Yesterday was one of those practically perfect days for so many reasons. It's hard not to be happy about temperatures close to 60 after the winter we've been through. I used every excuse in the book to be outside throughout the day and after a while, even the beagle was wondering why we were going on our tenth walk of the day.
So you take a warm day like that and finish it with a terrific meal and amazing music and, well, just stick a fork in me; I'm done. If there's a way it could have turned out better, I don't have the nerve to imagine it.
My companion and I deliberately chose a dinner destination to which we could walk, so we strolled over to the Black Sheep behind a weed-scented cluster of guys, obviously enjoying the night air as much as we were, just in a different way. At the Black Sheep, we were put at the middle two-top, the better to observe the room and feel like a centerpiece.
Because the soup du jour is always outstanding at BS, I can seldom resist it and last night was no exception. We both got it, a chili variation with white and red beans and cilantro. Oh, it was good. He followed with the lamb kebab (Moroccan-spiced skewered grilled leg of lamb over buttered Israeli cous cous with a chickpea stew); he said it was one of the most satisfying meals he's had in ages and the bite he offered was out of this world.
I opted for the pomegranate-molasses poached dried figs over locally grown organic arugula with Belgian endive, toasted walnuts, bleu cheese and an aged sherry vinaigrette. I told myself I was being virtuous getting a salad, but the richness of the figs, walnuts and bleu cheese belied that while at the same time being the ideal counterpart to the peppery arugula and bitter endive.
Post-dinner we went to the Camel to see Frank Turner, as did a fair number of others, like us, incredulous that we were getting this guy on a Sunday night in Richmond. He's currently on tour with Flogging Molly and had a free night and some savvy promoter snapped him up for us. You may know him as the former lead singer of post-hardcore band Million Dead, but since they disbanded he's an acoustic-based folk/punk singer.
And is the man ever passionate! Whether it's an anti-love song, a lament about not growing up or a song dedicated to a former love who was "deeply disturbed," the skinny Brit sang with such enthusiasm and meaning that there was no doubt where the songs were coming from. He feels especially strongly about there being no separation between the audience and entertainer (he disdains referring to himself as an artist) and encouraged singing along (referring to us as his backup singers) and pulled an audience member on stage to do a harmonica solo. His excellent band was deservedly acknowledged repeatedly by the singer.
The audience was made up of die hard fans; most people knew every word. A lot of WRIR DJs were there, a testament to Frank Turner's talent by those who really know and love music. I met a woman who spent her summer vacation in England, traveling from town to town, following Frank on tour (obviously much easier to do in a country the size of England than here). That's the kind of people this show attracted. The singer said he expects to be back through rva in September; honestly, you'd be a fool to miss a chance to see this guy live.
A weekend that begins with seeing Mission of Burma with 100 other people and ends with an intimate show by Frank Turner is a stellar one by any city's standards. That's it's happening these days in rva is a gift, one which I'm happy to tear the wrapping off and enjoy. I'm feeling lucky for a whole lot of reasons lately.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Woo Me with Words
Tragedy is the stuff Saturday nights are made of.
In this particular case, I'd been given two free tickets by a friend for tonight's performance of Othello at Center Stage and couldn't find anyone who could or would go with me.
While not a tragedy, it was certainly a shame, not that it stopped me from going to take in a play that begins as a great love story but really centers on bigotry, obsession and revenge.
It was my first time in the Gottwald Playhouse of Center Stage, although far from my first time seeing Richmond Shakespeare perform.
I'd been one of those in attendance at their Linden Row performance of Much Ado About Nothing back in the '90s. I have long been a regular at their shows.
Tonight I was lucky enough to have been given second row center seats, so I was close enough to see the actors spit, which I find satisfying for some reason.
I also knew two of the actors in the play which always adds to my enjoyment.
And despite having seen many of Shakespeare's plays done repeatedly, I'd never seen Othello preformed live before.
This production is a collaboration of Richmond Shakespeare and the African American Repertory Theater and is part of the Acts of Faith Festival RVA does every year.
