The Way You Remember Me

How long 'till we learn dancing is dangerous?
How long 'till we find the devil inside of us?
How high is too low?
We're not that young*
So we're never going to stop

*Mind you, written and sung by a man of indeterminate age, so his notion of "youth" may be suspect.

I bought my ticket for St. Lucia at the National six weeks ago, but only found a worthy date for it a few days ago. In the meantime, the only other St. Lucia fan I know had commented that while the new album "Matter" wasn't quite as good as the first (because how many are?), there were more than a few terrific songs.

My first listen uncovered "Dancing on Glass," the Prince-titled "Game 4 You," the driving (and vaguely Christopher Cross-inflected) "Winds of Change" and the slow jam "Love Someone," meaning I now had even more reasons to look forward to this show.

We stopped at Rapp Session for Old Saltes and bluefish dip accompanied by sparkling Rose while the duo next to us nattered over why a friend had managed to pull down the towel racks and shower curtain while staying in their home.

"What could you be doing in a bathroom that would pull things off the wall?" she wondered aloud. Sex was my guess but I was told to shush.

Our time at Rapp Session was limited by needing to get a ticket for my companion at the National's box office, which required navigating the hustle and bustle of crowds on their way to eat before the Richmond Symphony season opener with Itzhak Perlman, resulting in blue hairs crowding every restaurant we passed.

But once that was accomplished, we were free to adjourn to Vagabond, where sparkling Rose and a massive ancho cocoa-smoked lamb shoulder tostada with chimichurri aioli and a flurry of Manchego on top finished off our appetites with lamb-be-cue worthy of the State Fair.

Arriving at the National shortly after Sofi Tukker (that's Sofi and Tukker, a duo) began their set, I overheard a guy refer to Tukker's hair as "Very Split Enz," while we all know that no one has hair with quite the swoop of Split Enz.

We heard songs in Portuguese, songs sung to recorded tracks (karaoke?) and praise when the audience followed instructions to do hand gestures to a song.

"We haven't had that much participation since we were in Latvia and no, that's not a punchline!" Tukker said from the stage.

I'm not gonna lie, I've been an unabashed fan of St. Lucia's debut album "When the Night" since I first heard it in 2013 and for years kept it in my car as quality back-up emergency music when I hadn't time to select fresh road trip soundtracks.

Fact: when you're on cruise control to the Northern Neck or Outer Banks, sometimes nothing but synth and danceable percussion will do.

After a couple of songs from the new album, the crowd roared when they launched into "Closer Than This," but I couldn't have been the only one noticing singer Jean-Philip Grobler's indebtedness to, say, George Michael.

I especially loved the wind effect that defined his performance, as his hair and black and white patterned shirt were blown constantly, as if he were starring in a cheesy '80s video, which, for all I know, he may have wished he was. He certainly wouldn't be the first.

He certainly had no fear of walking through the crowd, eventually making it back to the area in front of the sound booth where we stood and watched him high-five any number of dizzy fans.

Come to think of it, the percussionist bore a fair resemblance to John Oates in a sleeveless t-shirt and sweat pants tapered at the ankle, his shirt also billowing from an unseen fan.

Oh, if it were only that easy to revive that era.

Interestingly enough, I saw not a soul I know, a rarity for a show at the National, so I can only assume that my passion for '80s synth music-influenced bands with singers from South Africa is not one shared by my friends.

Happily, I only needed one, difficult as he may be. I'd be the first to admit that dancing can be dangerous but how high is too low?

I aim to find out.

Life, Better than a Reproduction Lecture

I am completely unable to ignore the man who first informed me - before I knew it myself - that I was a hopeless romantic.

Oh, I was flattered when I heard from the west coast, "Oh, shoot, is this the end of the blog? Say it ain't so...xo," but I was, alas, so much busier with work and a decided uptick in my social life that I had to let go of something.

I certainly wasn't about to let go of things like a poetry reading at Scott House, with verse dedicated to topics such as nosebleeds, elk offal, pyre-building and gray scum (Gregory Kimbrell's first reading from his completely disarming and disturbing new book of poems, "The Primitive Observatory") or Allison Titus' elegiac space rock poems about fireflies lamping the back yard.

