Happy Birthday Hovering

In a way, I went to two birthday parties tonight.

The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.

At least at first.

Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.

As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.

Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.

You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.

Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.

Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.

Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.

We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.

The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.

He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.

After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.

"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.

Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.

The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.

Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.

During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."

Ba-dum bum.

Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.

I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."

We all know there's a difference.

Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.

Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.

The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.

From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.

Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.

Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."

Illusion or not, I did, too.

Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply

Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.

"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."

That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.

Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.

Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.

The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.

After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.

"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."

Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."

"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."

He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."

Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.

Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.

Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.

Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?

It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.

All or Nothing at All

It's always bittersweet.

The last day of vacation means one last time in the ocean, a sweaty drive back to Richmond and a mental readjustment of place and purpose.

As it shook down today, the water was warm, but still refreshing at 10 a.m.

The drive took less than three hours from cottage door to city door.

Getting my head back into real life mode, though, took a bit longer.

It's not that I'm not glad to be back in Richmond, a city I love with plenty of ways to keep me interested and busy.

But here I don't go around in my bathing suit all day long and the non-stop crash of waves is conspicuously absent.

(heave post-vacation sigh)

Clothes and city sounds? It's a lot of transition to ask of a person in one day.

On the plus side, I had an invitation for dinner (meaning a chance to share some of my vacation stories) and enough time beforehand to do my beach laundry and put away the contents of my bags.

Looking for a cool place to eat and share tales from the beach, we settled on Cellar Door and a corner booth.

The music was satisfyingly eclectic, from Sinatra's "All or Nothing at All" to Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" with Hendrix in between.

Not surprisingly, it was the owner's iPod and not a satellite radio station.

I started with an Italian, the Annalisa Pinot Grigio, since anything but a dry white would be unthinkable on a day I come home to a thermostat that read 99 degrees.

I'm sure it was actually hotter, but the device only goes as high as two digits.

The heat also kept our appetites in check; my choice of the River House was suitably light, with sauteed garlic shrimp over mesclun, avocado, red onion, cukes and grape tomatoes and a house-made Italian vinaigrette.

After our salads, we had the cremini mushrooms sauteed in sherry with garlic and parsley, a generous dish of garlicky mushrooms that ensured that no one would want to kiss either of us later.

Okay, maybe someone but not most people.

While waiting for dessert to arrive, musicians began to set up, but we hadn't a clue as to what to expect.

The Limoncello flute had been described to us as a sorbet but it was creamier than that, almost like a lemon meringue pie in a glass (but minus the crust).

It may have been the perfect hot weather dessert, light and refreshing.

Soon a guy began rapping, but only after announcing before his second song, "I got my epic cheesy ass introduction for this."

With a recommendation like that, who wouldn't want to stay and hear what other bon mots he had to offer?

Okay, us, but one of us had had a late night and for me it had been a long day traversing states and states of mind.

So despite the sweetness of being home and in great company at a favorite subterranean restaurant, I was closing out my day far from a lot of the things that have been giving me pleasure this week.

Bittersweetness aside, as long as I'm back I may as well jump right back in.

I happen to know I can find pleasure wherever I am.

Even with garlic breath.

Sing, Baby, Sing

Do enough stuff and someone will call you on it.

With no more of a plan than to hear live music on the lawn of a plantation by the river, we packed a goody bag and headed to Hopewell.

That may be the only time I've been able to say that.

Fredericksburg's World Jam Club was playing at Weston Plantation on the Appomattox river.

Stately trees, a fine-looking 1789 house and a long fishing pier out onto the river looked to be a bucolic spot for listening to music al fresco.

Our outdoor intentions were dashed when we arrived to find that the changeable weather had moved the performance into the "winter kitchen" of the old house.

For the infrequent plantation visitors, that means the basement, a tiny place that was never going to comfortably hold the attendees.

An older couple walked up with chairs and we told them about the switch.

"Oh, no," the kindred soul said. "I wanted it to be outside!" Didn't we all?

Switch to Plan B.