Early on, Othello is accused of having used tricks or witchcraft to win the love of Desdemona and marry her.
He's forced to defend himself and explain how his wooing won her over on its own merits.
He had me completely convinced with one simple line of his self-defense, "She'd come again and with a greedy ear devour up my discourse."
That's absolutely true. When we keep coming back to hear more of what you have to say, we're definitely interested, no coercion necessary.
But as we all know, Othello is a great tragedy, so there was much sinister plotting and revenge schemes and far too many people ended up dead or maimed by the play's end.
The beauty of theater over film or television is that I don't have to see the blood and squeamish types like me appreciate that.
The crowd was diverse and included several of the former students who participated in the '60s sit-in at the Thalhimer's lunch counter and they were given a round of sincere applause.
Much to my surprise, there were some Shakespeare virgins sitting right in front of me.
I know because the man boasted to his date that he was going to go right home and update his profile so everybody would know he'd been to see a Shakespeare play.
I'm just making a wild guess here, but I'm thinking he's probably not the type who has female greedy ears coming back to devour his discourse.
In this particular case, I'd been given two free tickets by a friend for tonight's performance of Othello at Center Stage and couldn't find anyone who could or would go with me.
While not a tragedy, it was certainly a shame, not that it stopped me from going to take in a play that begins as a great love story but really centers on bigotry, obsession and revenge.
It was my first time in the Gottwald Playhouse of Center Stage, although far from my first time seeing Richmond Shakespeare perform.
I'd been one of those in attendance at their Linden Row performance of Much Ado About Nothing back in the '90s. I have long been a regular at their shows.
Tonight I was lucky enough to have been given second row center seats, so I was close enough to see the actors spit, which I find satisfying for some reason.
I also knew two of the actors in the play which always adds to my enjoyment.
And despite having seen many of Shakespeare's plays done repeatedly, I'd never seen Othello preformed live before.
This production is a collaboration of Richmond Shakespeare and the African American Repertory Theater and is part of the Acts of Faith Festival RVA does every year.
Early on, Othello is accused of having used tricks or witchcraft to win the love of Desdemona and marry her.
He's forced to defend himself and explain how his wooing won her over on its own merits.
He had me completely convinced with one simple line of his self-defense, "She'd come again and with a greedy ear devour up my discourse."
That's absolutely true. When we keep coming back to hear more of what you have to say, we're definitely interested, no coercion necessary.
But as we all know, Othello is a great tragedy, so there was much sinister plotting and revenge schemes and far too many people ended up dead or maimed by the play's end.
The beauty of theater over film or television is that I don't have to see the blood and squeamish types like me appreciate that.
The crowd was diverse and included several of the former students who participated in the '60s sit-in at the Thalhimer's lunch counter and they were given a round of sincere applause.
Much to my surprise, there were some Shakespeare virgins sitting right in front of me.
I know because the man boasted to his date that he was going to go right home and update his profile so everybody would know he'd been to see a Shakespeare play.
I'm just making a wild guess here, but I'm thinking he's probably not the type who has female greedy ears coming back to devour his discourse.
A Morning of Italian Fim and Food
It wasn't my first time at the Italian Film & Food Festival, but it was the first time I attended the first showing of the day.
I met a friend (and his friend) there, someone who works in the restaurant business and wouldn't normally choose to be anywhere at 10:30 in the morning and who desperately needed wake-up caffeine.
Luckily for him, one of the sponsors of the fest was Caffe Espresso so he ordered an Italian coffee from the very Italian proprietor (dark curly hair, dashing scarf). When asked what I wanted, I declined, saying I don't drink coffee.
"You don't drink coffee?" he asked, clearly appalled. "That's not Italian!" Even given my Irish heritage, I somehow felt like a failure to this man.
The food part of the morning was a surprise since I'd always gone to later screenings and they couldn't very well serve dinner before noon. We were treated to two kinds of soup, one a veggie lentil and the other a chicken stock-based soup with egg and Parmesan; both were terrific. Accompanying that were Prosciutto and cheese on rolls, smoked salmon and cream cheese with capers on crostini, hard-cooked eggs in a tuna cream sauce and a rich little dessert, which I was told consisted of an almond cookie dipped in egg and covered in phyllo dough and baked.
