I could see it beginning last night.
A simple supper at Garnett's with Mr. Wright on a Wednesday evening turned out to be a standing room only valentine's eve kind of a vibe. Our server - wearing a heart-red cullotte dress - confirmed my guess that we were likely surrounded by early celebrants.
The multi-day extravaganza that is Valentine's Day was upon us and we'd just come for food.
Or at least I had, since it's a holiday not high on my hit parade, though Mr. Wright later unveiled a non-Valentine's Day envelope of his own.
Walking with Mac this morning after two days of road trips for me, we crossed one of our usual corners on the way to the river, only to intersect with an ex of mine. Howdy, stranger is about all I said as we kept moving, but on the way back, two different strangers wished us a happy Valentine's Day.
Grocery shopping meant dodging wild-eyed men seeking flowers, cards and balloons and by the time I finished, I'd talked myself into going directly to Nate's Bagels. Semms they'd baked pink everything, sesame and poppy seed bagels in anticipation of hungry lovebirds (or just the expectations of the masses), but they'd already sold out of the pink everythings.
Since I was there to indulge myself, I didn't really care what color the bagel was. Priorities, people.
Once home from Nate's, I found my annual valentine in the mailbox from Holmes and Beloved. For as long as I've known this man, he sends me a kiddie valentine in a small red envelope inside a large white envelope addressed to me. He always signs both their names to demonstrate his aim is true.
And although I'm not at all into a big celebration on this day, I did need to get out after an intense day at my desk. That's how I ended up walking over to Coalition Theater - past couple after couple framed in the windows at Max's - to see "U Up?" aka a Valentine's Day sketch comedy show.
Turns out lots of people wanted to see comedy about love, courting and romancing tonight and most of them had been wise enough to order tickets online. Not me, so I put my name on a waiting list behind one other couple and sat down to wait.
There were sketches of all kinds from a Millennial Dating Game show where the woman had to pick from three guys she's already hooked up with to Trish and Dave's Extreme Date Night, which was a Bird Box date night ending with a lot of blood and bumping into each other.
Life without you is like a broken pencil. Pointless.
Multiple were the sex talks we witnessed, from one with Star Wars characters (spoiler alert: it involves a bikini and biting the head off a giant slug) to Harry Potter getting the talk from assorted teachers including Voldemort the virgin. Even the Terminator stopped caressing his Nerf gun long enough for his Mom to explain how babies were made. Naturally it involved a picture of a woman he'd never met.
I like that you're obsessed with me.
"Dine Another Day" involved James Bond and Doctor Killmore losing their dates when they can't stop battling for rhetorical dynamic dominance with each other and behave properly date-like. That meant lines like, "Mr. Bond, looks like you have a license to kill...conversation!" as his date stalks out of the restaurant.
You are the nuclear accelerant to my heart.
One of the smartest sketches involved a couple pulling out their argument card decks, using whatever card would help them best their mate in verbal sparring. He pulls out the "turn the table" card or the "spread the blame" card and next thing you know, she resorts to pulling out the "trap" card. You can imagine how that ended.
Tell me about your fiancee, the tuxedo salesman asks. "She likes music, naps and lunch, just like me."
For the "Divorce Doctor" set, couples were looking for reasons to consciously uncouple so they could celebrate the myriad pleasures of being divorced. When one woman took issue with her mate for buying Miracle Whip instead of Duke's mayonnaise, it was in pursuit of a divorce. Heated words were exchanged, with the woman yelling that Miracle Whip doesn't have enough oil in it to be called mayonnaise so she's outta there.
"Speak it!" a guy two seats down from me called out passionately to the couple. He doesn't care about them breaking up, just about mayo superiority.
Richmond, taking their Duke's seriously since 1607. Valentine's Day, not so much.
Showing posts with label valentine's day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label valentine's day. Show all posts
Thursday, February 14, 2019
Monday, February 13, 2017
Frogs' Legs, A Noble Aphrodisiac
It's not often someone gives me a cookbook and when it does happen, there's got to be a reason.
So when I received a belated Christmas gift of "Venus in the Kitchen" (first printing 1952, Great Britain) last week, my first reaction centered on how well the giver knew me - after all, it's not going to suddenly make me cook more often - when I realize its real charm is the era, the locale and the language.
Allow me to point out that the introduction is by Graham Greene. Yes, that Graham Greene. Go on, call me the third (wo)man.
Let us - shall we? - go to page 80 for Pie of Bulls' Testicles that begins by instructing the cook to "take four of them and boil them in water and salt before you strip them of their membranes." Then there's layering inside the crust: sliced ham, sliced testicles, mince. Repeat.
But here's the real secret: "Add, before shutting the pie, a glass of wine. Put it in the oven and serve hot."
And let's talk standard measuring devices: Cut your celery into pieces about a finger long.
The reason to try the recipe for goose kidneys? "Made into croquettes cooked lightly in the oven, is admirable for warming cold spirits."
Because, honestly, who among us hasn't been plagued by cold spirits at some point?
Snails a la C.C.C. N.I. advises, "Feed your snails for a fortnight on milk. This is not difficult, you have only to put the snails in an earthen vessel and cover it with a lid. Every morning, just pour a glass of milk on the snails."
The only thing I ever poured on snails was salt and it wasn't pretty or delectable.
The next morning, take your guts, cut some of them into thin slices.
Snails a la C.C.C. N. III comes with the most enticing incentive of all: "An old friend ate this dish in Boldigidinga when he was there and declares that he found himself at least 10 years younger!"
Like fancy moisturizers, except with more hyperbole.
Remove all the outer skin of the breast of mutton and wash it well.
Appealing as Scalloped Crab sounds, it comes with the caveat: "Not very invigorating."
Well, then, why exactly would I bother?
Under "turkey with pickled pork and onion" the recipe notes: Jews of a certain age could profit by this, if it were not for the pork.
Duh. Between stating the obvious and wondering what the hell they're talking about, this sounds both presumptuous and prejudicial. Neither is appealing.
Lest you over-estimate the power of Oysters in Champagne, heed the advice of the recipe: "Not everybody cares to treat oysters in this fashion."
My only question is, why not?
And, given that we're smack in the middle of Valentine's season, how about a recipe for Skink (a reptile aphrodisiac)?
The skink is lauded as a stimulant by many ancients. The difficulty will be to find it. But if someone chances to be in Africa or Arabia, he will be able to do so."
Assuming there's no ban on incoming non-natives, that is.
Of Langouste a l'Americaine, the author advises: "Monselat declares that if the chaste Joseph had been given this dish by Potiphar's wife, she would not have been snubbed on that memorable occasion."
Of course I'm dying to know what occasion that was.
The recipe finishes with, "Arabs still make use of it; the ancient Greeks did likewise, and Pliny the elder has left us a Roman recipe which differs from the one here given."
But it also doesn't tell you any details on that Roman take on skink.
A big eel is necessary, from which you remove the inside. Wash well and skin, leaving the head attached to the skin. Put the skin in vinegar and water, and leave it there until you have done the next operation.
For those curious about that operation, it involves boiling the flesh, de-boning it and pulping the flesh in a mortar. Before you know it, you're serving it hot, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon.
Baked eels does at least come damned with faint praise: Nothing can be better for those who like eels.
And because we live in an era of increasing nationalism, there is, "Americans of a certain age, if they cared more for game than they do, might learn to appreciate the mildly stimulating effects of this puree."
They might if they weren't such idiots.
And don't even consider trying Puree of Celery given its descriptor, "Rather banal, I venture to think."
Then we eliminate that recipe from the book entirely, no?
