If we established anything this weekend, it's that I'm not hermit material.
I'm not talking about just living alone and away from people, even though I'll admit that's what I thought a hermit was until Saturday night.
It began innocently enough. Mr. Wright and I had plans to have dinner and see a play with Pru and Beau. No big deal. Then Beau asks if we mind if he brings a work cohort. Of course we don't mind. Next he shares that his friend is a former Benedictine monk. Well, as long as he knows he's breaking bread with a band of heathens, I'm fine with it.
But then, after we dodge green-wearing drunks wandering away from Shamrock the Block to get to Peter Chang's, we get the full story. He wasn't just a Benedictine monk, he was a hermit. As in, living away from society. Whoa. And he was part of a hermitage that was silent. As in, zero talking.
And even that's not the reason I'm not hermit material.
It was when he explained about the one meal, two snacks a day rule that I knew with the utmost certainty that I was not cut out for the hermetic life.
Go without three square meals a day plus snacks in service of religious beliefs? Don't make me laugh.
Why, just last week I said something to Mac about our healthy appetites and she was quick with the facts. "You can eat more than I can," she reminded me. She wasn't wrong.
Just yesterday, Mr. Wright and I drove out to the Kilmarnock Inn to have brunch with my favorite sister, her family and my parents, a meal planned to celebrate my Mom's birthday the day before. Now, mind you, we were meeting at 10:30 for brunch, but we had to be up at an ungodly 8 a.m. to make the drive.
So naturally, we had breakfast before we left. As I'm diving into my Stack the Votes (a plate of four enormous pancakes with bacon), I casually mention having had breakfast earlier and Mom laughs in surprise. "Karen!" she says, like I need a good scolding.
I remind her, not for the first time given the length of our relationship, that I can't function for three hours from waking up to having my pancakes placed in front of me, so I did the logical thing and ate first.
What's the fuss about?
I might also point out that after Beau's buddy explained hermit life, he also reminded us that he'd abandoned it. The fascinating part was that apparently being a hermit, even for only a while, gives you a lifetime pass to stay at a monastery should you ever want to.
That's because being a monk, even short-term, makes you a monk forever.
When presented with such unlikely information, all I can say is, pass the scallion bubble pancake.
Unfortunately, the ex-hermit couldn't accompany us to see "In My Chair" at Cadence Theater because the show was sold out, so after a stop at Bar Solita for dessert - in my case, double chocolate cake and Tawny Port - he thanked us for a delightful evening and vanished back to California and the IT security world.
The play we'd come to see had grown out of a TED talk actress and make-up artist Eva deVirgilis had created. Seems every time she has a woman in her makeup chair, the first thing the woman does is apologize.
For her bad hair, for the bags under her eyes, for her thin lips, for everything she can think of that's not perfect about her. Eva calls this "sorryosis" and set out around the globe to talk to women about changing beauty standards, self-esteem and body image.
And, just for the record, I hadn't even realized we were into fourth wave feminism.
Then she came back to take to the stage and make women aware of what she'd been told. She did it through vignettes using the accents and comments of women in her chair. She did it through the arguments she has with her un-confident inner self, who she nicknamed Norma after normative discontent. She did it through interactions with the audience.
Along the way, she shared her life story, including the part where she had to put up with a controlling boyfriend before meeting the love of the life, who also happened to be sitting in the front row that night, cheering her on.
Once during a Patriots' game, she'd asked him if he'd ever been body shamed, but he said no, other than being called short (which he is), he never had. I can't imagine there's a woman who hasn't been body shamed at least once in her life and probably more often than that.
Eva touched on many related issues, probably none so important as when she talked about accepting compliments, something many women, myself included, do poorly. "A compliment is a tiny gift someone brought to you," she explained. "Why would you drop kick it?"
Why, indeed? I had to admit, there's no good answer for that and I left hoping that's one bad habit I can unlearn.
Last night, Mr. Wright and I closed out the James River Film Festival by strolling over to Gallery 5 for the Silent Music Revival, but only after chowing down on fish tacos at Tarrant's Back Door. Don't tell my Mom, but it was technically my fourth meal of the day.
The thing is, when your first is at 8:15 and your second at 11 a.m., you've got to have something in the afternoon to tide you over until tacos show up at 7:30, am I right?
Life in the hermitage, clearly not for me.
Showing tonight was Jean Vigo's "Zero for Conduct," a 1933 French short film that was immediately banned for its content, with live music provided by the Wimps, whose lounge-like '60s vibe somehow made for the ideal accompaniment to French boys tying up their teacher, trashing their dormitory and marching through the streets victoriously.
Vigo was moved to make the film because of the repressive days he'd spent in a boarding school where he suffered with mean teachers. frequent punishments and, wait for it, insufficient food.
There you have it. Deny a person food and they might make a subversive film or they could return to the dark underbelly of IT security. Either way, they're hungry.
I'm better off just eating as frequently as possible. As for apologizing for my appetite, no sorryosis here.
Showing posts with label peter chang scott's addition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label peter chang scott's addition. Show all posts
Monday, March 18, 2019
Thursday, December 27, 2018
The Eggnog Chronicles
Where does a heathen even begin to find comfort and joy this time of year?
Eating and drinking, of course.
I'm not going to pretend that my many deadlines haven't made this holiday season a tad more frenetic than usual, but once the holiday known as Official U.S. Work Stoppage Days begins - as it did Monday for me and probably the previous Thursday or Friday for many people - I took full advantage.
Slept in. No writing allowed. Read Sunday's paper with Mr. Wright while regretting not having pre-ordered Nate's bagels for Christmas Eve afternoon munching. Only after a walk over there left me staring at a "SOLD OUT!!! Happy holidays!" sign did I begin regretting my lack of foresight.
But the real celebrating began with a 3:00 reservation at Can Can that carried us right through until it was time to get in line at the Byrd Theater for my annual screening of "It's a Wonderful Life."
And just for the record, in the quarter century I've been going to watch Jimmy Stewart regain his hope, this year was the very first time I only had to wait in one line. The master planner in my life had procured online tickets (granted, they weren't always available), allowing us to go directly to the "have tickets" line, bypassing the even longer box office line and resulting in far less shivering on Cary Street waiting time for me.
In what could only be called a Christmas Coincidence, upon arrival at Can Can the hostess led us directly to the same discreet table where we'd had our first date. Later in the meal, our server referred to the table by saying, "If you don't want to rush, this is the table for you," a fact we'd discerned on that marathon first date.
There couldn't be enough La Galope Rose to celebrate such an unlikely happenstance, though we enjoyed ourselves hugely trying, pairing it with butternut squash soup with maple creme fraiche - a marriage made in heaven, by the way - bacon and chives. A baguette as long as my forearm loaded with smoked salmon, Boursin, capers, spinach and red onion, along with a generous plate of dressed greens kept me happy while Mr. Wright tucked into Thai shrimp salad and we marveled at our holiday luck.
After two hours eating and sipping, our affable server (who was working a 15-hour shift at the Jefferson on Christmas day) explained that we'd have to either move or leave because they had a six-top coming in. The Rose had made me bold enough to pipe up and tell him that we'd move, but we weren't leaving.
When Mr. Wright stated that we'd like to stay at that particular table, I clarified that we'd had our first date at that table.
"Oh, please stay," he said, putting one hand against his heart, grinning sweetly and scurrying off to set up the six-top to the right of us. He was still beaming at us when he returned to explain that he was getting off, but wishing us all the best.
With more La Galope awaiting us in the chilling bucket, I ordered the dessert special he'd recommended, an eggnog sorbet sprinkled with grated nutmeg and the most Christmasy dessert imaginable (sorry, buche de Noel).
Let's just say that I wasn't the only one who regretted that I'd only gotten one scoop instead of two.
Just as we finished the last of the Rose, our replacement server breezed by and we explained our predicament: we needed more pink to finish our celebration. He returned with half a bottle of La Galope and a smirk. "Another table ordered this and didn't finish it, so it's all yours."
Thanking him for the gratis wine, I shared why it made our return visit to this table even better. "Ohhh!" he said, also putting his hand over his heart.
We were unintentionally charming millennials left and right with our first date saga. It only occurred to us later that they probably thought we'd been together much longer than is actually the case.
Other than the online ticket masterstroke, the only other surprise at the Byrd was that organist Bob Gulledge was injured and out of action. Ever vigilant, manager Todd insisted we all join in for a collective get well video he shot, before substitute John DeMajo saved the day by playing the mighty Wurlitzer for the Byrd's annual Christmas singalong.