It was a perfectly lovely Italian breakfast.
We were seeing Fists in the Pocket directed by Marco Bellocchio from 1965. Made at a time when post-war Italy was still adrift, it was a very dark film. It was Bellocchio's first film, made on an extremely slim budget by a young anarchist searching for his way in the film world. The movie about a highly dysfunctional family was all about subverting institutions: the family, marriage, the church, even the confessional.
Considered part of the Second Italian Renaissance, the film was considered at the time to be the start of a new era in Italian film. Given the heavy plot, complete with epilepsy, blindness and murder, it must have been shocking when it came out.
But it was 1965, so there was a 60s party scene, complete with stylish young people dancing to current music and clearly part of the "in" crowd.
The last minute of the film was completely improvised by the lead actor, the anti-hero who was considered an Italian Brando. It was an incredibly powerful way to resolve the family drama and no doubt difficult for audiences at the time. Bob Ellis from VCU introduced the film and said that when he first saw it, he found it to be the most excruciating and depressing film he'd ever seen.
That said, it was absolutely worth getting up early to see on a Saturday morning. Bourgeois dysfunctional families may not be a new topic, but in the hands of a serious Italian talent like Bellocchio, it was riveting.
Breakfast from the kitchens of Mam Zu's. Edo's Squid and 8 1/2 only made it more irresistible. It truly was a feast for all the senses.
I met a friend (and his friend) there, someone who works in the restaurant business and wouldn't normally choose to be anywhere at 10:30 in the morning and who desperately needed wake-up caffeine.
Luckily for him, one of the sponsors of the fest was Caffe Espresso so he ordered an Italian coffee from the very Italian proprietor (dark curly hair, dashing scarf). When asked what I wanted, I declined, saying I don't drink coffee.
"You don't drink coffee?" he asked, clearly appalled. "That's not Italian!" Even given my Irish heritage, I somehow felt like a failure to this man.
The food part of the morning was a surprise since I'd always gone to later screenings and they couldn't very well serve dinner before noon. We were treated to two kinds of soup, one a veggie lentil and the other a chicken stock-based soup with egg and Parmesan; both were terrific. Accompanying that were Prosciutto and cheese on rolls, smoked salmon and cream cheese with capers on crostini, hard-cooked eggs in a tuna cream sauce and a rich little dessert, which I was told consisted of an almond cookie dipped in egg and covered in phyllo dough and baked.
It was a perfectly lovely Italian breakfast.
We were seeing Fists in the Pocket directed by Marco Bellocchio from 1965. Made at a time when post-war Italy was still adrift, it was a very dark film. It was Bellocchio's first film, made on an extremely slim budget by a young anarchist searching for his way in the film world. The movie about a highly dysfunctional family was all about subverting institutions: the family, marriage, the church, even the confessional.
Considered part of the Second Italian Renaissance, the film was considered at the time to be the start of a new era in Italian film. Given the heavy plot, complete with epilepsy, blindness and murder, it must have been shocking when it came out.
But it was 1965, so there was a 60s party scene, complete with stylish young people dancing to current music and clearly part of the "in" crowd.
The last minute of the film was completely improvised by the lead actor, the anti-hero who was considered an Italian Brando. It was an incredibly powerful way to resolve the family drama and no doubt difficult for audiences at the time. Bob Ellis from VCU introduced the film and said that when he first saw it, he found it to be the most excruciating and depressing film he'd ever seen.
That said, it was absolutely worth getting up early to see on a Saturday morning. Bourgeois dysfunctional families may not be a new topic, but in the hands of a serious Italian talent like Bellocchio, it was riveting.
Breakfast from the kitchens of Mam Zu's. Edo's Squid and 8 1/2 only made it more irresistible. It truly was a feast for all the senses.