As a result, I decided to use my usual blogging time for fun so I didn't have to miss out on anything like the screening of "Labyrinth" at Hardywood (my first viewing of the Bowie/Jim Henson classic) or an afternoon under the spell of K Dance's "Shorts," with works by Tennessee Williams, Suzan-Lori Parks and Shel Silverstein.

With no obligation to keep track of my comings and goings, I left town for three days, taking long walks in unfamiliar places, doing a lot of reading and savoring the lobster roll my critic friend recommended. When I got back, it was to an unexpected message, letting me know of the sender's "continuing appreciation for what you do to show a strong, smart, engaged approach to living."

There are people reading me who get that? Praise the lord and pass the biscuits.

Right, and there was that time I went to the new Early Bird Biscuit and shared my biscuit and blackberry jam with a homeless man who called me kind for doing so. I would call the person who wrote that to me kind as well.

When the French Film Festival hit town, Pru and I set out to get our yearly Francophile fix, except that what she really wanted to discuss for those three days was not cineastes but my absence in the blogging sphere, having been immediately suspicious when I'd stopped.

Over dinner at Secco one day, Amour Wine Bistro another and Bistro Bobette a third, she tried to get me back in writing mode. "All these amusing things I've been saying and no one's writing them down for posterity!" she lamented.

Days later, I get a message from her. "It looks like your radishes are growing fat instead of pithy at present...hmmmm." After much back and forth about my personal life, she offered advice not printable in a  family blog...or this one. Her summation? "Get out there and get pithy!"

Can I not be pithy without blogging?

Perhaps I'm too busy flaunting my D.C. roots with a James River Film Fest screening of "S.E. 67," a documentary about a group of Southeast Washington kids offered free college educations back in the '80s. I sign a petition to save the Enid Haupt Gardens in D.C., aghast that their demolition is even being considered.

There's a show and dance party at Studio 23 of go-go posters from the '70s and '80s (the graphic style instantly recognizable because I grew up seeing them everywhere), along with two DJs playing nothing but go-go, something that rarely happens outside D.C.

I have a ball dancing, talking to fellow go-go fans and even to a guy who'd attended one of the shows advertised in the poster. I overheard so many fascinating conversations and shared none of them.

Not having to blog meant plenty of time for dinner at the ever-fabulous Acacia (duck heart salad with strawberries, my, oh my and squid ink pasta with clams) before seeing Quill Theater's "King Lear" and repairing to Can-Can for Shakespeare discussion among the Saturday night divorcee crowd.

Did anyone really need to hear my thoughts on the new bands I've been seeing lately? The new Scott Clark Trio, for instance, or Microwave's soulful sounds at Cary Street? Zomes at Steady Sounds or the killer chops of Ralston, Parker, Fonville at Balliceaux? Probably not.

I have taken epic walks with my new walking partners, shared an unexpected brunch with an attentive artist and gone to a late night screening of a movie about wine, "Premiere Cru." At the Valentine's final Community Conversation, I enthusiastically discussed Richmond's public spaces with strangers and people of opposing opinions.

If anyone actually cares that I saw the cult 1986 documentary "Heavy Metal Parking Lot," I'd be thrilled to hear from them. Personally, it was a kick seeing all those skinny kids in the Capital Centre parking lot, the scene of most of my concerts for the first 8 or 10 years of my concert-going life.

Paul McCartney, Elton John, Cher, the Who, Fleetwood Mac, Diana Ross, the Beach Boys, Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith, all revealed themselves to me for the first time at ye old Cap Centre, but at this screening, I got the bonus of seeing the building's implosion, something I'd missed, having moved to Richmond  by then.

But who cares?

And does anyone really want to know that I've been to Merroir twice in recent weeks, along with Metzger, Pizza Tonight, My Noodle and Bar (I'm besotted with the decor) and the Roosevelt for a wine dinner with Chatham Vineyards, their delightful and voluble winemaker seated at our table? Probably not.

When it was last minute company I needed, I found it with an empathetic friend at Sabai for dinner and the Broadberry for a DJ out of Phoenix who took the stage at midnight after two others and melted our faces off with European beats.