Although Todd had announced that all 1200 seats were occupied, I happen to know that the one in front of me and two beside me weren't, but still it was a near full house, meaning the balcony was opened. Turns out that's where Mac and her Mom landed, not that we knew that until after Jimmy Stewart had had his epiphany and she called my name as we exited the theater.
Start to finish, that was a Christmas eve.
Christmas day was almost as unambitious - minus the attempt at Nate's bagels and Frank Capra classic - but the real fun began when we got to Peter Chang's shortly after 4:00. The media had been clear that Chang's had been booked solid for both Eve and Day, but a phone call told us the real story: slide in between meals and you'll have no problem.
Done and done.
Can Mr. Wright and I take up residence on bar stools mid-afternoon and wile away Christmas Day with no regrets? Yes, we can.
With a Portuguese Rose stashed behind the bar, we proceeded to settle in for a leisurely meal with an ever-changing array of people on either side of us. While we nibbled on steamed vegetable dumplings (easily the most flavorful vegetable filling a dumpling has ever delivered to my mouth), we had two sets of stool mates, but by the time our entrees showed up, it was completely different people on either side.
My side even changed a third time. It's like people were stopping at a filling station, not out to savor a holiday meal.
Oddly enough, several of them wanted to order off the lunch menu, further complicating things for the bartenders, who had their hands full making libations for all the people stuck with family obligations and toddlers jumping on the banquette at their tables.
Midway through my Kung Pao chicken, mercifully downgraded from two pepper spicy to one pepper spicy after our thoughtful barkeep asked if I was really wanting it that hot (uh, no), I realized that our scallion bubble pancake hadn't yet arrived. You see, it's not just the sublime pleasure of having bread with Chinese food that I was missing, but the essential means of cooling my mouth when multiple bites of Kung Pao sauce left lingering heat there.
Our bartender looked abashed when I asked about it and returned from the kitchen assuring us it was in progress. Ten minutes later when I asked again, it was still nowhere to be found. The irony was that once it did, a second pancake arrived shortly after and I was foolhardy enough to send it away.
What did you learn this Christmas, Karen? Never pass up a chance to enjoy a bonus scallion bubble pancake when it arrives unbidden.
The only problem with Peter Chang's is that there are no dessert offerings, but the moment I overheard the bartender mention eggnog to the couple to Mr. Wright's left, my dessert radar went on high alert. When he got a second, we asked about it and his face got a devilish grin.
"Oh, it's good," he assured us, ticking off the whiskey, rum and liqueurs battling for dominance in a glass of cream and nutmeg, all in the name of holiday overindulgence. Mr. Wright immediately ordered two and Christmas got a little brighter in Scott's Addition.
It was around then that I spotted a curator/fellow music lover and his wife seated at a high table behind us and called out a greeting, leading to a quick catch-up session hindered by the hordes of wannabe diners lining the space behind the bar stools. Finally, he suggested I email him soon instead.
By then it was after 7 and every available inch of space in the restaurant was taken over by people foolish enough to show up at prime eating time at one of the mere ten restaurants open on Christmas Day. Not to sound Scrooge-like, but we had zero empathy for them.
As I sucked the final swallow of creamy eggnog up the straw, I commented to Mr. Wright what a sad sound it was to hear. As he quickly pointed out, that was an easily solved problem. No one looked more surprised than the barkeep when we asked for two more.
C'mon, everyone knows that one counts as dessert and one counts as an after-dinner drink. And on a day that mattered not one little bit to a heathen and one of the Chosen People, we were only too happy to extend our stay for the sake of more nog.
But we're also not animals, so after the second round, we decided to abdicate our stools to a latecomer who seemed willing to trade his right arm for a place to sit and eat. When we told him that we'd arrived at 4 to score the prime real estate we were now ceding to him, he realized he was in the presence of pros and thanked us appropriately.
There may be a more perfect way to observe the official U.S. Work Stoppage Days, but if it doesn't involve first date redux, an abundance of Rose and obscene amounts of eggnog, I don't see how it could have suited us better.
You don't have to ask us to please stay twice.
Eating and drinking, of course.
I'm not going to pretend that my many deadlines haven't made this holiday season a tad more frenetic than usual, but once the holiday known as Official U.S. Work Stoppage Days begins - as it did Monday for me and probably the previous Thursday or Friday for many people - I took full advantage.
Slept in. No writing allowed. Read Sunday's paper with Mr. Wright while regretting not having pre-ordered Nate's bagels for Christmas Eve afternoon munching. Only after a walk over there left me staring at a "SOLD OUT!!! Happy holidays!" sign did I begin regretting my lack of foresight.
But the real celebrating began with a 3:00 reservation at Can Can that carried us right through until it was time to get in line at the Byrd Theater for my annual screening of "It's a Wonderful Life."
And just for the record, in the quarter century I've been going to watch Jimmy Stewart regain his hope, this year was the very first time I only had to wait in one line. The master planner in my life had procured online tickets (granted, they weren't always available), allowing us to go directly to the "have tickets" line, bypassing the even longer box office line and resulting in far less shivering on Cary Street waiting time for me.
In what could only be called a Christmas Coincidence, upon arrival at Can Can the hostess led us directly to the same discreet table where we'd had our first date. Later in the meal, our server referred to the table by saying, "If you don't want to rush, this is the table for you," a fact we'd discerned on that marathon first date.
There couldn't be enough La Galope Rose to celebrate such an unlikely happenstance, though we enjoyed ourselves hugely trying, pairing it with butternut squash soup with maple creme fraiche - a marriage made in heaven, by the way - bacon and chives. A baguette as long as my forearm loaded with smoked salmon, Boursin, capers, spinach and red onion, along with a generous plate of dressed greens kept me happy while Mr. Wright tucked into Thai shrimp salad and we marveled at our holiday luck.
After two hours eating and sipping, our affable server (who was working a 15-hour shift at the Jefferson on Christmas day) explained that we'd have to either move or leave because they had a six-top coming in. The Rose had made me bold enough to pipe up and tell him that we'd move, but we weren't leaving.
When Mr. Wright stated that we'd like to stay at that particular table, I clarified that we'd had our first date at that table.
"Oh, please stay," he said, putting one hand against his heart, grinning sweetly and scurrying off to set up the six-top to the right of us. He was still beaming at us when he returned to explain that he was getting off, but wishing us all the best.
With more La Galope awaiting us in the chilling bucket, I ordered the dessert special he'd recommended, an eggnog sorbet sprinkled with grated nutmeg and the most Christmasy dessert imaginable (sorry, buche de Noel).
Let's just say that I wasn't the only one who regretted that I'd only gotten one scoop instead of two.
Just as we finished the last of the Rose, our replacement server breezed by and we explained our predicament: we needed more pink to finish our celebration. He returned with half a bottle of La Galope and a smirk. "Another table ordered this and didn't finish it, so it's all yours."
Thanking him for the gratis wine, I shared why it made our return visit to this table even better. "Ohhh!" he said, also putting his hand over his heart.
We were unintentionally charming millennials left and right with our first date saga. It only occurred to us later that they probably thought we'd been together much longer than is actually the case.
Other than the online ticket masterstroke, the only other surprise at the Byrd was that organist Bob Gulledge was injured and out of action. Ever vigilant, manager Todd insisted we all join in for a collective get well video he shot, before substitute John DeMajo saved the day by playing the mighty Wurlitzer for the Byrd's annual Christmas singalong.
Although Todd had announced that all 1200 seats were occupied, I happen to know that the one in front of me and two beside me weren't, but still it was a near full house, meaning the balcony was opened. Turns out that's where Mac and her Mom landed, not that we knew that until after Jimmy Stewart had had his epiphany and she called my name as we exited the theater.
Start to finish, that was a Christmas eve.
Christmas day was almost as unambitious - minus the attempt at Nate's bagels and Frank Capra classic - but the real fun began when we got to Peter Chang's shortly after 4:00. The media had been clear that Chang's had been booked solid for both Eve and Day, but a phone call told us the real story: slide in between meals and you'll have no problem.
Done and done.
Can Mr. Wright and I take up residence on bar stools mid-afternoon and wile away Christmas Day with no regrets? Yes, we can.
With a Portuguese Rose stashed behind the bar, we proceeded to settle in for a leisurely meal with an ever-changing array of people on either side of us. While we nibbled on steamed vegetable dumplings (easily the most flavorful vegetable filling a dumpling has ever delivered to my mouth), we had two sets of stool mates, but by the time our entrees showed up, it was completely different people on either side.
