Seeing a flowering quince in Jackson Ward today can only mean one thing: spring must be coming.
Said the eternal optimist.
Mac was the one who noticed it as we were walking down Marshall Street on our way to the river, but I was the one to point out clumps of daffodils nearby, their buds so yellow they'll be blooming by Valentine's Day, I'll bet.
Tonight, it was a long-simmering desire to hear poetry read to me by strangers, not to mention wanting to "spend" my Christmas present gift certificates, that put me at Chop Suey for a reading and some book shopping.
First up was the soft-voiced Semein Washington who was admonished to speak up after he introduced himself. "I will, I will! I'll use my diaphragm," he promised and upped the volume, which didn't affect his tendency to speak in a monotone.
It's always fascinating to hear people read their own work because despite a presumption that no one can read their own words better, that's not always the case.
A poem about John Coltrane spoke to a 21st century jazz lover with "As your sax hums and haunts from my computer..." while one about Dr. Manhattan included the line, "He locks lips and holds hands with two women while promising both he'll love them forever."
Good luck with that, doc.
His ode to his favorite band in the world, Hella, insisted that "You get me twisted with joy, joy turns my muscles to heat." The uber-fan went on to say, "Your double time beat chops through my bandwidth."
In a poem he dedicated to the friend who was outside parking his car, Washington read, "LSD made it easier to love ourselves" while also noting that, "I feel a togetherness of my brain and thoughts." What thoughts, you wonder? "If love brought us here now or made us stay."
Never having taken LSD, that's not a question I can answer.
Another poem about taking mushrooms recalled that they "healed me of my fears and made me laugh so hard I couldn't open my eyes." I happen to know that you can laugh that hard without taking mushrooms because I do it a lot these days.
After a poem about his grandmother clad in a chrysanthemum-print dress, he closed with the somber "This May Have Nothing to Do With You," a poem about innocent people being killed in Yemen.
Next up was Beasa Dukes, wearing a top hat and displaying far more vocal inflection. Beasa read two parts of one long poem with references to an electrical storm letting "the atmospheric energy kiss my toes," seeing god as a rat or a woman and a cop shooting a child.
This was not poetry for the faint-of-heart.
Beasa closed with, "This is how all things begin, with the blood and the nothing and the end."
As far as I was concerned, at that point there was nothing to do but buy a best-selling biography of Stevie Nicks with my gift certificate and head down Cary Street to Plan 9.
I walked in to find three guys, one an employee, deep in a spirited conversation about musical equipment in the back. I was alone in looking through the bins of records and CDs for something I wanted to spend my gift certificate on, eventually deciding on Australian band Middle Kids' "Lost Friends" album and the new CD from Pedro the Lion, "Phoenix."
Before I left, I got caught up in a conversation with one of the employees I know. His first question was about my thoughts on Northam and the blackface debacle that is dominating the news cycle. That, of course, led to him asking for my thoughts on the Fairfax #MeToo accusations and, before I knew it, we were knee-deep in a discourse on the state of the state.
That's when he reminded me that the last time we'd talked had been at the Village Cafe back in 2014 after a screening of "Dr. Strangelove" at the Grace Street Theater. Chatting after the film ended, we'd both had lots to say about the racist (him) and feminist (me) issues raised by Kubrick's film, so we'd adjourned to the Village.
You know, the good, old Village, where you can count on some rummy at the bar reaching for his backpack, only to have a half-full 40-oz roll out of it, spilling, then clanking to the floor. As befits the Village, nobody batted an eye that night.
What I also recalled about our tete-a-tete, besides the 40-oz incident, was the hella good chocolate milkshake I'd had, while his memory involved asking me my opinion of Hillary and lowering the drinking age.
None of that stuck with me. Interesting, isn't it, how different people store shared memories?
Chocolate and drunks, apparently that's what chops through my bandwidth.
Showing posts with label plan 9 records. Show all posts
Showing posts with label plan 9 records. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 12, 2019
Monday, November 14, 2016
Life Baked in a Beautiful Pie
Good vibrations must be emanating from the Supermoon.
To help beat the post-election funk some of us are experiencing, No BS Brass Band had scheduled an early show at Plan 9 Records. I made sure to arrive early enough to look for a CD I wanted and before most of the crowd wedged itself into the store.
"Hi, y'all," trombonist Reggie Pace said after the first rousing number. "We want the world to be a great place and this is how we do it."
The crowd steadily grew both inside and along the sidewalk outside as the band played through their set - Aha's "Take On Me" and the requisite "RVA All Day" - and people danced in place.
In between grooving, I wound up sharing my clementine with the toddler being held by her mother next to me. Once she saw what I had, she'd hold out a fat little hand so I could deposit a segment into it (and once in the pocket of her smock, much to her delight) until my fruit was no more.
Her Mom thanked me profusely, but if you can't share your citrus with a babe-in-arms, you're not really trying to make the world a great place, now are you?
The exuberant show ended with Reggie and a lot of us holding up peace signs in the air and hugging each other. Outside on the sidewalk, I paused to talk to friends, hearing the same refrain repeatedly: "I needed that. We needed that."
I was far from the only one at Plan 9 who was then headed down the block to the Byrd to see Jim Jarmusch's new documentary about Iggy Pop and the Stooges, "Gimme Danger" at its sole Richmond screening.
As I'd anticipated, there were scads of friends in the near-capacity crowd and, by some miracle, a favorite couple ended up right next to me shortly before Mike of the James River Film Society spoke.
He said that they'd been trying to get Jarmusch to speak at the James River Film Festival for years, first sending him Virginia peanuts and another year, Virginia bourbon. always with an invitation to come. So far he's only sent thank you postcards, but hope springs eternal.
"No luck yet, but we'll keep working on it," he shared.
I'm a sucker for a good documentary (much less one screened in Surround Sound with a roomful of music lovers) and tonight's delivered with fun facts, rare performance footage and lots of Iggy aka Jim talking about his memories of the past 50 years.
Fact: he was originally inspired by Clarabelle on "Howdy Doody" and Soupy Sales because both characters did anything they wanted to do and that appealed to him.
After starting his musical life as a drummer, he got tired of looking at butts and took over front man duties. When the band added a sax player, he told him he wanted him to sound like Maceo Parker on acid.
I learned we share a similarity when he mentioned his attraction to people who "are in their adulthood who haven't lost their childhood." The kind of person who invented the stage dive when they were opening for Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention ("The best band, in my opinion, we'd opened for at that point").
He spoke about their "big brother band," MC5 and how he remembers when they were just a cover band. There was a show poster with the Stooges and Bob Seeger on the same bill, a seemingly unlikely pairing except for their shared hometown.
What was truly amazing to see was the evolution of his stage performance, which is to say that somehow, he's still performing the acrobatic and contortionist moves he was at 20, still bare-chested (although not bleeding) and nimble as few 70-year olds could even imagine being.
Mostly, the fascinating documentary made a case for Iggy's statement to Dinah Shore on her '70s talk show when she asked about his main accomplishment.
"I helped wipe out the '60s," he said without irony and Jarmusch's film assembled all the vintage footage and interviews to prove it.
Leaving the Byrd, I couldn't help but thank the organizer who'd made sure this film came to Richmond, making for a stellar way to cap off this tumultuous week.
Things were even higher pitched when I arrived at intermission at the Firehouse Theater for the Glapcocks (hilarious anti-awards the theatrical community hands itself) and was greeted by the recent winner of the "most animalistic" award, her glowing green trophy in hand.