That's When I Reach for My Revolver
Could there be a more incongruous show than Mission of Burma at the UR Commons? How is it that the post-punk pioneers who influenced everyone from REM to the Pixies to Nirvana ended up at such an unlikely location? And why is that campus like the Devil's Triangle?
My girlfriends and I started at Mezzanine for dinner and wound up on the heated patio due to a full dining room and half an hour wait inside. We made a meal of an array of starters: fried risotto balls with Parmesan and broccolini over marinara sauce, kale salad, Mobjack Bay oysters, noodle-wrapped shrimp, a beet stack with goat and bleu cheeses, and Portabella pizza (with the mushroom subbing for the crust).
There was enough of a variety of flavors and textures to satisfy all three of us. Cocktails accompanied the meal and a chocolate mousse with toffee bits finished it. We joked about the difference in this pre-show meal compared to what we might have had before a concert in the past, but no one was complaining, either.
We piled tightly into one truck for the trip and, armed with GPS assistance to help us locate the Commons, we eventually found not only the building, but a front row parking space. Walking through the automatic doors though, we were met by a surprisingly small crowd enjoying openers the Amoeba Men. It was striking how few people were there.
When I ran into an acquaintance, I lamented the lack of advertising for this show; a guy passing by agreed heartily and said he'd written to the RTD's music critic to lambast her for not even acknowledging the show. My reaction was, would she even know who Mission of Burma was? That made him laugh, but acknowledge that it was unlikely.
Fortunately, by the time MOB came on, more VCU and city types had arrived, but the crowd was still nowhere near what it should have been. As was to be expected, a fair percentage of the crowd was of an age to have owned Mission of Burma on vinyl. There did seem to be some UR students there; I heard a group discussing Husker Du, so they obviously knew enough to be there (although they were agog when a friend told them that she'd seen Husker Du in '85). The UR crowd could be best summed up in the attire of the student standing in front of us: a yellow popped-collar polo shirt with a flannel-lined hoodie over it. Enough said.
I could complain about the sound op who was clearly out of his league despite precise direction from the band, but I'd rather focus on how enjoyable it was to hear the energy, tape effects and hooks of the band. Their sense of humor and obvious pleasure in what they were doing didn't hurt, either. At one point, they told the audience, "Now more songs to dance at prom to." As if, but it gave the devoted in the audience a chuckle.
An incongruous meal before an unlikely band's performance at an incongruous location...that's the beauty of Richmond on a Friday night.
My girlfriends and I started at Mezzanine for dinner and wound up on the heated patio due to a full dining room and half an hour wait inside. We made a meal of an array of starters: fried risotto balls with Parmesan and broccolini over marinara sauce, kale salad, Mobjack Bay oysters, noodle-wrapped shrimp, a beet stack with goat and bleu cheeses, and Portabella pizza (with the mushroom subbing for the crust).
There was enough of a variety of flavors and textures to satisfy all three of us. Cocktails accompanied the meal and a chocolate mousse with toffee bits finished it. We joked about the difference in this pre-show meal compared to what we might have had before a concert in the past, but no one was complaining, either.
We piled tightly into one truck for the trip and, armed with GPS assistance to help us locate the Commons, we eventually found not only the building, but a front row parking space. Walking through the automatic doors though, we were met by a surprisingly small crowd enjoying openers the Amoeba Men. It was striking how few people were there.
When I ran into an acquaintance, I lamented the lack of advertising for this show; a guy passing by agreed heartily and said he'd written to the RTD's music critic to lambast her for not even acknowledging the show. My reaction was, would she even know who Mission of Burma was? That made him laugh, but acknowledge that it was unlikely.
Fortunately, by the time MOB came on, more VCU and city types had arrived, but the crowd was still nowhere near what it should have been. As was to be expected, a fair percentage of the crowd was of an age to have owned Mission of Burma on vinyl. There did seem to be some UR students there; I heard a group discussing Husker Du, so they obviously knew enough to be there (although they were agog when a friend told them that she'd seen Husker Du in '85). The UR crowd could be best summed up in the attire of the student standing in front of us: a yellow popped-collar polo shirt with a flannel-lined hoodie over it. Enough said.