My side even changed a third time. It's like people were stopping at a filling station, not out to savor a holiday meal.
Oddly enough, several of them wanted to order off the lunch menu, further complicating things for the bartenders, who had their hands full making libations for all the people stuck with family obligations and toddlers jumping on the banquette at their tables.
Midway through my Kung Pao chicken, mercifully downgraded from two pepper spicy to one pepper spicy after our thoughtful barkeep asked if I was really wanting it that hot (uh, no), I realized that our scallion bubble pancake hadn't yet arrived. You see, it's not just the sublime pleasure of having bread with Chinese food that I was missing, but the essential means of cooling my mouth when multiple bites of Kung Pao sauce left lingering heat there.
Our bartender looked abashed when I asked about it and returned from the kitchen assuring us it was in progress. Ten minutes later when I asked again, it was still nowhere to be found. The irony was that once it did, a second pancake arrived shortly after and I was foolhardy enough to send it away.
What did you learn this Christmas, Karen? Never pass up a chance to enjoy a bonus scallion bubble pancake when it arrives unbidden.
The only problem with Peter Chang's is that there are no dessert offerings, but the moment I overheard the bartender mention eggnog to the couple to Mr. Wright's left, my dessert radar went on high alert. When he got a second, we asked about it and his face got a devilish grin.
"Oh, it's good," he assured us, ticking off the whiskey, rum and liqueurs battling for dominance in a glass of cream and nutmeg, all in the name of holiday overindulgence. Mr. Wright immediately ordered two and Christmas got a little brighter in Scott's Addition.
It was around then that I spotted a curator/fellow music lover and his wife seated at a high table behind us and called out a greeting, leading to a quick catch-up session hindered by the hordes of wannabe diners lining the space behind the bar stools. Finally, he suggested I email him soon instead.
By then it was after 7 and every available inch of space in the restaurant was taken over by people foolish enough to show up at prime eating time at one of the mere ten restaurants open on Christmas Day. Not to sound Scrooge-like, but we had zero empathy for them.
As I sucked the final swallow of creamy eggnog up the straw, I commented to Mr. Wright what a sad sound it was to hear. As he quickly pointed out, that was an easily solved problem. No one looked more surprised than the barkeep when we asked for two more.
C'mon, everyone knows that one counts as dessert and one counts as an after-dinner drink. And on a day that mattered not one little bit to a heathen and one of the Chosen People, we were only too happy to extend our stay for the sake of more nog.
But we're also not animals, so after the second round, we decided to abdicate our stools to a latecomer who seemed willing to trade his right arm for a place to sit and eat. When we told him that we'd arrived at 4 to score the prime real estate we were now ceding to him, he realized he was in the presence of pros and thanked us appropriately.
There may be a more perfect way to observe the official U.S. Work Stoppage Days, but if it doesn't involve first date redux, an abundance of Rose and obscene amounts of eggnog, I don't see how it could have suited us better.
You don't have to ask us to please stay twice.
Friday, November 16, 2018
That's What She Said
He: How do you take it? She: Anyway you give it.
That simple exchange could sum up the entire evening. It was a girls' night out for dinner and a play, but it was the equal opportunity offender of a cabaret that got us most jazzed.
Make no mistake, dinner at Peter Chang in Scott's Addition - somehow, unbelievably, Queen B's first visit there - was every bit as fresh and expertly cooked as it always is (anything eaten with two scallion bubble pancakes is automatically memorable), not to mention netting all three of us compliments on our hair.
On a cold, rainy night, what woman doesn't love hearing that?
When we got to Richmond Triangle Players for "Who's Holiday," a look at the later life of Cindy Lou Who of Whoville, we picked up our tickets and were told to fill out a card with our worst Christmas present ever (although mine wasn't my worst, just lame), which Pru and I dutifully did.
It was like a ransom. We had to bare our souls before we were allowed into the theater.
Set in Cindy Lou Who's dilapidated trailer somewhere in the snowy hills of Mt. Crumpit, the one-woman play utilized the multi-talented Kimberly Jones-Clark as Cindy Lou, explaining through rhyme and song how her life had gone south after meeting the Grinch. I don't want to spoil anything here, but let's just say it was a tale about diversity and how sometimes your parents don't want you to marry someone who looks different than they do, even if he impregnates you.
Prejudice is real, y'all.
Telling that sad tale of woe involved a rap song sung under a spotlight in a darkened room (complete with conclusion reached: a Grinch is always a Grinch) and hearing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" sung in a pitch-perfect Judy Garland voice by Cindy Lou in a green leather bustier and red capri pants.
Fortunately, it also involved Cindy Lou realizing that the years spent in jail for killing the Grinch allowed her to blossom as a person and even, at the very end, reunite with the love child she and the Grinch had produced before his nasty fall off the mountain.
So, at least there was redemption.
And, it's probably safe to say, the holiday season has been officially kicked off since this was clearly a Christmas offering to theater-goers. Can't say I'm happy about such a ridiculously early start to the most annoying of seasons, but sometimes a play is just a play.
After it ended, some in the audience left, but most merely milled about because our programs clearly invited us to stay for a special holiday cabaret featuring Georgia Rogers Farmer and Josh Worsham afterward. And with only a brief, one act play to start, it was still awfully early.
Staff moved around clearing empty wine and cocktail glasses, but when a guy made a move to clear Pru's coffee mug, she looked disappointed to be reminded it was empty of caffeine. He responded by offering to fetch her a fresh cup and she was so surprised and grateful, she uncharacteristically agreed to take it anyway he gave it.
Don't quote me on this, but that may be the first time those words ever left her lips.
Last in line in the ladies' room, I overheard several women discussing how the theater will be building more bathrooms, a very good thing given that two stalls is never enough at intermission. Meanwhile, those of us in line marveled at all the dialog Clark had had to memorize to carry the entire play, an impressive feat. A woman washing her hands polled us all, asking who was staying for the cabaret.
Well, duh.
Pru and I knew what a treat we were in for, having seen Georgia on multiple occasions and being well aware of her double threat status when it comes to comedy and music. Her ensemble tonight was black pants, a black t-shirt printed with a tuxedo front, black Chuck Taylors (low tops) and shoulder-dusting rhinestone earrings for pizzaz.
She was accompanied by Josh Worsham, clad appropriately in a red holiday sweater that read, "Baaa humbug," and asking the crowd, "Are you drunk yet? You're going to wanna be!"
With their tongues planted firmly in cheeks, these two were primed to deliver the ideal holiday music for a heathen.
I'm talking about their song choices, beginning with "Text Me Merry Christmas (a smiley face will do)," a modern day ode to keeping your phone charged when your loved one is off celebrating with their family and you want to reach out.
Georgia cooed "Santa, Baby," walking through the room as she did so, and noting, "Everyone looks scared!" as she approached them. She must not have been able to smell fear on me because she stopped to sing a few lines to my face.
Come and trim my Christmas tree
With some decorations bought at Tiffany
I really do believe in you
Let's see if you believe in me
Josh did an extremely clever revision of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" called "The Restroom Door Said Gentlemen," replacing the traditional lyrics with more topical ones about the male and female signs being switched on public bathrooms and the problems that caused once he found himself in the ladies' loo.
The next song was introduced as for "our Jewish friends," resulting in Georgia singing "Shalom" to the tune of Adele's "Hello." With references to latkes ("We need more apple sauce!") and dreidels, their ode to the Chosen People had the audience dying laughing.
After putting on a scarf with a keyboard pattern, Josh announced, "This is a holiday favorite and, to be honest, I'm not sure why." The duo launched into "Baby, It's Cold Outside," with Georgia playing the part of the aggressor, feeding Josh drinks, rubbing her body parts on him and barring the door to punctuate the song's suggestive words. At one point, she lashed him to the couch so he had to spend the night at her place.
"Nothing like a politically incorrect song tonight!" an audience member seated next to Queen B called out about the very improper tune. But Georgia was quick, immediately calling back, "That's why we're here!"
To compensate, Georgia promised us a "sweet one" next, doing "I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus," eventually seeing Daddy hugging, fondling and finally undressing Santa before it was all over. What's sweeter than that?
I know, Josh's next song - "Coming Out This Christmas" was even more saccharine, with lines like, "Here's your Christmas present, Mom and Dad. I'm gay!" Meanwhile, Georgia draped a yellow and orange boa around his neck as he sang to drive the point home.