More crazy awards followed and after "Most Ghost," co-host Matt (along with leggy co-host Maggie) acknowledged, "We really should sell tickets to the night we come up with all these crazy categories. It's an open bar event." That much was easy to believe and would undoubtedly be well worth the price of admission.
Once awards had been given out, we moved on to a theater kid's favorite event: the theater mannequin challenge. The entire room was instructed to form tableaux with others so that a 360-degree video could be shot of all of us frozen into a mid-action pose.
Don't ask me why. I'm not and never was a theater kid.
"This side of the room looks kind of dead," Annie, the videographer announced, pointing at my side of the room, so, with no shame at all, I turned around and engaged the guy behind me.
I'm here to tell you it was challenging for this non-actor to stare into someone's eyes for the minute-plus it takes to shoot a roomful of people and finally get to me.
The rest of the evening was devoted to singing, at least in the style of the Ghostlight After Parties of old, when actors get up and sing a favorite show tune to a pianist sight-reading the music.
Turns out Ian, whose eyes I'd stared into, had a fabulous voice, while co-host Matt proclaimed another Matt "dreamy" (and simulated oral sex with his microphone to demonstrate just how dreamy) while he sang "I'd Rather Be Sailing."
Kelsey accompanied herself on ukulele to "She Used to Be Mine" from "Waitress, the Musical," crushing the room with her talent.
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone but she used to be mine
A few people attempted a group version of "One Day More," but there were a lot of forgotten lyrics and tepid singing (except for the impressive Ian behind me, who asked rhetorically, "How does no one know these words?") when our host Matt walked back in, saying, "What happened? I leave for five minutes!"
For the traditional singalong finale, we tried Toto's "Africa," but that didn't go so well (and why should millennials know a 40-year old pop song word for word?), so the evening closed out with the always reliable "Season of Love" instead.
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In 525,600 minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
Gorgeous voices knew every nuance of this tune and they were singing in the aisle before it ended with a sustained note. There was no way not to feel the love at the Glapcocks tonight.
As far as this whole Sunday night went, I needed that. We needed that.
To help beat the post-election funk some of us are experiencing, No BS Brass Band had scheduled an early show at Plan 9 Records. I made sure to arrive early enough to look for a CD I wanted and before most of the crowd wedged itself into the store.
"Hi, y'all," trombonist Reggie Pace said after the first rousing number. "We want the world to be a great place and this is how we do it."
The crowd steadily grew both inside and along the sidewalk outside as the band played through their set - Aha's "Take On Me" and the requisite "RVA All Day" - and people danced in place.
In between grooving, I wound up sharing my clementine with the toddler being held by her mother next to me. Once she saw what I had, she'd hold out a fat little hand so I could deposit a segment into it (and once in the pocket of her smock, much to her delight) until my fruit was no more.
Her Mom thanked me profusely, but if you can't share your citrus with a babe-in-arms, you're not really trying to make the world a great place, now are you?
The exuberant show ended with Reggie and a lot of us holding up peace signs in the air and hugging each other. Outside on the sidewalk, I paused to talk to friends, hearing the same refrain repeatedly: "I needed that. We needed that."
I was far from the only one at Plan 9 who was then headed down the block to the Byrd to see Jim Jarmusch's new documentary about Iggy Pop and the Stooges, "Gimme Danger" at its sole Richmond screening.
As I'd anticipated, there were scads of friends in the near-capacity crowd and, by some miracle, a favorite couple ended up right next to me shortly before Mike of the James River Film Society spoke.
He said that they'd been trying to get Jarmusch to speak at the James River Film Festival for years, first sending him Virginia peanuts and another year, Virginia bourbon. always with an invitation to come. So far he's only sent thank you postcards, but hope springs eternal.
"No luck yet, but we'll keep working on it," he shared.
I'm a sucker for a good documentary (much less one screened in Surround Sound with a roomful of music lovers) and tonight's delivered with fun facts, rare performance footage and lots of Iggy aka Jim talking about his memories of the past 50 years.
Fact: he was originally inspired by Clarabelle on "Howdy Doody" and Soupy Sales because both characters did anything they wanted to do and that appealed to him.
After starting his musical life as a drummer, he got tired of looking at butts and took over front man duties. When the band added a sax player, he told him he wanted him to sound like Maceo Parker on acid.
I learned we share a similarity when he mentioned his attraction to people who "are in their adulthood who haven't lost their childhood." The kind of person who invented the stage dive when they were opening for Frank Zappa's Mothers of Invention ("The best band, in my opinion, we'd opened for at that point").
He spoke about their "big brother band," MC5 and how he remembers when they were just a cover band. There was a show poster with the Stooges and Bob Seeger on the same bill, a seemingly unlikely pairing except for their shared hometown.
What was truly amazing to see was the evolution of his stage performance, which is to say that somehow, he's still performing the acrobatic and contortionist moves he was at 20, still bare-chested (although not bleeding) and nimble as few 70-year olds could even imagine being.
Mostly, the fascinating documentary made a case for Iggy's statement to Dinah Shore on her '70s talk show when she asked about his main accomplishment.
"I helped wipe out the '60s," he said without irony and Jarmusch's film assembled all the vintage footage and interviews to prove it.
Leaving the Byrd, I couldn't help but thank the organizer who'd made sure this film came to Richmond, making for a stellar way to cap off this tumultuous week.
Things were even higher pitched when I arrived at intermission at the Firehouse Theater for the Glapcocks (hilarious anti-awards the theatrical community hands itself) and was greeted by the recent winner of the "most animalistic" award, her glowing green trophy in hand.
More crazy awards followed and after "Most Ghost," co-host Matt (along with leggy co-host Maggie) acknowledged, "We really should sell tickets to the night we come up with all these crazy categories. It's an open bar event." That much was easy to believe and would undoubtedly be well worth the price of admission.
Once awards had been given out, we moved on to a theater kid's favorite event: the theater mannequin challenge. The entire room was instructed to form tableaux with others so that a 360-degree video could be shot of all of us frozen into a mid-action pose.
Don't ask me why. I'm not and never was a theater kid.
"This side of the room looks kind of dead," Annie, the videographer announced, pointing at my side of the room, so, with no shame at all, I turned around and engaged the guy behind me.
I'm here to tell you it was challenging for this non-actor to stare into someone's eyes for the minute-plus it takes to shoot a roomful of people and finally get to me.
The rest of the evening was devoted to singing, at least in the style of the Ghostlight After Parties of old, when actors get up and sing a favorite show tune to a pianist sight-reading the music.
Turns out Ian, whose eyes I'd stared into, had a fabulous voice, while co-host Matt proclaimed another Matt "dreamy" (and simulated oral sex with his microphone to demonstrate just how dreamy) while he sang "I'd Rather Be Sailing."
Kelsey accompanied herself on ukulele to "She Used to Be Mine" from "Waitress, the Musical," crushing the room with her talent.
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone but she used to be mine
A few people attempted a group version of "One Day More," but there were a lot of forgotten lyrics and tepid singing (except for the impressive Ian behind me, who asked rhetorically, "How does no one know these words?") when our host Matt walked back in, saying, "What happened? I leave for five minutes!"
For the traditional singalong finale, we tried Toto's "Africa," but that didn't go so well (and why should millennials know a 40-year old pop song word for word?), so the evening closed out with the always reliable "Season of Love" instead.
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In 525,600 minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
Gorgeous voices knew every nuance of this tune and they were singing in the aisle before it ended with a sustained note. There was no way not to feel the love at the Glapcocks tonight.
As far as this whole Sunday night went, I needed that. We needed that.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Let's Eat Grandma
My evening was both punk and posh.
