Seeing Me, Seeing You

Les bon temps are rolling over here.

As is our tradition, Mac and I walked over to 821 Cafe for a heaping plate of pancakes, the better to celebrate Fat Tuesday with. This year, we even wore beads for good measure.

Now don't get me wrong, we're both heathens of the highest order, but a holiday that features pancakes for dinner is our kind of holiday.

Unlike past years, though, this year's Fat Tuesday falls during VCU's spring break, so my part of the city is deserted. You could throw a bowling ball down Clay Street without worry of hitting a thing. Walking down Laurel Street was like walking through a ghost town.

The scant crowd at 821 wasn't especially festive, although the father sitting behind us falsely narrating a Godzilla movie to his young son was pretty hilarious. Meanwhile, I did what I always do with a plate of pancakes: ate half with syrup and half with strawberry jam and finished them all.

Mac felt obligated to do the same once my plate was licked clean.

Walking back through Monroe Park, we detoured to check out Portals, the public art piece that looks like a shipping container in the middle of the park, never expecting it to be open. A man came out the door and invited us in. Walking into the portal meant facing a screen filled with the images of two families - a Dad, son and daughter and a Mom and daughter -  at a school in Ipswich, Massachusetts and looking right into their eyes.

Hello, strangers, whatcha knowin?

Yes, of course I'd read about the year-long art installation, even heard that Richmonders had spoken with folks in Afghanistan and Sweden since it began. It turned out we were happening into a portal with people as near as New England, so the Portal didn't even have to translate for us.

It didn't feel terribly exotic - I mean, Massachusetts - but it was still a brilliant concept.

The portal really is an immersive experience as you look at the life-size people beaming in from the other end and have a conversation with them. It's a lot like real life, except from different zip codes.

After we explained that we'd just come from having Fat Tuesday pancakes and pulled out our beads as proof, the Dad shared that they'd just celebrated with red beans and rice with, wait for it, duck.

Seems he'd won half a cooked duck in some office pool (the questions I could have asked about that, but I was still figuring out the civilities here), so he thought it would be a fine addition to the traditional Mardi Gras beans and rice.

And as heathens who carb up and wear beads for no good reason, who were we to judge their choice of how to celebrate?

At the point that we walked in, the families, okay, mainly the kids, were waiting for the King cake to arrive, so they were having an even grander Fat Tuesday celebration than we'd had. But maybe they weren't heathens and I didn't ask.

But once the Dad started talking about how old a town Ipswich is and about all its maritime history, he had the audacity to brag about their 1632 roots. That was enough to get me going, as I pointed out that in our neck of the woods, we backdate to 1607.

His face fell. "Oh, yea, I guess that's right."

He pointed to the Mom and daughter, informing us that they lived in a 100-year old house. I didn't bother rubbing his face in it by pointing out that mine's 143 years old. I've long opined that Massachusetts has always had a better PR department than Virginia.

They told us the saga of Mr. Crane, the wealthy man whose company made porcelain for toilets, and his waterfront summer house in Ipswich which had 8 1/2 miles of private waterfront. Once a year, on Mr. Crane's birthday, he opened up his beach to school children and it was their only chance to go to the beach all year. Now he's dead but the kids, teachers and families still celebrate, even though that stretch of waterfront is now public so it's nowhere near the big deal it once was.

They also mentioned that there are exactly two weeks a year when the water is warm enough for humans to go in it and it's tough to get them out when it's like that. "We just stay down there and order pizza to be delivered at the beach," Dad says.

Mac's eyes widened and her mind immediately went to the possibilities of Outer Banks beachside pizza delivery. Hold your horses, girl and think of how badly that could go.

When we asked for more dish on Ipswich, the little boy pulled his chair forward and said very seriously, despite his missing teeth, "We're known for our clams here." Then his Dad tried to convince us that Ipswich invented fried clams but I wasn't convinced.

As the guy who'd invited us in marveled to the screen, "That's kind of a big claim, don't you think?" I do.

It was kind of fascinating to have this kind of conversation with complete strangers, although none of us had any trouble coming up with things to share. When they wanted to know what we were doing next, we explained that Spring break meant that a local restaurant did all tiki drinks, so we were toasting the start of Lent with rum drinks.

Even the kids looked impressed with our brilliance.

After saying farewell to the Ipswichians, we meandered over to Saison through deserted streets and sat down at a bar with only one other occupant and one long table of loud millennials talking about fear of scuba diving ("I'll do my own breathing, thanks"), house decorating ("Come over anytime and I'll show you what I've done") and not dating (by choice, natch).

My libation of choice came directly from the "strong and boozy" section of the menu. It was a spring break old fashioned made with Jamaican and Martinican rums, pineapple-hop syrup and tiki bitters, while Mac gravitated straight to the Hurricane, which arrived in a 10' glass, complete with enormous green straw and some kind of leaves speared together.

The bartender wanted to know what we'd been up to, so we explained how two heathens never failed to eat pancakes in celebration of a season they have nothing to do with. This required explaining Lent and Ash Wednesday to her, as if I'm some expert.

But she was even more taken with the Portal experience we'd had, asking for specifics so she could go do it, too. We made sure to tell her to get there in the next month or so before they move the Portal to another part of town.

When we declined a second round, she responded with great disappointment. "You're not much of heathens, are you, to have only one drink each?" This from the woman we'd had to explain Shrove Tuesday to when we walked in. How quickly they jump on board.

Besides, we'd worn our beads, devoured our pancakes, chatted with long distance celebrants and washed it all down with fancy rums. We didn't need to drink the entire tiki menu to prove ourselves.

Don't forget, missy, Richmond's been Mardi Gras ready since 1607.

I Got Soul, But Not From Tacos

When given the choice, I chose to shirk my civic duty.

Weeks ago, Mr. Wright had reserved us two spots at the Mayorathon at the ICA and I readily agreed to an evening devoted to taking a mid-term temperature on how our mayor is handling his duties. Since he was never my first choice for mayor in the first place, it's not surprising that I haven't exactly been thrilled with some of the decisions he's made.

But when it came down to it, when Mr.Wright admitted that he could go either way on going or not, I was that irresponsible person who voted for fun over civic responsibility. Let someone else do the heavy lifting tonight.

So when I walked outside to greet him after a full day knocking out two deadlines, I already had a plan in mind and it began with wine at Saison Market. It was early enough that things were quiet at the market, so after scoring glasses of house Rose and red, we retreated to our favorite table in the middle of the room to allow the place to fill up around us.

I told him how Mac and I had once again gone down to check on the status of the pipeline this morning only to find the water had receded enough that we could walk it. What hadn't receded was the abundance of fine white sand that rose in sand dune-like mounds on either side of the easternmost end of the walkway. We only got about a fifth of the way out on the pipeline itself because waves were still rolling over most of it.

I told him we'd stopped midway along to take a selfie of our smiling faces against the roiling whitecaps behind us as documentation of what a long stretch it's been that we've been unable to get on it from Brown's Island.

My plan once our wine needs were sated was to stroll down to Second Street for some Soul Tacos and we did set out, but the moment we walked by Saison's window and saw the unoccupied bar, Mr. Wright had other ideas. Pointing out that our favorite stools were available, he suggested dinner on them instead of on unknown stools.

I am nothing if not flexible.

Besides, as Mr. Wright pointed out, had we gone to Soul Taco, we likely wouldn't have been keeping to our Spanish drinking theme, a goal easily accomplished with the floral and complex Raventos Blanc Brut Nature "de Nit."

So we'll say we did it for the research. Penedes, we're working our way to you.

As darkness fell and Saison began to get busy, our taco replacements arrived. A dish of roasted and fermented turnips, crispy on the outside and yielding on the inside, wasn't new to us, but we always agree that they'd make a turnip lover out of anyone. For a change, the cast iron cornbread didn't arrive in cast iron, but the familiar corn and sweet notes were there, along with that magnificent crust, my favorite part.

Watching the bartender work his magic, I commented that after six years, he must be able to do his job behind that bar blindfolded and he chuckled and agreed. The only exception, he said, was when he does the seasonal change in the cocktail menu because then bottles of booze get rearranged and it takes a week or two for him to feel blindfold-confident again.

Another tidbit he dropped was that next week is spring break for VCU - hooray, a week of easy parking and no parties in the 'hood - and that always means a week of tiki/island-style drinks at Saison. Beckham and I went a couple years ago and drank far too many fabulous rum drinks for our own good, so chances are high I'll drop by next week.

In a repeat of what we'd had at Adarra, we dined on fish stew, which was called a rundown. This time it was a melange of monkfish, rockfish, mussels, shrimp and catfish with small chunks of sweet potato swimming in a broth of coconut and habanero, a one-two punch of sweet and spicy best sopped up with the large pieces of grilled crusty bread rising out of the stew.

For a change, our conversation centered on my history, why I'd made certain decisions, how I'd put up with things I'd never tolerate now. You know, the usual soul-searching you do when the right person wants to understand the past in order to better plan the future. Good stuff.

Constitutionally unable to resist something called fig and chocolate torte, I was nonetheless gobsmacked when what looked like a quarter of  torte landed in front of me. Fig bits in the dense chocolate torte and whole figs atop it meant my fig lust - actually, our shared fig lust - meant mouthfuls of the darkest chocolate alternated with pops of the ultra-sweetness of fig.

And, no, that monster slice did not get polished off because after a lot of wine and food, apparently you can have too much of a good thing. The remainder followed us home because no fig/chocolate is ever left behind in my world.

Did we regret selling out our mayor and soulful tacos for an intimate dinner in the corner of a busy restaurant?

Don't make me laugh. As Mr. Wright likes to say, we've got 40 years to eat tacos.

Am I in Tune?

It finally hit me: surely I didn't become this way. I must have always been.

While at my parents' house last week, Mom asked my evening's plans. I told her I was going to the Symphony, then to a festival kick-off party and then to a comedy show. She looked aghast. "All in one night?"

Only then did it occur to me to ask her about who I am. Namely, did I always have to move?