Not every song skewered tradition. There was a singalong to "Rudolph" and a straight version of "The Christmas Song," but all that was just prelude to the big number. When you've got a voice like Georgia's that spans octaves and the comedic timing of a pro, of course your slam bang winner is going to be "The Twelve Days of Christmas."
Except that instead of all that crap about turtle doves and marchers marching, Georgia was using the cards we'd filled out with our worst Christmas presents ever written on them. So, we got two "coupons for a free hug" and one pair of "used underwear from my Grandmama," that kind of thing. My personal favorite was the five "diabetic socks and I was only 45," for the way Georgia got all those syllables to work in that one line.
Although she sang through blocks of cement, MAGA hats, Chlamydia, electric curlers and fire extinguishers with no problem, she paused when she sang "half whistle bowtie" because, as Josh informed everyone, "For those who don't know, Georgia makes half whistle bowties."
Are you kidding? Beau is the bowtie king, so we know all about her talent.
But the best submission of all came directly from Pru, so we heard Georgia sing about 12 "home colonoscopy test kits," a line that cracked up the entire audience for its ridiculousness and had Pru calling out, "Thanks, Dad!" Queen B and I already knew about the test kits because Pru's Dad had gifted not just her but Queen B as well, even going so far as to try to explain how they worked before Pru shut him down.
Once the song ended, Josh called out to the crowd, asking who wanted to claim their entry and Pru raised her hand. Her worst gift offering had gotten the biggest laugh, by far, so why not be recognized for it? When Georgia saw her hand, she squinted at Pru and observed, "I thought sure you were the chlamydia!"
For submitting the finest worst present, Pru was awarded a limited edition ornament of Georgia and Josh, a holiday keeper the likes of which Hallmark only wishes they put it out first.
This most sacrilegious of holiday cabarets closed out with the Barbra Streisand arrangement for "Jingle Bells," chosen because it was what Josh's mother used to play while they decorated the Christmas tree.
My only question is, do you even have to come out to your parents if your Mom is already playing Babs for you? Doesn't she kind of know?
Personally, I've long been a fan of that album for all the unusual arrangements and offbeat timing on it, not to mention the woman's voice, a mainstay in my life since the Bicentennial. Because of that longevity, when we got to the line, "The horse was lean and lank. Misfortune seemed his lot. We got into a drifted bank and then we got upsot," I knew the proper response was, "Upsot?" and was one of a few who called it out.
That's how I take my doses of the holidays: with irreverence, bathroom humor and the occasional comedic bit from the queen of the Chosen People. Only latkes could have made it better.
That simple exchange could sum up the entire evening. It was a girls' night out for dinner and a play, but it was the equal opportunity offender of a cabaret that got us most jazzed.
Make no mistake, dinner at Peter Chang in Scott's Addition - somehow, unbelievably, Queen B's first visit there - was every bit as fresh and expertly cooked as it always is (anything eaten with two scallion bubble pancakes is automatically memorable), not to mention netting all three of us compliments on our hair.
On a cold, rainy night, what woman doesn't love hearing that?
When we got to Richmond Triangle Players for "Who's Holiday," a look at the later life of Cindy Lou Who of Whoville, we picked up our tickets and were told to fill out a card with our worst Christmas present ever (although mine wasn't my worst, just lame), which Pru and I dutifully did.
It was like a ransom. We had to bare our souls before we were allowed into the theater.
Set in Cindy Lou Who's dilapidated trailer somewhere in the snowy hills of Mt. Crumpit, the one-woman play utilized the multi-talented Kimberly Jones-Clark as Cindy Lou, explaining through rhyme and song how her life had gone south after meeting the Grinch. I don't want to spoil anything here, but let's just say it was a tale about diversity and how sometimes your parents don't want you to marry someone who looks different than they do, even if he impregnates you.
Prejudice is real, y'all.
Telling that sad tale of woe involved a rap song sung under a spotlight in a darkened room (complete with conclusion reached: a Grinch is always a Grinch) and hearing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" sung in a pitch-perfect Judy Garland voice by Cindy Lou in a green leather bustier and red capri pants.
Fortunately, it also involved Cindy Lou realizing that the years spent in jail for killing the Grinch allowed her to blossom as a person and even, at the very end, reunite with the love child she and the Grinch had produced before his nasty fall off the mountain.
So, at least there was redemption.
And, it's probably safe to say, the holiday season has been officially kicked off since this was clearly a Christmas offering to theater-goers. Can't say I'm happy about such a ridiculously early start to the most annoying of seasons, but sometimes a play is just a play.
After it ended, some in the audience left, but most merely milled about because our programs clearly invited us to stay for a special holiday cabaret featuring Georgia Rogers Farmer and Josh Worsham afterward. And with only a brief, one act play to start, it was still awfully early.
Staff moved around clearing empty wine and cocktail glasses, but when a guy made a move to clear Pru's coffee mug, she looked disappointed to be reminded it was empty of caffeine. He responded by offering to fetch her a fresh cup and she was so surprised and grateful, she uncharacteristically agreed to take it anyway he gave it.
Don't quote me on this, but that may be the first time those words ever left her lips.
Last in line in the ladies' room, I overheard several women discussing how the theater will be building more bathrooms, a very good thing given that two stalls is never enough at intermission. Meanwhile, those of us in line marveled at all the dialog Clark had had to memorize to carry the entire play, an impressive feat. A woman washing her hands polled us all, asking who was staying for the cabaret.
Well, duh.
Pru and I knew what a treat we were in for, having seen Georgia on multiple occasions and being well aware of her double threat status when it comes to comedy and music. Her ensemble tonight was black pants, a black t-shirt printed with a tuxedo front, black Chuck Taylors (low tops) and shoulder-dusting rhinestone earrings for pizzaz.
She was accompanied by Josh Worsham, clad appropriately in a red holiday sweater that read, "Baaa humbug," and asking the crowd, "Are you drunk yet? You're going to wanna be!"
With their tongues planted firmly in cheeks, these two were primed to deliver the ideal holiday music for a heathen.
I'm talking about their song choices, beginning with "Text Me Merry Christmas (a smiley face will do)," a modern day ode to keeping your phone charged when your loved one is off celebrating with their family and you want to reach out.
Georgia cooed "Santa, Baby," walking through the room as she did so, and noting, "Everyone looks scared!" as she approached them. She must not have been able to smell fear on me because she stopped to sing a few lines to my face.
Come and trim my Christmas tree
With some decorations bought at Tiffany
I really do believe in you
Let's see if you believe in me
Josh did an extremely clever revision of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" called "The Restroom Door Said Gentlemen," replacing the traditional lyrics with more topical ones about the male and female signs being switched on public bathrooms and the problems that caused once he found himself in the ladies' loo.
The next song was introduced as for "our Jewish friends," resulting in Georgia singing "Shalom" to the tune of Adele's "Hello." With references to latkes ("We need more apple sauce!") and dreidels, their ode to the Chosen People had the audience dying laughing.
After putting on a scarf with a keyboard pattern, Josh announced, "This is a holiday favorite and, to be honest, I'm not sure why." The duo launched into "Baby, It's Cold Outside," with Georgia playing the part of the aggressor, feeding Josh drinks, rubbing her body parts on him and barring the door to punctuate the song's suggestive words. At one point, she lashed him to the couch so he had to spend the night at her place.
"Nothing like a politically incorrect song tonight!" an audience member seated next to Queen B called out about the very improper tune. But Georgia was quick, immediately calling back, "That's why we're here!"
To compensate, Georgia promised us a "sweet one" next, doing "I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus," eventually seeing Daddy hugging, fondling and finally undressing Santa before it was all over. What's sweeter than that?
I know, Josh's next song - "Coming Out This Christmas" was even more saccharine, with lines like, "Here's your Christmas present, Mom and Dad. I'm gay!" Meanwhile, Georgia draped a yellow and orange boa around his neck as he sang to drive the point home.
Not every song skewered tradition. There was a singalong to "Rudolph" and a straight version of "The Christmas Song," but all that was just prelude to the big number. When you've got a voice like Georgia's that spans octaves and the comedic timing of a pro, of course your slam bang winner is going to be "The Twelve Days of Christmas."
Except that instead of all that crap about turtle doves and marchers marching, Georgia was using the cards we'd filled out with our worst Christmas presents ever written on them. So, we got two "coupons for a free hug" and one pair of "used underwear from my Grandmama," that kind of thing. My personal favorite was the five "diabetic socks and I was only 45," for the way Georgia got all those syllables to work in that one line.