I could complain about the sound op who was clearly out of his league despite precise direction from the band, but I'd rather focus on how enjoyable it was to hear the energy, tape effects and hooks of the band. Their sense of humor and obvious pleasure in what they were doing didn't hurt, either. At one point, they told the audience, "Now more songs to dance at prom to." As if, but it gave the devoted in the audience a chuckle.
An incongruous meal before an unlikely band's performance at an incongruous location...that's the beauty of Richmond on a Friday night.
Friday, February 19, 2010
A Comfort Lunch with the Employed
Today was laid-off lunch at Comfort, which meant my friend and I got together to commiserate about the pleasures and perils of being unemployed and unattached. She had been surprised by the Inverse Automotive Repair rule, with which I was well familiar. Your car can be reliable and trouble free for years, but once you lose your job, it will slowly start to reveal its growing problems. My car has been in the shop a half a dozen times in the year I have been laid off, more than the five years beforehand combined. Hers just recently started showing its weaknesses for which she was completely unprepared. I tried to be reassuring, but apparently cars just know the worst time to require service.
On the other hand, my friend was all aglow about the quantum leap her love life has taken during the same period. Seems that an old friend who for years had been inordinately fond of her finally got around to making his move, resulting in a fast-forward start to an extremely promising relationship. Only about six weeks in and they were already marveling at their compatibility and comfort level with each other. She even guiltily admitted to having hopes of something long-term with this guy and judging by the perpetual grin on her face, he seems to be making her incredibly happy already. I could relate.
We did a mock day-after-Thanksgiving sort of leftover lunch, she with the roasted turkey sandwich and me with the ham sandwich (hot, with Swiss and spicy Bourbon orange spread). She went with mashed potatoes for her side, which I completely understand, but my leftover- day sandwiches require chips and Comfort's homemade chips are terrific.
It was definitely a Friday lunch crowd, with our fellow bar sitters enjoying mixed drinks, mimosas and beer, possibly to kick off the weekend, possibly to get through the afternoon at work. No doubt you can guess which it was for us.
On the other hand, my friend was all aglow about the quantum leap her love life has taken during the same period. Seems that an old friend who for years had been inordinately fond of her finally got around to making his move, resulting in a fast-forward start to an extremely promising relationship. Only about six weeks in and they were already marveling at their compatibility and comfort level with each other. She even guiltily admitted to having hopes of something long-term with this guy and judging by the perpetual grin on her face, he seems to be making her incredibly happy already. I could relate.
We did a mock day-after-Thanksgiving sort of leftover lunch, she with the roasted turkey sandwich and me with the ham sandwich (hot, with Swiss and spicy Bourbon orange spread). She went with mashed potatoes for her side, which I completely understand, but my leftover- day sandwiches require chips and Comfort's homemade chips are terrific.
It was definitely a Friday lunch crowd, with our fellow bar sitters enjoying mixed drinks, mimosas and beer, possibly to kick off the weekend, possibly to get through the afternoon at work. No doubt you can guess which it was for us.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
From Frittes to Ringing Ears
My ears are ringing because of the New Rock Church of Fire. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
They were just fine when I met a friend for drinks and frittes at Can Can late this afternoon. At our last few meet-ups, he had been abstaining but apparently a couple of prolonged periods of being snowed-in with his two young'uns had sent him back to drink. As we sat on our stools directly in front of the breads and pastries, we were both amazed at the continuous stream of customers coming in to buy baguettes, loaves and such; my friend was so inspired that he purchased one to take home himself.
We both love people-watching at Can Can for the sheer variety of humankind that frequents the place. I had competition in the terrific tights category today, with several servers displaying unusual patterns worth admiring. As we prepared to leave, I offered our stools to a familiar face from the Virginia Museum who looked about to burst. Seems he'd made an important acquisition for the museum today and was about to have a drink to celebrate; there's nothing quite like the excitement of a true art geek. We were leaving our seats to worthy bottoms.