Walking out of Richmond Ballet's Studio 3 series after being gobsmacked seeing "The Rite of Spring" and a world premiere of Mark Annear's "City Life," I run into the mustached scientist, whom I haven't seen in eons.

"Well, that was better than a reproduction lecture,' he observes in his usual deadpan, referring to the class he should have been teaching while he was instead watching dance.

Just before I get ready to leave the house Sunday, my trusty land line rings and it's the college friend who now resides in Key West, calling to check on me for the simple reason that I haven't blogged in a few weeks. Am I okay, how's my love life, how can anyone, friend or foe, be expected to match my energy level?

Although it sounds like typical friend phone conversation, you have to understand that we don't talk on the phone. Or if we do, there are years in between conversations. Clearly, he must have been worried and we can't have that.

After all, he's the one who advised me back in 2009 when my life was in shambles that, "Loneliness and regret are mean friends and piss poor mates."

I'm working on having none of either, thank you very much. So the blog is back, in some fashion or another, probably a less revealing one so more of my business is my own. How's that for pithy?

Say it ain't so.

Dance Little Moo-Cow, Dance

Some people have a sweets addiction, meaning they'll never make it in the ballet world.

After a good-sized meal in service of my hired mouth, the two of us went off in search of just the right thing to finish off our palates, landing at Zosaro's Bakery over on Northside and walking in at an opportune moment.

The baker had been there for over eleven hours at that point, so she was tired and ready to close down shop within the hour. My companion immediately ordered two hazelnut-filled beignets while I dithered over my selection.

What exactly was Australian mud cake?

Assuring me that it was the silkiest chocolate cake I'd ever put in my mouth topped by rich chocolate ganache, she pulled the remaining square out of the case while I was still ogling the chocolate eclairs. "I'll throw in the eclair," she said generously. "Otherwise I'll take it home and eat it."

Better my hips than hers, she seemed to be saying.

In our defense, we didn't finish all the mud cake, but the other three were soon history.

And while our plan had been to park the car at my house and walk to the Ballet, we'd lingered so long over our sweets that we ran out of time to walk in the rain. Neither of us was willing to risk missing even a minute of tonight's Studio Two performance.

Up first was Stoner Winslet's "Echoing Past," made bittersweet by the fact that it's dancer Lauren Fagone's farewell performance after 14 years. I've seen her dance so many roles as such an integral part of this company that it'll be tough to imagine it without her.

As if that wasn't enough reason to tug on our heartstrings, pianist Joanna Kong accompanied the piece in a beautifully poetic way as the dance traced the stages of a woman's life. Dancers moved in and out as sort of visual memories as she looked back on it all.

I have a feeling a dance tracing my life stages would have looked a bit more chaotic.

During an intermission that involved some decidedly older people climbing over us and trying to crack wise about it ("Don't mind my big feet" from a woman the size of a sparrow), we talked about how incredibly muscular and slender the dancers were.

I mean, you could count ribs. It was obvious they didn't gorge at bakeries before shows like some of us did.

Next came visiting choreographer Edgar Zendejas' "Realms of Amber," a very different kind of work.

I knew from seeing a rehearsal as the piece was being worked up that it was about the strength of female energy set to Russian monks chanting - now there's a contrast - and we both agreed that the instrument-less music was out of this world, utterly enchanting.

But given the bare-chested male dancers glistening with sweat, the dance came across as very masculine despite the females involved. But it was beautifully choreographed and given what a talented bunch the Richmond Ballet dancers are, it was a thrill to watch the visceral and balletic movements executed so finely.

Unlike "Echos," there was little sense of a narrative, but who cares when admiring fine male forms?

Afterwards, we talked about why we like dance so much, attributing it in part to both of us taking lessons as a child. But we're not talking the kind of lessons offered by the School of the Richmond Ballet, let  me assure you.

I did three years of ballet and tap at Miss Rita's School of Dance, which was located in Miss Rita's cinder block basement painted blue with mirrors on one wall. Shuffle, hop, step.

Miss Rita was known to conduct class with a cigarette hanging out of one side of her mouth, not always, but often enough that that's my main memory of her after the one of my light blue tutu worn at the final recital.

Life-changing as all that sounds, my friend trumped me in spades.