We strolled down the bank, part timbers set into hill and part steep wooden stairs, and stopped midway down where we were chased down by a videographer for the Hopewell Tourism Board who wanted to interview us about why we were there.

My companion tends to be fairly taciturn and most of his answers involved pointing at me as the source of his trip to Hopewell.

I, on the other hand, was more than happy to wax poetic about why I'd chosen a plantation lawn for Sunday afternoon music.

I fly my geek flag proudly.

Don't get me started on the intersection of culture, history and picnicking with a microphone clipped to my dress.

Press duties done, we finished our descent to the middle of the pier.

With our backs to a good breeze, we admired the stormy sky and began by pulling out cherries to eat as we watched huge gray clouds roll by.

Our idyll was interrupted when a snake swam up, stopped just in front of our dangling feet and looked us straight in the eye.

I do bugs, but I don't do snakes. There was a position adjustment on my part as fish jumped all around us.

Two minutes later a couple comes down to the pier and asks, "Seen any critters?"

Jarringly, yes.

Eventually we went back up the hill and spread ourselves out on a pink spread under a huge, old tree, mere yards from the open door that led to the "winter kitchen."

Under a tree with music wafting our way, we sipped vinho verde, ate fruit and cheese and admired this fine old house by the river.

Soon another couple broke bad and put their chairs under a nearby tree, cracking beers as they listened.

And then another, right by the stairs to the basement.

We'd been involuntary trendsetters.

By the time the concert was winding down, we began to feel rain and packed up, completely unprepared to find out how hard it was already raining outside the protection of the tree.

The further north we went on 95, the more the rain began to taper off.

Dinner followed at Cellar Door where all our choices came off the specials menu.

Twenty four-hour marinated Peruvian chicken drumsticks packed heat and meat and the arugula underneath took its creaminess from the Peruvian ranch dressing.

A spinach salad with blue cheese, white wine poached pear, red onion, tomato, cucumber, and chunks of salt-and-pepper chicken was satisfying and flavorful enough to have been a main dish for any one person.

The braised short ribs were a bit dry but much better with onions, butter-poached red apples and pears in every bite.

Our server had on a  bike polo t-shirt, leading to me asking and discovering my seven two degrees of separation from him.

It never ceases to amaze me just how small this town is. Small good, of course.

Final stop was the Westhampton Theater for "Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (for the Elderly and Beautiful)," full of superb English acting, colorful India locations and humor about aging.

"I can't think that far ahead. I don't buy green bananas."

The story of Brits who go to stay in an Indian hotel that's falling apart was charming, funny and understated.

"Everything will be alright in the end and if it's not alright, then, trust me, it's not the end."

Sex was enthusiastically pursued. Long time loves were rediscovered. Expectations were not met and then exceeded.

"Nothing here has worked out quite as expected."
"Most things don't. But sometimes what happens instead is the good stuff."

The film captured India's unique light, energy, masses of people and colorful beauty as each of the guests explored it differently.

By the charming end of the film, no less than three couples had acknowledged their emotional attachment to their beloved.

Just like a tidy Shakespearean comedy ending, true love triumphs.

Except, in this case, they were on motorbikes in India.

"When one does adapt, the past withdraws."

And they live happily ever after on a pink spread under a tree...assuming the snake doesn't return.

Un/Fortunately, it's Pass/Fail

Best to begin with the highbrow portion of the evening and degenerate from there.

So we started at Firehouse for "You Don't Know Me: A Trio of  One Acts," part of the Acts of Faith Festival.

And, yes, I'm a heathen but they let anybody in, probably hoping to make converts.

The plays were all about those most impolitic of topics, namely race, religion and redemption.

"What Strong Fences Make" and "Beirut Rocks," both  by Israel Horovitz, dealt with Arab/Israeli issues and were separated by an interpretive dance piece done first in silence and then to Talking Heads' "Life During Wartime."

In the second piece about Jewish and Arab prejudices, Audra Honaker was especially strong as the Arab girl with a good reason to hate Jews, even as her reaction crossed the line.