Then I was off to my Modern Romance class for part 3: Broken Hearts, 1960-80. That period was all about when things don't work out, which in this case means bad buildings. Much of the architecture of this period is eminently forgettable, the Whitney Museum in NYC being a perfect example. Luckily, there was the occasional reprieve like the Sydney Opera House to keep architectural hope alive; even during the period of broken hearts, it's essential to know that something better will come along. Next week is the last class and I, for one, am hoping for happy ending.
My last stop was The Camel to meet my music buddy Andrew and see three bands. Except that the bill had been extended to four bands because of an unexpected band traveling through town. I'd wanted to see Benvolio, once part of We Know, Plato! and a guy with a beautiful voice and mad piano skills. It was different hearing him without the backing of a band, but no less enjoyable. He closed with a haunting version of "Hallelujah."
He was followed by the New Rock Church of Fire, a DC band who had been a last-minute addition to the bill. I should have been warned when they began their set by saying "Earplugs are available up front." My complaint with them wasn't how loud they were but how poorly mic'd they were; the vocals were all but lost under the instruments. It's a shame when all you can hear is noise, not music. Fortunately, there was a guy in a plaid shirt dancing in a way that defies description to every note of the noise and he provided excellent entertainment value to the audience behind him, compensating somewhat for what was being done to our ears.
From that outpost of suburbia, Fairfax, we heard Kid Architecture and in comparison, their set was beautifully mic'd. Incubus-like vocals with Editors-like guitars and Coldplay-like keyboards, their volume was eminently more listenable. They even brought free CDs with which to woo the crowd; Andrew was particularly taken with the CD's title, PhilosoRaptor.
I've seen headliners At the Stars on numerous occasions and recommend them to fans of Brit-pop. They usually include a cover in every set and tonight's was a superb version of The Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart," a terrific song, even if it is a couple of decades old. I did have to wonder how many in the audience even knew it was a cover, though.
Not that it mattered, really. It was the perfect song to end the evening with and my bleeding ears enjoyed every single word.
They were just fine when I met a friend for drinks and frittes at Can Can late this afternoon. At our last few meet-ups, he had been abstaining but apparently a couple of prolonged periods of being snowed-in with his two young'uns had sent him back to drink. As we sat on our stools directly in front of the breads and pastries, we were both amazed at the continuous stream of customers coming in to buy baguettes, loaves and such; my friend was so inspired that he purchased one to take home himself.
We both love people-watching at Can Can for the sheer variety of humankind that frequents the place. I had competition in the terrific tights category today, with several servers displaying unusual patterns worth admiring. As we prepared to leave, I offered our stools to a familiar face from the Virginia Museum who looked about to burst. Seems he'd made an important acquisition for the museum today and was about to have a drink to celebrate; there's nothing quite like the excitement of a true art geek. We were leaving our seats to worthy bottoms.
Then I was off to my Modern Romance class for part 3: Broken Hearts, 1960-80. That period was all about when things don't work out, which in this case means bad buildings. Much of the architecture of this period is eminently forgettable, the Whitney Museum in NYC being a perfect example. Luckily, there was the occasional reprieve like the Sydney Opera House to keep architectural hope alive; even during the period of broken hearts, it's essential to know that something better will come along. Next week is the last class and I, for one, am hoping for happy ending.
My last stop was The Camel to meet my music buddy Andrew and see three bands. Except that the bill had been extended to four bands because of an unexpected band traveling through town. I'd wanted to see Benvolio, once part of We Know, Plato! and a guy with a beautiful voice and mad piano skills. It was different hearing him without the backing of a band, but no less enjoyable. He closed with a haunting version of "Hallelujah."
He was followed by the New Rock Church of Fire, a DC band who had been a last-minute addition to the bill. I should have been warned when they began their set by saying "Earplugs are available up front." My complaint with them wasn't how loud they were but how poorly mic'd they were; the vocals were all but lost under the instruments. It's a shame when all you can hear is noise, not music. Fortunately, there was a guy in a plaid shirt dancing in a way that defies description to every note of the noise and he provided excellent entertainment value to the audience behind him, compensating somewhat for what was being done to our ears.