Seems she'd gone to the only dance studio in Gordonsville, conveniently located in a room in the town livestock building. "That's right, during class we could hear the cows lowing in the next room," she tells me of her many years of ballet, tap and jazz instruction.

There was the year she danced to that classic, Three Dog Night's "One (is the loneliest number)" for her final recital. Tap was her favorite and one year, her Mom was helping out taking tickets at a recital and even joined the kick line.

I got nothing to compare to that.

Our dancing backgrounds matter not, because as she put it while we downed half the bakery's offerings, "If I had to give up sweets or alcohol, I'd have to lose the booze."

Go ahead and throw in another eclair. No one's ever going to be able to count our ribs.

Always Second Choice

It's like I'm living at the beach.

Because all my windows are open, the warm, humid air outside keeps rolling into my apartment, the result being that every floor, every wall, every mirror and window is glistening. A wacky breeze periodically rattles the shades.

Everything looks and feels damp, not that there's anything wrong with that. My hair has given up.

Walking back through Carver yesterday, I encountered two guys standing under an open garage door, arms crossed, enjoying the warmth of a gray, rainy day. But when I said it felt beachy, one guy disagreed. "It's a few months too late for the beach," he says. I'm not that picky.

Anytime is a good beach time to me.

I'm pickier about movies, so while the rest of the world is busy seeing "Star Wars," I saw "Spotlight," a well-acted film based on true events that showed the actual work of tracking a news story and not just a Hollywood scratch-at-the-surface take on the often-grueling work.

Says the woman who's never been any sort of investigative journalist.

This week is already feeling like a blur, let's see, there was Richmond Ballet's "Nutcracker," resplendent with fresh costumes I didn't recognize, a glamorous new sleigh and at least a couple of sets I don't recall ever seeing. The overall effect was lovely and succinct, touching down at two hours including intermission.

Out on the sidewalk at 4:00, we navigated treacherous puddles to set our sights on Castanea for a nosh to accompany a little holiday Cava. With the staff a bit less than punctual, the chef ably filled in as bar man, pouring our bubbles and being amusing before returning to kitchen duty to make our bacon-wrapped dates and bruschetta with chicken liver mousse.

For the record, my first time at Castanea without eating gelato.

Holmes calls to say, "I wanted you to know you weren't my first choice," and explains that someone has dropped out of his birthday dinner, so he'd like to invite me to the all-family gathering at Belmont Food Shop.

Walking into his house, immediately it's a party. His nephew, affectionately known as L.A. Ken (for his post-RVA adopted home), joins us to pre-game and for the walk over under ominous skies thundering and lightening like it's August.

"I don't think it's ever thundered on my birthday," Holmes observes to himself as he helps Beloved maneuver around a puddle.

As many times as I've been to Belmont, I'd never eaten on the special event side, so I couldn't resist looking around. "Being nosy?" our server Andy asks upon discovering me in the pantry. "This is where I hide."

Explaining that I'm the only non-family member at this shindig, Andy's there for me. "You just tell me if you need anything stronger." Rose was plenty because the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree and with Holmes as colorful as he is, well, so goes the fam.

Aunt Martha told me she saw Frank Sinatra in Pittsburgh in 1943 when she was 16, before she knew what the big deal about Frankie was. She confirmed for me that girls did indeed scream through the show. Erica and I found that we were kindred souls when it comes to photography: take a zillion shots and cull the herd. Simple. Brother Jerry told me that I should have been Holmes' first choice to invite to the party. L.A. Ken posed the question: Kurt Cobain or Jim Morrison?

Belmont never disappoints with food and tonight's shrimp with poached endive and avocado, short ribs with barley and root vegetables and chocolate silk pie did nothing to change my mind on that matter. Bonus points were awarded because instead of the usual 20s and 30s music, they had on the Beatles, the birthday boy's musical bedrock.

And while I'm taking a tally, let's not forget about all the holiday goings-on.

Dozens of cookies have been made, presents have been wrapped, nog has been repeatedly sipped. Despite the oddness of the weather, I'm ready now to join the Whos down in Who-Ville in singing, "Welcome Christmas." And Spring, apparently.