I appreciated a scene in that play where the Jewish guy chided his new roommate for sloppy language. "I'm a Lit major, Jake," he shouted, ""Words are inspirational to me,"

In other words, choose your words carefully and say what you mean.

True in context, true in real life.

The final play was one I'd seen a bit of at the Acts of Faith Preview and dealt with racial prejudice at a predominantly white college in Ohio in 1949 .

The subject matter (illegitimate children, unmarried sex and bias against blacks in the early '50s) was strong, a worthy match for Katrinah Carol Lewis' performance as the author who had to live through it all.

The premise of the play was, you want to hear why there's s much violence in the author's books? Listen to her life story.

And we did.

After our culture fix,we headed for dinner around the corner at Cellar Door (where the sandwich board said they were open for lunch and dinner every day but closed for Superbowl), where I immediately ran into a bartender friend.

"You missed a good show last night," he grinned.

I also missed oysters and dinner with an Italian winemaker last night, but as far as I can tell, I can only be in one place at a time.

Goodness knows I try to prove otherwise.

We ended up having a fine supper (Prosciutto-wrapped scallops in beurre blanc, Peruvian chicken and roasted corn salad for me) with reduced price Malbec (always a treat to find happy hour on a weekend).

The final stop of the day was at Sticky Rice (I know, right?) for the final round of their Iron Man chef competition, pitting the Richmond chef against the Baltimore and D.C. chefs.

A Sticky Rice face off, so to speak.

Since I hadn't been in Sticky Rice for years, there was some adjustment period while I took in the crowd, the music, and the vibe before the smoke machine started up and the three finalists came through the front door to music.

It was pretty hysterical and the whole thing was being filmed and broadcast throughout the restaurant.

Don't let anyone tell you there's no good entertainment in RVA on a Sunday night.

My partner in crime and I found a bar stool and claimed it, with me ordering a Hornitos to transition to where we were.

Which was a very noisy bar with a (for all intents and purposes) meaningless competition going on while a comedian made loud jokes with the judges and some people snapped pictures.

No, really.

Although we stayed through the first round of tastings by the judges, the winner wasn't announced, so we may never know which Sticky Rice chef took home the trophy.

On the other hand, we'd revisited a place once recommended in an out-of-state newspaper as a hip place for a visitor to go.

No, really, let's not send our out-of-town guests to Sticky Rice as a representation of who we are.


Even for the Tater Tots.

But all experiences are good conversational fodder and this one was no exception.

We made up stories about the high maintenance-looking blond talking to the guys next to us.

We watched the two cameramen all but trip over each other trying to film the Ironman no one was paying attention to.

The funniest exchange of the evening involved a past event.

"Remember what you said the other day?"

A puzzled look. "Give me the footnotes."

My advice? Take notes if you have to.

No one said it was going to be easy to keep up.

The fun is in trying.

Smoke Over Blue Moon

It was a mere 56 years of music from start to finish tonight.

Appropriately, we began with the VMFA's sold-out screening of  the documentary, "Elvis '56," followed by a panel discussion.

Yes, sold out. It's become perfectly clear too me that this town is full of Elvis fanatics. Me, I'm just a documentary dork, but this crowd came for The King.

Organizer Trent Nichols got things rolling saying, "Welcome. I think I saw Elvis sitting over there." From behind me I heard some middle-aged woman say exasperatedly, "I wish."

In fact, it was local rocker Wrenn Magnum, magnificent in his black pompadour and period-appropriate duds.

The 1987 film was outstanding, eschewing the usual talking heads that dominate a documentary and instead showing clips from the dozen TV appearances he made in 1956 as well as many of Alfred Wertheimer's photographs taken during that ten-day period when he shot 2500 images of the then-unknown Presley.

I was thrilled with the narration of the film, which was done by Levon Helm in his distinctive Arkansas accent.

The panel included Wertheimer, who noted that after a flurry of interest when he took those pictures, they were basically forgotten until Elvis died in 1977.

Since then, he said, a week doesn't go by that someone doesn't contact him about using a photo or ten. That one gig has become his life's work.