From that outpost of suburbia, Fairfax, we heard Kid Architecture and in comparison, their set was beautifully mic'd. Incubus-like vocals with Editors-like guitars and Coldplay-like keyboards, their volume was eminently more listenable. They even brought free CDs with which to woo the crowd; Andrew was particularly taken with the CD's title, PhilosoRaptor.
I've seen headliners At the Stars on numerous occasions and recommend them to fans of Brit-pop. They usually include a cover in every set and tonight's was a superb version of The Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart," a terrific song, even if it is a couple of decades old. I did have to wonder how many in the audience even knew it was a cover, though.
Not that it mattered, really. It was the perfect song to end the evening with and my bleeding ears enjoyed every single word.
Box Lunches and Dishing on the Dead
Who doesn't like being invited to lunch? And even better when it's a stranger doing the inviting; there's no telling who the other guests will be or what will be served. And when the invitation is based solely on my blog, my hosts have no idea what to expect from me, either. It's kind of a wild card lunch all around.
I'm a long-time fan of the Virginia Historical Society's noontime Banner Lecture series. After blogging the last one, here, I got an invitation to come to lunch with the speaker and assorted staff members and guests before today's lecture. Perhaps it was my rant about wanting more female-centric topics or maybe they just thought I'd be a sparkling addition to their lunch bunch, but in either case, it was a most gracious invitation and I accepted.
On arrival I was introduced to the group, which included, among others, today's speaker (and author of On Hallowed Ground: The Story of Arlington National Cemetery) Robert Poole, the President of the VHS, Paul Levengood and Phyllis Galanti, wife of local P.O.W. Paul Galanti.
Homemades by Suzanne provided our appropriately Southern boxed lunches; I chose the chicken salad on a crusty roll, fruit salad, a deviled egg and, the piece de resistance, a slice of Red Velvet cake (highly coveted among the dessert choices, which also included key lime pie, apple pie, chocolate pie and carrot cake). There was even an Andes mint to sweeten the breath pre-lecture.
Conversation during the lunch was fascinating with so many history lovers in attendance. Poole told us about how the eternal flame came to be created in a 24-hour period before JFK's funeral. Once Jackie decided she wanted an eternal flame on the day before the 1963 funeral, the logistics of creating such a thing had to be dealt with; eternal flames did not exist. A make-shift solution was devised to get through the funeral and then the actual permanent flame constructed later.
Likewise, we learned that due to the overwhelming increase in visitors to Arlington Cemetery after JFK's burial, his body had to be moved in 1967 to a better location to accommodate the crowds. It seems that visitors were even absconding with the gravel in the walkways for souvenirs. I don't think most people had any idea that the President's body had been dug up, much less moved. Not surprisingly, the cachet of being buried at Arlington also shot up exponentially after JFK.
As it turned out, another perk of being invited to lunch is a front row seat for the lecture; I could get used to this kind of treatment. Poole's talk on Arlington National Cemetery was enlightening, to say the least. The Arlington property, which began as the Lee family plantation subsequently became a Union Army encampment, a slave refugee, a paupers' cemetery and ultimately a symbol of reunion and healing after the Civil War.
Although the first body was buried at Arlington in May 1864, it didn't become a National Cemetery until June, but as Poole pointed out, it's army policy to do first and make it official later. In fact, the Union Quartermaster deliberately had bodies buried in the garden of the plantation and within view of the manor house in order to discourage any possibility of the Lees trying to reclaim their home after the war.
And the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier? An unidentified soldier's body was placed in the tombs for each of the wars up until Vietnam to represent the soldiers who made the greatest sacrifice for their country. But when it came time to memorialize the unknown soldiers from the Vietnam War, DNA testing was being used to identify bodies; as a result, there is no body in that memorial. It's a sign of the times; no one has to remain unidentified anymore.