Consumme Viveur includes the enticing statement, "Very stimulating, indeed," while Crayfish Soup is labeled "an approved aphrodisiac."
Appropriately, the book ends with Tonic Wine, which marries wine with juniper berries, Peruvian bark and bitter quassia, which is then mixed with bitter orange syrup.
Drink a Madeira glass of this every day. Warmly recommended by an aged friend.
Warmly accepted by same. But the Venus reference? Hopefully yes, but not perhaps in the kitchen.
So when I received a belated Christmas gift of "Venus in the Kitchen" (first printing 1952, Great Britain) last week, my first reaction centered on how well the giver knew me - after all, it's not going to suddenly make me cook more often - when I realize its real charm is the era, the locale and the language.
Allow me to point out that the introduction is by Graham Greene. Yes, that Graham Greene. Go on, call me the third (wo)man.
Let us - shall we? - go to page 80 for Pie of Bulls' Testicles that begins by instructing the cook to "take four of them and boil them in water and salt before you strip them of their membranes." Then there's layering inside the crust: sliced ham, sliced testicles, mince. Repeat.
But here's the real secret: "Add, before shutting the pie, a glass of wine. Put it in the oven and serve hot."
And let's talk standard measuring devices: Cut your celery into pieces about a finger long.
The reason to try the recipe for goose kidneys? "Made into croquettes cooked lightly in the oven, is admirable for warming cold spirits."
Because, honestly, who among us hasn't been plagued by cold spirits at some point?
Snails a la C.C.C. N.I. advises, "Feed your snails for a fortnight on milk. This is not difficult, you have only to put the snails in an earthen vessel and cover it with a lid. Every morning, just pour a glass of milk on the snails."
The only thing I ever poured on snails was salt and it wasn't pretty or delectable.
The next morning, take your guts, cut some of them into thin slices.
Snails a la C.C.C. N. III comes with the most enticing incentive of all: "An old friend ate this dish in Boldigidinga when he was there and declares that he found himself at least 10 years younger!"
Like fancy moisturizers, except with more hyperbole.
Remove all the outer skin of the breast of mutton and wash it well.
Appealing as Scalloped Crab sounds, it comes with the caveat: "Not very invigorating."
Well, then, why exactly would I bother?
Under "turkey with pickled pork and onion" the recipe notes: Jews of a certain age could profit by this, if it were not for the pork.
Duh. Between stating the obvious and wondering what the hell they're talking about, this sounds both presumptuous and prejudicial. Neither is appealing.
Lest you over-estimate the power of Oysters in Champagne, heed the advice of the recipe: "Not everybody cares to treat oysters in this fashion."
My only question is, why not?
And, given that we're smack in the middle of Valentine's season, how about a recipe for Skink (a reptile aphrodisiac)?
The skink is lauded as a stimulant by many ancients. The difficulty will be to find it. But if someone chances to be in Africa or Arabia, he will be able to do so."
Assuming there's no ban on incoming non-natives, that is.
Of Langouste a l'Americaine, the author advises: "Monselat declares that if the chaste Joseph had been given this dish by Potiphar's wife, she would not have been snubbed on that memorable occasion."
Of course I'm dying to know what occasion that was.
The recipe finishes with, "Arabs still make use of it; the ancient Greeks did likewise, and Pliny the elder has left us a Roman recipe which differs from the one here given."
But it also doesn't tell you any details on that Roman take on skink.
A big eel is necessary, from which you remove the inside. Wash well and skin, leaving the head attached to the skin. Put the skin in vinegar and water, and leave it there until you have done the next operation.
For those curious about that operation, it involves boiling the flesh, de-boning it and pulping the flesh in a mortar. Before you know it, you're serving it hot, sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon.
Baked eels does at least come damned with faint praise: Nothing can be better for those who like eels.
And because we live in an era of increasing nationalism, there is, "Americans of a certain age, if they cared more for game than they do, might learn to appreciate the mildly stimulating effects of this puree."
They might if they weren't such idiots.
And don't even consider trying Puree of Celery given its descriptor, "Rather banal, I venture to think."
Then we eliminate that recipe from the book entirely, no?
Consumme Viveur includes the enticing statement, "Very stimulating, indeed," while Crayfish Soup is labeled "an approved aphrodisiac."
Appropriately, the book ends with Tonic Wine, which marries wine with juniper berries, Peruvian bark and bitter quassia, which is then mixed with bitter orange syrup.
Drink a Madeira glass of this every day. Warmly recommended by an aged friend.
Warmly accepted by same. But the Venus reference? Hopefully yes, but not perhaps in the kitchen.
Monday, February 15, 2016
All Eyes on Cool Beans
Valentine's Day in the rear view mirror (with apologies for my tardiness):
It was a bittersweet walk to Dixie Donuts for their last day but since theirs are my favorite Richmond doughnuts by far, it was non-negotiable.
The cases looked a little depleted, but right in the center was a tray of pink and white Valentine's doughnuts with conversation heart wisdom written on them in icing - "Will you be mine?" and "XXOO" - so I ordered one sporting "You are cool beans" and looked in vain for my fave.
About to settle for something else, I lucked out with my timing and a tray of chocolate chocolate doughnuts came out moments later, the chocolate icing still dripping off them. I ate it standing up at the window looking out on Carytown.
The owner made sure her staff knew that I'd walked all the way over from Jackson Ward - a 5 1/2 mile round trip - and they acted impressed, but what's a little walk for a fresh, oozing doughnut?
Walking back past the Lowe's on Broad Street, a man stopped me to ask why the flags were at half-mast. Clicking my brain into gear - or maybe just smacking it out of its sugar rush - I explained that a Supreme Court Justice had died yesterday and refrained from sharing my opinion of the deceased.
Probably too soon, but I already have a favorite death joke: Antonin Scalia requested cremation in his will, but millions of women will meet tomorrow to discuss if that's really best for his body.
Sorry, it made me laugh.
My favorite Valentine came in the mail from Holmes and Beloved. Addressed "To Karen aka "ff" (Holmes refers to me as Femme Fatale), it read, "You're a charmer, Valentine" and was surrounded by figures from "Toy Story."
It wouldn't be Valentine's Day without Holmes' annual miniature missive reminding me of the February swaps back in elementary school. And unlike back then, no one told him he had to give me one.
Mid-afternoon, I called a friend to see what he was doing and while he claimed to be "chilling," he sounded a little down, so I insisted he come pick me up for lunch and some chatter.
We wound up having a blast, meeting a group of 20 or so strangers who'd driven up from Virginia Beach for a group lunch and welcomed us into their party, for which we became the official photographers.
Let's just say when he dropped me off, he was in a far sunnier mood than the one he'd arrived in, no surprise since he once told me, "You act just like a drug on my mood" and fortunately, he wasn't referring to heroin.
And because everyone wants her friends to think of her as some kind of drug.
Over the course of two restaurants - Camden's and Lucy's - I met two couples celebrating not just Valentine's Day but also their anniversary. The ones who'd been married 31 years were the cutest because he admitted without hesitation, "We like to be together all the time" while she nodded and smiled ear to ear.
Not sure I could do the "all the time" part, but I am in awe of long-time, still-happy couples (like my parents) and wonder what they had that I didn't. It's not just luck, is it?
The other couple had gotten married last year at Lucy's, so tonight's Valentine's dinner was particularly evocative of last year's festivities, albeit with more strangers than friends. They were adorable, too, dressed to impress (each other, no doubt), one in a red sweater and blue tie and the other in a blue sweater and red tie.
It began snowing while we were eating duck breast and goat cheese polenta at Lucy's and listening to the Lord Huron Pandora station which focused on earnest-sounding male songwriters. For my money, any station that works in St. Lucia's "All Eyes on You" on such a determinedly romantic day is fine by me.