"I'll be on this job when I'm dead," he said without a trace of irony.

As someone who didn't keep up with Elvis' music, I'd have to say the highlight was hearing his cover of "Blue Moon," truly a thing of beauty.

I say that as I sit here typing and listening to it.

From the museum, we left for Cellar Door. That's not the royal we; I was in the company of a DJ since it's National DJ Day and all.

Tomorrow is Squirrel Appreciation Day and I'll try to celebrate that, too, once I figure out how best to do so.

With a bottle of Santa Julia Malbec, a Pumphouse (grilled cheese, spinach and tomato), a bowl of the Rope Swing (Peruvian chicken soup with quinoa, veggies and pasta) and a plate of Romesco (artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers and olive tapenade on crostini), we had plenty to occupy us.

By the time we finished all that, it was time to high tail it to Strange Matter and the best free show bill I've heard in a  long time, including lots of my favorite music from a cave.

Walking in, a guy I know only by the way he introduced himself to me last year ("I'm an old rocker"), came up and said to me, "I knew you'd be here."

Yea, there's a big surprise.

Snowy Owls played their best set yet (no less than four other people said the same thing), getting the show off to a pitch-perfect start.

Super Vacations, a psych-punk quintet I'd been told I'd like, came next with their fast and short songs. I did like them, although not so much the singer's habit of tossing beer cans into the crowd.

White Laces, this time playing as a quartet (I've seen them as a duo and trio, too) and doing lots of new material, expertly played to my taste with loads of reverb and bass.

Old Rocker complained about too much reverb, but I begged to differ. No such thing.

After their set, I ran into Kyle, leader of The Diamond Center on my way to the bathroom.

He gave me a sheepish look and explained that he wouldn't be playing his twelve-string tonight.

I have to assume he was warning me since I have been known to gush every time I hear him play that thing.

"I thought, 'Oh, no, Karen's here and I'm not playing it," he said apologetically. "But I'm playing the Rickenbacker."

For the record, I'd be the last to complain about hearing a Rickenbacker and I told him so.

"Someday I'll have a Rickenbacker 12-string and we'll both be happy," he said.

I can't wait.

Until then, I was more than happy with their smoke-laced set of psychedelia, the closest musical thing we have to a non-drug-induced high in Richmond.

It was quite a leap from Elvis' "Blue Moon" and yet a perfectly natural progression.

On today of all days, I'm sure any of the DJs at the show (and there were many) could appreciate the beauty of it.

Winding Down with a Bug

I wasn't sure what to expect from First Fridays Version 2.0.

Instead of 7:00-10:00, the new hours were 5:00 - 9:00. Vendors and musicians had to be off the street at 9 p.m. and no parking was allowed on Broad Street, not that that affected me.

But as someone who usually made early plans and didn't begin artwalking until after 8:00, it represented quite a change for me.

Never let it be said that Karen can't change. So around 6:30, I left Jackson Ward Central (my apartment) to see what was what.

What I had forgotten was that it was August, so First Fridays was already a pale imitation of itself due to the time of year.

ADA Gallery was closed. I'd seen the show at Ghostprint last night. Metro had music out front. Quirk's show was a carryover I'd already seen.

And the police presence was huge. Before I even got to Broad Street, I happened on two of RVA's mounted squad stationed at Marshall and Madison. You know, just in case.

But honestly, the mounted squad is in J-Ward on a regular basis (some of the guys even recognize me), so that wasn't all that noteworthy.

But up on Broad, it was uniform city.

I commented to one of Richmond's finest that they sure were out in force tonight and he grinned and said, "That's because we knew you were coming."

Now they're teaching these guys PR skills?

I assured him that, as a J-Ward resident, I had no qualms about the neighborhood, but was glad to know that others might feel better about their presence.

From there I went to Art 6 for the Judy Rifka show because I knew that this Manhattan-based artist came out of the same scene that produced Keith Haring and Jean Michel-Basquiat.

"Judy Rifka Posted" took over the entire gallery, top and bottom. Downstairs, the enormous wall painting was the star alongside prints of her "paper monsters."