It's all good. I don't think I've ever worn a sundress on Christmas Eve. And shiny walls are festive, no?

Out with the Girls

Just another matinee at the ballet.

That's a joke because I haven't been to the ballet since December 2012 and there was a time when I missed nothing that the Richmond Ballet performed.

Today was Studio Three, the final production of the ballet's 30th anniversary season. That alone is testament to how long this has been a real dance town.

Walking over, I knew instinctively that the audience would be predominantly female and I was spot on. There were a few older men scattered around, but it was basically an estrogen blowout.

I was eager to see "Lines Squared" which was inspired by the artwork of Piet Mondrian with a backdrop that resembled one of the painter's geometric works.

What I didn't anticipate was how the groups of dancers would extend the lines of the set by unfurling swaths of fabric on the floor to make it three dimensional as they danced with machine-like precision to music that evoked the sounds of industry.

The piece was broken down into sections of color with the dancers dressed in black, red, yellow and blue successively while the lighting matched, as did the music -it was exuberant for the yellow dancers and melancholy for the blue ones.

Mondrian would have loved its precision and primary colors.

During intermission, the girl next to me turned and asked what I'd thought of the piece and I raved about its art connection and how much I'd enjoyed the marriage with ballet.

Turns out she had no idea who Mondrian was or that the set resembled one of his paintings. She'd come to see her friend dance because they'd been too busy all semester to get together.

We each take something different from culture.

The second half of the program began with a short film of choreographer Ma Cong talking about how his mother's death a couple years ago had been the focus of the piece,  "Lift the Fallen," as he began dealing with the loss and eventually learning how to move on.

While I'm fortunate enough to still have my Mom, I have lost someone equally as close to me and I remember well the journey from heartbreak to acceptance and regaining the desire to look forward and not back.

Using far more traditional ballet movements, the five-part piece was heartbreaking in parts, no doubt reflecting Cong's devastation.

Beginning with a long piece of fabric coming down from the ceiling on either side of a male dancer who had it attached to his back, the dancers worked with the fabric, incorporating it into their steps.

Wickedly impressive were some of the male dancers who at times were so fluid you wondered if they had bones.

The elegiac second movement, "In Love," was achingly sad and movingly beautiful, but really, every movement tugged at the heartstrings in some way or another.

When it ended triumphantly with the entire cast, you could feel Cong's hopefulness had returned.

As had my determination not to let so long pass without another afternoon or evening at the ballet.

In a marriage, the traditional 30th anniversary gift is pearls, but it seems unlikely I'll ever have one of those to celebrate. But that's okay because apparently in ballet, it's the audience who gets a pearl of a show for the 30th.

I suppose I'd have known that if I went to the ballet more often.

Feeling It

If you pour, they will come.

And they were pouring at Bistro 27 for a holiday wine tasting, so I went.

You know it's going to be a fun time when you walk in and the hostess drops her jaw, saying, "Your tights are hawt!"

I wasn't sure I'd know anyone at the tasting besides the two wine reps pouring, but I ran into a wine-loving couple I've known for years and a bartender/gardener and his beloved, so there were a few familiar faces on hand.

But the wine was the thing so I tasted a few of them, although never got close to tasting the entire dozen.

Judging by the increasing decibel level and ever-widening smiles, though, plenty of people did the full twelve.

A man came up to me and said he recognized me from an art and poetry event at VMFA and asked why I'd been there.

It seemed like an odd line but it turned out he was a poet, so he was thrilled to hear I was a poetry lover.

By the time I woke up this morning, he'd already e-mailed me, promising to send along some of his poetry.

Chef Carlos and I were particularly taken with the 2009 Vega Tinto Douro, a plummy and complex wine for fans of Portuguese style.

When I was poured the 2009 Gaspirini Venegazzu Cabernet, I was reminded of what I like about Italian wines.

The guy next to me took a sip of the same and observed, "It's just beautiful and not overly tannic. I hate those."

The kind that smack you in the head the next morning, I asked, guessing why he felt that way.

"Exactly!" he said. "Although I'm a man, so sometimes I need a smack upside the head."

I told him he was one of the evolved ones if he realized that he occasionally needs a smack upside the head, whether literally or figuratively speaking.