Although she sang through blocks of cement, MAGA hats, Chlamydia, electric curlers and fire extinguishers with no problem, she paused when she sang "half whistle bowtie" because, as Josh informed everyone, "For those who don't know, Georgia makes half whistle bowties."
Are you kidding? Beau is the bowtie king, so we know all about her talent.
But the best submission of all came directly from Pru, so we heard Georgia sing about 12 "home colonoscopy test kits," a line that cracked up the entire audience for its ridiculousness and had Pru calling out, "Thanks, Dad!" Queen B and I already knew about the test kits because Pru's Dad had gifted not just her but Queen B as well, even going so far as to try to explain how they worked before Pru shut him down.
Once the song ended, Josh called out to the crowd, asking who wanted to claim their entry and Pru raised her hand. Her worst gift offering had gotten the biggest laugh, by far, so why not be recognized for it? When Georgia saw her hand, she squinted at Pru and observed, "I thought sure you were the chlamydia!"
For submitting the finest worst present, Pru was awarded a limited edition ornament of Georgia and Josh, a holiday keeper the likes of which Hallmark only wishes they put it out first.
This most sacrilegious of holiday cabarets closed out with the Barbra Streisand arrangement for "Jingle Bells," chosen because it was what Josh's mother used to play while they decorated the Christmas tree.
My only question is, do you even have to come out to your parents if your Mom is already playing Babs for you? Doesn't she kind of know?
Personally, I've long been a fan of that album for all the unusual arrangements and offbeat timing on it, not to mention the woman's voice, a mainstay in my life since the Bicentennial. Because of that longevity, when we got to the line, "The horse was lean and lank. Misfortune seemed his lot. We got into a drifted bank and then we got upsot," I knew the proper response was, "Upsot?" and was one of a few who called it out.
That's how I take my doses of the holidays: with irreverence, bathroom humor and the occasional comedic bit from the queen of the Chosen People. Only latkes could have made it better.
Monday, August 27, 2018
Anyone Can Whistle
I should be ashamed but I'm not.
Last month a local theater critic interviewed me about why I was chosen as a member of the Theater Alliance panel. Off the top of my head, I had no idea why I'd been asked to join four years ago, but after some pondering, I remembered the application process. I'd been asked what my theater background and experience was.
Besides being student director of my sixth grade play, I was a tad short on experience. So what I wound up saying on air during the interview mirrored the words I'd written that had gotten me a spot on the panel.
Sondheim. Stephen Sondheim is what made me a theater devotee.
Back when I was in college, I had a part-time job at the Hecht Company, which also happened to be a Ticketmaster outlet (this was back before we knew what an evil monopoly they were with their obscene "handling fees"). This fact came in handy whenever tickets went on sale, whether it was Fleetwood Mac at the Capital Centre or a new play at the Kennedy Center.
Suffice it to say that I bought a lot of tickets for both venues. No surprise, my devotion to experiencing culture was firmly entrenched even by age 19.
But because it was the Kennedy Center, the plays I was seeing were important ones with major talent. I'm talking star power like Katharine Hepburn in "West Side Waltz," Nicol Williamson in "Rex" and James Whitmore in "The Magnificent Yankee."
But mostly I'm talking about a play like Sondheim's "Pacific Overtures," which jolted me out of my Eisenhower-era Rogers and Hammerstein mindset in 1976 with a play unlike anything I had ever experienced. By the time I saw his "Sweeney Todd" with Angela Lansbury in 1979, I knew I was experiencing a new take on theater completely unlike my parents' notion of theater. A few years later, I reveled in "Merrily We Roll Along." The dye had been cast.
I was completely enamored of Sondheim's brilliant lyrics, sublime internal rhymes and intricate melodies. Sondheim made me a theater lover, plain and simple. I was so enamored, I went on to read Meryle Secrest's stellar biography "Stephen Sondheim: A Life." Twice.
Fast forward and I couldn't have been more thrilled that Richmond Triangle Players was producing "Sondheim on Sondheim," a revue of nearly 40 of the master's songs from a selection of the musicals he's penned since he did the lyrics to "West Side Story" back in 1957.
The first thing I didn't know going in was that the songs would be performed in between film clips of Sondheim interviews dating back to the 1960s. As a certifiable documentary dork, this was like getting a two-fer: a night of live theater and a night of Sondheim interviews and self-reflection.
The second thing I didn't know was how few of Sondheim's songs I recognized. Granted, the man's got close to 20 major works and some of the songs were previously unheard, but, sheesh, I'd apparently forgotten more than I remembered in the intervening decades.
On the other hand, how often do you get to hear "Something's Coming" sung by two different companies in the same summer?
The good news is that not recognizing every song didn't lessen my enjoyment of "Sondheim on Sondheim" one iota. A familiar tune like "You Could Drive a Person Crazy" from "Company" is still hilarious and "Send in the Clowns" from "A Little Night Music" will always be poignant and full of regret, no matter who sings it. Ditto the longing in "Being Alive" from "Company."
You don't need to know a Sondheim song to thoroughly enjoy hearing it sung live by a talented cast, even if most of them weren't so much as a gleam in their father's eye when he wrote them. Details, details.
Because so many of Sondheim's songs are about relationships and human behavior with each other, it was fascinating to hear him say that he hadn't found love until he was 60. For a late bloomer, he certainly nailed the intricacies of human emotions. It's hard to imagine someone having to wait six decades to find their forever person, although I hear it happens.
For those of us who began worshiping at the Sondheim altar in college, hearing the company sing "God" was affirmation that we'd chosen the right religion.
God!
The man's a god
Wrote the score to Sweeney Todd
With a nod to de Sade
Well, he's off
Well, he's god
The lyrics are so smart
And the music has such heart
It has heart
Well, in part
Let's not start
Call it art
No, call it god
That god showed me the future of musical theater. What kind of acolyte would I be if I didn't spread the gospel of Sondheim?
More importantly, now that I know how long he waited for true love, let's hear it for the late bloomers.
Last month a local theater critic interviewed me about why I was chosen as a member of the Theater Alliance panel. Off the top of my head, I had no idea why I'd been asked to join four years ago, but after some pondering, I remembered the application process. I'd been asked what my theater background and experience was.
Besides being student director of my sixth grade play, I was a tad short on experience. So what I wound up saying on air during the interview mirrored the words I'd written that had gotten me a spot on the panel.
Sondheim. Stephen Sondheim is what made me a theater devotee.
Back when I was in college, I had a part-time job at the Hecht Company, which also happened to be a Ticketmaster outlet (this was back before we knew what an evil monopoly they were with their obscene "handling fees"). This fact came in handy whenever tickets went on sale, whether it was Fleetwood Mac at the Capital Centre or a new play at the Kennedy Center.
Suffice it to say that I bought a lot of tickets for both venues. No surprise, my devotion to experiencing culture was firmly entrenched even by age 19.
But because it was the Kennedy Center, the plays I was seeing were important ones with major talent. I'm talking star power like Katharine Hepburn in "West Side Waltz," Nicol Williamson in "Rex" and James Whitmore in "The Magnificent Yankee."
But mostly I'm talking about a play like Sondheim's "Pacific Overtures," which jolted me out of my Eisenhower-era Rogers and Hammerstein mindset in 1976 with a play unlike anything I had ever experienced. By the time I saw his "Sweeney Todd" with Angela Lansbury in 1979, I knew I was experiencing a new take on theater completely unlike my parents' notion of theater. A few years later, I reveled in "Merrily We Roll Along." The dye had been cast.
I was completely enamored of Sondheim's brilliant lyrics, sublime internal rhymes and intricate melodies. Sondheim made me a theater lover, plain and simple. I was so enamored, I went on to read Meryle Secrest's stellar biography "Stephen Sondheim: A Life." Twice.
Fast forward and I couldn't have been more thrilled that Richmond Triangle Players was producing "Sondheim on Sondheim," a revue of nearly 40 of the master's songs from a selection of the musicals he's penned since he did the lyrics to "West Side Story" back in 1957.
The first thing I didn't know going in was that the songs would be performed in between film clips of Sondheim interviews dating back to the 1960s. As a certifiable documentary dork, this was like getting a two-fer: a night of live theater and a night of Sondheim interviews and self-reflection.
The second thing I didn't know was how few of Sondheim's songs I recognized. Granted, the man's got close to 20 major works and some of the songs were previously unheard, but, sheesh, I'd apparently forgotten more than I remembered in the intervening decades.