My question produced an immediate smile. "Yes, you did. You came out that way. I think it's why you never liked TV." This is the opposite of her and  explains why she's always suggesting we sit down and "gather our forces" when I'm ready to keep going.

So it would seem that I don't just go out every night because I need company and conversation or because I'm in search of culture. I move because it's programmed into my DNA to move, to do things, to always be on the go.

Like yesterday. My walk took me across the T Pot bridge, along the floodwall, back via the pipeline and up through downtown, and everywhere I went, I was surprised at how few people were outside.

Not to mention that the ones who were out were "Sunday walkers," a group I have little tolerance for when I get behind them. One especially slow walking husband accused me of sneaking up on him, although a toddler could have done the same given the glacier pace at which he moved.

Back at home, I threw down lunch, glanced at the paper and walked to the Bijou for a thoroughly entertaining movie, arriving home with less than an hour to get ready to go out.

We decided to get a jumpstart on Black Restaurant Week by heading to Sweet Tea's in the Bottom for dinner. I hadn't been in since they'd relocated from their original (and far smaller) location, though I knew the space well. It was where I'd seen my first (okay, only) tofu-eating contest, notable because one contestant had thrown up tofu into her hand and eaten it in order to avoid being disqualified.

But I digress.

Beginning with Sweet Tea's tea du jour - mango lemonade - I ate through chicken and waffles, a crabcake sandwich, collards and cabbage while listening to a travelogue from my companion's recent foray to the ends of the earth.

Not sure I can get behind beaches covered in black rocks, but to each his own.

By the time we'd finished eating, drinking and discussing whether the standards for the Pulitzer Prize in literature have been noticeably dumbed down (hint: yes), Sweet Tea's staff had begun putting chairs on top of tables in hopes of leaving soon.

Okay, okay, we get it.

Then it was on to the Camel for a show that began with the always-stellar and unqeustionably literate Ben Shepherd, a man who never met a story that couldn't be shaped into a song and these days, songs with much commentary in them.

Next up was Mike Dunn and his band, a group who'd clearly taken a page from the Bo Deans' masterfully-written book on roots rock and followed it into the 21st century.

Headlining was Alex Dezen, who made sure we knew that he'd been with the Damnwells for years but that was over. Finis. He only sounded mildly bitter, but he also wasn't above playing Damnwells' songs, so he may still have been sorting through some mixed emotions.

And aren't we all?

Midway through his set, Alex told the crowd to ruminate on questions ("No song requests!") while he tuned his guitar. Amid a question about French fries and steak sauce and an admission that one of the back-up singers was his main squeeze, one tall guy raised his hand and asked Alex squarely, "Do you think Trump is a Fascist?"

Fair enough.

Alex hemmed and hawed, eventually concluding that 45 is many unpleasant -isms and -ists, but that Alex just didn't know enough about fascism to make the call. You have to appreciate a man who admits to not knowing.

The show wound down at a reasonable enough hour to contemplate a nightcap and while Saison Market was just battening down the hatches, Saison (bless their hearts) had two hours and change left on the meter. We arrived just as the bar turned over entirely, saw it through a slow period and watched it begin to fill back up.

All without moving much at all. Except for the hour, Mom would have been proud.

One More Shot at Second Chances

Everyone arrives at Postmodern Jukebox a different way. And, like the Ark, they generally arrive in twos.

In my case, it was two plus a fifth wheel (yours truly, marking a notable exception to the rule), that began at Saison for dinner, along with scads of others on their way to the same show. I barely made it two steps in when my J-Ward neighbors, the librarian and the social butterfly, called out from the bar.

The owner seated me at the back most table to await my tardy couple date and, since I'd run into him twice last weekend, I inquired about his plans for this weekend.

They were far more industrious than last week, with doors being hung, new cocktails to be tested out and, with any luck he said, perfecting the mixture of tequila and tonic in a single tap for ease of cocktail-making.

Talk about your post modern bartending.

Once my friends arrived, we awaited the arrival of our server and when it didn't happen, someone suggested that the fourth place setting at the table had her thinking we were waiting for my date.

So the evening began with a good laugh.

"Quick, move the menus and the place setting so she'll know it's just us," Pru insisted. It was just as a I was whisking the silverware into my lap that our server arrived, probably wondering if I was stealing flatware, but more than willing to fetch us a bottle of Faverelles Blanc, a white Burgundy, once I laid it back on the table.

I was, after all, just following direction.

Despite a large table of competitive shouters behind us, we managed to order and move on to updates since we'd gone out last weekend. In the five days since we'd last laid eyes on one another, there'd been multiple updates on the sunny western hemisphere adventure and everyone had a theory on why.

My favorite justification came from Beau on the subject of controlling types: "Take it from a computer geek..."

Unfortunately, I also had to take a raft of razzing when I told him that I'd been notified that Windows XP support had ended, a factor because apparently I have Windows XP (who knew?). That said, it's always good when you can provide a friend with a really hearty chuckle, especially one laced with condescension.

It was the happy couple's first dinner at Saison and the kitchen represented well. Beau's special of fried skate wing with fingerling potatoes was stellar while Pru's choice of a bacon cheeseburger validated how solid their burger continues to be even given the burger competition these days.

My brussels sprouts salad was shredded with radicchio, mustard seed, bleu cheese, walnuts and fig vinaigrette, while escabeche of pickled shrimp, mussels, salmon and roe with fennel, carrots and aioli was my currency to trade for bites of skate wing.

Chocolate sacher torte took care of my needs while affogoto and coffee provided major caffeine fixes for the Church Hill contingent as the early wave of diners cleared out and we soon followed suit to head to the National.

Waiting to get in, I saw several friends pass by as we stood in the slow-moving line, only to eventually discover that the National has now installed metal detectors and everyone must pass their belongings through an X-ray machine to get in. We might as well have been at the airport

Inside, we parted ways since their tickets were for seats in the balcony and mine was a general admission ticket for the floor, so I made a beeline for right in front of the sound booth, exactly where I'd stood when I saw the band here in May 2015.

Many of the people standing around me were the same, too. That's because I was far from the only one at the show who'd first discovered the band by being shown a PMJ video by Amour's owner, a PMJ junkie if ever there was one.

Looking dapper in a printed vest under his jacket, he and his entourage of a dozen or so devotees showed up around me and I recognized every single one from his restaurant. Sort of like a field trip for customers.

On the subject of the new metal detectors, a bearded friend said hello and dryly commented, "Is this the Trump state?" about the new entry procedure, while one of the Amour customers admitted he'd been turned away at the door for having three knives on his person.

Three? Seemed like a lot to me, but the theater professor insisted they each had particular functions: for eating, for theater work and for small odd jobs. Needless to say, he'd been sent back to his car to divest himself of all of them.

Winning the award for best reason to be at the show, my bearded friend explained that it was only because he'd found a backpack that looked like a teddy bear and inside had a wallet, an iPhone 7 and a mix CD that included a song by a local woman who'd been on American Idol.

After doing some research to track the owner down, he'd returned it all to Joey, who just happened to be one of the Post Modern Jukebox singers. Small world, eh?

The band - piano, bass, guitar/banjo, drums, sax/clarinet, trombone - arrived onstage before the MC bounded out and asked who'd seen them before. My hand was not the only one to go up, along with some fairly loud vocal affirmations from others, as well.

"How many this is your first time?" The Johnny-come-lately roar was impressive.

For the next hour and a half, PMJ did what they do so well: take mindless and occasionally classic pop and rock songs and present them in atypical arrangements that make them not just palatable but downright enjoyable, impressive even, given the major talent doing them.

So we got "Call Me Maybe" with dancing girls, "Toxic" as a torch song (MC: "I feel like I always have to have a smoke after that song") and, for the ladies of RVA, a long curly-haired man balancing a stringed instrument on one finger whilst he guzzled a beer.

Running throughout many of the songs was the talent of tap dancer Lisa who had as many sparkly outfits as she did dancing moves. At one point, the drummer challenged her, beating his sticks on her stage to mimic her taps.

"Whatever!" someone in the crowd called out because no one could outshine Lisa's moves.

Next, Joey of the lost backpack was introduced, causing the beard to lean down and whisper to me, "She should've given me a free ticket for giving her stuff back to her," a fair point. All bangs and gold sequined dress, Joey accompanied herself, first on ukulele as she sang that dreadful ballad "Delilah," and eventually on accordion.

"Sweet Child o' Mine" was sung by Mr. Long Hair sitting on the edge of the stage ("Ladies, I'll see you after the show," he swaggers, pointing) and laying onstage doing scissor kicks while the trombonist soloed over top of him, a feat almost matched by "Stacie's Mom" being started as a three-part a capella harmony before morphing into a piano rag and ending as full-on bluegrass jam.

Take that, Fountains of Wayne.

Even the MC got into the act beyond doing introductions, saying he'd never sung in front of people before ("That's not a lie, it's a fib. Okay, an alternative fact.") and then doing "My Heart Will Go On."

And the song that had first introduced me to PMJ, "All About That Bass" began with clarinet, upright bass, banjo and drums and featured three female vocalists, including one who, after singing, "You know I won't be no stick figure silicone Barbie doll," pointed at her ample breasts and quipped, "Grew these myself!"

Because at a PMJ show, you're guaranteed top notch tap dancing, boy toy sex objects, boob references, encores that feature not just Radiohead but Justin Bieber, mannequin posing and seeing a red kazoo plucked from the cleavage of a singer for a solo.

Let the wild rumpus begin, I'd instructed my cohorts earlier. Another jam-packed weekend is just beginning.

Too Many Things, Not Enough Clocks

The green fairy opened her arms and welcomed us in tonight.

Pru and Beau came by to scoop me up (early, it should be noted, and with a flapper dress I need for an upcoming soiree because only Pru has an extra flapper dress lying around) to go to the VMFA.

There we walked through the 20th century European gallery, pausing to admire Salvador Dali's "God of the Bay of Roses" in advance of one of tonight's cultural offerings, but also prompting a discussion of the role of a muse.