"I am one of the evolved ones," he said, his red face smiling broadly.

I ran into my favorite multiple beagle owner and heard tales of her dog leaning his paws on her shoulders as she sat on the couch working on her computer.

The mental image was adorable.

A short, older man walked up to me at one point and shyly said, "I love your nylons."

What is this, 1945?

It should give you some idea of his age that he even used the term "nylons."

"Not many women could pull them off," he said, winking.

I took my taste of Coltibuono "Cetamura" Chianti and eased over to the other side of the room.

Wine sips makes for loose lips, I guess.

For me, it turned out to be a wine tasting with far more conversation than tasting, but sometimes that's exactly what I want.

From there, I went to pick up a fellow balletomane to go see "The Nutcracker" at Center Stage.

So there we were, surrounded by little girls in party dresses and giant hair bows, amongst what appeared to be a sold out crowd watching Richmond Ballet's perennial cash cow.

I've been a ballet-goer for so long that I remember some of the company members when they were apprentices or trainees.

But as we know, youth is a gift of nature and age is a work of art.

Witness the wonder of Susan Massey, a long-time teacher at Richmond Ballet, and still limber, expressve and impressive as Dr. Silberhaus' mother, despite being no spring chicken.

And it is a beautiful production of the holiday chestnut with jewel-colored costumes, monumental sets and dancing of all levels and kinds.

Perhaps most surprisingly, the cast was by far the most diverse I've ever seen in Richmond,

At the party that starts the ballet, families were mixes of black and white, with even little Clara played by an African American, something I never thought I'd see in Richmond.

Bravo, Richmond Ballet, for finally stepping into the 21st century where everyone is not white.

During intermission, I ran into my favorite dulcitar player in the lobby and my favorite bass clarinet player in the orchestra pit.

As intermissions go, seeing the two of them made it way better than a mere bathroom break.

The second act is such fun, with its snake charmer, dancing bear with his incredibly sharp dancing moves despite the bulky costume and the elaborate Chinese dragon, eye candy all.

By the time that act ended, the little girl next to us was sound asleep in her mother's lap and the tween-age boy on the other side was busily drawing robotic monsters in his sketchbook.

So maybe they were a little young for ballet, even one that had us out on the street by 9:10.

As a wine tasting, polka-dancing friend had told me earlier at 27, "It doesn't feel like Christmas to me until I see "The Nutcracker."

I may not have drunk much wine and I certainly can't polka, but walking out afterwards under the twinkling CenterStage marquee, I had to agree with her.

And, who knows, maybe I'll get some hawt nylons from Santa.

Going to the Rodeo

If you wear a dress, you will get your man.

And if you plan on going to an outdoor show, the temperature will drop and it will rain.

I passed on my ticket to less of a weather wimp and regrouped.

Plan B was a non-brainer; Richmond Ballet and Richmond Symphony were doing an evening called "Wild Wild West."

Given my limited pocketbook, my seat was in the nosebleed section (also known as the Second Dress Center), notable mainly because the girl behind me had a nosebleed during the performance.

The first piece was "Pops Hoe-Down" and featured dancers from the School of Richmond Ballet and their Minds in Motion program.

It's a piece of music I've heard many times and always get a kick out of, with its racing fiddles and oddball assortment of sounds.

Pop goes the weasel.

When the symphony finished the rousing performance, conductor Steven Smith yelled, "Yee-ha!" making for a spirited way to begin an evening in the west.

That was followed by two pieces without dance, John Williams' rousing Overture to "The Cowboys" and the Copland-inspired "Prairie Morning."

With the Williams piece came the next surprise; we were treated to live video of the symphony members playing projected onto a screen on the stage.

We saw close-ups of musicians in cowboy hats, neckerchiefs and Western shirts, which was fun.

But the treat was seeing things like the bassoon, oboe and all kinds of unusual percussion played close up.

Someone must have figured that if we didn't have dance, we needed a visual.

Stunning was Philip Glass' "Runaway Horses" and the ballet's tour de force interpretation of it for five dancers.

Male and female wore brown costumes, the women tossed their hair like manes, and they all galloped around like colts in a field.

This was not your West End blue hair's ballet.