On the other hand, how often do you get to hear "Something's Coming" sung by two different companies in the same summer?
The good news is that not recognizing every song didn't lessen my enjoyment of "Sondheim on Sondheim" one iota. A familiar tune like "You Could Drive a Person Crazy" from "Company" is still hilarious and "Send in the Clowns" from "A Little Night Music" will always be poignant and full of regret, no matter who sings it. Ditto the longing in "Being Alive" from "Company."
You don't need to know a Sondheim song to thoroughly enjoy hearing it sung live by a talented cast, even if most of them weren't so much as a gleam in their father's eye when he wrote them. Details, details.
Because so many of Sondheim's songs are about relationships and human behavior with each other, it was fascinating to hear him say that he hadn't found love until he was 60. For a late bloomer, he certainly nailed the intricacies of human emotions. It's hard to imagine someone having to wait six decades to find their forever person, although I hear it happens.
For those of us who began worshiping at the Sondheim altar in college, hearing the company sing "God" was affirmation that we'd chosen the right religion.
God!
The man's a god
Wrote the score to Sweeney Todd
With a nod to de Sade
Well, he's off
Well, he's god
The lyrics are so smart
And the music has such heart
It has heart
Well, in part
Let's not start
Call it art
No, call it god
That god showed me the future of musical theater. What kind of acolyte would I be if I didn't spread the gospel of Sondheim?
More importantly, now that I know how long he waited for true love, let's hear it for the late bloomers.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Conversation Peace
Not to be too specific, but my interest in origami can be traced back to the evening of April 15, 2001.
That evening, my then-boyfriend and I had plans to meet his arty VCU friends for drinks at Baja Bean, but he bowed out at the last minute because he hadn't finished his taxes (don't get me started). Mine, on the other hand, had long since been mailed off (it was the olden days, kids), so I figured I'd go solo.
It wasn't like I didn't know all of that arty crowd anyway.
The new face in the group belonged to a Peruvian sculptor who was doing a short residency at VCU and after being introduced, we settled down to happily converse for a couple of hours. He was a fascinating person with intriguing stories and since it was unlikely we'd ever see each other again, there was no reason not to talk about everything.
When I said goodbye, it was after a thoroughly satisfying evening talking to this man. End of story.
So you can imagine my surprise the following week when the VCU dean who'd brought the Peruvian into the bar that night shared that he had a gift for me from the artist who'd since returned home: a bronze-colored origami crab he'd crafted that night after meeting me.
It's an utterly amazing thing, this elaborate crab - complete with claws - folded from a single piece of paper. A gift from a man I'd never see again created for no other reason than to demonstrate his pleasure in the short time we'd spent talking.
These days, it occupies a place of honor atop my stereo receiver and invites conversation about origami. All of that's a roundabout way of saying of course I'm going to be interested in Lewis Ginter's outdoor exhibit of bronze, steel and aluminum origami, an invitation extended to me back in April, not to mention all the way from Japan.
Naturally, I'd said yes then and now we were finally making good on plans made while we were on different continents.
Given the heat and sun, I had no shame in bringing along my pink Victoria's Secret umbrella to act as a parasol as we made our way through the gardens. I wasn't the only one happy to carry her sun protection, either, which gives me hope that parasol pride is still growing.
Having the origami pieces scattered around the gardens all but ensured a haphazard path through them as we'd spot one in the distance and then have to try to figure out the best way to get there without missing anything along the way.
Given the heat, we also weren't shy about pausing at any shady bench we came to and letting the waves of sweaty humanity pass us by.
Artist Kevin Box and his collaborators - his wife, Jennifer, plus four origami masters - had managed to create metal sculptures that not only had the delicate detailing of folded paper, but also appeared to be as light as paper. Looking at a sculpture like "Flying Peace" (the most complicated origami crane ever folded) with its pleated wings, tail and head and legs stretched out behind it is to marvel at the minds and hands of artists inspired and brilliant enough to conjure up such a thing.
One of the simplest forms resembled nothing so much as a simple white folded paper boat set adrift in the middle of a pond. I felt cooler just looking at it.
We almost missed "Who Saw Who?" because it was tucked away in the children's garden, dangerously near the splish splash area rife with shrieking children. It was a tableau of an owl and a tiny mouse on a rock, each eyeing the other warily.
Yet again, we had to remind ourselves that the sculpture in front of us had begun life as a piece of folded paper. Truly amazing.
Looking at "Folding Planes," I was immediately reminded of the Air Force Memorial just outside of Washington, with its gracefully arcing folds reaching skyward. "White Bison" was exactly that, but my takeaway was learning that bison stand and face an oncoming storm, a fact I find unfathomable.
And if we were looking for a personal metaphor, there was a lot to be said for the wisdom of "Nesting Pair" and not just because of the beauty of two cast stainless steel cranes hovering above a cast bronze nest made from olive branches.
Because, you see, it gets even better: Most artwork is a self-portrait of some kind. This composition naturally emerged at a time in our lives when we were building a home together and discovering the value of compromise. ~ Kevin Box
Shoot, substitute "relationship" for "home" and "pleasure" for "value" and we're there.
As for my bronze crab, it's a daily reminder that you never know what might result from a great conversation. As for my origami-loving partner, ditto.
And as I was reminded afterward eating and drinking at Peter Chang's, if he can make me laugh, too, it's all over. P.S. It's all over.
That evening, my then-boyfriend and I had plans to meet his arty VCU friends for drinks at Baja Bean, but he bowed out at the last minute because he hadn't finished his taxes (don't get me started). Mine, on the other hand, had long since been mailed off (it was the olden days, kids), so I figured I'd go solo.
It wasn't like I didn't know all of that arty crowd anyway.
The new face in the group belonged to a Peruvian sculptor who was doing a short residency at VCU and after being introduced, we settled down to happily converse for a couple of hours. He was a fascinating person with intriguing stories and since it was unlikely we'd ever see each other again, there was no reason not to talk about everything.
When I said goodbye, it was after a thoroughly satisfying evening talking to this man. End of story.
So you can imagine my surprise the following week when the VCU dean who'd brought the Peruvian into the bar that night shared that he had a gift for me from the artist who'd since returned home: a bronze-colored origami crab he'd crafted that night after meeting me.
It's an utterly amazing thing, this elaborate crab - complete with claws - folded from a single piece of paper. A gift from a man I'd never see again created for no other reason than to demonstrate his pleasure in the short time we'd spent talking.
These days, it occupies a place of honor atop my stereo receiver and invites conversation about origami. All of that's a roundabout way of saying of course I'm going to be interested in Lewis Ginter's outdoor exhibit of bronze, steel and aluminum origami, an invitation extended to me back in April, not to mention all the way from Japan.
Naturally, I'd said yes then and now we were finally making good on plans made while we were on different continents.
Given the heat and sun, I had no shame in bringing along my pink Victoria's Secret umbrella to act as a parasol as we made our way through the gardens. I wasn't the only one happy to carry her sun protection, either, which gives me hope that parasol pride is still growing.
Having the origami pieces scattered around the gardens all but ensured a haphazard path through them as we'd spot one in the distance and then have to try to figure out the best way to get there without missing anything along the way.
Given the heat, we also weren't shy about pausing at any shady bench we came to and letting the waves of sweaty humanity pass us by.
Artist Kevin Box and his collaborators - his wife, Jennifer, plus four origami masters - had managed to create metal sculptures that not only had the delicate detailing of folded paper, but also appeared to be as light as paper. Looking at a sculpture like "Flying Peace" (the most complicated origami crane ever folded) with its pleated wings, tail and head and legs stretched out behind it is to marvel at the minds and hands of artists inspired and brilliant enough to conjure up such a thing.
One of the simplest forms resembled nothing so much as a simple white folded paper boat set adrift in the middle of a pond. I felt cooler just looking at it.
We almost missed "Who Saw Who?" because it was tucked away in the children's garden, dangerously near the splish splash area rife with shrieking children. It was a tableau of an owl and a tiny mouse on a rock, each eyeing the other warily.
Yet again, we had to remind ourselves that the sculpture in front of us had begun life as a piece of folded paper. Truly amazing.
Looking at "Folding Planes," I was immediately reminded of the Air Force Memorial just outside of Washington, with its gracefully arcing folds reaching skyward. "White Bison" was exactly that, but my takeaway was learning that bison stand and face an oncoming storm, a fact I find unfathomable.
And if we were looking for a personal metaphor, there was a lot to be said for the wisdom of "Nesting Pair" and not just because of the beauty of two cast stainless steel cranes hovering above a cast bronze nest made from olive branches.