Cause I hope
We will never have to take back
What we said in the night
I hope that I will always have
All eyes on you
Sounds romantic to me, but what do I know?
It was a bittersweet walk to Dixie Donuts for their last day but since theirs are my favorite Richmond doughnuts by far, it was non-negotiable.
The cases looked a little depleted, but right in the center was a tray of pink and white Valentine's doughnuts with conversation heart wisdom written on them in icing - "Will you be mine?" and "XXOO" - so I ordered one sporting "You are cool beans" and looked in vain for my fave.
About to settle for something else, I lucked out with my timing and a tray of chocolate chocolate doughnuts came out moments later, the chocolate icing still dripping off them. I ate it standing up at the window looking out on Carytown.
The owner made sure her staff knew that I'd walked all the way over from Jackson Ward - a 5 1/2 mile round trip - and they acted impressed, but what's a little walk for a fresh, oozing doughnut?
Walking back past the Lowe's on Broad Street, a man stopped me to ask why the flags were at half-mast. Clicking my brain into gear - or maybe just smacking it out of its sugar rush - I explained that a Supreme Court Justice had died yesterday and refrained from sharing my opinion of the deceased.
Probably too soon, but I already have a favorite death joke: Antonin Scalia requested cremation in his will, but millions of women will meet tomorrow to discuss if that's really best for his body.
Sorry, it made me laugh.
My favorite Valentine came in the mail from Holmes and Beloved. Addressed "To Karen aka "ff" (Holmes refers to me as Femme Fatale), it read, "You're a charmer, Valentine" and was surrounded by figures from "Toy Story."
It wouldn't be Valentine's Day without Holmes' annual miniature missive reminding me of the February swaps back in elementary school. And unlike back then, no one told him he had to give me one.
Mid-afternoon, I called a friend to see what he was doing and while he claimed to be "chilling," he sounded a little down, so I insisted he come pick me up for lunch and some chatter.
We wound up having a blast, meeting a group of 20 or so strangers who'd driven up from Virginia Beach for a group lunch and welcomed us into their party, for which we became the official photographers.
Let's just say when he dropped me off, he was in a far sunnier mood than the one he'd arrived in, no surprise since he once told me, "You act just like a drug on my mood" and fortunately, he wasn't referring to heroin.
And because everyone wants her friends to think of her as some kind of drug.
Over the course of two restaurants - Camden's and Lucy's - I met two couples celebrating not just Valentine's Day but also their anniversary. The ones who'd been married 31 years were the cutest because he admitted without hesitation, "We like to be together all the time" while she nodded and smiled ear to ear.
Not sure I could do the "all the time" part, but I am in awe of long-time, still-happy couples (like my parents) and wonder what they had that I didn't. It's not just luck, is it?
The other couple had gotten married last year at Lucy's, so tonight's Valentine's dinner was particularly evocative of last year's festivities, albeit with more strangers than friends. They were adorable, too, dressed to impress (each other, no doubt), one in a red sweater and blue tie and the other in a blue sweater and red tie.
It began snowing while we were eating duck breast and goat cheese polenta at Lucy's and listening to the Lord Huron Pandora station which focused on earnest-sounding male songwriters. For my money, any station that works in St. Lucia's "All Eyes on You" on such a determinedly romantic day is fine by me.
Cause I hope
We will never have to take back
What we said in the night
I hope that I will always have
All eyes on you
Sounds romantic to me, but what do I know?
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Public Displays of Devotion
Romance is everything ~ Gertrude Stein
My parents taught me that Valentine's Day, like wedding anniversaries, was meant to be celebrated between two people.
Sure, in elementary school, we all took valentines for everyone in the class, but Mom was adamant as we got older that it was a holiday to celebrate love between two people, not an all-purpose holiday where you sent your aunt, cousin or, god forbid, parents a mushy card.
That made sense to me, so if I was in a relationship, I searched out the perfect card in which to write something meaningful, along with maybe a token of my affection to present to my significant other. But no one knew what we exchanged or said because no one compared notes about the nature of their Valentine's Day.
Talk about the Stone Age.
Now, thanks to Facebook (and for all I know, Instagram and Twitter), it's a Valentine's Day free-for-all of over-sharing.
A single friend who works retail posts a rant about the male madness at the store where she works, but its central purpose is to remind women that this is a holiday for us. And that men go through the motions for two simple reasons: a) they love us and b) they think they'll be in trouble if they don't.
I see her post as sort of a public service announcement.
Several friends post pictures of their cats, some identifying the cats as their valentines, while others are just a general Valentine's Day wish from their cats.
We all know this is just what cat people do no matter what day of the week it is.
A feminist, wife and mother I know posts a beautiful kissing picture from her wedding and comments about a holiday our country has increasingly monetized by feeding off our collective insecurities and need for materialism.
But she also states her complete adoration and deep love for her husband because, she says, our culture values public displays of devotion and she aspires to be a a good wife.
I'm impressed with how seamlessly she has melded social commentary, satire and her feelings.
A favorite photographer and printmaker offers up a photo of a hot chick in honor of St. Valentine. Worthy of note is that the picture was of one of her backyard chickens.
It's hard to fault holiday humor.
In a gesture sure to earn the scorn of men everywhere, a musician friend recorded a song for his girlfriend and posted it online. He even prefaced it by saying he'd gone all the way to Valentine's Day-land and all he'd gotten her was this silly love song.
Sure, I listened, wouldn't you? They recently got engaged in Paris, so clearly he's a highly romantic kind of guy, something I admire, covet even.
But my parents would be appalled at such public displays of devotion and I'm not far off. The gestures are perfectly lovely, but using the online world as a forum goes against every romantic precept instilled in me by a couple who are still in love and married after more than half a century.
Don't get me wrong. I'll take as much romance as I can get and chances are good I won't get anywhere near as much as I'd like in my lifetime. Back in college, my best buddy Leo dubbed me "hopelessly romantic" and that's still a completely apt moniker.
Call me prehistoric, but I just don't want anyone's romantic intentions toward me shared with the online world.
Happily ever after, yes, please, if possible (and my guess is, it's not). Posting about it, not going to happen.
And yet, when I end up at the GWAR bar to wind down Valentines' Day with restaurant staff blowing off steam after the misery of the past few hours (Graffiato's 600 Valentine's Day covers, a Rogue Gentlemen report from the kitchen, Helen's switched to local Bloody mix for Sunday brunch), where exactly is the romance?
Hopeless, absolutely hopelessly. Romance means something different to everyone.
My parents taught me that Valentine's Day, like wedding anniversaries, was meant to be celebrated between two people.
Sure, in elementary school, we all took valentines for everyone in the class, but Mom was adamant as we got older that it was a holiday to celebrate love between two people, not an all-purpose holiday where you sent your aunt, cousin or, god forbid, parents a mushy card.
That made sense to me, so if I was in a relationship, I searched out the perfect card in which to write something meaningful, along with maybe a token of my affection to present to my significant other. But no one knew what we exchanged or said because no one compared notes about the nature of their Valentine's Day.
Talk about the Stone Age.
Now, thanks to Facebook (and for all I know, Instagram and Twitter), it's a Valentine's Day free-for-all of over-sharing.
A single friend who works retail posts a rant about the male madness at the store where she works, but its central purpose is to remind women that this is a holiday for us. And that men go through the motions for two simple reasons: a) they love us and b) they think they'll be in trouble if they don't.
I see her post as sort of a public service announcement.
Several friends post pictures of their cats, some identifying the cats as their valentines, while others are just a general Valentine's Day wish from their cats.