Introducing Rossini's Finale from "Overture to Guillaume Tell," Smith mentioned how much classical music has infiltrated popular culture.

The moment it began, heads began to nod as people recognized it as the Lone Ranger's theme.

In a similar vein, we heard "Wolf's Fiddle," described as "dueling fiddle sections," a rarely heard pleasure, and one that caused my seatmates to want to talk about the differences in violins and fiddles.

Ending the first half was Bernstein's "Suite from The Magnificent Seven," instantly recognizable to the audience.

With its swelling and soaring score, I wasn't surprised to see many of the musicians smiling broadly as they played.

During intermission I scored dessert downstairs and as I ate my chocolate cupcake, a guy approached me.

"Your husband should have told you that you have chocolate on your chin," he said, as if he was concerned about my dirty face.

Honestly, I don't think he was.

Back in my seat with a clean face, we began with Sunrise from "Grand Canyon Suite" before arriving at the evening's highlight.

Agnes de Mille's "Rodeo" set to Aaron Copland's music is one of my all-time favorite ballets, uniquely American, but I hadn't seen it performed in over a decade.

It's amazing how a Jewish guy who lived in Brooklyn managed to capture the essence of the American West so adeptly.

"Rodeo" is subtitled "The Courting at Burnt Ranch," so there was plenty of lovesickness, boys showing off and endless partner changing, all things wooing related.

It is, in simplest terms, a ballet about how to find the right man.

And Copland's score with traditional folk songs throughout is a distinct pleasure to hear performed live.

Likewise the rambunctious ballet, which oozes with boy/girl tension.

The Cowgirl does everything she can think of to try to get the attention of the Head Wrangler while more feminine girls effortlessly get their cowboys.

But does the big, obvious guy win her? Nope, it's the tap-dancing champion roper who eventually steals her heart, scooping her up at the hoe-down.

And kissing her. First tentatively and then good and hard.

No surprise there. She'd finally ditched her cowgirl duds for a bright red dress.

Truth is, with the right dress, a man won't even notice if you have chocolate on your chin.

Or, if he's the right one, he'll just wipe it off and go right on kissing you.

That's how they do it in the wild, wild west.

I know. I saw it at the ballet.

Evening in 3/4 Time

Obviously, it had been a few years since I'd been to see "The Nutcracker."

For instance, I didn't realize until 6:40 that the performance began at 7, not 8:00. Fortunately for me, my partner in crime was able to get it together as quickly as I was.

And I remembered it as a nearly three-hour extravaganza whereas we were out on the sidewalk by 9:15. And that's with an intermission.

Ballet for the ADHD set?

Everyone's got favorite parts in this old chestnut. I'm enamored of the snake charmer dance for the sinewy athleticism and grace of the dancer who plays the snake.

But for sheer soul-swelling and heart-melting it's the music of "Waltz of the Flowers," that makes me wish I was being waltzed  could waltz.

And part of that is the pleasure of having the Richmond Symphony performing the music.

I was pleased to see a friend, the talented Nicholas Lewis, down from the north playing that bass clarinet that he does so well.

Looking around during intermission, I only saw one familiar face; the scientist was in attendance, hardly surprising since he'd once taken me to a dance performance when he'd scored some free tickets.

He was out of reach to inquire if he had any chocolate (he usually does at any kind of performance) so I put thoughts of chocolate out of my head as the lights came down.

After walking out of the theater at the mind-blowing hour of 9:15, we went down to the Belvidere for a bite and to try to figure out why people kept clapping and interrupting the flow of the dance.

Our stay there started with a big laugh when the bartender greeted us with, "Oh, I see you made it to the second date!"

We corrected his misconception and moved on to food before the kitchen closed.

Over smoked salmon (really, who does it better in this town? Belvidere's is like butter) for me and a grilled portabello sandwich for him, we listened to a guy tell us about how he lost his dream girl after five years.

As he explained it, there were no relationship issues, he just screwed up.

He owned right up to it.

And now he's ready to find the right girl. His qualifications? That she really like him.

That's it. After realizing that looks were not the key, he just wants someone who would enjoy him.

Boy, could it be as easy as that?

Maybe that and some chocolates to show he's not going to rush her.