Done in a loose hand in black and blue, two figures emerged from trees, leaves and other vague squiggles.

The figures had an historical look to them (breeches, apron), but the overall effect reminded me as much of Raoul Dufy as anything I could think of.

I made a stop at Bistro 27 because, on walking by, I saw a nearly empty bar. Further proof that it was an August First Friday.

Sipping a glass of Tenuta San Pietro Gavi de Gavi, I listened to the chef's tales of eating and escalators on his recent trip to China.

Scorpions and Peking duck in Peking seemed to be the least impressive meals.

Afterwards, I meandered over to Gallery 5, although not for the August Fest tasting of Virginia microbrews that clearly drew so many people there.

But I made my way through the madness to see "Enigmages," a show by artist Mr. Visions of an array of images from a girl with a black eye to jazz musicians to Poe.

The moment I finished, though, I wanted out of the mass of beer-swilling humanity. It was hotter in there than it was outside.

So slthough Gallery 5 was having music, I had my sights set on another show.

Over at Cellar Door, Frank Rourk, flamenco guitarist extraordinaire, had put together a program so unique that I wouldn't have missed it.

It was a re imagining of Philip Glass' "Metamorphosis," originally written for solo piano from music used in a theatrical production of Kafka's "The Metamorphosis."

Frank had redone the five-movement piece for guitar, hand drums, bass and flute.

As if that wasn't impressive enough, he and two other artists had created artwork (and posters for sale) that also tied into "The Metamorphosis."

Even the programs were works of art, each signed and numbered (I got 16/40) with art on both front and back.

Every seat was taken and, both surprisingly and thankfully, the audience treated the performance like a listening room.

It wasn't just me. People paid rapt attention to the musicians, following the rise and fall of the  musical imagery.

All except for one very drunk guy who first talked loudly over the music and then actually went and stood directly in front of Frank as he played. He was maybe a foot from the musicians.

But like any good drunk, he allowed himself to be led away and eventually found a table to sit out the rest of the performance.

The entire audience breathed a sigh of relief and went back to savoring the unique interpretation of a piano work on guitar, flute, bass and drums.

Afterwards, Frank likened the interruption to one of John Cage's "chance moments" that become part of the performance.

I liked his thinking on that.

Frank had conceived of this show as the start of a series for people still too keyed up after First Fridays to want to end their evening (a feeling I know well).

He raises an excellent point. With the art fun over by 9:00 now, who won't want to find  someplace cozy like Cellar Door to relax, hear some well-crafted music and enjoy a cold beverage (I opted for Manon Rose)?

Rifka, Kafka, Cage and Glass. Such an intelligent evening for a First Friday.

Surely I gained as many brain cells as I lost.

Welcome to First Fridays Version 2.0 After Hours.

Geeks like me are going to love it.

Something Old, Something New

I pressed the "repeat" button tonight to get my evening rolling. I went to Amuse for drinks, even though I'd been there yesterday. I saw the "Celebration of Print" show at VMFA for the third time this week.

But repeating myself was more than worth it because I was meeting up with a recently-engaged friend  (now wearing a carat and three quarters on her left hand and, holy cow, that's a lot of ice) who told me all the details of her proposal. I love that he asked her by saying, "So what are you doing for the next twenty years?"

Our libation of choice was the Montand sparkling rose (redundant, I know, but at $5 a glass, impossible to pass up), enjoyed with an amuse bouche of smoked duck on rye with allspice creme fraiche and pomegranate gastrique. Divine.

We followed that with tonight's special, lamb/pork/beef meatballs in Romesco sauce with turnip puree and fresh peas. My friend declared them "little meatloaves," and said they made her crave exactly that. Knowing her, she'll make meatloaf this weekend.

Since she's an illustrator, I insisted that we take in the print show before we left because I knew how impressed she'd be. And she was, oohing and ahhing over the big names, the unknowns and the three prints of cats.

It was so enjoyable to go back over the show with someone so familiar with all the printing processes, my own little expert, so to speak. Once more, I saw the show with fresh eyes.