We all know this is just what cat people do no matter what day of the week it is.
A feminist, wife and mother I know posts a beautiful kissing picture from her wedding and comments about a holiday our country has increasingly monetized by feeding off our collective insecurities and need for materialism.
But she also states her complete adoration and deep love for her husband because, she says, our culture values public displays of devotion and she aspires to be a a good wife.
I'm impressed with how seamlessly she has melded social commentary, satire and her feelings.
A favorite photographer and printmaker offers up a photo of a hot chick in honor of St. Valentine. Worthy of note is that the picture was of one of her backyard chickens.
It's hard to fault holiday humor.
In a gesture sure to earn the scorn of men everywhere, a musician friend recorded a song for his girlfriend and posted it online. He even prefaced it by saying he'd gone all the way to Valentine's Day-land and all he'd gotten her was this silly love song.
Sure, I listened, wouldn't you? They recently got engaged in Paris, so clearly he's a highly romantic kind of guy, something I admire, covet even.
But my parents would be appalled at such public displays of devotion and I'm not far off. The gestures are perfectly lovely, but using the online world as a forum goes against every romantic precept instilled in me by a couple who are still in love and married after more than half a century.
Don't get me wrong. I'll take as much romance as I can get and chances are good I won't get anywhere near as much as I'd like in my lifetime. Back in college, my best buddy Leo dubbed me "hopelessly romantic" and that's still a completely apt moniker.
Call me prehistoric, but I just don't want anyone's romantic intentions toward me shared with the online world.
Happily ever after, yes, please, if possible (and my guess is, it's not). Posting about it, not going to happen.
And yet, when I end up at the GWAR bar to wind down Valentines' Day with restaurant staff blowing off steam after the misery of the past few hours (Graffiato's 600 Valentine's Day covers, a Rogue Gentlemen report from the kitchen, Helen's switched to local Bloody mix for Sunday brunch), where exactly is the romance?
Hopeless, absolutely hopelessly. Romance means something different to everyone.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Love Will Never Do
Know what I did for Valentine's Day last year? Fainted.
Know what I did this year? Took a friend and my hired mouth out to eat and then went to the same Black Valentine's Day show during which I'd fainted smack dab in the middle of last year's.
Instead of waking up on the cold restaurant kitchen floor, a man told me, "I love you so much." and kissed me.
Granted, it was DJ Charlie of WRIR'S "The Creepy Side of Love" show and his lovely girlfriend was standing right next to him, but on Valentine's Day you take your "I love yous" where you can get them.
When my friend and I arrived at Gallery 5, a surprising number of people were sporting something red (me included) and Charlie was playing his usual outstanding mix of music.
Tonight that included a remix of Janet Jackson's "Someone to Call My Lover" that caught my ear, no doubt partly because the organizer of the Black Valentine Day show had posted a link right before the show to Janet's "Love Will Never Do (Without You)" video, which I'd watched for the first time probably since 1991.
So right there was more Janet Jackson than I'd listened to in decades although there was no denying both were appropriate VD songs.
The friend I'd brought has recently moved to Jackson Ward and it was his first trip to G5, so I introduced him to everyone I could - my photographer friend who came with a guy in the scrap business who had great stories, the neighborhood rock god, the fuzz guitarist - while admiring the holiday decor of red hearts along the top of the stage and black balloons dangling from the ceiling.
Clayton England got up to play first, saying,"Thanks for coming. We appreciate you being single, drunk and here."
The Black Valentine's Day show is all about songs of love gone wrong and Clayton had a few of his own before doing a Mariah Cary song he'd first heard blasting at a Puerto Rican girlfriend's apartment in fourth grade.
He then had someone hand him one of the balloons, untied the knot and began inhaling the helium to reach the desired register to sing Mariah's song.
With no Mariah knowledge, I can't tell you what song it was but I do know he said, "That's about as cheesy as it's going to get" afterwards.
"Play a love song!" someone in the crowd called out.
"Yea, right," he said dismissively before singing more woeful songs.
During the break we noticed the half a dozen guys who had red boutonnieres on because they were being auctioned off later.
As WRIR's Lindsay, our hostess for the evening, had put it online earlier, "Live bachelor auction so buy a man and treat yourself."
That would be a treat, all right.
It was hilarious when the scrap guy asked the photographer what he was doing for Valentine's Day and when he said he was getting a couples' massage with his girlfriend, replied, "You're not allowed to be here."
Okay, technically anyone can come to the Black VD show, but it does tend to be the unloved.
The Cales were up next and they referred to themselves as the Pixies with a male and female singer before doing a Jesus and Mary Chain song.
Their sound was noisy, sometimes like punk, sometimes like grunge and the crowd was digging it.
They did the Shangralas' "Remember (Walkin' in the Sand)" after telling the crowd to look up the Shangralas if they didn't know them.
They concluded heir set by yelling, "F*ck love!" and getting cheers for it. Both the friend I'd brought and the photographer turned to tell me how much they'd enjoyed the band, a unanimous opinion despite at least twenty years separating their ages.
I think one heard punk influences and the other heard grunge.
Then it was time to sell off male flesh and Lindsay took the stage to do it, with Charlie providing exactly the right music for each part of the proceedings.
Just as she began to explain how the auction would work, her boyfriend Tim got onstage behind her and turned on a smoke machine, causing her to say, "That was annoying and unnecessary."
Saying that cash, checks and credit cards would be taken in payment for men, she yelled, "The sky's the limit...or your credit card limit."
Then as the bachelor mounted the stage, Charlie would play a sultry song and Lindsay would read the answers to the questions he'd given.
Bachelor #1 said the first thing he noticed about a girl was her inner beauty and he was the icebreaker to get people comfortable enough to start bidding.
WRIR DJ Shannon was #2 and the first thing he claimed to notice was if a girl was naturally interesting. He sold for a robust $50 to a long-haired gentleman in front (that would be musician Joon).
The third hunk of man meat up for grabs was Clayton, who'd opened the show musically.
His favorite animal was Animal from "The Muppets" and his fave color was Springsteen's jean jacket blue.
He also went for half a C-note, and prompted a guitarist friend to turn around and observe to me, "The same girl kept putting her hand up, bidding against herself."
It was true and not real bright, but given that WRIR was the beneficiary, did it really matter if she didn't have the hang of an auction?
Next came my friend Matt, a graphic designer and musician, who when asked what he wanted on his tombstone, had replied, "helvetica." Now that's funny.
It was no surprise to me to hear that his favorite band was Yo la Tengo since we've discussed that many times but I had no clue he could recite every word to "Star Wars."
The long-haired gentleman in the front purchased him for $65.
As the final prices continued to escalate, Lindsay saw fit to remind the crowd, "I did not promise sexual favors with these guys."
Ah, but one can always hope.
Bachelor #5's favorite song was Outkast's "So Fresh So Clean" and said the first thing he notices on a girl is her eyeballs.
Where he got widespread attention was with his favorite drink, vanilla Coke, prompting Lindsay to ask if he drank. He didn't.
"He's sober!" she squealed. His hidden talent was punctuality and he went for $90 "to the pixie girl in the front."
The last guy was introduced as giving the best hugs, a good thing given that his worst pickup line was, "This may be a little forward but you make me feel tingly in my downstairs."
He got points for his favorite song - Pet Shop Boys' "West End Girls" - but sealed the deal with his sense of humor when asked what he wanted on his tombstone.
Born March whatever, Died in your arms tonight. Must have been something you said.
Could he have been any more clever while being sold to the highest bidder?
After that thrill, there was nothing to do but exchange money for man flesh and finish out the evening with Lightfields.