At Plan 9, I saw an exhibit of dozens of old show posters from the '70s and '80s, some of them ratty and torn. Nothing could have been more appropriate.
Besides cataloging former Richmond venues, some I'd never even heard of, the posters were a glimpse into another time.
From NY...Sonic Youth at Rockitz.
The Ramones with Suzy Saxon and the Anglos 5/28 at Cellar Door.
Husker Du at Benny's.
Henry Rollins at Kelly's Club 17.
GWAR at Shafer Court.
From Boston...GangGreen...$1 off with VCU ID...Goo Goo Dolls at Rockitz
As far as getting to the meat of the matter and ending with a touch of civility, nothing beat this show poster:
On Saturday January 3, Honor Role and the Good Guys will blow the fucking doors off of Rockitz
You are invited to attend.
A few flyers had nothing to do with music and everything to do with social issues.
Gun Control, one began before continuing with, "Attention, gunslingers" and went on to outline a surefire method for gun control. Step 1- Pick up your gun. Step 2 - Place the muzzle below the base of your skull behind your ear. Step 3 - Pull the trigger.
We were mincing no words with that one.
Whether you cared about the punk scene in Richmond all those years ago or not, the flyers were a fascinating time capsule of an era when they were all hand drawn and nobody worried about political correctness.
I could only hope to see a flyer these days (not that many actual flyers get posted; everything is done electronically) that promised to blow the fucking doors off a venue.
But life isn't just music and good times. Sometimes, it's about absent commas and misplaced apostrophes.
Back in 2004, I'd been entranced by British author Lynne Truss' book, "Eats Shoots and Leaves." How could I not have fallen hard for her insistence on proper punctuation?
A woman, without her man, is nothing.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
Hell, yes, I'll happily read a 204-page treatise on why punctuation matters. And I had more than once. I'm one of those geeks who thinks it does matter.
Now, lo these years later, Truss was visiting the Fountain Bookstore to read from her new book, "Cat Out of Hell." Unlike "Eats Shoots and Leaves," the new book was fiction but I didn't let that stop me from going to the reading.
She thanked us repeatedly for coming out to hear her on a rainy night, but what better weather to listen to a Brit?
She was a delightful speaker, her blond bob swinging as she spoke and her talk full of the kind of British words we Yanks have long since cast aside for no good reason.
Seaside, mobile, lollys, carpark and keen were only a few of the expressions that came out of her mouth that they still use and we don't. She even felt obligated to define mobile as "cell phone." Sadly, our international reputation is that of a doltish culture.
That said, I'd never heard of Hammer Films until she explained that it was a highly successful British film production company best known for a series of schlocky Gothic "Hammer Horror" films in the '50s, '60s and '70s.
Apparently when the franchise was revived a few years ago, the company also sought to have a publishing division and asked Truss to write the fifth installment in the series. As a big fan of the Gothic novel originals, she'd said yes, eager to explore the concept of cats, those slaves of Satan.
"I loved their structure," she told us. "Things were presented as truth even when they weren't." So it developed that in her new book, the cat of the title speaks to humans, usually with disgust or disdain.
She read three sections to us - "crazy bits" was how she described them - before taking questions from the crowd.
What immediately became clear was that the small audience was made up almost entirely of cat lovers. I'm not sure why they even let me in there.
Practically everyone who raised their hand during the Q & A had a cat of their own anecdote to share. One woman admitted to having 20 cats. Several people cited scientific studies about cats.
One of these things is not like the other and clearly I did not belong in this group.
But before I left, I did ask Truss to sign my copy of "Eats Shoots and Leaves," purchased a decade ago at Fountain Books and well worn from repeated readings. I have to admire a woman who can write an entire book about punctuation and have it make the best seller list.
When I left there, book in hand, it was for a friend's house. She'd invited me over for wine and conversation about our upcoming plans.
Pulling out a bottle of Moet et Chandon Imperial Brut Champagne for the occasion, she poured out two glasses, complimented my shoes and the evening was off to a lovely start.
Over the next few hours, we talked about so many things - where we'd like to travel, how to be better about forgiveness, why being in the fast crowd holds no appeal - while taking tangents to others - women trying to prove they're one of the men, castor oil usage and narcissism.
We're both Geminis so we can ricochet and lob conversational bombs with the greatest of ease.
By the time the bottle and evening were gone, we'd fine-tuned our plans, discussed what happily ever after really means and shared a lot of never-to-be-repeated gossip.
We also concluded which was the correctly punctuated sentence.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
And no, that wasn't the champagne talking, just a couple of Geminis having a good laugh.
At Plan 9, I saw an exhibit of dozens of old show posters from the '70s and '80s, some of them ratty and torn. Nothing could have been more appropriate.
Besides cataloging former Richmond venues, some I'd never even heard of, the posters were a glimpse into another time.
From NY...Sonic Youth at Rockitz.
The Ramones with Suzy Saxon and the Anglos 5/28 at Cellar Door.
Husker Du at Benny's.
Henry Rollins at Kelly's Club 17.
GWAR at Shafer Court.
From Boston...GangGreen...$1 off with VCU ID...Goo Goo Dolls at Rockitz
As far as getting to the meat of the matter and ending with a touch of civility, nothing beat this show poster:
On Saturday January 3, Honor Role and the Good Guys will blow the fucking doors off of Rockitz
You are invited to attend.
A few flyers had nothing to do with music and everything to do with social issues.
Gun Control, one began before continuing with, "Attention, gunslingers" and went on to outline a surefire method for gun control. Step 1- Pick up your gun. Step 2 - Place the muzzle below the base of your skull behind your ear. Step 3 - Pull the trigger.
We were mincing no words with that one.
Whether you cared about the punk scene in Richmond all those years ago or not, the flyers were a fascinating time capsule of an era when they were all hand drawn and nobody worried about political correctness.
I could only hope to see a flyer these days (not that many actual flyers get posted; everything is done electronically) that promised to blow the fucking doors off a venue.
But life isn't just music and good times. Sometimes, it's about absent commas and misplaced apostrophes.
Back in 2004, I'd been entranced by British author Lynne Truss' book, "Eats Shoots and Leaves." How could I not have fallen hard for her insistence on proper punctuation?
A woman, without her man, is nothing.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
Hell, yes, I'll happily read a 204-page treatise on why punctuation matters. And I had more than once. I'm one of those geeks who thinks it does matter.
Now, lo these years later, Truss was visiting the Fountain Bookstore to read from her new book, "Cat Out of Hell." Unlike "Eats Shoots and Leaves," the new book was fiction but I didn't let that stop me from going to the reading.
She thanked us repeatedly for coming out to hear her on a rainy night, but what better weather to listen to a Brit?
She was a delightful speaker, her blond bob swinging as she spoke and her talk full of the kind of British words we Yanks have long since cast aside for no good reason.
Seaside, mobile, lollys, carpark and keen were only a few of the expressions that came out of her mouth that they still use and we don't. She even felt obligated to define mobile as "cell phone." Sadly, our international reputation is that of a doltish culture.
That said, I'd never heard of Hammer Films until she explained that it was a highly successful British film production company best known for a series of schlocky Gothic "Hammer Horror" films in the '50s, '60s and '70s.
Apparently when the franchise was revived a few years ago, the company also sought to have a publishing division and asked Truss to write the fifth installment in the series. As a big fan of the Gothic novel originals, she'd said yes, eager to explore the concept of cats, those slaves of Satan.
"I loved their structure," she told us. "Things were presented as truth even when they weren't." So it developed that in her new book, the cat of the title speaks to humans, usually with disgust or disdain.