Afterwards, she went home to her man and I met another friend for dinner at the Cellar Door; it was his first time and my fourth and we enjoyed it equally.

Despite him arriving a half hour before me and scanning the menu endlessly while he waited for me, he'd somehow missed their Peruvian chicken specialty and ended up ordering the Jackson Ward sandwich, probably because it's where we live.

Not me. I had the Mansion salad, loaded with that chicken and their spicy Peruvian ranch dressing. I traded a bite of mine for a bite of his marinated beef sandwich and jicama fries, so everybody was happy, but I guarantee you he'll get the chicken next time.

He had updates on his love life to share as well as tales of gardening and rug binding. Sometimes he's as good as a girlfriend for girl talk (and I mean that in the most complimentary way). If only he hadn't been too full for dessert.

Then we were off to different shows. I ditched my car at home and walked over to Gallery 5 for a superb night of fresh-sounding music. When I arrived, not a soul was outside except for the two headliners, heads bent together in the glow of the street lights. It would have made a great photograph.

The Cinnamon Band had just begun and it took me only seconds to recall how much I'd liked them when I first heard them at Live at Ipanema, here.

This time they were back in their usual electric mode, but no less impressive. And this time I got to hear the shimmering chords and explosive drumming that had been toned down at Ipanema. Happily, the audience was attentively into them, and the energy in the room was terrific.

All the way from Montreal came Handsome Furs, although somehow there were only two of them instead of the usual dozen or so that comprise a Canadian band. I don't know how they get away with that in a country that boasts bands bigger than sports teams.

A guy behind me noted, "Damn, they're short!" and another said, "Skinny, too!" Between them, maybe 200 pounds, but their sound belied their size.

The raw energy of Handsome Furs was complemented by Alexei's exuberant synth and drum machine playing and  Dan's excellent guitar playing and vocals. Plus they're married and in love, so they kiss between songs sometimes. You don't see that much.

After tearing through the first couple of songs, Dan took off his shirt, saying, "Virginia is hot! But the smokes are cheap. I'm such a dirtbag, I love to smoke."

He introduced the song "When I Get Back" by explaining that it was about post-tour resolutions, like not drinking lighter fluid because it was the only alcohol in the house or giving up cigs because they're bad for you. It was pretty funny stuff and the song rocked.

Alexei showed off her flexibility with waist-high leg kicks to match the beat and a flailing arm to balance herself on keyboard on occasion. Her little two-piece midriff and short set with red tights made her a  pogo stick of color as she played, her long, red hair falling in her eyes pretty much all the time since she never stopped moving.

The music had definite 80s undertones (Human League, Devo) but with elements of blues and rockabilly over post-punk. As always, I appreciate the way young artists are able to choose one from column A, one from column B and one from column C and reinterpret it all as new.

Songs were short, fast and energetic and it's clear why they're both so skinny given the physicality of the workout performance they gave. They really looked like they were having a great time up there.

As was I. Nothing wrong with starting with something old (and familiar) especially when I end up with something new (and different).

And you know I can skip the something borrowed and something blue.

Eating Off the Menu at Cellar Door

It was such a nice day that I had the brilliant idea to stroll the Monument Avenue medians, something I hadn't done in a couple of years.

But every time I do it, I'm a amazed at how completely different it feels to be in the center of the street rather than on either side of it. There's something about being on the wide grassy expanse that makes the traffic seem distant.

And if I'm going to walk Monument Avenue, it only made sense to have lunch there, too. Of course, that leaves one option, but my last two visits to the Cellar Door had been delicious, so I wasn't adverse to a third.

When I walked in, I was pleasantly surprised to find four tables full and a couple at the bar deep in conversation. Things were looking up; tat's more than the combined number of people on my last two visits.

Maybe they'd heard about the Peruvian chicken I'd had on my last two visits, first by itself and then on a salad. Today I broke bad and got the Manchester, a sandwich of that chicken, tomato, avocado, Provolone and caramelized onions with Mediterranean potato salad.