Following the music as we exited into the atrium, we saw Plunky Branch enthusiastically performing onstage to a middlin' sized crowd, but strolled slowly enough to enjoy the jazz he and his band Oneness were putting out. Even better, once upstairs at an uncrowded Amuse, we could still hear every note, right down to the band's cover of P-Funk's "One Nation Under a Groove."

With a window table facing west to admire the darkening sky, Beau ordered J. Mourat Rose and our server responded by looking at Pru and I, asking what we'd be drinking. Just bring the damn bottle, man, and be done with it.

Although I'm not entirely certain what our starting point was, the conversation may have begun with cross-dressing, which quite naturally led to hiding "junk," but Pru was able to inform us that such a thing as thong gaff panties exist to hide a male bulge.

Every night is a learning experience when you're with the right people.

According to Pru's ratings of what we ate, her artichoke hearts with fennel, carrots and an obscene buerre blanc took top honors, closely followed by my amberjack over roasted cauliflower with fried garlic and frisee in a caper vinaigrette, but Beau made a case for his special of housemade ravioli stuffed with Ricotta cheese with housemade sausage in a red sauce. Venison stew got a tepid reaction.

Clearing the table of plates and stacking them precariously, our server noted, "Who knew Tetris was a life skill?"  The consensus was that it was clever, but sounded like a line he'd used before.

After I ordered dessert of salted chocolate bar over lemon curd with whipped cream and my compadres requested coffee, we each ordered an absinthe drip, only to have the drip placed at the center of the table within minutes.

My introduction to an absinthe drip had happened at this very museum restaurant years ago during the Picasso exhibit and while it no longer sits at the end of the bar, I happen to know it will be brought out for anyone who asks.

Me, I ask.

As we each adjust the dripping of ice water over a sugar cube and into the glass of absinthe, we get caught up in a reverie of the pleasures of not just this spirit, but this manner of drinking it and the process of creating your own iteration of the green fairy based on how you set your tap, how much of the cube you allow to dissolve and how much water you want mixed in.

It's not long before Pru, who'd earlier regaled us with descriptions and photos of her new wine jail, decides than an absinthe drip is her must-have birthday present, conveniently coming up soon.

Dropping hints for Beau like Hansel and Gretl dropped breadcrumbs, she gives him one last instruction,
"Don't go half-assed on me." As if Beau ever goes half-assed on anything.

While sipping this nectar of the gods, we went down the rabbit hole of licorice (Beau's never met any he didn't like) and the distinction between "old man licorice" as opposed to more refined examples of the flavor profile such as absinthe. Twizzlers were, we decided, not worth mentioning although Pru admitted to being a fan of black jellybeans.

I never met anything licorice-flavored I liked until I met absinthe, so I didn't have a dog in this fight.

When we got back down to the atrium, the crowd had tripled or perhaps even quadrupled and Plunky and Oneness had the room in its thrall, making it impossible not to dance our way through the hordes of happy people. Had we not had tickets for a show, I'd have happily stayed there for the rest of the evening.

But we did because tonight was Richmond Famous at the Comedy Coalition and sharing personal stories so he could be mocked (by the talented improv artists of RCC) was writer and hatted flaneur Harry Kollatz.

Because we'd lallygagged a bit over our absinthes, we arrived barely moments before the show was to start, joining the owner of Saison (who introduced me to his wife as, "Karen, a woman about town") in line and scrambling for seats once inside.

All the cool kids were there, including a favorite photographer who told her friends, "I always feel better if I see Karen when I go out because it means I'm in the right place." I don't know about all that, but I saw a lot of familiar faces in the room.

A blue wing chair was brought out for Harry to relax in after telling his stories about his Dad's collection of Edsels and how, as a youth with no friends, he had plenty of time to catalog the items found in these old cars.

Being the organized type, he'd list them by the Edsel's year, the object found and the weather. This, ladies and germs, is probably the seed of how Harry wound up giving weather reports from under the Lee's Chicken sign lo these many years later.

The RCC crew managed to turn Harry's geekdom into comedy about the lubricants of adventure and a used kid lot ("Never turn your back on a kid you've disowned"), while a reminisce about encountering a "dangerous bees" sign on a hike resulted in riffing on Dungeons and Dragons (David: "Hey, pretty lady, have you ever had a man really listen to you before?" Josh: "Wow, this man can role play a loser!") and a reference to Yahtzee.

When the comedy at Harry's expense ended, the audience was told to vacate the building before the staged reading which was to come next, but fortunately we already had a plan for how to best enjoy those 25 minutes before returning, having already verified with the owner that Saison carried absinthe.

"Carried" was a bit of an exaggeration because they were down to their last two pours, but the affable bartender stretched it to fit into three glasses, we fashioned our own drips and were back on the sidewalk heading to RCC in time to score far better seats this time.

Friday night Part Deux was the 20th anniversary performance of Harry's play, "The Persistence of Memory" about that time in 1966 when Richmond considered having Salvador Dali create a sculpture for Monument Avenue to commemorate Captain Sally Tompkins for her heroic nursing work during that war.

Dali won out because Henry Moore was too sensuous and Giacometti had just died. Leave it to Harry to document for posterity one of Richmond's most absurd moments in history.

Waiting for it to start, I was totally digging the soundtrack - Herb Alpert's "A Taste of Honey," "The Ballad of the Green Beret" and other groovy mid-60s hits - when Nancy Sinatra's "The Boots Are Made for Walkin'" came on, prompting Pru to tell me about a recent Nancy Sinatra film she'd seen, "The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini."

Because a bikini doesn't already reveal enough?

When the woman in the seat nearest me smiled at me, I began chatting with her, only to learn that she was a musician and had opened the show every night for a week when Harry's play had originally been produced, so she was especially tickled to be witnessing it again 20 years later.

I'm here to tell you that fabulous as it may have been, "The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini" couldn't possibly have compared to "The Persistence of Memory."

The story involved the village people (the blase local artists who hung out at the Village, albeit before it moved to its present location), the Monument Avenue committee (which included two of the original cast members who crossed state lines to perform tonight) including Mrs. Douglas Southall Freeman, Dali (local actor Jeff Clevenger on video talking on an actual lobster), Harry as his secretary of the military and his assistant, plus the Reynolds company representative trying to get a statue made with his aluminum.

Naturally Harry's script set the scene first, with references to Henry Miller, LSD, LBJ, Vietnam, Anais Nin and Gypsy Rose Lee ("My talking was always better than my stripping") courtesy of the village people, all sunglasses, snapping fingers and condescension about art as commodity.

Besides telling a fascinating story, the play brought on laughter, audience finger snapping and a fresh appreciation for how far Richmond has come since the time when change was seen as unacceptable.

Playwright Harry practically busted his buttons watching from the back and afterwards taking much-deserved congratulations from the crowd.

Out on the sidewalk, the air was freezing and we were still on this side of Saturday, but just barely.

Ordinarily, we're a trio who like one final stop for the sake of discussion post-culture, but He Who Starts to Wane (Pru's pithy descriptor of her man) is still getting the hang of hanging with us and looked a bit peaked so we called it a night.

His absinthe drinking was never as good as his Dungeons and Dragons role playing, but he is catching on. Meanwhile, my talking continues to be better than my almost everything else.

Just don't hold me to any green fairy giddiness, no matter the topic. Beau, I'm looking at you.

Life at the Center of the Maze

On the day after inauguration, with the Washington Post's headline-for-the-ages bluntly announcing, "Trump takes power," a wise woman could be found grabbing at every opportunity.

Quick, before we're a totalitarian state.

That means walking a few blocks to Atlas gallery for a string quartet and Nate's Bagels, one of the few combinations that would get me somewhere at 10:30 a.m. Ish. The brainstorm of R-Symphony violinist Ellen (overheard: "Ellen always has such great ideas!"), the 35-minute piece told the story of a young immigrant boy discovering what American music was.

That meant I got to hear Mozart, Gershwin, Duke Ellington, bluegrass, W.C. Handy, Scott Joplin and Native American music while losing myself in one of Nate's outstanding everything bagels with a big schmear of chive cream cheese.

Even better, Ellen shared that she'd first met Nate when they were playing in a band together (Romanian music, I seem to recall) so of course he wanted to supply breakfast for a musical performance.

Bagels and strings, it's what's for breakfast on day one of the reign of terror.

Fab and fabber is what I had for dinner with Sancerre at Secco with fellow playgoers Pru and Beau. Seated at the back-most table, only I had a killer view straight into the kitchen while they looked out on a bustling Saturday night.

Everyone had the view they wanted.

The first bite of my starter made the rest of the room disappear: thin slices of acorn squash delicately fried then stacked with Burrata and fermented honey under a crumble of gingersnaps. Crisp/creamy, savory/sweet. Perfection.

"I would marry it, I love it so much" is how we used to phrase it in elementary school, long before we had any idea what marriage entailed.

Sharing my enthusiasm for it with our server, she saw the dish as qualifying as a complete meal because it was savory, but had enough sweetness for dessert status, a fact I didn't dispute. However, I prefer to think of it as only my first complete cycle of savory and sweet so I can go on and have another of each.

"That's a really wonderful attitude!" she congratulates me. Years of practice.

Not content with their cheese and charcuterie slate, my companions took such generous bites of my squash that I considered ordering another for my next course to prolong the pleasure.

Instead we shared a creamy wild mushroom spaetzle with gloriously toothsome red cabbage and downsized to two entrees: confit duck leg cassoulet (Beau, unaware: "This is the saltiest chicken I've ever had. It's so rich!" Pru: rolls eyes) and arctic char over red quinoa and cauliflower with a cracklin' seasoned skin as tasty filled with quinoa as fish flesh.

Everyone except moi claimed to be too full for dessert (though not for coffee), but let's just say that mine wasn't the only spoon in the local apple and cranberry crisp with white chocolate granola and cinnamon creme fraiche I ordered.

We rolled out of there full as ticks and, to my mouth, having enjoyed some of the most artfully combined flavors I've had the pleasure to down lately. Secco for the score.

Let's hope small businesses like them continue to flourish under our new megalomaniac leader.