Before their second song, Prabir walks onstage and the singer looks at us and asks, "You know this cat?" We did. "We totally didn't write this song."
Sure didn't. It was Weezer's "No One Else" and Prabir did a good job with it, but it was totally strange to see him singing without a guitar in front of him.
I want a girl who laughs for no one else
When I'm away, she puts her makeup on the shelf
When I'm away, she never leaves the house
I want a girl who laughs for no one else
He left and the Lightfields' singer explained that in addition to cover songs, they were playing original songs of love gone bad "because all our songs are about love gone bad."
They had another guest singer, a female this time and she took them through the Smiths' "How Soon is Now?" not an easy song, although certainly appropriate.
For the big finale, after all the men had been sold off like cattle, our hostess Lindsay joined Lightfields for the ultimate Black Valentine's Day show song, demanding that crowd sing along.
Ferociously belting out "You Oughta Know" like she knew how it felt to be dumped, the band was right there with her righteous indignation.
Well I'm here to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know
The men looked a little glazed, but the women seemed to be singing right along. Must have been something she sang.
I was just glad to have seen the whole show from a cognizant, upright position.
Seems like I'm back on the Valentine's day success track.
Know what I did this year? Took a friend and my hired mouth out to eat and then went to the same Black Valentine's Day show during which I'd fainted smack dab in the middle of last year's.
Instead of waking up on the cold restaurant kitchen floor, a man told me, "I love you so much." and kissed me.
Granted, it was DJ Charlie of WRIR'S "The Creepy Side of Love" show and his lovely girlfriend was standing right next to him, but on Valentine's Day you take your "I love yous" where you can get them.
When my friend and I arrived at Gallery 5, a surprising number of people were sporting something red (me included) and Charlie was playing his usual outstanding mix of music.
Tonight that included a remix of Janet Jackson's "Someone to Call My Lover" that caught my ear, no doubt partly because the organizer of the Black Valentine Day show had posted a link right before the show to Janet's "Love Will Never Do (Without You)" video, which I'd watched for the first time probably since 1991.
So right there was more Janet Jackson than I'd listened to in decades although there was no denying both were appropriate VD songs.
The friend I'd brought has recently moved to Jackson Ward and it was his first trip to G5, so I introduced him to everyone I could - my photographer friend who came with a guy in the scrap business who had great stories, the neighborhood rock god, the fuzz guitarist - while admiring the holiday decor of red hearts along the top of the stage and black balloons dangling from the ceiling.
Clayton England got up to play first, saying,"Thanks for coming. We appreciate you being single, drunk and here."
The Black Valentine's Day show is all about songs of love gone wrong and Clayton had a few of his own before doing a Mariah Cary song he'd first heard blasting at a Puerto Rican girlfriend's apartment in fourth grade.
He then had someone hand him one of the balloons, untied the knot and began inhaling the helium to reach the desired register to sing Mariah's song.
With no Mariah knowledge, I can't tell you what song it was but I do know he said, "That's about as cheesy as it's going to get" afterwards.
"Play a love song!" someone in the crowd called out.
"Yea, right," he said dismissively before singing more woeful songs.
During the break we noticed the half a dozen guys who had red boutonnieres on because they were being auctioned off later.
As WRIR's Lindsay, our hostess for the evening, had put it online earlier, "Live bachelor auction so buy a man and treat yourself."
That would be a treat, all right.
It was hilarious when the scrap guy asked the photographer what he was doing for Valentine's Day and when he said he was getting a couples' massage with his girlfriend, replied, "You're not allowed to be here."
Okay, technically anyone can come to the Black VD show, but it does tend to be the unloved.
The Cales were up next and they referred to themselves as the Pixies with a male and female singer before doing a Jesus and Mary Chain song.
Their sound was noisy, sometimes like punk, sometimes like grunge and the crowd was digging it.
They did the Shangralas' "Remember (Walkin' in the Sand)" after telling the crowd to look up the Shangralas if they didn't know them.
They concluded heir set by yelling, "F*ck love!" and getting cheers for it. Both the friend I'd brought and the photographer turned to tell me how much they'd enjoyed the band, a unanimous opinion despite at least twenty years separating their ages.
I think one heard punk influences and the other heard grunge.
Then it was time to sell off male flesh and Lindsay took the stage to do it, with Charlie providing exactly the right music for each part of the proceedings.
Just as she began to explain how the auction would work, her boyfriend Tim got onstage behind her and turned on a smoke machine, causing her to say, "That was annoying and unnecessary."
Saying that cash, checks and credit cards would be taken in payment for men, she yelled, "The sky's the limit...or your credit card limit."
Then as the bachelor mounted the stage, Charlie would play a sultry song and Lindsay would read the answers to the questions he'd given.
Bachelor #1 said the first thing he noticed about a girl was her inner beauty and he was the icebreaker to get people comfortable enough to start bidding.
WRIR DJ Shannon was #2 and the first thing he claimed to notice was if a girl was naturally interesting. He sold for a robust $50 to a long-haired gentleman in front (that would be musician Joon).
The third hunk of man meat up for grabs was Clayton, who'd opened the show musically.
His favorite animal was Animal from "The Muppets" and his fave color was Springsteen's jean jacket blue.
He also went for half a C-note, and prompted a guitarist friend to turn around and observe to me, "The same girl kept putting her hand up, bidding against herself."
It was true and not real bright, but given that WRIR was the beneficiary, did it really matter if she didn't have the hang of an auction?
Next came my friend Matt, a graphic designer and musician, who when asked what he wanted on his tombstone, had replied, "helvetica." Now that's funny.
It was no surprise to me to hear that his favorite band was Yo la Tengo since we've discussed that many times but I had no clue he could recite every word to "Star Wars."
The long-haired gentleman in the front purchased him for $65.
As the final prices continued to escalate, Lindsay saw fit to remind the crowd, "I did not promise sexual favors with these guys."
Ah, but one can always hope.
Bachelor #5's favorite song was Outkast's "So Fresh So Clean" and said the first thing he notices on a girl is her eyeballs.
Where he got widespread attention was with his favorite drink, vanilla Coke, prompting Lindsay to ask if he drank. He didn't.
"He's sober!" she squealed. His hidden talent was punctuality and he went for $90 "to the pixie girl in the front."
The last guy was introduced as giving the best hugs, a good thing given that his worst pickup line was, "This may be a little forward but you make me feel tingly in my downstairs."
He got points for his favorite song - Pet Shop Boys' "West End Girls" - but sealed the deal with his sense of humor when asked what he wanted on his tombstone.
Born March whatever, Died in your arms tonight. Must have been something you said.
Could he have been any more clever while being sold to the highest bidder?
After that thrill, there was nothing to do but exchange money for man flesh and finish out the evening with Lightfields.
Before their second song, Prabir walks onstage and the singer looks at us and asks, "You know this cat?" We did. "We totally didn't write this song."
Sure didn't. It was Weezer's "No One Else" and Prabir did a good job with it, but it was totally strange to see him singing without a guitar in front of him.
I want a girl who laughs for no one else
When I'm away, she puts her makeup on the shelf
When I'm away, she never leaves the house
I want a girl who laughs for no one else
He left and the Lightfields' singer explained that in addition to cover songs, they were playing original songs of love gone bad "because all our songs are about love gone bad."
They had another guest singer, a female this time and she took them through the Smiths' "How Soon is Now?" not an easy song, although certainly appropriate.
For the big finale, after all the men had been sold off like cattle, our hostess Lindsay joined Lightfields for the ultimate Black Valentine's Day show song, demanding that crowd sing along.
Ferociously belting out "You Oughta Know" like she knew how it felt to be dumped, the band was right there with her righteous indignation.