She read three sections to us - "crazy bits" was how she described them - before taking questions from the crowd.
What immediately became clear was that the small audience was made up almost entirely of cat lovers. I'm not sure why they even let me in there.
Practically everyone who raised their hand during the Q & A had a cat of their own anecdote to share. One woman admitted to having 20 cats. Several people cited scientific studies about cats.
One of these things is not like the other and clearly I did not belong in this group.
But before I left, I did ask Truss to sign my copy of "Eats Shoots and Leaves," purchased a decade ago at Fountain Books and well worn from repeated readings. I have to admire a woman who can write an entire book about punctuation and have it make the best seller list.
When I left there, book in hand, it was for a friend's house. She'd invited me over for wine and conversation about our upcoming plans.
Pulling out a bottle of Moet et Chandon Imperial Brut Champagne for the occasion, she poured out two glasses, complimented my shoes and the evening was off to a lovely start.
Over the next few hours, we talked about so many things - where we'd like to travel, how to be better about forgiveness, why being in the fast crowd holds no appeal - while taking tangents to others - women trying to prove they're one of the men, castor oil usage and narcissism.
We're both Geminis so we can ricochet and lob conversational bombs with the greatest of ease.
By the time the bottle and evening were gone, we'd fine-tuned our plans, discussed what happily ever after really means and shared a lot of never-to-be-repeated gossip.
We also concluded which was the correctly punctuated sentence.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.
And no, that wasn't the champagne talking, just a couple of Geminis having a good laugh.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Sugar Shopping Overload
Today I was a cliche. With three days until Christmas Eve, I had no choice.
What that means is that after a bracing walk this morning down to Great Shiplock Park, through an almost entirely deserted downtown, I hunkered down to do Christmas baking.
Five hours of it.
Fortunately for me, I was joined by a favorite couple who assisted me with the mixing, baking, icing and decorating of cookies, set to vintage Christmas music spanning 1959 ("Christmas with Conniff") to 2002 ("Maybe This Christmas"). The festive meter was set to 11.
Biggest surprise? The firefighter in the group was a master cookie decorator. His Christmas tree cookies had snow-laden branches, his snowmen had scarves and belts. It was truly artistic work.
Mine, not so much.
Fourteen dozen cookies later, I couldn't wait to escape the oven and leave the house. Unfortunately for me on a Saturday night, duty called so I wasn't leaving to have fun. It was all about the consumerism.
In case you didn't know, I lack several key feminine qualities and one of them is a love of shopping...except for food and books.
Nevertheless, and putting on my cheeriest holiday face, I headed to Carytown to gather ye presents while ye may. I had no choice.
My first stop was Old World Christmas to choose an ornament amongst a crowd of focused-looking shoppers. Things began to look up when I arrived at the counter because behind it was a favorite actor playing a sales clerk.
After paying and his reference to my blog (you never know who reads you), I said goodbye and he asked incredulously, "Did you walk over from Jackson Ward?" Apparently my walking reputation precedes me.
I stopped in Ten Thousand Villages and bought myself a new wallet, not an intended purchase but one long overdue if you saw the state of my current one. You'd think they'd last longer considering how rarely they hold any actual money.
Mongrel was a zoo, but where else can you find such great cards and wrapping paper? As I browsed and tried to stay out of the madding crowd's way, suddenly the sound of glass shattering stopped everyone cold. After a moment's silence, the hustle and bustle returned as everyone went back to the business of spending.
Coming out of Mongrel, I heard my name called and turned to see two wine rep friends also exiting the madhouse. We chatted about the folly of last minute shopping, agreeing that experiences and time were the best gifts (I'd also add to that list words because I like nothing better than for someone to write to me for a present).
"It's better now because we're going to Don't Look Back," she said, practically beaming. Yes, I agreed enthusiastically, tequila and chicken skin tacos do make everything better.
After a stop at Plan 9, I had finished as much shopping as I was going to do tonight. Back on the sidewalk, I ran into another friend, this one a server and wine goddess with an ear for Italian and a beautiful baby in her arms. I hadn't seen her since before she'd had the wee one, so we exchanged holiday pleasantries before going our separate ways.
My consumer duties finally over, I considered stopping for a cup of Can Can's indulgent hot chocolate but a glance through the window at the boring-looking crowd at the bar told me that I didn't really want to deal with that. Even for a bowl of chocolate
Clearly I'm not cut out to be Suzy Homemaker or Sherry Shopper. Happily, after my hard work today, that's all behind me. Now it's time to enjoy Christmas time in the city.
What that means is that after a bracing walk this morning down to Great Shiplock Park, through an almost entirely deserted downtown, I hunkered down to do Christmas baking.
Five hours of it.
Fortunately for me, I was joined by a favorite couple who assisted me with the mixing, baking, icing and decorating of cookies, set to vintage Christmas music spanning 1959 ("Christmas with Conniff") to 2002 ("Maybe This Christmas"). The festive meter was set to 11.
Biggest surprise? The firefighter in the group was a master cookie decorator. His Christmas tree cookies had snow-laden branches, his snowmen had scarves and belts. It was truly artistic work.
Mine, not so much.
Fourteen dozen cookies later, I couldn't wait to escape the oven and leave the house. Unfortunately for me on a Saturday night, duty called so I wasn't leaving to have fun. It was all about the consumerism.
In case you didn't know, I lack several key feminine qualities and one of them is a love of shopping...except for food and books.
Nevertheless, and putting on my cheeriest holiday face, I headed to Carytown to gather ye presents while ye may. I had no choice.
My first stop was Old World Christmas to choose an ornament amongst a crowd of focused-looking shoppers. Things began to look up when I arrived at the counter because behind it was a favorite actor playing a sales clerk.
After paying and his reference to my blog (you never know who reads you), I said goodbye and he asked incredulously, "Did you walk over from Jackson Ward?" Apparently my walking reputation precedes me.
I stopped in Ten Thousand Villages and bought myself a new wallet, not an intended purchase but one long overdue if you saw the state of my current one. You'd think they'd last longer considering how rarely they hold any actual money.
Mongrel was a zoo, but where else can you find such great cards and wrapping paper? As I browsed and tried to stay out of the madding crowd's way, suddenly the sound of glass shattering stopped everyone cold. After a moment's silence, the hustle and bustle returned as everyone went back to the business of spending.
Coming out of Mongrel, I heard my name called and turned to see two wine rep friends also exiting the madhouse. We chatted about the folly of last minute shopping, agreeing that experiences and time were the best gifts (I'd also add to that list words because I like nothing better than for someone to write to me for a present).
"It's better now because we're going to Don't Look Back," she said, practically beaming. Yes, I agreed enthusiastically, tequila and chicken skin tacos do make everything better.
After a stop at Plan 9, I had finished as much shopping as I was going to do tonight. Back on the sidewalk, I ran into another friend, this one a server and wine goddess with an ear for Italian and a beautiful baby in her arms. I hadn't seen her since before she'd had the wee one, so we exchanged holiday pleasantries before going our separate ways.
My consumer duties finally over, I considered stopping for a cup of Can Can's indulgent hot chocolate but a glance through the window at the boring-looking crowd at the bar told me that I didn't really want to deal with that. Even for a bowl of chocolate
Clearly I'm not cut out to be Suzy Homemaker or Sherry Shopper. Happily, after my hard work today, that's all behind me. Now it's time to enjoy Christmas time in the city.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Wishin' and Hopin'
It was enough that it was Record Store Day.
It got even better when Plan 9 announced a live in-store Dusty Springfield tribute at 3:00 with multiple friends playing as part of it.