We already know he wants to do away with the National Endowment for the Arts funding, so productions such as the one we were headed to  - Quill's "The Top Of Bravery" staged at Richmond Triangle Players - are bound to struggle in the years to come.

That's unfortunate because this country could use a lesson on the racism experienced by black vaudeville performers around the turn of the century, in this case Bert Williams and George Walker. That history was threaded through with song and spirits to comment on the unfairness of the situation.

Playwright Jeremy V. Morris played Bert with his perfect diction and thoughtful monologues, but the supporting cast showed some serious chops, too. Compelling dramatically, the piece was also a history lesson, if a tad heavy-handed every now and then.

When the cast began singing "Oh, Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham," I flashed back to elementary school (again) because that was a song in our music books that classes sang regularly. As a kid, I recall being struck by the words "Negro spiritual" under the song's title in the book.

As a metaphor for the starting point of the play - the indignity of white actors playing blacks, but not as they were but as how whites saw them -  I'm here to tell you now how much better four black actors sounded singing Negro spirituals than 25 white children ever could.

Favorite line: Lovin' and dancin' come from the same part of the body.
My addendum: No matter your color.

At the end, the millennial quartet behind us was buzzing about the first act and the older woman with them advised, "You're going to have to go home and look up a lot of things."

Not a bad idea for a lot of people since the more we know, the more fully we understand everyone's history. But how important is acquiring information and continuing to learn in a country where our new Duce President doesn't see the point of reading?

Will we have more or fewer little free libraries in four years? What about publicly-funded ones? Scary to think.

Post-play debriefing was to be held at Saison once we navigated the rain. Pru and I, under umbrellas, expressed envy for Beau's nonchalance, but his curly hair is only helped in wet weather. Not so ours. I'd look like a wet dog without an umbrella, I assured them.

"No, you won't," said a voice standing in a recessed doorway and all three of us jumped back when we came upon the two guys. Just when I'm thinking it might've been a compliment, one says, "Dogs can't talk."

So we're laughing as we walk in to Saison and a trio scoots down to give us the corner and enough stools for the next three hours of discussion and tangents, a situation involving five cocktails and two glasses of Vouvray.

Pru was clear. "I'd like a big bowl of rye and some fruit." An Old Fashioned followed and when asked about having another replied, "I'm not gonna change drinks mid-stream," and Beau, ever pithy replied, "She's gonna ride it to the end" so another Old Fashioned appeared.

My contribution to the bill was a glass or so of anejo tequila, Dolin rouge, Montenegro, cynar 70 and tiki bitters over a monstrous, slow-melting cube that would look at home in a trendy bar photo shoot. Mocking aside, though, who doesn't want a slow-melting cube to prevent a watery Center of the Maze cocktail?

"Good tunage," Beau said, bobbing his head and echoing my thoughts, of the well-considered soundtrack: EWF, Spinners, Chic, Temps, all smooth and originating from the same place.

Beau amused us by showing off images of haircuts he's considering for his lusciously thick hair (Pru vetoed the '80s-looking ones, much to my disappointment) and revealed his handy dandy "Loafer Guide" (they were both wearing loafers) and how could I not tease him about that?

He told us about growing up listening to his Dad's records, gems such as ABBA, the Cowsills, the Spinners and, Dad's favorite, Neil Diamond. He had every single one in Neil's vast catalog, so naturally Beau wound up loving Neil, too.

Not so much his high school classmates who made him a laughingstock when he tried to sell them on the virtues of Neil at the time when people like my parents were Neil fans and concertgoers. Beau was mocked.

"And you didn't see that coming?" Pru asks him incredulously.

High school talk led to college and onward and next thing I knew they were talking about people doing poppers in the bathroom at Scandal's and I just had to blow the whistle because this conversation was out of control. I don't even know where Scandals was, for crying out loud. Come-here, remember? And poppers, what?

An industry friend I hadn't seen in over a year stopped by Saison looking gorgeous and we caught up on the difficulty of her relationship ending and how she's moving on. Suddenly, she looked at me amazed, noticing I had on jeans. "I've only seen you in dresses and understandably because of your legs, but what's up with you?"

Yea, well, change is good, right?

What I left out is that I finally realized that wearing jeans just means I can wear shorter dresses and call them tunics.

Sort of like installing an authoritarian government and calling it a democracy. I make my reality yours.

There's a reason an entire gender staged a protest to stand up to a tyrant seizing power. The idiot probably never saw it coming.

The Beats Per Minute of a Life

Breakfast at home aside, it may be a personal best land eating record for one day.

Consider:
chicken and waffles from GWAR Bar
an everything bagel shmeared with chive cream cheese from Nate's Bagels
bread pudding from Spoonbread
quinoa, spinach and mandarin salad from Tarrant's
a sweet roll (or two) from WPA Bakery
tuna crudo from Culinard
fish dip, spaghetti squash pancakes with harissa yogurt and Rouet Brut Rose at Secco
Old Salte oysters, deviled crab cake with pimento cheese and Lawrence "Sex" sparkling Rose at Rapp Session
Moroccan mint tea at Maple & Pine
squid pancake and spicy sweet wings at J Kogi
Espolon on ice at Saison

While it sounds like I did nothing but eat and drink for an entire day and night, you should know that the truth is far more interesting.

Luckily it's only 4 blocks away because by 11 a.m. I had to be at the Black History Museum for Afrikana Film Fest's "Movies and Mimosas brunch" where the event's founder welcomed black folks and black-minded folks to the sold-out event.

Having been raised by atypically black-minded folks in a very white neighborhood back during the shank of the white-focused 20th century, I took to the descriptor.

Besides gorging ourselves on a veritable feast (and I didn't even have room for Comfort's Nutella and banana French toast), we were all there to see "Soundtrack for a Revolution," a stellar 2009 documentary about the key role music played in the civil rights movement creating solidarity and encouraging participants to carry on when things got tough.

Practically every important face of the era - Julian Bond, John Lewis, Andrew Young, Harry Belafonte - showed up as a talking head between graphic news footage of white policemen terrorizing peaceful black protesters/freedom riders and modern-day musicians  - John Legend, the Roots, Wyclef Jean - playing some of the protest songs in a modern way.

Not to brag, but it was only my first Questlove sighting of the day.

Of course songs had been written about racist governor George Wallace (not that I knew that before) with lyrics such as, "He must be removed, like a can of garbage in the alley..."

I can only imagine how much coarser and pointed the protest language would be today if a song was written about an unpopular elected official.

As is often the case with Afrikana's events, the discussion afterward was positively illuminating. One millennial was agog to learn that King had been 26 when he led the Montgomery bus boycott, having assumed that a leader had to be a middle-aged man. Another admitted that after witnessing the recent Twitter fracas denigrating John Lewis' role in the movement, he'd been amazed to see so much footage of Lewis at the very front of marches, right there with King.

One of the oddest comments came from someone who insisted that we must not look down on those whose sole contribution to moving social justice forward is sharing a post, Instagramming a picture or re-tweeting, insisting that such "actions" are as good as live participation in meetings, marches and movements.

"Don't judge others if that's how they choose to participate," she instructed the room twice. Interestingly enough, I have repeated this story to several people now, every single one of whom has reacted with incredulity, insisting that they are nowhere close to the same level of involvement.

The big announcement at the end of the brunch, that Afrikana is bringing - wait for it, because I about exploded when I heard - activist Angela Davis to town was enough to send me scurrying to the lobby to score a ticket as quickly as possible. I was #2 in line to nab mine. Angela Davis!

From there, it was on to the also sold-out Break It Down panel with Questlove at VMFA on the subject of food, music and creativity led by writer Todd Kliman who was clever enough to reference Carol Merrill, Faulkner, Run DMC and Maria Callas, use a white board and test the audience's literacy with references to articles in the "Washington Post" and "New Yorker."

The panelists had ties to food, music or both, although it was a major disappointment to see a sole woman on a panel of six with a male moderator. It's 2017 for heavens' sake, how is it a token woman is still okay?

Q teased the crowd by coming out when chef Mike Derks' name was called and then disappearing again. He told the crowd that a Roots fan, a true Roots fan would own all 17 of their albums. How despite 20 years in the band, he's only learned the craft of songwriting in the past five. How working with Virginia's own D'Angelo made him a more human drummer.

When he mentioned that his record collection was up to 80,000, there was an audible gasp in the room, but he also acknowledged that he'll never get time to hear them all. So what's the point?

Particularly insightful on the subject of millennials, the 45-year old expressed a hope that they learn the art of patience and develop a knack for boredom, since nothing spurs creativity more than being bored.

There's a message that needs to get out.

Panelist and singer Natalie Prass, looking 60s fabulous in matching flowered tunic and bell bottoms over a white blouse, regaled the crowd with an improvised song based on the images on the white board and also gave us a few bars of her middle school band's hit song, "Mangoes," inspired by her bandmate's parents getting mad when the kids ate all the mangoes in the house.

The panel closed out by taking audience questions, including a guy up front who asked the panelists about the rhythm of their own lives and if it had shifted at some point.

"Good job, Guy in the Front Row!" Kliman said about the final question, which elicited thoughtful answers from all, including Q, who allowed that the BPMs of his life had varied as wildly as his drumming does.

As the slow-moving crowd shuffled out, my companion and I headed to Secco to beat the crowds and admire the owner's orange cast, then to Rapp Session where a kindly server gave us a happy hour menu (3-6 p.m.) and told us we could order off it until 7. Score.

By 9, I was sipping tea at Quirk, catching up with an out-of-town friend - in the seven years of our friendship, we're lucky to see each other twice a year - and planning how to paint the town red on a Sunday evening in my eminently walkable neighborhood.

The fact that we both had so much news to share meant that by the time we said hello to the panel organizer and escaped the hotel, it was almost 10, never an easy time to eat well on Sunday night...except when you're in the mood for Korean street food, which we were.

Knowing J Kogi was open till 2 a.m. encouraged us to linger in the back-most table next to six chattering young women and a large sack of volleyballs, but it also meant that by the time we got to The Rogue Gentleman, they were closing down.