Because, you see, it gets even better: Most artwork is a self-portrait of some kind. This composition naturally emerged at a time in our lives when we were building a home together and discovering the value of compromise. ~ Kevin Box
Shoot, substitute "relationship" for "home" and "pleasure" for "value" and we're there.
As for my bronze crab, it's a daily reminder that you never know what might result from a great conversation. As for my origami-loving partner, ditto.
And as I was reminded afterward eating and drinking at Peter Chang's, if he can make me laugh, too, it's all over. P.S. It's all over.
Sunday, September 3, 2017
To Dream the Impossible Dream
On a day when the rain just didn't want to stop, a trip to Spain sounded mighty appealing.
Not Spain the actual country - although I'd happily accept an invitation any time it comes along - but the film "The Trip to Spain," which was playing at Movieland. I'd seen the last in the series, "The Trip to Italy," in 2014, two years after my own first trip to Italy and enjoyed every moment of it.
But Spain, that was fresh territory for me.
My date and I began with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and a record listening party to test his memory and launch tangents. Listening to the Grass Roots' "More Golden Grass" led us to "The Supremes Sing Holland Dozier Holland" when he heard a similar musical phrase ("whoa, whoa, whoa"), which necessitated me demonstrating the same sort of connection I'd heard between a song on the Brass Ring's "Disadvantages of You" and another on "The Association's Greatest Hits."
Nothing is new, kids, we just recycle the riffs of the past and hope no one's paying attention.
Because that kind of musical tangent-following can lead a couple of music nerds down endless rabbit holes while we starved to death, we stepped away from the turntable and made our way to Peter Chang's for dinner.
There were far more families with young children than you might expect on a Saturday night, but we were seated at a table in the bar area far from high chairs.
Since it was my date's first visit to Peter Chang's, he was understandably overwhelmed at the menu, but seemed to have little problem pinpointing a wine we'd both love. Cherrie "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose delivered all the textbook charms of a good Sancerre with its clean-tasting grapefruit flavors the color of pink diamonds. The Loire never disappoints.
Bowing to the power of Peter Chang's dry-fried anything, my companion chose dry-fried shredded chicken while I took our server's advice and opted for dry-fried flounder with wood ear mushrooms, potatoes, broccoli, onions and peppers. Naturally, an air-filled scallion bubble pancake accompanied our meals so we could pinch up food and mitigate heat when necessary.
It's such a pleasure to experience Peter Chang's with a first-timer and my date did not disappoint as he rhapsodized over the pancake and accustomed his palate to the spiciness. Our only complaint was that we had to request chopsticks because they weren't automatically offered.
There was no way either of us could finish such enormous servings, though we gave it our best shot as the families moved on and the second wave of Saturday night date couples began taking their places. And while we qualified to stay, we had a movie to catch.
We came in out of the rain into the theater just as two friends - a fellow theater panel member and a former art gallery director working on a new book - did, providing some last minute socializing before finding theater #2.
Although my date hadn't seen either of the first two installments of the series featuring Brits Steve Coogan and Rob Bryden, I felt like I knew him well enough to know how much he'd enjoy the dry humor, middle age ruminations and vocal impressions that are standard in these films.
Me, I go because the movies encompass my interests: travel (with splendid photography of places I'd love to see in person and an introduction to a sleep aboard ferry I can only dream about), food (Bryden is supposedly writing restaurant reviews so we see loads of shots of kitchen prep and sumptuous plus rustic dishes being delivered to their table) and endless brilliantly clever banter.
Their conversations about aging were just icing on the cake.
That so much of the dialog is improvised ensured our interest and attention, in the same way that listening to an erudite and comedic friend riff on life at a party does. What will he say next?
Less than an hour into the film during a quiet moment in dialog, I could hear fireworks outside the theater coming from the Diamond's final fireworks display of the baseball season. Yet another unpleasant reminder that summer is fading and cooler weather looms.
But while we were entertained by conversations about Cervantes and Don Quioxte and seduced by scenes of Spain, its architecture, mountains, monuments and churches - not to mention fabulous seaside restaurants - I forgot all about Richmond and rain.
In fact, scenes of them driving around the countryside instead brought Joni Mitchell's "California" to mind.
So I bought me a ticket
I caught a plane to Spain
Went to a party down a red dirt road
There were lots of pretty people there...
Never have red dirt roads and the red dust clouds that trail vehicles on them looked so appealing. And certainly, never has a rambling discussion that begins with the Moors and segues to Roger Moore been so laugh-out-loud funny.
Probably to no one's surprise, I'm also a fan of tilting at windmills. Whoa, whoa, whoa...
Not Spain the actual country - although I'd happily accept an invitation any time it comes along - but the film "The Trip to Spain," which was playing at Movieland. I'd seen the last in the series, "The Trip to Italy," in 2014, two years after my own first trip to Italy and enjoyed every moment of it.
But Spain, that was fresh territory for me.
My date and I began with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and a record listening party to test his memory and launch tangents. Listening to the Grass Roots' "More Golden Grass" led us to "The Supremes Sing Holland Dozier Holland" when he heard a similar musical phrase ("whoa, whoa, whoa"), which necessitated me demonstrating the same sort of connection I'd heard between a song on the Brass Ring's "Disadvantages of You" and another on "The Association's Greatest Hits."
Nothing is new, kids, we just recycle the riffs of the past and hope no one's paying attention.
Because that kind of musical tangent-following can lead a couple of music nerds down endless rabbit holes while we starved to death, we stepped away from the turntable and made our way to Peter Chang's for dinner.
There were far more families with young children than you might expect on a Saturday night, but we were seated at a table in the bar area far from high chairs.
Since it was my date's first visit to Peter Chang's, he was understandably overwhelmed at the menu, but seemed to have little problem pinpointing a wine we'd both love. Cherrie "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose delivered all the textbook charms of a good Sancerre with its clean-tasting grapefruit flavors the color of pink diamonds. The Loire never disappoints.
Bowing to the power of Peter Chang's dry-fried anything, my companion chose dry-fried shredded chicken while I took our server's advice and opted for dry-fried flounder with wood ear mushrooms, potatoes, broccoli, onions and peppers. Naturally, an air-filled scallion bubble pancake accompanied our meals so we could pinch up food and mitigate heat when necessary.
It's such a pleasure to experience Peter Chang's with a first-timer and my date did not disappoint as he rhapsodized over the pancake and accustomed his palate to the spiciness. Our only complaint was that we had to request chopsticks because they weren't automatically offered.
There was no way either of us could finish such enormous servings, though we gave it our best shot as the families moved on and the second wave of Saturday night date couples began taking their places. And while we qualified to stay, we had a movie to catch.
We came in out of the rain into the theater just as two friends - a fellow theater panel member and a former art gallery director working on a new book - did, providing some last minute socializing before finding theater #2.
Although my date hadn't seen either of the first two installments of the series featuring Brits Steve Coogan and Rob Bryden, I felt like I knew him well enough to know how much he'd enjoy the dry humor, middle age ruminations and vocal impressions that are standard in these films.
Me, I go because the movies encompass my interests: travel (with splendid photography of places I'd love to see in person and an introduction to a sleep aboard ferry I can only dream about), food (Bryden is supposedly writing restaurant reviews so we see loads of shots of kitchen prep and sumptuous plus rustic dishes being delivered to their table) and endless brilliantly clever banter.
Their conversations about aging were just icing on the cake.
That so much of the dialog is improvised ensured our interest and attention, in the same way that listening to an erudite and comedic friend riff on life at a party does. What will he say next?
Less than an hour into the film during a quiet moment in dialog, I could hear fireworks outside the theater coming from the Diamond's final fireworks display of the baseball season. Yet another unpleasant reminder that summer is fading and cooler weather looms.
But while we were entertained by conversations about Cervantes and Don Quioxte and seduced by scenes of Spain, its architecture, mountains, monuments and churches - not to mention fabulous seaside restaurants - I forgot all about Richmond and rain.
In fact, scenes of them driving around the countryside instead brought Joni Mitchell's "California" to mind.
So I bought me a ticket
I caught a plane to Spain
Went to a party down a red dirt road
There were lots of pretty people there...
Never have red dirt roads and the red dust clouds that trail vehicles on them looked so appealing. And certainly, never has a rambling discussion that begins with the Moors and segues to Roger Moore been so laugh-out-loud funny.