Well I'm here to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know
The men looked a little glazed, but the women seemed to be singing right along. Must have been something she sang.
I was just glad to have seen the whole show from a cognizant, upright position.
Seems like I'm back on the Valentine's day success track.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Down for the Count
The last thing I expected on Valentine's Day was for things to go down.
And by things, I mean me.
After bratwurst and Garnacha at home for dinner, I did what I always do to celebrate the day of love.
I went to Cous Cous for their Black Valentine's Day party.
For a change, I even had company for it.
When we got there, the crowd was almost exclusively male, made up of guys at the bar and musicians standing in the middle.
It was noted that I was one of the few in the room with XX chromosomes.
But gradually the room began to fill up and my fair sex was better represented.
To make mingling easier on this traditionally romantic evening, Cous Cous was running a special of $2.50 Aristocrat tequila shots for our Valentine's Day pleasure.
And while you couldn't pay me to drink what the bartender referred to as, "More of a tequila-flavored grain alcohol," I saw plenty of people doing so.
Still, most of the people I spoke to while sipping my water were musician friends, including the guys in Snowy Owls who were slated to perform tonight.
Since the Black Valentine's Day party always features songs about love gone bad, I wanted to confirm the rumor that they were going to do My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless" album.
What I heard was that guitarist Matt had chosen all his favorite MBV songs and the rest of the band had agreed to learn them.
At one point, Matt pulled out small sheets of paper with lyrics printed on them in the tiniest of fonts.
I told him I hoped he wasn't going to need to read them given how tough that would be.
"Yea, I should've written them on bigger pieces and just laid them out on the floor," he laughed. "I could have just looked down and read them. It's shoegaze, right?"
Now, that was funny.
Allen, the bass player was lamenting how late Cous Cous shows get started and, for people with real jobs, I'm sure it is tough to wait for a show to begin around 11 when you have to be up early in the morning.
But eventually it did and Jake Mayday was first.
It was just him and a guitar, but by then the crowd was all up in his space, meaning he had to close his eyes to sing because people were standing less than a foot from his face.
Not me. One of the benefits of an early arrival was having a small section of the dividing wall on which to lean and place my water.
Jake began with Death Cab for Cutie's "Cath," a personal favorite as Death Cab goes.
But you said your vows, and you closed the door
On so many men who would have loved you more
In a high point of the evening, Matt turned to me and asked what the song was.
Although he's someone with whom I've discussed our shared taste in music a hundred times (we began with a discussion of Bleeding Rainbow, a recent recommendation I'd since fallen in love with), I told him it was the very first time he ever asked me what a song was.
As it turned out, I was fortunate to get that feelgood moment before the crash.
From there Jake was off on more of the same, causing a friend to ask, "Is he gonna do all Ben Gibbard?"
I wouldn't know, because as I stood there watching Jake, all at once I felt like there were too many people in the room and all the air was suddenly sucked out.
Admittedly, I was overdressed (heart-covered dress, sweater, coat sweater and jean jacket with two scarves) for being in a room with so many other people and all at once I felt it.
The next thing I knew, I was on the floor and being pulled back up by those around me.
When I arose, indignant, I asked what happened and was told I'd dropped to the ground.
I promptly did it a second time, only this time I awoke on the kitchen floor with concerned faces around me.
On the plus side, the kitchen door had been opened and the air was much cooler back there, so I felt human again.
As I answered questions of my rescuers, a woman on the phone had clearly called 911 and was talking about me.
Someone handed me a Coke and the woman on the phone shouted, "No food or drink!" per her instructions from the 911 operator and it was snatched away from me after one sip.
By this time, my head was clear, I was no longer hot and woozy and all I wanted to do was get up off of Cous Cous' kitchen floor.
But no, everyone insisted that I wait for the EMS to arrive.
After having a lively conversation with them, confirming that I'd had three meals today, I'd had two glasses of wine hours earlier and nothing like this had ever happened to me before, they let me sit up.
There I answered what day it was, who the president was and how many quarters in $1.50.
When one of the medical technicians asked the guy questioning me if they were going to take me in, he all but laughed.
"No, she's just fine now," he replied. Someone noted that I was "sharp as a tack."
Slipping out the kitchen door to get some fresh air rather than back through the room with the show, my companion and I walked around the front of Cous Cous, where a group was taking a smoke break between sets.
One of the girls who'd helped carry me to the back was there and asked how I felt.
I told her I was perfectly fine, just not sure if I should go back in to see the rest of the show.
"You should be okay," she reassured me. "Just stand in the back where you can get some air."
Another girl sitting on the bench, pulled her cigarette out of her mouth and got vehement.
"You just fainted!" she said with authority. "You need to go home!"
Well, there was that.
And there my black Valentine's Day ended, with no My Bloody Valentine, no shoegaze and no ringing ears.
Cupid, you done me wrong last night.
And by things, I mean me.
After bratwurst and Garnacha at home for dinner, I did what I always do to celebrate the day of love.
I went to Cous Cous for their Black Valentine's Day party.
For a change, I even had company for it.
When we got there, the crowd was almost exclusively male, made up of guys at the bar and musicians standing in the middle.
It was noted that I was one of the few in the room with XX chromosomes.
But gradually the room began to fill up and my fair sex was better represented.
To make mingling easier on this traditionally romantic evening, Cous Cous was running a special of $2.50 Aristocrat tequila shots for our Valentine's Day pleasure.
And while you couldn't pay me to drink what the bartender referred to as, "More of a tequila-flavored grain alcohol," I saw plenty of people doing so.
Still, most of the people I spoke to while sipping my water were musician friends, including the guys in Snowy Owls who were slated to perform tonight.
Since the Black Valentine's Day party always features songs about love gone bad, I wanted to confirm the rumor that they were going to do My Bloody Valentine's "Loveless" album.
What I heard was that guitarist Matt had chosen all his favorite MBV songs and the rest of the band had agreed to learn them.
At one point, Matt pulled out small sheets of paper with lyrics printed on them in the tiniest of fonts.
I told him I hoped he wasn't going to need to read them given how tough that would be.
"Yea, I should've written them on bigger pieces and just laid them out on the floor," he laughed. "I could have just looked down and read them. It's shoegaze, right?"
Now, that was funny.
Allen, the bass player was lamenting how late Cous Cous shows get started and, for people with real jobs, I'm sure it is tough to wait for a show to begin around 11 when you have to be up early in the morning.
But eventually it did and Jake Mayday was first.
It was just him and a guitar, but by then the crowd was all up in his space, meaning he had to close his eyes to sing because people were standing less than a foot from his face.
Not me. One of the benefits of an early arrival was having a small section of the dividing wall on which to lean and place my water.
Jake began with Death Cab for Cutie's "Cath," a personal favorite as Death Cab goes.
But you said your vows, and you closed the door
On so many men who would have loved you more
In a high point of the evening, Matt turned to me and asked what the song was.
Although he's someone with whom I've discussed our shared taste in music a hundred times (we began with a discussion of Bleeding Rainbow, a recent recommendation I'd since fallen in love with), I told him it was the very first time he ever asked me what a song was.
As it turned out, I was fortunate to get that feelgood moment before the crash.
From there Jake was off on more of the same, causing a friend to ask, "Is he gonna do all Ben Gibbard?"
I wouldn't know, because as I stood there watching Jake, all at once I felt like there were too many people in the room and all the air was suddenly sucked out.
Admittedly, I was overdressed (heart-covered dress, sweater, coat sweater and jean jacket with two scarves) for being in a room with so many other people and all at once I felt it.
The next thing I knew, I was on the floor and being pulled back up by those around me.