Saison saved the night, welcoming us in with a couple of prime bar stools, a Boulevardier for him and Espolon for me. We were deep in conversation about life changes when I overheard a familiar voice behind me and turned to see a favorite deep-voiced liquor rep who briefly joined our tete-a-tete.

Going back down the conversational rabbit hole, I came back up briefly when a favorite chef arrived, hugging me bear-style and telling me he was just looking to see what kind of trouble he could get into, essentially the same reason we were there.

Strolling back through Jackson Ward just before 2 a.m., we paused under an awning to sum up our latest get-together since he was heading home in the morning.

Describing his last year as "storm-tossed," he tossed out a compliment, saying that our evening had provided a much-needed dose of equilibrium and distraction thanks to me.

My last year, while not quite a storm, has certainly been a game-changer as well. It felt good to spend hours talking to someone else in flux

It was a Sunday for the books in many ways, but I'm not here to tell you it was perfect. Did you see any dessert on that list of non-stop eating? You did not.

Chocolate, you were the only thing missed.

Without Words

I know all of you wanted it, but I'm hating it already.

Fall, that is.

It hadn't even crawled into the '60s when I walked late this morning, not to mention that walking west meant walking into the wind, and, well, the humidity? So low as to make it feel even colder.

I just hope all you "Fall-is-fabulous" people are happy now because I'm already sweater and socks chilly.

Sure, I could start closing windows in my apartment, but I refuse to this early. Besides, I know Hurricane Matthew 's effects are going to be felt soon, so I'm hanging on with only screens separating me from the potentially soggy and humid beach weather on the horizon.

But when Mac and I walked to Saison Market for dinner and the Perfect Unpop happy hour, I was layered with a tank top under my dress and a sweater over it.

Positively tragic for October 6th.

After ordering food, I chose a Squirt soda (Mexican, so sugar not corn syrup) in a green glass bottle from the case out of sheer curiosity.

Squirt didn't seem familiar, but it also didn't seem completely unknown and one swig of the citrus-flavored drink did bring back tastes of various green bottled sodas of my youth.

Like the last time I was in the market, a fair amount of time was given over to the wall, where a riveting school map of Virginia with smaller maps - annual rainfall, number of freezes, settlement, population - surrounding it caused endless study and discussion.

Mac, ever the Orange County expert, explained why the foothills tended to be colder (because dolts like me don't automatically figure such things out), how big Orange used to be (hello, Kentucky) and where the Spottswood Trail was (proving again how informative maps are as visual aids).

Everything about our meal was stellar, from an earthy root vegetable salad of beets and carrots with bleu cheese, walnuts, frisee and chives in a shallot vinaigrette (a dish that inadvertently reminded me that, unlike its weather, I don't hate Fall vegetables) to pitch perfect (meaning not overly sweet) cast iron cornbread studded with peppers to killer chicken wings with a dry rub of Sechuan peppers that left both my lips and fingers all tingly.

Which was kind of true of my ears as well because everything about DJ Kenny's music was just as outstanding, as he played song after song that spoke to various times in my life whether I'd heard them before or not.

As I told his gorgeous partner, I can see why she fell for a man of his superior musical taste and selection skills.

I'd have happily stayed and listened to such fine music until we left for the play, but Mac desired a cocktail and Saison's new Fall cocktail menu wasn't going to drink itself.

That we had to move from the market to the restaurant to obtain for her the tequila and mezcal-based Rose Colored Glasses cocktail (notable for its smokey grace notes between agave and citrus) meant we lost a DJ-curated experience, but at least I ran into a favorite neighborhood couple for widely varying conversations.

With the social butterfly I talked about the great music on tap next door and why he needed to get over there.

With the homebody, the topic was the VCU lecture on the early gay student group and how the millennials in the audience had reacted to the subject (hint: without a clue).

Here's a  tip, kids: you can't apply a 21st century prism to events of the '70s. There, I've said it.

Because the universe can, that conversation turned out to be a natural lead-in to our next stop at Richmond Triangle Players for "Perfect Arrangement," a play that was as much a cultural history lesson as theatrical experience.

Further coincidentally, our seats were next to those of yet another favorite Jackson Ward couple and with them we talked neighborhood tenure (their 17 beat my 10), our community garden and upcoming neighborhood cleanup.

At its most basic, "Perfect Arrangement" told the story of two State department employees in 1950 when the department (and Joe McCarthy) was on a witch hunt for communists (Red Scare), followed by one for perverts and deviants (Lavender Scare), along with any loose women and persons of general turpitude.

That's a lot of people to round up, you know?

Being set in 1950 meant all the usual period details: shirtwaist dresses, crinolines, hats and gloves, but also foodstuffs ("You know I adore potted meat," which everyone finds hilarious including those of us who really do adore potted meat) and love of lard.

The set's living room was painted the exact same shade of pink as my own, not that I believe for a second that anyone painted their living rooms pink in 1950.

Okay, maybe two gay couples, one male, one female, married to the opposite sex for propriety's sake but really each living in closeted same sex relationships might have, but no one else.

Presumptions about gay men - that they read movie magazines and go to the opera - abounded, as did references to the play's Georgetown setting (Wisconsin Avenue for shopping, U Street for a butcher) and arcane mid-century phrasing ("We caught a lark" about deciding to do something on a whim).

Generalizations about women by men - even gay ones- stung ("Give a woman responsibility and her emotions are bound to pop up") while comments about women by women - even gay ones - resonated.

Explaining how impressed she was with targeted "loose woman" Barbara's self acceptance and attitude, Millie shares her reasoning. "That woman told me her age! Who does that?"

Who? A woman tired of deception about her life and sexuality and finally motivated to be honest about it so the shame can stop, or at least lessen to the degree it could have in 1950.

Let's not forget that's barely 30 years after women got the vote and 53 years before sodomy laws came off the books. It's hard to fathom now how prehistoric a time it really was.

One of the most poignant moments of many was a scene where one of the lesbians explained to her partner that she'd give up all the material comforts of her sham marriage just to be able to display pictures of her with her female partner.

Strikingly, even the gay men didn't understand that desire.

Jennifer Frank chewed scenery as Barbara, the loose woman and subject of State Department scrutiny, who let go with one of the finest truisms of the night.

"Regardless of the gender, good sex is hard to find and always worth fighting for." Amen and pass the cornbread.

When the play ended, the guy in front of me announced, "That's the best play I've seen in years." Next to me, my neighbor looked stunned, saying only, "Wow, that was really something." Mac concurred. "Man, that was good!"

Yet again, Richmond Triangle Players ably demonstated that if they didn't do it, who would?

"Perfect Arrangement's" strength was in shedding light on the dilemma of gay people during a deeply closeted period when every American was expected to follow the straight and narrow and some chose instead to stand up for their hearts.

Me, I was just thrilled that when we left the theater, it was noticeably warmer and more humid than when we'd come in or even when I'd walked this morning. Is it too much to be thrilled that this storm will bring a short reprieve from Fall?

My favorite lesbian wrote me today, firmly instructing, "No ripping for you at the beach this weekend, ok? Stay out of Matthew's sights and be safe."

To the surprise of no one who knows me, I intend  to revel in his warmth and wetness.

I know, I know. Who does that?

That's the End

There is a smell - a sense, really - of wet summer nights that is quite unlike anything else.

It wasn't present when I walked home from Dinamo after a fine dinner with a birthday celebrant set to - wait for it: Christopher Cross' so-called masterpiece "Ride Like the Wind" not once but twice consecutively - nor was it in sight when I headed to Saison by myself for tonight's late night brunch with chef Mike Braune.

But, man, by the time I killed my cocktail and bade farewell to the familiar faces at Saison, cars were wet, streets were slick and the air was heavy with dampness. It was enough to make me wish I was at the beach.

As if I don't often wish that.

I slid into one of the few open bar stools, conveniently near a familiar musician and his date, to see what was going on with tonight's late night brunch, ordering Another Sunrise to keep me occupied. The cocktail of vida, Espolon Blanco, orange juice, lime, Grenadine and (I kid you not) Hellfire bitters fit the bill nicely for jumping into the lively room.

I chatted with the J-Ward restaurant owners out for a post-shift meal (but of course he wanted a shot and a beer) about their impending closing and renovation plans, with the blond bartender who thought I looked vaguely familiar but mostly admired my sass, with another bartender reveling in her new gig and with the wine rep I've known for ages.

He's become my go-to for where to eat in Norfolk/Virginia Beach now that it's one of my regular destinations.

Off the chain food-wise was the fat foie gras and chocolate chip deep dish pancake, especially after a slather of vanilla butter and a dunk in smoked maple syrup (which, I won't lie, tasted a lot like licking the interior of a chimney) before landing in my mouth.

Almost as good was lamb and avocado Benedict with za'atar Hollandaise, an obscenely rich offering considering it was midnight.

Helping the cause was great conversation about the development of the scene, beer versus door prices at shows and why some of us prefer to be renters rather than homeowners given our lifestyles. We might have even touched on my questionable introduction to tequila.

Somehow, by the time I emerged several hours later, rain drops covered windshields, streets emanated steam and there was the satisfying smell of wet pavement in the air. Late summer, ahhhh....

I was only sorry I'd been so busy blathering with friends that I hadn't seen it happen.

Hellfire, those were some powerful pancakes.

I Feel Like a $3 Shirt

I have a crush on a new theater collective and I'm being really obvious about it.

How obvious? Four days after I saw Nu Puppis' deconstruction of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," I wanted to see it all over again, to see if my response had been solely a first time thing or if I'd still be laughing (or grimacing) throughout.

Bingo.

Because my delight in this production is so great, I had to bring a like-minded friend along, hopefully to experience the same jambalya of reactions I'd had. We met at my house and walked to Saison for fried chicken night first.

You don't approach this kind of ritualistic millennial mocking without a full belly.

Even though it had been months since I'd made it there on a Sunday night and despite a full reservation list, we were lucky enough to slide into the bar with no problem. My thirst after a busy day was quenched with a rosy combination of grapefruit juice, passionfruit juice and Cheerwine and arrived in a funky 60s-looking glass with palm trees adorning it.