It got even funnier when one of them announced, "We will be taking roll. And 20% of your final grade as a Richmonder will be based on participation."
Although I hardly need bonus points in that department, I'm also the kind of eager beaver willing to go for extra credit.
Naturally it didn't actually happen at 3, but that's beside the point.
It gave me plenty of time to browse the wax and mingle with assorted record-lovers.
The inimitable Herschel, nattily clad and with his hair neatly parted, led off with his uke, doing a couple of Dusty songs ("Randy Newman wrote that but Dusty sang it") before Paul told him his time was up.
Someone near me commented how self-assured Herschel sings when he's singing anyone's songs but his own. Another said she only came because Herschel was playing.
I may have been in the middle of a Herschel fan club meeting.
To his credit, he opened his ukulele case when he was done and solicited donations to the National Breast Cancer Coalition, in honor of Dusty, who died of breast cancer.
It's just the kind of thoughtful thing Herschel would do.
It took a while for the six musicians to assemble onstage and by then a good-sized crowd had formed in front of all the people browsing the stacks.
Charlane was the first featured singer and she did two classics, "The Look of Love" and "You Don't Own Me."
Ringleader Paul took over vocal duties for "Breakfast in Bed" and "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself," even though he's not the same sex as Dusty.
I guess being ringleader gives you extra privileges.
Next up singing was Christina from Low Branches and I was eager to hear her ethereal voice doing Dusty.
She moved over to the main mic and looked aghast at it, causing Paul to acknowledge, "Yea, I slobbered all over it."
"Gosh, Paul!" she gulped, no doubt appalled at all the spit covering a device she was now expected to use.
"It's rock and roll," he shrugged, leaving her to removed the mic from the stand and hold it a safe distance from her own mouth.
Alas and alack, Paul's outstanding guitar work all but drowned out her vocals on "Some of Your Loving," a fact pointed out by both Charlie and me, but which unfortunately did not improve much for her second song.
Along with the rest of the crowd, I strained hard to hear her do "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" and she got major applause afterwards.
Lindsey of Hot Dolphin closed out the show with a kickin' version of Dusty's "Son of a Preacher Man" (with Paul on a different, less noisy guitar), getting everyone in the crowd grooving along with her.
Paul thanked the audience for coming, noting, "That's the way to celebrate Record Store Day!"
The older black guy in shades and a colorful cap standing behind looked at me and said, "You bet it is!"
And, yes, in the spirit of Record Store Day, I bought myself Miguel's "Kaleidoscope Dreams" because my favorite record collector and Beer Betty, Melissa, had turned me on to new R & B done right.
As far as I'm concerned, I got an A in record Store Day and on 20% of my final grade as a Richmonder.
But just to be sure, I'm going to go out and score some extra credit tonight.
It got even better when Plan 9 announced a live in-store Dusty Springfield tribute at 3:00 with multiple friends playing as part of it.
It got even funnier when one of them announced, "We will be taking roll. And 20% of your final grade as a Richmonder will be based on participation."
Although I hardly need bonus points in that department, I'm also the kind of eager beaver willing to go for extra credit.
Naturally it didn't actually happen at 3, but that's beside the point.
It gave me plenty of time to browse the wax and mingle with assorted record-lovers.
The inimitable Herschel, nattily clad and with his hair neatly parted, led off with his uke, doing a couple of Dusty songs ("Randy Newman wrote that but Dusty sang it") before Paul told him his time was up.
Someone near me commented how self-assured Herschel sings when he's singing anyone's songs but his own. Another said she only came because Herschel was playing.
I may have been in the middle of a Herschel fan club meeting.
To his credit, he opened his ukulele case when he was done and solicited donations to the National Breast Cancer Coalition, in honor of Dusty, who died of breast cancer.
It's just the kind of thoughtful thing Herschel would do.
It took a while for the six musicians to assemble onstage and by then a good-sized crowd had formed in front of all the people browsing the stacks.
Charlane was the first featured singer and she did two classics, "The Look of Love" and "You Don't Own Me."
Ringleader Paul took over vocal duties for "Breakfast in Bed" and "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself," even though he's not the same sex as Dusty.
I guess being ringleader gives you extra privileges.
Next up singing was Christina from Low Branches and I was eager to hear her ethereal voice doing Dusty.
She moved over to the main mic and looked aghast at it, causing Paul to acknowledge, "Yea, I slobbered all over it."
"Gosh, Paul!" she gulped, no doubt appalled at all the spit covering a device she was now expected to use.
"It's rock and roll," he shrugged, leaving her to removed the mic from the stand and hold it a safe distance from her own mouth.
Alas and alack, Paul's outstanding guitar work all but drowned out her vocals on "Some of Your Loving," a fact pointed out by both Charlie and me, but which unfortunately did not improve much for her second song.
Along with the rest of the crowd, I strained hard to hear her do "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" and she got major applause afterwards.
Lindsey of Hot Dolphin closed out the show with a kickin' version of Dusty's "Son of a Preacher Man" (with Paul on a different, less noisy guitar), getting everyone in the crowd grooving along with her.
Paul thanked the audience for coming, noting, "That's the way to celebrate Record Store Day!"
The older black guy in shades and a colorful cap standing behind looked at me and said, "You bet it is!"
And, yes, in the spirit of Record Store Day, I bought myself Miguel's "Kaleidoscope Dreams" because my favorite record collector and Beer Betty, Melissa, had turned me on to new R & B done right.
As far as I'm concerned, I got an A in record Store Day and on 20% of my final grade as a Richmonder.
But just to be sure, I'm going to go out and score some extra credit tonight.
Monday, July 16, 2012
What is the City but the People?
Never let it be said that my tastes aren't diverse.
There's the emo lover in me.
She's the reason I was at Plan 9 for an in-store performance by Derek Evry, a pop/punk musician from Arlington.
Think Jimmy Eat World or even Green Day.
The first half of his set was just him and an acoustic guitar and included a stellar cover of A-ha's "Take on Me."
As my companion noted, "He's brave to do an acoustic cover of this."
And yes, I love No BS Brass band's instrumental cover of the '80s classic, but slowed down and with only acoustic accompaniment, it was a truly beautiful song.
He even got the crowd to join in on the chorus and a surprising number of people did.
Drummer Ben joined him for the second half of the set and it was then that I turned around to see it pouring rain through the open door.
We hadn't heard a drop over the music.
The music got louder and fuller with Ben's drumming and included a song about playing shows ("Tell Everyone") and Derek's comment, "On this one I get to play riffy stuff instead of just rhythm guitar."
You know, riffy stuff. It's a musical term.
Both guys were excellent musicians and despite the volume, sounded terrific.
By the time the music stopped, so had the rain. I picked up a couple of albums and we were off to 821 Cafe for eats.
Although I am devoted to 821's black bean nachos, I went renegade and got the smoked salmon instead.
I thought it would go better with my iced tequila since 821 isn't much of a wine place.
Delivering my plate, my server (a former Sprout favorite) apologized for the absence of pita.
Instead I had wheat toast points, which were a fine vehicle for the enormous slab of smoked salmon, dill cream cheese, capers and red onions on my plate.
Really, it was an appetizer for two and I was only one.
So, nutritional needs met, we moved on to Virginia Repertory Theater at Willow Lawn.
Okay, let's just call a spade a spade: Barksdale.
Tonight was a gender-reversed exploration of "Coriolanus," a Shakespearean tragedy I'd never read, much less seen produced.
Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's will; 'tis strongly wedged up in a blockhead.
The story of a celebrated warrior who refused to exploit his war wounds and victories for political gain was fascinating on a number of levels.