The music was classic rhythm and blues (Al Green, Marvin Gaye, Jackson 5) and I enjoyed listening to it while waiting for my food. It soon became obvious that I must have arrived only a short time after the eight-top, the four-top and one of the two-tops.

The kitchen was clearly very busy making everyone's food, but I was in no hurry and my server was nice enough to chat me up in the interim. I asked about them doing music shows and he said they frequently happened on Mondays. I consider this a good thing since Mondays can be slow days and he agreed. Sprout is good about that, too.

He told me that Chiocca's was one of his favorite places to eat because of the enormous sandwiches. The vintage vibe at Chiocca's came up and he said that somehow the bar regulars at Chiocca's manage to seem less questionable than the ones at the Village, despite the fact that they could be the same people.

It's true: whenever I'm in Chiocca's, I feel like I'm in a time warp and it could be 20 or 40 years ago. Nothing much changes down there (okay, there was the addition of the ATM machine, but even that's old news now).

When my sandwich finally arrived, it was with profuse apologies from my server. I told him I understood that I had been in line behind fourteen other orders and felt the kitchen's pain and he thanked me for understanding.

My sandwich was an absolutely terrific combination of flavors, although not exactly as it had been billed. The onions were raw, not caramelized, which was still fine with me and the Provolone was missing in action, but that didn't matter to me, either.

The heat of the Peruvian chicken's jalapeno sauce paired with the coolness of the tomatoes and avocado and the crunch of the onion on thick ciabatta was a really delicious combination and I wasn't the least bit sorry for the changes from the menu's description.

As I was eating, a woman from the eight-top came over to pay and tell my server that, "Word is getting out about this place. My neighbor told us about it and then one of our guests over there arrived already wanting to come here."

I'm not surprised. A place that can give a customer something different than what she ordered and still impress knows what they're doing.

Now I'll just have to check out one of their shows and see if they're as good at that. Somehow I'm willing to bet that they are.

Merci for the Eye Catchers

The postcard from the National Museum of Modern Art had arrived last week, which meant my friend was back from Paris.

That also meant a welcome back lunch so he could present me with the foreign tights he'd secured for me (as well as Bourdain's Medium Raw because he wants someone to discuss it with), always part of his souvenir-gathering when he's abroad.

He works on Monument Avenue, so he invited me to stop by his office to collect my gifts and we'd walk from there. The tights, called "Leo," are labeled in five languages as "an extravagant eye catcher" and "a walk on the wild side," and will undoubtedly be lots of fun to wear in a place far removed from Parisian streets (I think I'm up for the job).

This beautiful weather made for a glorious walk the short distance to the Cellar Door; the leaves were deep on the sidewalk but the temperature was 77. That's my kind of autumn.

We started with the spicy zucchini fritters after my friend asked if I was interested (I told him I've never in my life turned down a fritter. Fact.). They were not what I expected, but that wasn't a bad thing. Slices of zucchini had been coated in a crunchy crust and fried up crisp and hot. Eaten immediately at their peak, they were sliced fried goodness.

My friend had to get the quarter Peruvian chicken since I'd recommended it so highly to him, but I did a slight variation by getting the Mansion, a salad of lettuces, cukes, tomatoes, red onions and olives with that same chicken on top of it. The Peruvian ranch dressing, made with the same spices used on the rotisserie chicken, was a big hit with him and great on the salad, too.

I heard all about his trip: the transit strike that prevented his trip to Versailles, the offal he ate at a no-star bistro, his all-day walks (he knows what I like) and lots of wine anecdotes. His stories about the beer-swilling costumed student demonstrators sounded (and, according to him, looked) like something out of Mad Max.

We lingered, talking to the owner about their plans for a brick oven for their rotisserie ("The problem is the ten-story chimney." Indeed, that would be a problem.), the appeal of using their jalapeno sauce on practically everything ("I may be addicted. I'm considering putting it in my coffee," he admitted) and Thursday's Halloween throwdown there.