Today's sides were redskin potato salad and squash casserole with still-recognizable squash in it, so neither cooked to death nor buried under too much cheese, but as I told our server, it didn't matter what the sides had been, my order wasn't changing.

Quarter chicken dark meat, washed down with my fruity libation. If only all Sunday suppers were so satisfying.

The plan was to arrive early enough at Firehouse to ensure getting tickets, a smart move given how quickly the room filled. Unlike with "American Idiot" when we were instructed to use our phones, tonight we were told to turn them off because there was no such thing in the '50s when it was first written, nor even during the 80s when it became a play.

So it just wouldn't be right. "We don't want to open up some weird wormhole," artistic director Bassin informed us. No, we don't.

Next thing you know, Max Erlich was belting out "Bless Your Beautiful Hide" and I was thrown back into the Oregon Territory circa Hollywood 1954. It was glorious.

Everything I'd been smitten with last week was just as (choose one or many) funny, irreverent, off-color, snarky, hysterical, smart-assed, well-rehearsed, culturally referenced, corny, stirring and memorably performed as the first night.

You haven't lived in the theater until you've watched a gaggle of 20-somethings show off their stage fighting skills or stuff their faces with microwave pancakes.

Seeing it a second time showed me where the ad-libs were and how different they were from night to night. The twenty actors were just as nimble and their voices harmonized even more beautifully from tonight's better seats. The actors' posturing and asides were every bit as side-splittingly funny.

Best of all, my friend reacted precisely as I'd hoped, doubled over laughing, grimacing at the sound of fist fights and gasping in amazement at some of the stuff that came out of their mouths, the sly side looks and creepy innuendo. In awe of young bodies springing, jumping and arching, oblivious to concrete and metal.

Bottom line: the kids are putting on a show capable of bursting every musical theater notion you might have in your pretty little head.

Get over it. If this is the direction Richmond theater is taking, it's a wonderful, wonderful day.

Instant Karma

This may surprise some people, but I didn't come into this world a tequila drinker.

Au contraire, my first drinking buddy was a college chum from California who dropped into my life, simultaneously becoming my best friend for life and alerting me to the pleasures of rum.

I began with Bacardi and almost immediately transitioned to Meyer's more complex taste, a preference that lasted until 1992 when a radio job introduced me to my soul mate, tequila.

Fast forward to January 2010 and master mixologist Bobby K. did a wine tasting at Julep complete with paired courses and I was once again reminded of the  beauty of a fine sipping rum.

The gradual increase in the number of obscure rums brought into the Commonwealth became apparent with each new tiki takeover, so when a friend asked me to join him for this week's Spring Break tiki menu at Saison, well, duh.

Wearing a favorite flowered dress, we met at a reasonable enough hour to beat the tiki crowds - rumor had it they'd made something crazy like 170 tiki drinks Sunday night - while it was still 80-something degrees and felt like island weather.

Inside Saison, it was perfectly civilized, if a touch heavy on the air conditioning and, appropriately (if a bit predictable), the Beach Boys soundtrack was making it feel like an endless summer.

Wasting no time, we dove into the tiki menu, he with a Jungle Bird (black strap rum) and me with a classic daiquiri (blended rum) because, as the owner pointed out, there's nothing quite like the beauty of a well-executed daiquiri.

As if a perfectly concocted daiquiri wasn't enough, it arrived with a miniature paper crane atop the cocktail pick, and not a mass-produced crane from China, either. Oh, no, these were crafted by a server's friend, a crafty woman who had given up drinking and needed a way to occupy her hands.

In fact, there was an entire flock of colorful paper cranes on picks roosting in a glass nearby, a testament to the boredom of abstinence.

"I'll never know that feeling," my friend observed with a sly smile, knowing we were in agreement on this one.

Almost at once, we were greeted by a wine geek friend who'd recently been to San Francisco for the second time in 2016 - "Hey, I'm thinking of going again in May. What are you doing in May?" - and shared tales of staying with new friends in Russian Hill and the Haight plus a natural wine party that featured platters of ribs, a dynamite combo.

This somehow segued into my friend sharing his fondness for the tropical Truchard Roussanne of nearby Napa and an insistence that I get my hands on some as soon as I could manage. It helps to have connections.

After ordering food, we chose our second round of drinks, this time the Tripe Windsor for me (Jamaican rum and Curacao) and the Chartruth for him, leading to a story about the bartender who claimed that as long as you began your drinking evening with Green Chartreuse and ended it with Green Chartreuse, you could count on no hangover.

He'd done field research to prove it, brave soul. The only problem, we agreed, is the ridiculous cost of Green Chartreuse in the Commonwealth.

I gave credence to this story by sharing a legendary Green Chartreuse party I threw back in 1997 where nothing was served but Green Chartreuse, on a night where both the heat and humidity hovered around 90%. That said, I heard no hangover complaints, although for all I know, my guests slept for days afterward.

"I can't keep Chartreuse around," tonight's bartender admitted. "No Fernet, no herbals at all. Can't trust myself." I know people who can't keep Chunky Monkey or Samoas around for the same reason.

Beginning with mussels in white wine herb broth and lots of bread for sopping, we moved through confit pork belly with a five-minute egg over Manchego grits and chili broth, to a jar of (obscene) foie gras pate with vermouth gelee and toasted pecans thickly schmeared on Billy bread, the latter a fitting choice for a person's last meal before execution.

Fortunately, it was not our final meal, just a prelude to whatever libation came next.

Discussion got heated when the subject of the bureaucratic miasma of the ABC came up, with the owner, bartender and the three of us bantering about what needs to change in order to bring Virginia into the 21st century bar world, a topic that merits some serious investigative journalism.

The San Fran devotee next to me ordered a Tortugan Conspiracy with all the things, namely a green plastic palm tree, a paper crane, a paper parasol, a pink flamingo, an orange plastic fish, a hunk o' fresh pineapple with leaves atop it and..wait for it...a bathing beauty who hung on the glass by her breasts.

Naturally, she immediately Instagrammed a picture of its magnificence to the world.

My date was intrigued by the drink mixer machine at the end of the bar, today concocting a Pina Colada (blended rum) that, while also boasting a bathing beauty hanging on the glass by her boobs, also tasted satisfyingly tart, not cloyingly sweet as so many bad Pina Coladas do.

This five-day tiki pop-up got us talking about the month-long Christmas pop-up at Mockingbird Hill in D.C., which two of us had experienced. My friend recalled the wonder of seeing a pricing mistake on the menu and ordering a $150 a glass sherry for $15 ("Merry Christmas," the bartender said after the error was pointed out) and much discussion about when Richmond might see a similar pop-up.

We all know people who know people, just saying.

Just as I was considering ordering the Tiki Love Hut, complete with flaming lime peel cup, my wine geek friend beat me to the (ha!) punch, so instead I chose Malibu Barbie's Dreamhouse (spiced rum, blended rum, Rhum Agricole) with its gorgeous nose of orgeat and allspice dram and stuck an extra straw in it (blue, of course, a fact he noticed at once) so we could share.

With 13 tiki drinks on the menu, we could only do so much damage, although my great regret was that we exercised restraint and didn't order a Zombie (limit one per person), because it was the one drink that contained absinthe and I am never averse to a visit from the green fairy.

By the time we left, sunlight had been replaced with moonlight but the air was still warm and inviting. Two of us walked a few blocks together, discussing the theory of opening yourself up to the universe and whomever and whatever that might deliver.

Blissfully optimistic, neither of us can understand why more people don't get it. "Think about that, two people end up in the same place on the same continent at the same time. That's bound to happen again."

And that, my friends, is the Chartruth, plain and simple.

Hook and Ladder

Unintentionally, we had a front row seat to a situation.

Sitting at Cask Cafe with the garage doors rolled up to this gorgeous evening, a car sped by at a terrifying speed, especially considering it was Robinson Street. Moments later, a fire truck did the same, followed by four or five more fire trucks.

So many vehicles continued tearing down the street that the capacity crowd at Cask barely even registered the sirens or lights after the first.

Or maybe they were distracted by the noisy Saison pop-up happening inside.

Fortunately we'd managed to nab the last open table when we walked into a sea of humanity milling around the bar. A restaurant friend spotted me from across the room and gave a thumbs up to the pastrami taco, shouting her recommendation over the heads of the crowd.

Given how busy the servers were, it seemed wisest to just order most everything on tonight's pop-up menu and go from there.

Mildest in flavor profile was the achiote grilled shrimp taco with avocado crema and cilantro slaw. Most flavorful was chicken tinga, crunchy with onion and radish. Spiciest was Chorizo-potato in a corn tortilla. And, yes, most distinctive was pulled brisket pastrami with Swiss, pickled cabbage and mustard seed and Russian dressing on a rye tortilla.

A side of chunky guacamole had us adding a schmear to everything.

Our only issue was the thickness of the housemade tortillas, which supplied too much breadiness, proportionately speaking, to the fillings. That said, the rye tortilla was nothing short of brilliant in combination with the usual suspects inside.

When we left Cask, we could see that a police car blocked access to Idlewood, confirming where the fire must have been, but all looked calm now on the southern front, so we drove on to Richmond Triangle Players to see their offering for the Richmond Acts of Faith Festival.

"Lazarus Syndrome" dealt with Elliott, a now-middle aged man taking a cocktail of drugs twice a day to combat his HIV-positive status, his "cheerer-upper" actor boyfriend, Steven ("You'll always be younger than me. I hate that'), brother Neil, who swears he's happy no matter how it looks otherwise, and father Jack, there to remind his sons of their family history and Jewishness.

At its most basic, it was a play about grieving for the losses we all experience, except that it was also told in an often humorous way, such as when Jack tells son Neil, "You name my grandchild Katelynn? It's like a knife in my heart!"

Better he should have named her Rachel or Esther?

The action centered around a big Jewish meal that Jack makes and brings over after taking cooking classes when his wife died. The joke is that he hadn't resorted to that until he'd eaten every last bite of food she'd left in Tupperware containers in the freezer for him.

I have no doubt that my mother will do the same, continuing to feed my father from the grave long after she's gone.