First, there was the A-list female cast playing all the male roles.
Twenty five women and four men.
It's not the odds I'd want in the real world, but onstage for Shakespeare, it made for a singularly distinctive theater experience.
He is a lion that I am proud to hunt.
Susan Sanford was commanding and funny in the tile role, much as she was "Spring Awakening," which I'd seen for the second time yesterday.
Having seen her perform and enjoy herself at the Ghost Light Afterparty several times now, I had to laugh out loud when her line was, "Have we no wine here?"
Her occasional "huh?" added contemporary touches to her couplets.
But then so did the cell phone exchange between her and her enemy.
Let her alone, lady, as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.
The story of a disgruntled people who cast out their warrior leader because of the way he treats them had particular resonance during this, an election year.
No Shakespearean tragedy is short, but the pacing on this one kept things moving and never lagged for a moment.
Before I knew it, Coriolanus had been victorious, dumped by his people, embraced his enemy (Molly Hood, as always strong, as Aufidius) and won back over by his tearful mother (a magnificent Alan Sader as Volumnia).
For certain, drops of salt have always been part of a woman's arsenal.
I know; I grew up with five sisters.
So, while I've seen some first class female drama in my lifetime, last night's was right up there.
I can only hope that director BC Maupin continues to charge ahead with his intent to produce the Bard's entire canon with gender-reversed explorations.
Count me in for watching girls take over boy parts.
You can take that any way you like.
The evening ended with music at Balliceaux because after great tragedy, I needed a little Brazilica.
Amazingly, I got world class stuff with Quarteto Olinda, four Brazilian guys on their first tour of the U.S.
That's right; they'd payed the Kennedy Center and Lincoln Center and now they were in Richmond.
I won't even bore you with my usual "is this a great town or what?" lecture, but there it is.
Kudos to the Virginia Center for Latin American Art for sponsoring the event.
The group's music, forro de rabeca, is based on the Brazilian folk fiddle, which I was surprised to see is played not on the shoulder and under the chin, but from just in front of the armpit.
And tonight it was played by Claudio in a vibrant orange flowered shirt, singing in Portuguese and moving his hips most seductively.
My partner in crime and I got our cold beverages and took seats on the back of the second booth so as to see all the dancing and the energetic band.
The four piece had that fiddle, a drummer, percussionist and, most surprisingly, an electric bass.
The percussion was zydeco-like and all four musicians traded vocals which were almost like chants.
And the crowd responded by dancing up a storm.
Toward the end, pairs of dancers would lock hands and other couples would dance through the "tower" of their arms.
After that, boys lined up on one side and girls on another, and people danced through the middle, Soul-Train-like.
The best way I can describe it is to say I felt like I was at a Brazilian hoedown.
I especially liked a song called "Carolina" maybe because I could imagine them singing "Karina" instead.
But at the end of their exuberant second set, it was time to bring the party to a close.
Reading phonetically from a piece of paper, bandleader Claudio said, "This is the last song. Thank you very much.We will see you next time."
But they gave that last song their all, blending traditional, rural Brazilian music with the unmistakable strains of "Eleanor Rigby" throughout.
Frickin' brilliant.
It was a closing masterpiece that put an exclamation point to a day that began with exuberant emo, fought its way through an estrogen-soaked tragedy and spit us out on the other end with a Brazilian dance party.
And all without having to disease my better mirth by driving to the Kennedy Center.
What blockhead wouldn't take advantage of such a smorgasbord on a Sunday night?
There's the emo lover in me.
She's the reason I was at Plan 9 for an in-store performance by Derek Evry, a pop/punk musician from Arlington.
Think Jimmy Eat World or even Green Day.
The first half of his set was just him and an acoustic guitar and included a stellar cover of A-ha's "Take on Me."
As my companion noted, "He's brave to do an acoustic cover of this."
And yes, I love No BS Brass band's instrumental cover of the '80s classic, but slowed down and with only acoustic accompaniment, it was a truly beautiful song.
He even got the crowd to join in on the chorus and a surprising number of people did.
Drummer Ben joined him for the second half of the set and it was then that I turned around to see it pouring rain through the open door.
We hadn't heard a drop over the music.
The music got louder and fuller with Ben's drumming and included a song about playing shows ("Tell Everyone") and Derek's comment, "On this one I get to play riffy stuff instead of just rhythm guitar."
You know, riffy stuff. It's a musical term.
Both guys were excellent musicians and despite the volume, sounded terrific.
By the time the music stopped, so had the rain. I picked up a couple of albums and we were off to 821 Cafe for eats.
Although I am devoted to 821's black bean nachos, I went renegade and got the smoked salmon instead.
I thought it would go better with my iced tequila since 821 isn't much of a wine place.
Delivering my plate, my server (a former Sprout favorite) apologized for the absence of pita.
Instead I had wheat toast points, which were a fine vehicle for the enormous slab of smoked salmon, dill cream cheese, capers and red onions on my plate.
Really, it was an appetizer for two and I was only one.
So, nutritional needs met, we moved on to Virginia Repertory Theater at Willow Lawn.
Okay, let's just call a spade a spade: Barksdale.
Tonight was a gender-reversed exploration of "Coriolanus," a Shakespearean tragedy I'd never read, much less seen produced.
Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's will; 'tis strongly wedged up in a blockhead.
The story of a celebrated warrior who refused to exploit his war wounds and victories for political gain was fascinating on a number of levels.
First, there was the A-list female cast playing all the male roles.
Twenty five women and four men.
It's not the odds I'd want in the real world, but onstage for Shakespeare, it made for a singularly distinctive theater experience.
He is a lion that I am proud to hunt.
Susan Sanford was commanding and funny in the tile role, much as she was "Spring Awakening," which I'd seen for the second time yesterday.
Having seen her perform and enjoy herself at the Ghost Light Afterparty several times now, I had to laugh out loud when her line was, "Have we no wine here?"
Her occasional "huh?" added contemporary touches to her couplets.
But then so did the cell phone exchange between her and her enemy.
Let her alone, lady, as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.
The story of a disgruntled people who cast out their warrior leader because of the way he treats them had particular resonance during this, an election year.
No Shakespearean tragedy is short, but the pacing on this one kept things moving and never lagged for a moment.
Before I knew it, Coriolanus had been victorious, dumped by his people, embraced his enemy (Molly Hood, as always strong, as Aufidius) and won back over by his tearful mother (a magnificent Alan Sader as Volumnia).
For certain, drops of salt have always been part of a woman's arsenal.
I know; I grew up with five sisters.
So, while I've seen some first class female drama in my lifetime, last night's was right up there.
I can only hope that director BC Maupin continues to charge ahead with his intent to produce the Bard's entire canon with gender-reversed explorations.
Count me in for watching girls take over boy parts.
You can take that any way you like.
The evening ended with music at Balliceaux because after great tragedy, I needed a little Brazilica.
Amazingly, I got world class stuff with Quarteto Olinda, four Brazilian guys on their first tour of the U.S.
That's right; they'd payed the Kennedy Center and Lincoln Center and now they were in Richmond.
I won't even bore you with my usual "is this a great town or what?" lecture, but there it is.
Kudos to the Virginia Center for Latin American Art for sponsoring the event.
The group's music, forro de rabeca, is based on the Brazilian folk fiddle, which I was surprised to see is played not on the shoulder and under the chin, but from just in front of the armpit.
And tonight it was played by Claudio in a vibrant orange flowered shirt, singing in Portuguese and moving his hips most seductively.
My partner in crime and I got our cold beverages and took seats on the back of the second booth so as to see all the dancing and the energetic band.