When I arose, indignant, I asked what happened and was told I'd dropped to the ground.
I promptly did it a second time, only this time I awoke on the kitchen floor with concerned faces around me.
On the plus side, the kitchen door had been opened and the air was much cooler back there, so I felt human again.
As I answered questions of my rescuers, a woman on the phone had clearly called 911 and was talking about me.
Someone handed me a Coke and the woman on the phone shouted, "No food or drink!" per her instructions from the 911 operator and it was snatched away from me after one sip.
By this time, my head was clear, I was no longer hot and woozy and all I wanted to do was get up off of Cous Cous' kitchen floor.
But no, everyone insisted that I wait for the EMS to arrive.
After having a lively conversation with them, confirming that I'd had three meals today, I'd had two glasses of wine hours earlier and nothing like this had ever happened to me before, they let me sit up.
There I answered what day it was, who the president was and how many quarters in $1.50.
When one of the medical technicians asked the guy questioning me if they were going to take me in, he all but laughed.
"No, she's just fine now," he replied. Someone noted that I was "sharp as a tack."
Slipping out the kitchen door to get some fresh air rather than back through the room with the show, my companion and I walked around the front of Cous Cous, where a group was taking a smoke break between sets.
One of the girls who'd helped carry me to the back was there and asked how I felt.
I told her I was perfectly fine, just not sure if I should go back in to see the rest of the show.
"You should be okay," she reassured me. "Just stand in the back where you can get some air."
Another girl sitting on the bench, pulled her cigarette out of her mouth and got vehement.
"You just fainted!" she said with authority. "You need to go home!"
Well, there was that.
And there my black Valentine's Day ended, with no My Bloody Valentine, no shoegaze and no ringing ears.
Cupid, you done me wrong last night.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Leigh Street Valentine
When you walk three miles every day, you take your pleasures where you find them.
Walking down Leigh street a couple of weeks ago, I came upon a dilapidated house being worked on my a wizened-looking older man.
As he stood on a ladder working on the porch, his boom box blared Peaches and Herb's "Reunited," making me smile and say hello.
A week or so later, I walked by and Smokey Robinson's "Cruisin'" was blasting, so I gave him the thumbs up and he waved back.
Last week, I walked by and he was there, but his boombox wasn't.
What, no music? He said the extension cord was being used for something else at the moment, which I understood, but still felt disappointed.
What golden oldie was I missing?
All that was forgotten on this sunny morning when I approached the battered old house and saw my guy bent over the boombox.
"I saw you coming down the block, so I'm trying to get it on," he said, smiling, and pushing buttons.
Darling, you send me
I know you send me
Darling, you send me
Honest you do, honest you do
Honest you do
"There!" he said with emphasis and a grin. "Happy Valentine's Day, young lady!"
Sam Cooke's voice through an old man's gnarled hands straight to my ears.
And happy Valentine's Day to you, kind sir.
Walking down Leigh street a couple of weeks ago, I came upon a dilapidated house being worked on my a wizened-looking older man.
As he stood on a ladder working on the porch, his boom box blared Peaches and Herb's "Reunited," making me smile and say hello.
A week or so later, I walked by and Smokey Robinson's "Cruisin'" was blasting, so I gave him the thumbs up and he waved back.
Last week, I walked by and he was there, but his boombox wasn't.
What, no music? He said the extension cord was being used for something else at the moment, which I understood, but still felt disappointed.
What golden oldie was I missing?
All that was forgotten on this sunny morning when I approached the battered old house and saw my guy bent over the boombox.
"I saw you coming down the block, so I'm trying to get it on," he said, smiling, and pushing buttons.
Darling, you send me
I know you send me
Darling, you send me
Honest you do, honest you do
Honest you do
"There!" he said with emphasis and a grin. "Happy Valentine's Day, young lady!"
Sam Cooke's voice through an old man's gnarled hands straight to my ears.
And happy Valentine's Day to you, kind sir.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Heart of Darkness
"I hope you have a very dark Black Valentine's Day!"
~Peter (smiling, but practically a stranger)
Thanks to Cous Cous for their sixth annual Black Valentine's show, performing everyone's favorite songs of love gone bad. You know, on those rare occasions that it goes bad.
I got there around 10, ordered several V-Day Don Julios over the course of the evening, enjoyed the company of a few good friends, all musicians, and heard some inspired performances. What more could a single hope for on Valentine's night (hold that thought)?
Well, according to the end-of-evening announcement, "Hope you fond someone to go home with." I wasn't quite that lucky, but maybe I was too into the music. It's been known to happen with me.
Josh Small played first and unfortunately, the crowd acted as if he were mute, talking loudly throughout his set. Too bad, because the guy is really talented. Introducing his first song, he said, "This is a love song. It's an angry song." Well, sometimes love is angry, from what I've been told.
The Diamond Center played next, but not their usual reverb-drenched set. Instead, the crowd was treated to a selection of songs by the Zombies, including classics like "She's Not There" and "Tell Her No."
Background vocals were courtesy of the very talented Lindsey Spurrier and Allison Apperson, both impossibly cool in sunglasses. They even slipped in a Cramps cover, much to the delight of certain members of the audience. Their set was later referred to as epic, an apt description.
Baby Help Me Forget was the final act, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with their high-energy set. Front man Jamie Lay is a whirling dervish of dancing, singing, tambourine playing and in general awesome showmanship. You know as soon as he takes his glasses off that he will be jumping off of things (chairs and room dividers tonight). Steer clear.
Although several people wished me a happy Valentine's Day tonight (and today; thank you, Danny), it was a guy I was randomly introduced to tonight, Peter, who provided the unexpected and inexplicable wish for darkness.
All things considered, I had a most delightful black Valentine's Day. Looking forward to a very different sort next year, but no less enjoyable.
Thoughts of romance die hard.
~Peter (smiling, but practically a stranger)
Thanks to Cous Cous for their sixth annual Black Valentine's show, performing everyone's favorite songs of love gone bad. You know, on those rare occasions that it goes bad.
I got there around 10, ordered several V-Day Don Julios over the course of the evening, enjoyed the company of a few good friends, all musicians, and heard some inspired performances. What more could a single hope for on Valentine's night (hold that thought)?
Well, according to the end-of-evening announcement, "Hope you fond someone to go home with." I wasn't quite that lucky, but maybe I was too into the music. It's been known to happen with me.
Josh Small played first and unfortunately, the crowd acted as if he were mute, talking loudly throughout his set. Too bad, because the guy is really talented. Introducing his first song, he said, "This is a love song. It's an angry song." Well, sometimes love is angry, from what I've been told.
The Diamond Center played next, but not their usual reverb-drenched set. Instead, the crowd was treated to a selection of songs by the Zombies, including classics like "She's Not There" and "Tell Her No."
Background vocals were courtesy of the very talented Lindsey Spurrier and Allison Apperson, both impossibly cool in sunglasses. They even slipped in a Cramps cover, much to the delight of certain members of the audience. Their set was later referred to as epic, an apt description.
Baby Help Me Forget was the final act, whipping the crowd into a frenzy with their high-energy set. Front man Jamie Lay is a whirling dervish of dancing, singing, tambourine playing and in general awesome showmanship. You know as soon as he takes his glasses off that he will be jumping off of things (chairs and room dividers tonight). Steer clear.
Although several people wished me a happy Valentine's Day tonight (and today; thank you, Danny), it was a guy I was randomly introduced to tonight, Peter, who provided the unexpected and inexplicable wish for darkness.
All things considered, I had a most delightful black Valentine's Day. Looking forward to a very different sort next year, but no less enjoyable.