Playing brother Neil, Andrew Boothby was the standout, my friend and I agreed, with his easy conversational tone (even when speaking through a full mouth of sandwich) and perfect timing. We'd liked him in "Gypsy," but we loved him in this.

He never seemed to be acting with a capital "A."

The play was a terrific choice for the AoF festival, dealing with how we as humans go on after those around us are gone, whether in the Holocaust, the World Trade Centers or simply through age, disease or tragedy.

We do it through faith, because we have no other choice but to affirm life, preferably with a little humor.

Discussing the play afterwards, my friend compared how people who experienced the disasters in the play handled life to the post-Civil War era when soldiers who'd made it through battle and disease had to return home and jump back into farming again in order to survive.

She thought there was something about digging in the dirt and looking forward to future crops that represented a kind of therapy they desperately needed.

Everybody hurts, REM famously said. The people whose home went up in flames tonight are undoubtedly experiencing that right now. I know from my own catastrophic loss many years ago that life goes on, assuming you embrace it.

Of course, being a cheerer-upper myself, I couldn't have done anything else.

Different From the Rest

Let this be a lesson to you, boys and girls.

When you stay out 'till 2 a.m., then you're likely to sleep in until 11 (or is that just me?), which is almost certain to put you behind for the (abbreviated) next day when you have work to do (a 1:00 interview is going to come up almost as soon as you finish eating breakfast, answering emails and opening every window in the house because it's already 75 degrees), which, let's face it, we all do.

Well, except my friend who bought Apple stock in the '90s, but he's one of the lucky ones.

Still, last night's nine-hour progressive restaurant crawl through Monroe Ward and Jackson Ward was well worth today's repercussions, one of which is this highlights reel post about it.

Things got rolling at Rappahannock for oyster and Prosecco happy hour, where an error in our server hearing our order resulted in a bonus four Old Salts to our dozen, making for a fine start to the night.

From there, we headed east to Lucca where sunny yellow stools and a familiar face at their raw bar greeted us.

Sitting at the regular bar under lights far too bright, we expressed our wish for dimmer and the bartender agreed wholeheartedly, immediately setting a far more intimate mood to accompany a stellar Motown soundtrack (gems such as "Love Child," and - be still my heart - "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me").

A charcuterie and frommage plate groaned under Comte, Tallegio and Humbolt Fog, along with Capricola, Rohschinken and grilled bread with apricot chutney. MIA was the promised honey and pickle, but all in all, it was a solid spread.

Crossing back over Broad Street to Vagabond, we settled in with coupes of Can Xa Brut Rosé to accompany smoked chicken wings in tequila honey sauce (because some people believe wings and Monday night go together like football and TV) and, my choice, a plate of sticky General Tso's sweetbreads, hoping the broccoli would count as tonight's lone vegetable.

With enough pink bubbly, a person could justify almost anything.

The evening's final stop was Saison where we ran into the daily sunrise-watcher (I had to ask when sunrise was since I had no clue) and then gradually watched the place begin to fill up with beards and tattoos for half-priced wine night.

From our vantage point at the top of the bar and glasses of Pheasants Tears Tavkeri Rosé, we debated the political candidates, the cost of a transmission and why some people scrimp to save for a week at the beach.

Walking outside just before 2 a.m., it was startling how warm it still was. Could Spring have sprung while we were catching up and crawling all evening?

Regardless, sitting down to post at that point seemed silly, so here I am now, late but not entirely lost.

Just in case anyone's keeping score.

Gems from the Jitney

Good vibes carried me into a Sunday evening.

When I walked into Saison for dinner, there was a friend I hadn't seen in months but who'd apparently been thinking about me earlier this week. He'd tuned in to the blog to see what I'd been up to and it made him want to see me.

Wishing had apparently made it so.

We took so long catching up that by the time I got to the bar and ordered my quarter chicken, the bartender told me it would be a while because an order for four whole chickens had just gone in, so the fryer was full.

It was well-timed news after all, because a guy walked in, sat down in the stool next to me and began chatting like we were old friends. It was his first time at fried chicken night and he was unsure about all of it, but finally put on his big boy pants and ordered a half chicken.

Minutes later, he looks at me and asks, "What do you wager I can't finish a half chicken?" Are you kidding? You're a grown ass man, of course you can finish half a chicken, I assure him. When he sees my quarter chicken delivered, he feels more confident about his order.

When it arrives, the bartender asks if he wants another cocktail. Gesturing at my Mexican Coke, he says, "She's got the right idea. I'll have one of those."

As we eat together, I learn that he's a restaurant worker, leading us down the rabbit hole of the nature of the hospitality industry and those inhospitable people who have no business in it (he works with a few). He obviously loves it, with an eye on opening his own place someday.

When I comment about what an appropriate Sunday supper fried chicken is, he looks at me askance. "Maybe here, but not in my family," he announces. "My family's from Maryland, Italian Catholics, and we always have lasagna for Sunday dinner."

Next, as if the dish is foreign to me, he explains the arduous and multi-hour process of lasagna making - "...and then there's the bechamel..." - and how anyone who thinks ground beef belongs in lasagna has a screw loose. These are things he clearly feels strongly about.

Saison's chicken, as usual, shatters into crispy bits with every bite of the moist meat and this week's sides are classically southern: braised greens and a biscuit with sorghum butter, all of which which beats pasta any day in my book. Don't talk to me about lasagna when I've got fried yard bird in hand.

We chat so long I have to suddenly pay and leave when I realize my play starts in ten minutes. It's only at this point that we finally introduce ourselves and he insists that I come by the restaurant where he works for more conversation and, he assures me, an excellent meal by their new chef.

Will do.

Then it's on to the Basement for the second night in a row, except this time it's for a one-night performance of "Blacklist: August Wilson," a night devoted to spotlighting the works of this most significant black playwright.

Since it was general admission, I found a single seat, conveniently located next to a talkative guy who turned out to be a park ranger by day and a playwright by night. Considering I'd spent an hour listening to a park ranger earlier today - and everyone knows Mike Gorman - it was like we had multiple things in common from the get-go.

Where he far surpassed me was in his August Wilson scholarship, having read most of them and already certain that "Joe Turner's Come and Gone" was his favorite. I'm not completely Wilson illiterate because I recognized the names of three of the plays, although I'd never seen one produced. I wasn't proud of that.

Introduced by Mary Shaw, who along with Carolyn Meade had conceived of and created the event, she made a point of saying, "There were murmurs around town that if you do this kind of work, people won't come. Thank you."

The beauty of it was that she was saying it to a full house.

A group of twenty talented black actors had come together to learn scenes from Wilson's "Century Cycle," a group of ten plays, one for each decade of the 20th century black experience, with musical segues featuring music from the appropriate decade before each scene.

Not knowing the plays, I could  glean a little from the monologues and scenes we saw, and the benefit of this was that it was all about the acting. And, holy cow, what acting!

So many times tonight, I found myself dazzled by an actor I'd never seen before. Scenery was chewed by talent I'd never so much as heard of and I'm a regular theater-goer. If there are this many extremely talented black actors in this town, shouldn't more of them be cast more often?

I got a kick out of one scene from "Joe Turner's Come and Gone" because it involved a fried chicken dinner ("Now, my Mom, she could fry some chicken!") like the one I'd just enjoyed, but "The Piano Lesson" told a heartbreaking story of a piano traded for a slave and a half, a horrific concept.

It wasn't surprising to read that "Fences" had won the Pulitzer and a Tony because the scenes we saw were electrifying (Father to son, "Liking your black ass wasn't part of the bargain").

The audience responded to the stories within the scenes viscerally and loudly. When a wife finds out her husband has cheated on her, she says, "Where was "we" when you was rolling around with some god-forsaken woman?" or, "You're not the only one with wants and needs," and a spontaneous chorus of "Mmm-hmm" and "That's right" went up from the people in the seats around me.

"Two Trains Running" appealed to me because it dealt with the '60s, the height of black power, and the different reactions blacks had to the changing social climate, but, honestly, I'd happily see any one of these ten plays produced in full.

Do you know the last time I saw an all-black cast in a play? This will date me, but it was when TheatreVirginia did an all-black casting of Tennessee Williams' "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." And while it was a fascinating thing to experience, it's not the same as seeing parts written for blacks by a black playwright.

As I told one of my favorite artistic directors tonight, Richmond has a terrific theater scene but the casting could better represent the city's demographics. He heartily agreed. Tonight's performance proved that we have more than enough talent to do that.

Seems like it's about time to do the right thing.

The Waiting Game

There are so many ways this blog post could go.

I could talk about the afternoon spent at my parents helping my Mom prepare for today's bridge luncheon using Betty Crocker's 1969 cookbook "Salads" to craft the main dish, tuna/egg/olive salad in a puff pastry bowl.

When she took me upstairs, it was to give me her mother's ring, significant because my Washington. D.C. grandma and I were very close and she knew that despite my not being a jewelry person, I would want it.

I could write about going to the new Mott Gallery in Carytown to see Frederick Chiribog's fascinating work, an exhibit of ready-mades a la Marcel Duchamp, mobiles (one strung on fishing wire so it appeared to be flying unaided across the gallery) and detailed wooden dioramas.

But the real draw was guitarist/singer Samantha Pearl sharing her fierce guitar chops and lovely voice against a colorful mural of Cubist-like figures dancing and cavorting.

I probably ought to post about the Todd Rundgren show at the National, for which I arrived on time only to learn, along with the middle-aged masses, that Todd had hit traffic on I-95, so the show wouldn't start until 9:30.

It would make for hilarious reading if I blogged about the Deadhead couple from Dinwiddie County, long-time dedicated show-goers I befriended when they were looking for somewhere to have a drink besides Coda next store, and our sojourn to Greenleaf's Pool Room where I had Sloppy Joe sliders and they had mojitos and Don Julio.

The real subject should undoubtedly be the Todd show, a flashy, LED-lit performance with Todd, a DJ and two wig and costume-changing female dancers/back-up singers. This was not my mother's Todd show (although I'd been amazed when she'd told me she knew who Todd was) of yore or even like the show I saw of his 10 years ago at the Canal Club.