The four piece had that fiddle, a drummer, percussionist and, most surprisingly, an electric bass.
The percussion was zydeco-like and all four musicians traded vocals which were almost like chants.
And the crowd responded by dancing up a storm.
Toward the end, pairs of dancers would lock hands and other couples would dance through the "tower" of their arms.
After that, boys lined up on one side and girls on another, and people danced through the middle, Soul-Train-like.
The best way I can describe it is to say I felt like I was at a Brazilian hoedown.
I especially liked a song called "Carolina" maybe because I could imagine them singing "Karina" instead.
But at the end of their exuberant second set, it was time to bring the party to a close.
Reading phonetically from a piece of paper, bandleader Claudio said, "This is the last song. Thank you very much.We will see you next time."
But they gave that last song their all, blending traditional, rural Brazilian music with the unmistakable strains of "Eleanor Rigby" throughout.
Frickin' brilliant.
It was a closing masterpiece that put an exclamation point to a day that began with exuberant emo, fought its way through an estrogen-soaked tragedy and spit us out on the other end with a Brazilian dance party.
And all without having to disease my better mirth by driving to the Kennedy Center.
What blockhead wouldn't take advantage of such a smorgasbord on a Sunday night?
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Rousing the Gorgeous
If there's one way to pre-game for National Poetry Month, it's with chicken skin.
Follow me here: chicken skin is an indulgent, all-too-infrequent pleasure. Much the way poetry is.
So scoring them both in the same afternoon makes for a rare indulgence.
And while I was anticipating the poetry, the chicken skin was an unexpected delight.
At this morning's pancake breakfast, my favorite cellist had asked if I'd been to Don't Look Back yet (I think he wanted a recommendation).
I hadn't, but with plans to go to a reading in Carytown this afternoon, it immediately became part of my plan.
Does that make me easy to influence?
Nate's Frito pie is, in my considered opinion, a distinct guilty pleasure, so I wanted to see what he was cooking up since relocating from Jackson Ward to Carytown.
The transition was easier than I expected; behind the bar was a friendly face from Comfort, mere blocks from my house.
You can take the people out of J-Ward, but happily you can't take the J-Ward out of the people.
Just for the record, I did look at the menu, but once I saw the chalkboard specials, my decision was made.
I ordered one chicken skin taco and one carne adovada taco, opting for the traditional preparation (cilantro, onion, and lime) on double-wrapped corn tortillas for both.
One bite of the chicken skin taco and I was telling a stranger that he had to order one, too.
It was his first time at DLB, so I figured I was helping. And he believed me and ordered one.
Following that crispy goodness, I dug into my long-marinated pork in a sweet adovada sauce and savored its completely different but equally as satisfying flavors.
When my protege's chicken skin taco arrived, he took a bite and gave me a slight bow of the head.
"God, you were right," he rhapsodized, closing his eyes briefly.
It's hard to be wrong about chicken skin.
A neighbor once invited me to lunch and cooked chicken skin in hopes of convincing me to date him (it didn't work but the skin was magnificent, crispy and salty).
With my belly full, I moseyed down to Plan 9 for Record Store Day.
The Garbers were setting up to play, I saw friends everywhere but made a beeline for the "Yard Sale LPs- $1-$2."
Flipping through the selection, they were all very much of an era and genre.
Maybe even the same yard sale.
Lou Rawls, Kool & the Gang, Teena Marie, Quincy Jones, Prince, The Time, Natalie Cole, Al Jarreau, George Benson, Weather Report, Santana.
Ah, yes, that period.
After food and music, it was time for poetry to soothe my savage beast. More accurately, I wanted to be read to.
As our hostess mentioned, Chop Suey's upstairs gallery provides a similar atmosphere to a living room tour, intimate and welcoming.
Every seat was taken and people stood in the doorway to hear Angela Vogel and Catherine MacDonald read from their award-winning first books.
Vogel's strength was her mastery of language; her ability at wordplay (puns, juxtapositions and innuendo) was mesmerizing.
It extended to the title of her book, "Fort Gorgeous."
"Wendy Grown" she described as using the voice of an adult Wendy Darling (from Peter Pan) to bitch about men.
Her humor came through in "Medicine Chest" about a guy who left his dogs with her family only to go off and rob a bank.
On the plus side, he did loan her family $1,000 of his loot.
As a wedding gift, she'd written "Poem for Your Wedding" with the line, "We pad into wedlock, unsure of the combination."
Afterwards, she observed, "Come to think of it, that's not a very good poem to give to people getting married."
In "The Claw" she begins, "Swinger, come hither. You'll shut my claptrap. You'll pound my sand" and ends with, "Love, I've got the teeth for it."
Teeth help a lot.
Truly poetry for the language nerd contingent, of which I proudly consider myself a card-carrying member.
And you know you're among other poetry geeks by the head-nodding that follows each poem.
The only thing that would have been better is if the crowd had snapped their fingers in appreciation of what we were hearing.
She was followed by Catherine MacDonald, whose "Rousing the Machinery" dealt with the poet's interior life.
She said she intended to read from her book and then do some new poems.
"Like most poets, I'm completely enamored of my new poems because no one's yet told me that they suck."
In "Unreliable Narrator," I found our common ground when she read, "I am someone who remembers what you forgot to say."
I am that person, too.
The poem after which her book is named began with a line from William Blake and a few Blake jokes that got the kind of laughs that only a poetry-loving audience could deliver.
Her imagery was evocative, as in "Lida at Work in the World," where she wrote, "Its mate in wild orbit nearby."
Several poems dealt with the imaginary travel that she does, like "Untidy Geographies" about her sister's years living in China.
"Russian Studies" was about her Russian History teacher, explaining, "At ten paces, you can't hear our words."
MacDonald finished with three new works referencing her middle class domestic life and the early non-fiction design writings of socialite/novelist Edith Wharton.
Sigh. Poets reading by an open window on a spring afternoon.
Linguistic acrobatics, Wharton and Blake on the same day as chicken skin.
Cue head nodding and finger snapping.
Follow me here: chicken skin is an indulgent, all-too-infrequent pleasure. Much the way poetry is.
So scoring them both in the same afternoon makes for a rare indulgence.
And while I was anticipating the poetry, the chicken skin was an unexpected delight.
At this morning's pancake breakfast, my favorite cellist had asked if I'd been to Don't Look Back yet (I think he wanted a recommendation).
I hadn't, but with plans to go to a reading in Carytown this afternoon, it immediately became part of my plan.
Does that make me easy to influence?
Nate's Frito pie is, in my considered opinion, a distinct guilty pleasure, so I wanted to see what he was cooking up since relocating from Jackson Ward to Carytown.
The transition was easier than I expected; behind the bar was a friendly face from Comfort, mere blocks from my house.
You can take the people out of J-Ward, but happily you can't take the J-Ward out of the people.
Just for the record, I did look at the menu, but once I saw the chalkboard specials, my decision was made.
I ordered one chicken skin taco and one carne adovada taco, opting for the traditional preparation (cilantro, onion, and lime) on double-wrapped corn tortillas for both.
One bite of the chicken skin taco and I was telling a stranger that he had to order one, too.
It was his first time at DLB, so I figured I was helping. And he believed me and ordered one.
Following that crispy goodness, I dug into my long-marinated pork in a sweet adovada sauce and savored its completely different but equally as satisfying flavors.
When my protege's chicken skin taco arrived, he took a bite and gave me a slight bow of the head.
"God, you were right," he rhapsodized, closing his eyes briefly.
It's hard to be wrong about chicken skin.