Walking back down Monument Avenue, friend asked when I expected I'd be wearing the wild Leo tights. Who knows, they might be perfect for the Night of the Living Dead Bands show when I go to see Led Zepplica.

It won't be Paris, but somehow I don't think they'll seem quite so outrageous in that crowd.

Lunch Period at The Cellar Door

Back-to-school week. Labor Day. Signing a petition for the Richmond Transit Riders Union. Who knows what inspired me to check out the gallery walk at the Virginia Historical Society today for the new exhibit Organized Labor in Virginia?

And considering my knowledge base on the subject of labor and unions, I was bound to learn something, always a good thing. As is typical of me (or perhaps anyone), I was most engrossed in the things I could relate to.

A 1948 strike by the Virginia Dairy milk delivery men was caused by the dairy raising product prices but not milkmen's wages. The picture of a milkman in his uniform, sleeves rolled up and holding a rack containing eight glass bottles of milk next to a horse-drawn dairy wagon reminded me of my milkman grandfather.

Another enormous image of menhaden fishermen on the Northern Neck, part of the Reedville menhaden fleet, was captivating. The old boat, with laundry strung up to dry and surrounded by fishermen working for a pittance under deplorable conditions was a reminder of the fishing culture that, for many years, sustained the area where my parents now live.

Despite the disruption of many people's daily routines, there was apparently overwhelming support for the streetcar strike against Virginia Passenger and Power Company. The headline showed the strikers with a headline proclaiming "Yesterday's Scene of Excitement at 7th and Main." They don't write headlines like they used to, that's for sure.

The whole exhibit was enlightening and fascinating in that way that history tends to be when well-presented. And now I know what a whitesmith does, something I didn't know when the gallery walk began. Nerds love that kind of satisfaction.

After history class, it was lunch period and I was eager to check out Monument Avenue's only restaurant. That would be the Cellar Door in the basement of the big white apartment building at Stuart Circle, home to countless previous incarnations.

The last time I'd been in there was when it was still Artists' Underground Cafe and it had been for a show on a hot, sweaty summer night. The first band thrashed hard and loud two feet from me, they only served beer and the place was sticky with sweat and beer. The band I'd come to hear, though, delivered a great set in a room almost too crowded to move. Ah, memories.

The Cellar Door is nothing like that. The place has undergone a renovation that leaves it looking sleek and somehow warm at the same time (a nearby bar sitter told me "You should see it at night. The walls just glow."). It even seems bigger without the tables in the center.

The star of the menu is Pollo a la Brasa, Peruvian style chicken served with two sauces. A variation of that chicken also came in soup, salad and sandwich options, but I figured it best to try it in its basic form first.

That meant I ordered the quarter chicken, a thigh/drumstick combination (it also comes as a half chicken) and for my side, went with the roasted white corn salad (other sides: steak fries, potato salad, jicama "fries" or rose kettle chips).

The crispy-skinned chicken "packed some heat" as the bartender told me, and both sauces had something to recommend them. The red was a Peruvian Ranch with the same spices as the chicken's rub. The green was a jalapeno, cilantro, olive oil and garlic sauce. I couldn't decide which I liked better, so I alternated dipping bites in both, all the while wishing I'd ordered the half chicken so I could keep eating longer, not that I didn't have more than enough to eat.

Worth mentioning is how fresh and well-seasoned that roasted white corn salad was and while corn is still so good, it's an atypical side worth checking out. It was a perfect accompaniment to the chicken, flavor-wise.

I had the pleasure of sitting next to the electrician who'd done the work there and at Sprout (although I would have guessed he was a student because he looked so young), so he'd already eaten there repeatedly and made several recommendations for my future visits, including how terrific the desserts were.

The four sweet options included two chocolate choices: Godiva Chocolate Bombe and Mexican Chocolate Torte and he personally loves the Espresso Cheesecake; they also had a Southern Pecan Tart. Not to be overlooked is a wine list that runs $6-$8 a glass and $18 - $30 a bottle.

Clearly I need to go back for dessert, wine and the glowing walls. And in all likelihood, that chicken again.