Probably to no one's surprise, I'm also a fan of tilting at windmills. Whoa, whoa, whoa...
Thursday, February 16, 2017
People's Parties
If it hadn't been for getting a grape scratch and sniff Valentine showing purple pterodactyls, I'd never have laid eyes on the 20-year old bottle of Chivas Regal found crusted with dust.
"Where you been?" was scrawled on the back of the card atop the official Valentine message ("Flying by with a Valentine Hi!"), but what caused me to pick up the landline was that it had arrived in the mail uncharacteristically a day late.
Every year since I've known Holmes, he's bought a package of kiddie Valentine cards and mailed them to friends like me and family, where they arrived punctually on Valentine's Day, occasionally the day before. Not this year.
Procrastination delayed Cupid's delivery, I was told, but as long as he was questioning my whereabouts the past two months, I was offering myself up. Tonight. Not that he'd missed me, but why didn't I join him and Beloved for dinner at Peter Chang? Tonight.
It was a rhetorical question that landed us at the bar catching up over three kinds of soup, shrimp dumplings, multiple orders of sesame noodles and bamboo flounder to the accompaniment of a bottle of Rose in just over an hour, allowing ample time to retire to his man cave to listen to vinyl.
Which we did, beginning with Joni Mitchell's 1974 masterpiece "Court and Spark," which everyone was enjoying when Holmes eased back in his bar stool and and asked inscrutably, "You know how I used to listen to this album?"
Without missing a beat, Beloved causally asked, "Stoned on LSD?" which may or may not have been the case, but turned out to be merely a stepping stone to the tale of his successive stereo closets, a saga full of arcane detail no man should recall after 40 years.
Seems that when he and his young bride bought their first house, the closet in the front room had already been modified to house some serious audio geek hi-fi equipment. It was the '70s, after all.
Shelves were hung for components, holes had been drilled for wire and cords and, on either side of the wall above the door were sizable hooks, the better to hold sizable speakers, which were further fortified by two chains to hold each speaker.
Naturally, the speakers were angled toward the couch, not hung exactly straight out. Naturally.
But because the layout was typical Richmond - long and narrow - speaker wire had also been run throughout the house so you could hear what was playing when you were in the bedroom or, even more important, on the rear sun porch.
And that, boys and girls, was how Holmes had listened to "Court and Spark" back in the day.
But, alas, eventually the wife wanted an entire house and not just a duplex, meaning the hep cat hi-fi set-up was left behind. Ah, but at the new digs, he had a basement with the potential to be a true man cave with a bar, shelves for VHS movies and a small room for his extensive comic book collection.
He tried putting the turntable on the Formica bar, but flailing drinkers and good times soon proved that to be a disaster-in-the-making.
But, wait! The stairs to the basement ran above the bar, leaving a wedge of space that someone handy (Holmes hired a carpenter) could easily turn into another stereo construct. The only difference was that his massive speakers now sat on the floor of the rec room, angled in toward the bar, under which were shelves holding hundreds of albums and a ridiculous amount of booze.
"It's kind of sketchy down there," Holmes tells me tonight, gesturing at the below-bar area, explaining that he'd dropped the brush to his Disc-Washer (for what it's worth, I didn't date a single guy in high school or college who didn't own a Disc Washer) down there recently and when he began rummaging around, he'd unearthed the dust-crusted bottle of Chivas Regal.
Best guessing and carbon dating led him to estimate its age at 20 to 25 years old.
Ever thrifty and resourceful, he'd removed the layers of dust and debris, found a silver tin for the bottle to live in and added Chivas into his brown sipping rotation. It's hard to argue with that kind of logic.
Next came one of Beloved's estate sale record finds, Tony Mottola's "Mr. Big" from 1959, a late Eisenhower-era lounge vibe that made it sound like an automatic beatnik party: four guitars, bongos and congas. Wild, man.
The cover art was superb: a black bowler hat with "Mr. Big" in white letters sitting on a red stripe. Graphically, it was distinctive enough that I scanned the album notes to learn the artist's name (Irwin Rosenhouse), but also some history (he was a Merchant Marine), only to be brought up short by the equivalent of a business card.
In addition to painting, Rosenhouse does designing and illustrating on a freelance basis.
Somebody had some serious marketing chops there. So much so I'm thinking of putting something similar on a t-shirt I'll wear on my daily walks: In addition to walking, I do writing and editing on a freelance basis.
Then when someone asks, "Where you been?" I can say out drumming up business. Cue the bongos.
"Where you been?" was scrawled on the back of the card atop the official Valentine message ("Flying by with a Valentine Hi!"), but what caused me to pick up the landline was that it had arrived in the mail uncharacteristically a day late.
Every year since I've known Holmes, he's bought a package of kiddie Valentine cards and mailed them to friends like me and family, where they arrived punctually on Valentine's Day, occasionally the day before. Not this year.
Procrastination delayed Cupid's delivery, I was told, but as long as he was questioning my whereabouts the past two months, I was offering myself up. Tonight. Not that he'd missed me, but why didn't I join him and Beloved for dinner at Peter Chang? Tonight.
It was a rhetorical question that landed us at the bar catching up over three kinds of soup, shrimp dumplings, multiple orders of sesame noodles and bamboo flounder to the accompaniment of a bottle of Rose in just over an hour, allowing ample time to retire to his man cave to listen to vinyl.
Which we did, beginning with Joni Mitchell's 1974 masterpiece "Court and Spark," which everyone was enjoying when Holmes eased back in his bar stool and and asked inscrutably, "You know how I used to listen to this album?"
Without missing a beat, Beloved causally asked, "Stoned on LSD?" which may or may not have been the case, but turned out to be merely a stepping stone to the tale of his successive stereo closets, a saga full of arcane detail no man should recall after 40 years.
Seems that when he and his young bride bought their first house, the closet in the front room had already been modified to house some serious audio geek hi-fi equipment. It was the '70s, after all.
Shelves were hung for components, holes had been drilled for wire and cords and, on either side of the wall above the door were sizable hooks, the better to hold sizable speakers, which were further fortified by two chains to hold each speaker.
Naturally, the speakers were angled toward the couch, not hung exactly straight out. Naturally.
But because the layout was typical Richmond - long and narrow - speaker wire had also been run throughout the house so you could hear what was playing when you were in the bedroom or, even more important, on the rear sun porch.
And that, boys and girls, was how Holmes had listened to "Court and Spark" back in the day.
But, alas, eventually the wife wanted an entire house and not just a duplex, meaning the hep cat hi-fi set-up was left behind. Ah, but at the new digs, he had a basement with the potential to be a true man cave with a bar, shelves for VHS movies and a small room for his extensive comic book collection.
He tried putting the turntable on the Formica bar, but flailing drinkers and good times soon proved that to be a disaster-in-the-making.
But, wait! The stairs to the basement ran above the bar, leaving a wedge of space that someone handy (Holmes hired a carpenter) could easily turn into another stereo construct. The only difference was that his massive speakers now sat on the floor of the rec room, angled in toward the bar, under which were shelves holding hundreds of albums and a ridiculous amount of booze.
"It's kind of sketchy down there," Holmes tells me tonight, gesturing at the below-bar area, explaining that he'd dropped the brush to his Disc-Washer (for what it's worth, I didn't date a single guy in high school or college who didn't own a Disc Washer) down there recently and when he began rummaging around, he'd unearthed the dust-crusted bottle of Chivas Regal.
Best guessing and carbon dating led him to estimate its age at 20 to 25 years old.
Ever thrifty and resourceful, he'd removed the layers of dust and debris, found a silver tin for the bottle to live in and added Chivas into his brown sipping rotation. It's hard to argue with that kind of logic.
Next came one of Beloved's estate sale record finds, Tony Mottola's "Mr. Big" from 1959, a late Eisenhower-era lounge vibe that made it sound like an automatic beatnik party: four guitars, bongos and congas. Wild, man.
The cover art was superb: a black bowler hat with "Mr. Big" in white letters sitting on a red stripe. Graphically, it was distinctive enough that I scanned the album notes to learn the artist's name (Irwin Rosenhouse), but also some history (he was a Merchant Marine), only to be brought up short by the equivalent of a business card.
In addition to painting, Rosenhouse does designing and illustrating on a freelance basis.
Somebody had some serious marketing chops there. So much so I'm thinking of putting something similar on a t-shirt I'll wear on my daily walks: In addition to walking, I do writing and editing on a freelance basis.
Then when someone asks, "Where you been?" I can say out drumming up business. Cue the bongos.
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