Thoughts of romance die hard.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Greetings to the New Brunette*
I'd be the first to acknowledge that Valentine's Day is a construct.
If I'm in a relationship, I'd want attention every day not just on the Hallmark-approved day.
But when you're not in a relationship, VD severely limits what you can do, going out-wise.
My original intention was to go to the Black Valentine's show at Cous Cous, mainly because a friend, Julie Karr, was performing and had told me some of the songs she'd chosen to sing and it sounded like fun.
Then I heard that there was also going to be a bachelor auction and although I had no intention of buying a guy, it promised to have great entertainment value.
And then out of the blue, an old friend offered to make dinner for me and why in the world would I not take him up on that?
It's amateur night in the restaurant world, but a talented friend in the kitchen sounded like a terrific way to spend the evening without all the annoying corniness.
All I had to do was provide wine (ostensibly my excuse for going to the tasting at River City Cellars Friday; thanks for the able assistance, Julia) and choose the music (one of my very favorite assigned tasks anyway).
How easy was this?
So while he effortlessly (or so it appeared) prepared the veal and multiple side dishes, I lounged around, sipping wine and offering conversation.
I'd heard a great two-degrees-of-separation story from the '90s about him just the night before and I couldn't wait to share that.
Reading the Post yesterday morning, I had learned just how shuttered things had been for a week up there due to the snow.
Since he lives in NOVA, I wanted details about how entirely life had been shut down up there, while life had marched on down here thankfully.
The meal was superb as was the conversation and I think I did a pretty decent job with the music, although our similar taste makes that pretty much a given.
Better still, I awoke this morning to a Moss-Covered Stone Heart mix, full of music for hopeless romantics, a category I have fallen into practically since birth.
And, yes, it had "Slow Show" on it.
A meal, a meandering conversation and a mix; it doesn't get much better than that.
*with props to Billy Bragg and, yes, on the mix.
If I'm in a relationship, I'd want attention every day not just on the Hallmark-approved day.
But when you're not in a relationship, VD severely limits what you can do, going out-wise.
My original intention was to go to the Black Valentine's show at Cous Cous, mainly because a friend, Julie Karr, was performing and had told me some of the songs she'd chosen to sing and it sounded like fun.
Then I heard that there was also going to be a bachelor auction and although I had no intention of buying a guy, it promised to have great entertainment value.
And then out of the blue, an old friend offered to make dinner for me and why in the world would I not take him up on that?
It's amateur night in the restaurant world, but a talented friend in the kitchen sounded like a terrific way to spend the evening without all the annoying corniness.
All I had to do was provide wine (ostensibly my excuse for going to the tasting at River City Cellars Friday; thanks for the able assistance, Julia) and choose the music (one of my very favorite assigned tasks anyway).
How easy was this?
So while he effortlessly (or so it appeared) prepared the veal and multiple side dishes, I lounged around, sipping wine and offering conversation.
I'd heard a great two-degrees-of-separation story from the '90s about him just the night before and I couldn't wait to share that.
Reading the Post yesterday morning, I had learned just how shuttered things had been for a week up there due to the snow.
Since he lives in NOVA, I wanted details about how entirely life had been shut down up there, while life had marched on down here thankfully.
The meal was superb as was the conversation and I think I did a pretty decent job with the music, although our similar taste makes that pretty much a given.
Better still, I awoke this morning to a Moss-Covered Stone Heart mix, full of music for hopeless romantics, a category I have fallen into practically since birth.
And, yes, it had "Slow Show" on it.
A meal, a meandering conversation and a mix; it doesn't get much better than that.
*with props to Billy Bragg and, yes, on the mix.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Bruising the Moneymaker
Murphy's Law of snow, at least as it applies to me, is exactly what you'd expect.
I went for my usual four-mile walk down Grace Street yesterday, still having to navigate around mounds of crusty snow and ice.
For the first time in ages, though, there were long stretches of cleared sidewalk, but still interrupted by ice and snow piles.
No doubt as a result, there were more of my regulars out and about.
About to step off the curb over an enormous pile of icy snow, a car started honking furiously at me just as I crested the mound.
I jumped visibly, and almost lost my footing, but didn't; it was Pedro, one of my favorite waiters, who claims to see me everywhere, but never says hello.
Finally, he had.
Further up Grace, and trying to negotiate an icy patch, I hear my name shouted from across the street.
I slide a little, but don't fall, as I look up to see who it is and answer back.
When I run into him last night at Ipanema, he asks if it was that morning he had seen me.
Perhaps if I'd actually taken a dive, I'd have been more memorable.
And then there was the Crooner, the guy on the bike who always sings to me.
Only this time, he approached me from behind, singing "Hey, there, lonely girl" and almost running me off the sidewalk.
He's got to find a new theme song for me; I'm anything but lonely.
But maybe that's the only song he knows.
The point here is that despite a still-treacherous walk yesterday, I remained upright.
So why then when out walking the dog less than a block from home, did my equilibrium desert me?
The beagle was answering nature's call and in an instant, I was headed to the ground.
Somehow I managed to both twist my ankle and land on my knee.
I could feel the ice dig into my kneecap as I landed.
One frickin' block from home.
And while this probably wouldn't be a problem for most females (a girl told me last night that she has her "winter coat" on, not having shaved her legs since before Thanksgiving. TMI) at this time of year, for me it is.
I awoke to a small cut and large pink bruise forming on my knee this morning. I could wear pants to hide it, except I don't wear pants.
I could wear a skirt or dress to cover my knees, except I don't own any that long.
Looks like I'll have to resort to using opaque tights for camouflage for a while,which unfortunately eliminates some of my most fetching ones...and just before Valentine's Day, too.
Such a shame.
But isn't that how Murphy's law works?
I went for my usual four-mile walk down Grace Street yesterday, still having to navigate around mounds of crusty snow and ice.
For the first time in ages, though, there were long stretches of cleared sidewalk, but still interrupted by ice and snow piles.
No doubt as a result, there were more of my regulars out and about.
About to step off the curb over an enormous pile of icy snow, a car started honking furiously at me just as I crested the mound.
I jumped visibly, and almost lost my footing, but didn't; it was Pedro, one of my favorite waiters, who claims to see me everywhere, but never says hello.
Finally, he had.
Further up Grace, and trying to negotiate an icy patch, I hear my name shouted from across the street.
I slide a little, but don't fall, as I look up to see who it is and answer back.
When I run into him last night at Ipanema, he asks if it was that morning he had seen me.
Perhaps if I'd actually taken a dive, I'd have been more memorable.
And then there was the Crooner, the guy on the bike who always sings to me.
Only this time, he approached me from behind, singing "Hey, there, lonely girl" and almost running me off the sidewalk.
He's got to find a new theme song for me; I'm anything but lonely.
But maybe that's the only song he knows.
The point here is that despite a still-treacherous walk yesterday, I remained upright.
So why then when out walking the dog less than a block from home, did my equilibrium desert me?
The beagle was answering nature's call and in an instant, I was headed to the ground.
Somehow I managed to both twist my ankle and land on my knee.
I could feel the ice dig into my kneecap as I landed.
One frickin' block from home.
And while this probably wouldn't be a problem for most females (a girl told me last night that she has her "winter coat" on, not having shaved her legs since before Thanksgiving. TMI) at this time of year, for me it is.
I awoke to a small cut and large pink bruise forming on my knee this morning. I could wear pants to hide it, except I don't wear pants.
I could wear a skirt or dress to cover my knees, except I don't own any that long.
Looks like I'll have to resort to using opaque tights for camouflage for a while,which unfortunately eliminates some of my most fetching ones...and just before Valentine's Day, too.
Such a shame.
But isn't that how Murphy's law works?
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