Waltz time is plenty fast enough.

Friend as Composer

With plans to meet a friend for brunch, I headed back to Balliceaux, the place I had left just ten hours ago.

Incredibly, the parking space I had vacated late last night stood empty as if waiting for me to return.

As many times as I've eaten at Ballceaux, I'd never had brunch and since being told that they cured their own bacon, I was very interested in having them prepare my first meal of the day.

I'd even done my usual Grace Street walk (which, by the way, looked rode hard and hung up wet to dry after last night) with nothing but fruit in me in anticipation of brunch.

I loved the variety on the menu, but I was constitutionally unable to pass up smoked bluefish cakes, eggs,  hot sauce Bearnaise and a buttermilk biscuit.

My friend's fancy was tempted by the hangover helper called "Mama loves you" involving biscuits, country gravy and homemade sausage.

But it's not breakfast without bacon, so we got two kinds, the 30-clove garlic cured and the red-eye, cured with espresso.

The bacon came out as a first course and we tore into it.

The garlic and espresso flavors came through on the finish, providing a fitting end to a beginning of pure pork.

Our meals arrived in shallow bowls ("Doggie dishes?" my friend guessed) and were enormous.

Sliced biscuits supported the cakes with the eggs on top and the Bearnaise dripping down over my breakfast.

"I didn't think we were doing tall food any more," my friend observed.

It should be noted that I removed the biscuits from the bottom, more to have access to them than to adjust the height.

It was still a lot of food.

Smoked bluefish is a personal favorite, having come to it late in life after eating a ton of unsmoked bluefish as a child (my dad liked to fish; we ate a lot of rockfish, too).

The cakes were wonderful, well seasoned and moist; the spicy Bernaise didn't hurt, either.

We finished with a bowl of fruit (cantaloupe, pineapple and black grapes) to assuage our guilt over our cholesterol-laden lunch, I presumed, but my friend informed me that he was really just trying to stretch out the meal.

We did have an awful lot to talk about.

Next up was Studio Three at Richmond Ballet, partially because I hadn't been to the ballet in a while and partly because my uber-talented friend Dave Watkins had composed much of the music for the second ballet, Octavo.

It began with music by Max Richter and segued into Dave's music and because I've heard him play and mix and create beautiful sound, I recognized his music at once.

Believe me, you get to know a guy and you start to recognize his dulcitar.

I have to say that it was the first time I've seen a ballet where I knew one of the composers.

I intend to compliment him wildly when I see him tonight.

The first ballet was "A Tribute to Marvel Marceau" and featured one female dancer and three males, a rare treat in the ballet world.

Dressed in loose sailor-looking pants and pink suspenders, the dancers showed Marceau's indebtedness to Charlie Chaplin and Harpo Marx.

But ultimately, I would have come just to see Octavo for Gina Patterson's brilliant choreography and Dave's exquisitely perfect music.

The striking athleticism of the performers was just sausage gravy on the buttermilk biscuits, if you know what I'm saying.

Smoked bluefish cakes and my first friend-scored ballet.

If that isn't the way to start off a sunny Sunday, I don't know what is.

Cinderella for a Song

Being unemployed means having limited funds, so when a friend suggested we see Richmond Ballet's Cinderella, I declined for the sake of my wallet.

Not necessary as it turns out, because the Ballet makes a number of tickets to each performance available for ten dollars.

Even I can afford a $10 ticket, so off we went for opening night.

Our seats were in the Grand Tier, front row and off to the left.

The view was really quite good, especially for what we paid.

The performance itself was enjoyable, although I could have used fewer children from the School of the Richmond Ballet as filler.

At times, their presence felt rather gratuitous and they seemed to be mainly occupying space on the stage.

But the age-old tale of Cinderella was delightful and the sets were especially beautiful.

This production uses a male and a female in the roles of the stepsisters, so there was much hilarity in all scenes involving them.

It had been a few years since I'd last seen Cinderella, so I was able to enjoy it with fresh eyes...and absolutely no guilt about the cost.

As a bonus, it was Valentine's Day Eve, so it was wonderful to get a big dose of fairy tale romance to kick off the weekend.

Some of us still long for happily ever after.