Instead, the highly-energetic 67-year old sang, danced, mimed lyrics and occasionally played guitar as he tore through a two-hour set of his most EDM-sounding material, adding in other material here and there and giving it the dance beat treatment.

There may have been disappointed Todd fans out there who were secretly wishing for a full band and note-perfect renditions of the hits, but I wasn't one of them. I was more than happy to dance in place - my usual: in front of the sound booth - to just about every song.

For one such as me, who's been a fan of Todd's practically since I bought my first records (45s, natch), the pure pleasure principle was just hearing that voice and how amazingly good it still sounds, even coming from a balding man in an overly tight sleeveless t-shirt prancing across the stage.

For sheer humor, I could write about going to Saison after the show, where I talked to a drunk man slurring his words, questioning my hair and critiquing how I wore my necklace (no, really) and watched as front and back of the house staffs from the Roosevelt and Metzger showed up for late night refreshment after closing their own kitchens.

Bathroom graffiti was outstanding: "Bring back pubes" and "If you ain't handcrafting shit in RVA, you ain't poppin'." Your pubes are your business, and I'm hand-picking words, so I hope that counts.

But, no, for the best possible story, what I should blog about is that as I was leaving the National, the guy who was holding the door open in front of me met my eyes and it may as well have been 1992 again. Standing in front of me was a featured player from my past, someone with whom I had a colorful back story and someone I hadn't seen in 20 years.

Cue "Hello, It's Me."

We met when we were both doing radio, a business I got out of in 2005 and he only escaped four years ago after years of considering himself a radio rat, to open a record store. No surprise there; the two of us had spent ridiculous amounts of time talking music and going to shows. Cue "A Long Time, A Long Way to Go."

Last night, we caught up as best we could walking down the block before he and his friend headed for their car to drive back to Tidewater. He made one last appearance as I was standing at my car. Cue "Something/Anything?"

He suggested I come down to his record store. My suggestion was that a conversation (or many) were in order. Cue "Parallel Lines." How do you run into someone you haven't seen in 20 years and just pick up the conversation?

Given the complete surprise of our meeting, it felt more natural than it had any right to be walking down Broad Street doing just that. Wow.

Cue "Can We Still Be Friends?" Hold on 1992, I'm about to find out...

Mediterranean Blast

Like Groucho, I'm not sure I want to be part of any club that'll have me.

That said, when it's Club Saison a few blocks from home and the meeting is a wine dinner, I'm in. My date for "inspired wines bolstered by bites from Chef Adam Hall," was a favorite chef happy to have a walkable way to spend his evening off. Ditto the handsome bartender and his date, also taking advantage of Monday funday.

Saison had been laid out with one long communal table with flowers and pale blue napkins while overhead, Wild Nothing was playing on the sound system.

We were handed glasses of Casteil d'Age Anne Marie Brut Nature Reserva as a greeting (possibly the most gorgeous way to say hello) and introduced ourselves to the one couple who'd arrived before us. We were told this was a night to play with wine and just have fun.

Now there's a club philosophy I can get solidly behind.

Before long others were coming in the door, the only familiar face being the bartender. I overheard one woman describe the lovely bubbles we were drinking as "hot tub wine, you know, porch wine." Are they one and the same? Also overheard, "I'm going to set up a Tinder app to be the perfect Tinder experience..." Isn't that an oxymoron?

It mattered not that all but two faces were new to me because the invitation had plainly stated that part of tonight's purpose at Club Saison was to have an interactive/lively evening, which meant getting to know strangers.

To my left was a delightful couple who thanked me profusely for making them aware of Saison's parking lot, something they hadn't known existed. To my right was a woman described by her husband of 15 years as having "a degree in psychology, a master's in English literature and I'm from West Virginia!"

When I asked if that dichotomy made for problems in their relationship, he said no. "I came pre-trained and so did she." This is why middle-aged relationships have so much potential.

"I was feral," quipped my date. True that.

We started with an octopus terrine in heirloom tomato gel, a dish we should have been eating in some little coastal town while sipping the hot tub wine, which we learned was made by successive female generations of a family

I'm all about some girl power.

Next came goat and sheep's milk cheeses accompanied by two pairings, both Sicilian, one of which was Arianna Occhipinti's Tami Nero d'Avola. I'm an unabashed fan of Arianna's wines after being introduced to them by a fellow Gemini and then following up by having them on two occasions while I was in Italy.

That's actually one of my favorite Italy stories because I tried to order a bottle at a cliffside restaurant in Vico Equense and the very Italian waiter looked at me like I'd insulted his mother. "But, but that's Sicilian!" he'd sputtered. Sure is. And a woman to boot.

Next came scallops two ways, one seared and one salt-cured, with hen of the woods and two more pairings, this time from Corsica: Domaine Leccia Patrimonio Rose and Rouge. Our wine goddess shared that she'd been determined to include Corsican wines in this dinner one way or another.

Everyone swooned over lamb loin with beets, radish slices and blackberry jam paired with the funky unfiltered Celler Jordi Liorens' Blan 5-7 and the fabulous (if a tad pricey) Panevino's Su Chi No'Nao, a real treat to drink by the glass.

Meanwhile I quizzed those around me about their first concerts (Chicago Transit Authority for him and the Doobie Brothers for her), marveling at the host of '70s-era shows one woman had seen. We even had a textile talk, discussing the brilliance of colors achievable on polyester as evidenced by thrift store disco-era finds. Only problem? Hot as hell to dance in at the club.

It was while we were having our stone fruit dessert that a woman at the table looked at her husband and said, "I won't make a face if you buy any of these wines." I told her that her statement was a variation of something my friend Pru had told her Beau at a wine dinner once: "If you want to keep me liquored up all summer, you'll buy lots of this."

I make no such demands and yet far too much wine seems to flow my way. Maybe it's the dues I pay for being in the club.

That said, you won't catch me getting in a hot tub with my wine. I'm pre-trained better than that.

A Woman Young and Old*

It's hard to explain what a few hours of snow does to the extroverted self-employed.

Don't get me wrong, I love seeing snow start falling from the sky shortly after returning from my walk not long after 1:00 in the afternoon. I enjoy it all the more for listening to husband and wife duo Tennis all afternoon. Their indie neo-soul aesthetic is a female-driven sound that speaks to me.

Just when I think that you're mine
You start to slip away
But your love is divide
You know I'm coming for you

But I'm also that person who begins to chafe and sweat at the idea of being trapped at home for days. Yes, I have a great book, plenty of food and the ability to walk, but the fact is, I want company. Give me humans.

Which is why it's barely 4:15 when I head out, umbrella in hand (to the consternation of Canucks everywhere), determined to find company, alcohol and food. The snow is coming down in earnest but that's part of the appeal of the walk.

Stop one is Saison Market for a glass of Cava and the chance to read Atlantic Monthly while Beach House's Teen Dream  plays. While "Take Care of You" pours out of the speakers, I chat with the guy next to me who is writing in a notebook while he sips a beer. Unlike me, he's too young to appreciate the lyrics.

Promptly at 5:00, I shoulder on my coat to cross the brief distance to Saison where I find a group of MCV dental students and a glass of Prosecco with my name on it. Animal Collective's "Summertime Clothes" is playing and everything is right with the world.

If only I were wearing summertime clothes, maybe a sundress or something equally lightweight and adorable. Instead, snow is pouring down outside and I am wearing multiple layers to deal with the cold. I am most definitely not a cold weather person.

One of the dental students is celebrating a birthday and clinks glasses with me, having just come from Sam Miller's and multiple Long Island iced teas. I marvel that one so seemingly clueless will soon be in charge of strangers' teeth.

Fortunately, I soon have superior company and a plate of fried chicken. Usually a Sunday night special, tonight's fried chicken appearance is a special due to the snow, along with sides of corn bread and black beans and rice with sausage.

Perhaps the most pleasant part of it all is how uncrowded the dining room is and that most of its occupants are Jackson Ward residents. If you're here, you walked to get here. Howdy, neighbor.

But all good things must come to an end and they want to close so their employees can get home safely. Fortunately, my dining companion had noted that GWAR Bar was open when he walked over. It's enough incentive to trudge over in the still-falling snow.

On the way, I spot a favorite couple through the window of their J-Ward condo and wave under my umbrella until they come to the door and say hello. Turns out they have already been to Max's for the same reason I was at Saison.

It's a meager crowd we find at GWAR Bar despite the open sign and blasting metal soundtrack. With an apologetic look, the bartender tells us they're about to close. Fair enough, but she agrees to serve us one round.

Midway through that round, a favorite gallerist arrives with his wife and we are soon deep in discussion of upcoming events at his gallery. Next thing I know, he has sent over a bourbon shot for me, despite the fact that I don't drink bourbon. Meanwhile the door keeps opening with others seeking warmth and spirits.

All of a sudden, the evening has taken a turn. I shouldn't be surprised given that we're at GWAR Bar.

With people continuing to arrive, the bartender has abandoned any hope of closing early. We're all in it for the long haul. Snow changes the rules.

Before long, the art teacher and her newly-shorn beau arrive and wave from across the bar. It's beginning to look like anyone who lives within trudging distance is here. Outside, everyone in the neighborhood who has a dog is out walking it.

One of my favorite newcomers is a Puerto Rican with a laptop who is experiencing his first major snowfall since moving here a year ago. He is amazed at the city's reaction to snow. "I've seen hurricanes that are much worse than this," he claims. No doubt, but this is a weather wimp town.

Outside the big windows, the snow continues to fall steadily, a sure indicator that we will indeed have 8-10 inches by lunch time tomorrow if it keeps up. I love the snow but hate what it will do to my social life and desire for company this week.

The only good part is that I've had great fun on the opening night of Snowmageddon week. It's a good thing, too, since it may have to last me all week.

Who am I kidding? I'll find someone somewhere who wants to see me tomorrow night and the next, even if they're strangers.

I've been told an optimist's company is always welcome. Let's see if that holds true in the snow.
(*W.B. Yeats)