A neighbor once invited me to lunch and cooked chicken skin in hopes of convincing me to date him (it didn't work but the skin was magnificent, crispy and salty).
With my belly full, I moseyed down to Plan 9 for Record Store Day.
The Garbers were setting up to play, I saw friends everywhere but made a beeline for the "Yard Sale LPs- $1-$2."
Flipping through the selection, they were all very much of an era and genre.
Maybe even the same yard sale.
Lou Rawls, Kool & the Gang, Teena Marie, Quincy Jones, Prince, The Time, Natalie Cole, Al Jarreau, George Benson, Weather Report, Santana.
Ah, yes, that period.
After food and music, it was time for poetry to soothe my savage beast. More accurately, I wanted to be read to.
As our hostess mentioned, Chop Suey's upstairs gallery provides a similar atmosphere to a living room tour, intimate and welcoming.
Every seat was taken and people stood in the doorway to hear Angela Vogel and Catherine MacDonald read from their award-winning first books.
Vogel's strength was her mastery of language; her ability at wordplay (puns, juxtapositions and innuendo) was mesmerizing.
It extended to the title of her book, "Fort Gorgeous."
"Wendy Grown" she described as using the voice of an adult Wendy Darling (from Peter Pan) to bitch about men.
Her humor came through in "Medicine Chest" about a guy who left his dogs with her family only to go off and rob a bank.
On the plus side, he did loan her family $1,000 of his loot.
As a wedding gift, she'd written "Poem for Your Wedding" with the line, "We pad into wedlock, unsure of the combination."
Afterwards, she observed, "Come to think of it, that's not a very good poem to give to people getting married."
In "The Claw" she begins, "Swinger, come hither. You'll shut my claptrap. You'll pound my sand" and ends with, "Love, I've got the teeth for it."
Teeth help a lot.
Truly poetry for the language nerd contingent, of which I proudly consider myself a card-carrying member.
And you know you're among other poetry geeks by the head-nodding that follows each poem.
The only thing that would have been better is if the crowd had snapped their fingers in appreciation of what we were hearing.
She was followed by Catherine MacDonald, whose "Rousing the Machinery" dealt with the poet's interior life.
She said she intended to read from her book and then do some new poems.
"Like most poets, I'm completely enamored of my new poems because no one's yet told me that they suck."
In "Unreliable Narrator," I found our common ground when she read, "I am someone who remembers what you forgot to say."
I am that person, too.
The poem after which her book is named began with a line from William Blake and a few Blake jokes that got the kind of laughs that only a poetry-loving audience could deliver.
Her imagery was evocative, as in "Lida at Work in the World," where she wrote, "Its mate in wild orbit nearby."
Several poems dealt with the imaginary travel that she does, like "Untidy Geographies" about her sister's years living in China.
"Russian Studies" was about her Russian History teacher, explaining, "At ten paces, you can't hear our words."
MacDonald finished with three new works referencing her middle class domestic life and the early non-fiction design writings of socialite/novelist Edith Wharton.
Sigh. Poets reading by an open window on a spring afternoon.
Linguistic acrobatics, Wharton and Blake on the same day as chicken skin.
Cue head nodding and finger snapping.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Give Me This Charming Man over a Sharp-Dressed Man
It's not often I see the No BS Brass Band playing in a place that doesn't serve alcohol. But then, Record Day only comes once a year.
I was thrilled to see how busy Plan 9 was when I arrived under my umbrella not long before noon. The crowd around the "yard sale" used CDs was tight, but I squeezed in so I could scope out any possibilities. I saw a number of 90s CDs I already own (Matthew Sweet, Jesus Jones, Del Amitri) and I few laugh-out-loud titles.
Garfield's "Am I Cool or What?" was just kind of pathetic and Tommy Roe's "Greatest Hits" laughable, but the one that got me thinking was an 80s hits compilation. Looking at the songs on it, they swung from the Smiths' "This Charming Man" to ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man." No wonder it was such a messed-up decade.
No BS took the stage not long after I walked in and they were terrific accompaniment as I perused the vintage jazz records, finding a few that will make someone very happy (like Miles Davis live at the 1969 Antibes Jazz Festival). Plus there are always interesting guys flipping through jazz LPs,should when I want some conversation.
As I was paying, I was surprised to hear a couple of people asking who the band playing was. I would have thought that by now everyone knows who No BS is. Not so.
Considering the staggering frequency with which they play out, people would almost have to be living under a rock not to at least know of them if they're music lovers (presumably the sort in Plan 9 on Record Store Day). Not to mention that the band all wear shirts that say "No BS Brass Band."
After an hour and a half of Record Store Day madness, I strolled down to Chop Suey, record purchases in hand, to see the new photography show in their gallery, "Fulton Gas Works: An Industrial Relic" by Adrianna Gallo.
The colorful photographs of the decaying and abandoned building both inside and out were a fascinating look inside a place I'll likely never see. From the abundance of graffiti all over the walls of the place, though, it was obvious that others are not so hesitant to investigate this relic of a bygone era.
As is typical when I see interesting art, I was sorely tempted to buy one of the more haunting photographs in the show. I still may if I can gather a few more rationalizations to do so, considering I have two more pieces of art in the pipeline already.
Normal girls buy clothes, jewelry or shoes, but I buy local art. Someday they're going to take my girl credentials away from me entirely for not properly utilizing my XX chromosomes.
But first they'll have to find me at whatever music show, play or art opening I'm attending. And I move around a lot.
Catch me if you can, Girl Police.
I was thrilled to see how busy Plan 9 was when I arrived under my umbrella not long before noon. The crowd around the "yard sale" used CDs was tight, but I squeezed in so I could scope out any possibilities. I saw a number of 90s CDs I already own (Matthew Sweet, Jesus Jones, Del Amitri) and I few laugh-out-loud titles.
Garfield's "Am I Cool or What?" was just kind of pathetic and Tommy Roe's "Greatest Hits" laughable, but the one that got me thinking was an 80s hits compilation. Looking at the songs on it, they swung from the Smiths' "This Charming Man" to ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man." No wonder it was such a messed-up decade.
No BS took the stage not long after I walked in and they were terrific accompaniment as I perused the vintage jazz records, finding a few that will make someone very happy (like Miles Davis live at the 1969 Antibes Jazz Festival). Plus there are always interesting guys flipping through jazz LPs,
As I was paying, I was surprised to hear a couple of people asking who the band playing was. I would have thought that by now everyone knows who No BS is. Not so.
Considering the staggering frequency with which they play out, people would almost have to be living under a rock not to at least know of them if they're music lovers (presumably the sort in Plan 9 on Record Store Day). Not to mention that the band all wear shirts that say "No BS Brass Band."
After an hour and a half of Record Store Day madness, I strolled down to Chop Suey, record purchases in hand, to see the new photography show in their gallery, "Fulton Gas Works: An Industrial Relic" by Adrianna Gallo.
The colorful photographs of the decaying and abandoned building both inside and out were a fascinating look inside a place I'll likely never see. From the abundance of graffiti all over the walls of the place, though, it was obvious that others are not so hesitant to investigate this relic of a bygone era.
As is typical when I see interesting art, I was sorely tempted to buy one of the more haunting photographs in the show. I still may if I can gather a few more rationalizations to do so, considering I have two more pieces of art in the pipeline already.
Normal girls buy clothes, jewelry or shoes, but I buy local art. Someday they're going to take my girl credentials away from me entirely for not properly utilizing my XX chromosomes.
But first they'll have to find me at whatever music show, play or art opening I'm attending. And I move around a lot.
Catch me if you can, Girl Police.
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