One Cure for Love

Walk alone (you already heard about that). Work alone (two deadlines). Eat alone (Garnett's, but at least the cook was wearing a navy captain's hat and I walked into "This Must Be the Place" playing on the stereo).

After a while, all that alone gets old.

That's when you call up a friend and ask if they'll come out and play with you.

And if they're someone who knows you well and wants to make you happy, they woo you with Pinotage Rose and fresh figs.

Driving over to pick up my date, I saw a horse drawn carriage pulling a smiling couple up Robinson Street toward Monument Avenue.

Both of the carriage drivers wore top hats and tuxes. The couple were making goo-goo eyes at each other.

Must be love.

The crowd at Dogwood Dell was small but mighty when we arrived with our contraband Riebeek Rose, a bag of figs freshly plucked off Friend's backyard fig tree and chairs.

We were there to see "Spite Marriage," a 1929 silent comedy with the handsome Buster Keaton. The kicker was that live music was being provided by Ben Miller, he of Ghost Light after party fame and a ridiculously talented pianist.

We took our place one row behind Ben, who was outfitted in a tuxedo t-shirt, and spread out our picnic blanket.

The Pinotage Rose was lovely, well-chilled and boasting flavors of cherries and strawberries, a treat from someone who knew my taste.

The film soon began while I dove into the fresh figs, devouring three within the first ten minutes of the film.

Call me a fig pig.

Ben had thoughtfully chosen the perfect music for the story of a lowly pants presser who falls in love with a Broadway star.

"Dixieland," "When the Saints Go Marching In," he had all the corny bases covered.

The story centered around a simple man who worshiped an actress in a play about life on a plantation.

Every southern cliche was trotted out - "A scratch is nothing to a southern gentleman" - as our heroine fought off northern soldiers while pining for her true southern love.

Of course, the northern soldier was evil - "Remember, gal, there's only one way to save him"- sending her beau off to the barn to be shot.

The movie had its lessons, too, such as, "There's only one cure for love: marriage and suicide," a rather dire reaction to attraction if you ask me, but then, I'm a northerner.

Ben kept us entertained with the appropriate songs: "We're in the Money" when our hero marries the actress and a personal favorite, "Shall We Dance?" when the newlyweds celebrate at Cafe la Boheme," a hangout "for actors and those with money."

We watched our heroine resort to a drunken fit of jealousy when her man takes up with another, younger woman and heard the archaic command, "Douse the lights."

When's the last time you heard anyone use the verb "douse"? Exactly.

During the scene on the yacht when Keaton tries to woo the actress, Ben played Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer," to great effect.

Fortunately for fans of romance, the object of her affection comes to his senses, telling the actress, "You should have known that woman meant nothing to me. I love you, dear."

I'm still waiting for a man to refer to me as "dear."

Things got dramatic when the action switched to the ship and the boiler caught fire ("Save me! Save me, dear!") and the weather turned bad ("A squall!" - another terrific, underused word), forcing our hero to hang from masts, put out fires and bail water.

Never fear, he not only squelched all the problems aboard ship (mainly by hitting every man with a bottle over the head and knocking him out) but won our heroine's heart.

The end.

I've seen my fair share of silent movies, but few as romantic as this gem. Add in the moon moving from tree to tree over the Dell and it turned out to be a lovely way to spend an evening sipping Pinotage.

After dropping off my companion, I soldiered on alone to Commercial Taphouse to hear the Scott Clark 4-tet.

Everyone I know in the local jazz world is concerned that now that Commercial has been bought by An of Mekong, the sublime evenings of jazz will be history.

I hope that's not true, but in case it is, I didn't want to miss hearing one of my favorite local jazz groups perform for what may be the last time there.

Unexpectedly, I found several friends - a guitarist, a trombonist, a teacher, a songbird - although I was discouraged to hear they no longer carry any decent tequilas.

Sorry, I don't want to have to drink wine while listening to jazz. I will, but I don't want to. Not a good sign, friends.

From Mingus ("Weird Nightmare") to Scott Clark originals ("Plum"), it was an evening of killer jazz riffs, the quartet as tight and on point as I've ever heard them.

So the evening ends alone, but only after some superb entertainment.

Still waiting for someone to ask, "Shall we dance?"