept her laughing.

It was all about a black family after the mother (who supports all of them) dies, telling the story of what happens once the sole employed family member, the daughter, tells her unemployed father and two brothers they have to find work or move out of the house where she pays the rent.

You can't just go around killing people and getting away with it. Who does he think he is, white?

Watching the tragicomedy unfold, I couldn't help but wonder how I'd never even heard of this important play before. Just as perplexing was seeing talent onstage that I'd never seen before, despite being a regular theater goer.

It was impossible to take your eyes off of Foree Shalom as deeply damaged and ultimate bad guy Blue Haven (in blue suits, naturally), while Toney Q. Cobb ( know, best name ever, right?) effortlessly inhabited the lazy father content to play checkers and relive his glory days on Vaudeville instead of attracting customers to his empty barber shop.

Ain't nothing meaner than an American-born cracker.

Watching a play like this, I couldn't help but be grateful to Heritage Ensemble for satisfyingly producing a classic piece of black theater that deserves to be seen by audiences of all colors still dealing with the same racial issues 47 years later.

Who the hell ever told every black woman she was some kind of goddam savior?

For that matter, who the hell doesn't have an "undressing soundtrack" when possible? "And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out" winds up being Yo la Tengo's extended goodnight. Fitting.

Pop Arias and Beach Goth

Take me away, Indian Summer.

Before I left my apartment for a show at Hardywood, I actually debated the need for leggings under my dress and while I wore them, they were overkill.

The mercury is back in the upper '70s and I feel fine.

I felt even better exiting my car at the brewery because I immediately heard the full-throttle power pop blast of the Green Hearts, whose set had begun moments earlier. Running into an acquaintance as I walked in, I asked how far gone their set was.

"It's only the third song, but they're just the openers," he assured me. Fact is, they were the reason I'd come.

With not a thing on my Sunday to-do list, I wanted to be nowhere so much as in that hops-stinking tasting room because when the Green Hearts are singing, "Baby I Can Save the World" on a gloriously warm and sunny October afternoon, you believe they can.

If anything can save the world, it's got to be five guys in ties rocking hook-laden garage pop on a gorgeous afternoon.

The icing on the cake was lead singer Paul ending their set by saying, "Please vote. Intelligently."

During the break, one friend talked about the Tin Pan usurping Ashland Coffee and Tea's business and the other informed me that he and a friend had accidentally discovered that they both knew me. The latter was only staying for a little of the next set but the former had come specifically to see them.

Although they weren't my reason for being there, the Dirty Bourbon River Show did provide an opportunity to assuage my loss at not having seen Big Freedia at the sold-out S'Matter show last night since both acts are from New Orleans.

With a lead singer who had a voice like Cab Calloway (despite being a skinny white boy), the brass band arrived locked and loaded, almost immediately sucking in the beer-drinking crowd with its joyous party vibe and five band members who clearly liked being in the spotlight.

Local burlesque queen Deanna Danger came out to dance during one song, gyrating in front of members of the crowd to elicit their participation, many of whom seemed to be experiencing their first brush with burlesque.

One girl, busy looking at her phone, barely looked up when Deanna did a dance challenge directly in front of her. Don't you just hate when that pesky real life stuff interferes with looking at your phone?

Turns out that while the band was thrilled to be in Richmond, they had no accommodations, so they solicited from the stage. "Come talk to us during the break...especially if you have five empty bedrooms!" Sadly, I don't.

Before that could happen, they did a fine rendition of "Minnie the Moocher" (complete with a few people singing along) as well as a song, "Knockin' On Your Headboard," from their upcoming Spring album.

There was even a pocket trumpet solo for good measure.

When I left the tasting room, the sun was still shining and the tuba still ringing in my ears. Once home, I decided to head over to My Noodle for dinner solely because I wanted a walk before the sun set.

Besides a most excellent meal, I fell hard for a new-to-me band that the bartender identified as "a Growlers playlist." That told me they had at least a few albums.

It was a southern California '60s influence that I'd first heard, but she identified them as a California beach-goth band, even while lamenting not having seen them in D.C. recently. Okay, there's another sub-genre I can add to my musical quiver.

Walking home was a reminder how little light we have left in early evening any more.

My final stop of the day required getting back in the car to follow a moon so large and round it resembled a theater prop to Church Hill for music at Sub Rosa, except I arrived a tad early, so I moseyed down to Union Market to cool my heels for a bit with a snack of Maine root beer and bag of blue corn chips while investigating the inventory at close range.

My favorite was the tea towel screen printed with Church Hill restaurants, but it's likely the neighbors are just grateful for bread and milk.

Back at Sub Rosa, the crowd stood at 8 people (including baker/owner Evrim) when I arrived to hear the dream folk stylings of Wes Swing for, what, probably the third time in five years.

"Hi, I'm Wes Swing and we're Wes Swing," Wes said, gesturing at his musical accomplice. "The last time we played here was for a music video and it was 20 degrees and the space wasn't renovated. It was awesome!"

So was he with his endless ways of playing the cello - plucking, bowing, using as percussion - and looping it to create densely-layered chamber folk pop, sometimes playing acoustic guitar, with his sidekick ably handling guitar, synth and everything else.

But, oh, Wes' voice had that high, yearning, earnest quality that so many voices I love do. With only the light of five hanging bulbs, the bakery felt like a magical place for a very few.

By the time the audience grew to 10, the band was well into their set, so the new guest apologized for his tardiness to the room just before they covered Townes van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" magnificently.

Spring only sighed
Summer had to be satisfied
Fall is a feeling 
That I just can't lose

After a couple of songs on guitar, Wes grabbed his cello and said, "We're gonna bring back the drum machine now" ("That looks like  a cello," the newcomer called out) and launched into a seductive cover of Bjork's "Unravel" that only further demonstrated the transcendent ache in his voice.

When Wes mentioned how one of Evrim's Turkish songs had gotten stuck in his head, it resulted in a three-way discussion with Evrim's fellow bandmate Christina about how they should do the song and put it on their next album.

For now, Evrim went up, took the guitar and with Wes on cello, sang the hauntingly beautiful song to us, pleasing Wes no end. In return, Evrim requested Wes do his dark pop aria - something about Dido building a funeral pyre - adapted from a Henry Purcell opera.

"It's nice to be in Sub Rosa in warmer climes and when it's a real bakery," Wes said in thanks.

After an especially beat-driven song with lots of drums and percussion, Evrim called out, "Next time you come, it's going to be a dance party right in front of you!" Wes said a house show had once gone in that direction.

"Except it's hard to cry and dance at the same time," Evrim amended.

The duo closed out the night with a new song, "The Next Life," another clear-voiced vocal punctuated with sumptuous strings. Our small audience donated, clapped heartily and felt lucky for what we'd just experienced.

When I mentioned to a friend that it seemed wrong that there were so few people there, she demurred. "I kind of like that it was just us," she admitted. Me, too, although I hate to seem greedy.

I may have sighed, but Indian summer and I had to be satisfied. We were.