Obviously, Arlington Cemetery is not a limitless space; consequently family members are being buried vertically now, digging deeper and stacking subsequent loved ones on top of their spouse or family member. The plan is to acquire another 70 acres from nearby Fort Meyer and with greater use of the crematorium facility, Arlington hopes to have the capacity to bury until 2060.
Perhaps in the old south, discussion of the dead was not an appropriate topic of conversation after the noonday meal. Today's lecture about how Arlington cemetery helped the North and South to repair shows just how far we've come and, fortunately, with our Red Velvet cake intact.
I'm a long-time fan of the Virginia Historical Society's noontime Banner Lecture series. After blogging the last one, here, I got an invitation to come to lunch with the speaker and assorted staff members and guests before today's lecture. Perhaps it was my rant about wanting more female-centric topics or maybe they just thought I'd be a sparkling addition to their lunch bunch, but in either case, it was a most gracious invitation and I accepted.
On arrival I was introduced to the group, which included, among others, today's speaker (and author of On Hallowed Ground: The Story of Arlington National Cemetery) Robert Poole, the President of the VHS, Paul Levengood and Phyllis Galanti, wife of local P.O.W. Paul Galanti.
Homemades by Suzanne provided our appropriately Southern boxed lunches; I chose the chicken salad on a crusty roll, fruit salad, a deviled egg and, the piece de resistance, a slice of Red Velvet cake (highly coveted among the dessert choices, which also included key lime pie, apple pie, chocolate pie and carrot cake). There was even an Andes mint to sweeten the breath pre-lecture.
Conversation during the lunch was fascinating with so many history lovers in attendance. Poole told us about how the eternal flame came to be created in a 24-hour period before JFK's funeral. Once Jackie decided she wanted an eternal flame on the day before the 1963 funeral, the logistics of creating such a thing had to be dealt with; eternal flames did not exist. A make-shift solution was devised to get through the funeral and then the actual permanent flame constructed later.
Likewise, we learned that due to the overwhelming increase in visitors to Arlington Cemetery after JFK's burial, his body had to be moved in 1967 to a better location to accommodate the crowds. It seems that visitors were even absconding with the gravel in the walkways for souvenirs. I don't think most people had any idea that the President's body had been dug up, much less moved. Not surprisingly, the cachet of being buried at Arlington also shot up exponentially after JFK.
As it turned out, another perk of being invited to lunch is a front row seat for the lecture; I could get used to this kind of treatment. Poole's talk on Arlington National Cemetery was enlightening, to say the least. The Arlington property, which began as the Lee family plantation subsequently became a Union Army encampment, a slave refugee, a paupers' cemetery and ultimately a symbol of reunion and healing after the Civil War.
Although the first body was buried at Arlington in May 1864, it didn't become a National Cemetery until June, but as Poole pointed out, it's army policy to do first and make it official later. In fact, the Union Quartermaster deliberately had bodies buried in the garden of the plantation and within view of the manor house in order to discourage any possibility of the Lees trying to reclaim their home after the war.
And the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier? An unidentified soldier's body was placed in the tombs for each of the wars up until Vietnam to represent the soldiers who made the greatest sacrifice for their country. But when it came time to memorialize the unknown soldiers from the Vietnam War, DNA testing was being used to identify bodies; as a result, there is no body in that memorial. It's a sign of the times; no one has to remain unidentified anymore.
Obviously, Arlington Cemetery is not a limitless space; consequently family members are being buried vertically now, digging deeper and stacking subsequent loved ones on top of their spouse or family member. The plan is to acquire another 70 acres from nearby Fort Meyer and with greater use of the crematorium facility, Arlington hopes to have the capacity to bury until 2060.
Perhaps in the old south, discussion of the dead was not an appropriate topic of conversation after the noonday meal. Today's lecture about how Arlington cemetery helped the North and South to repair shows just how far we've come and, fortunately, with our Red Velvet cake intact.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Admire my Nachos, But Don't Drown Out my Guitars
Ah, 821 Cafe, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. For the ever-changing affordable art on your walls. For providing wildly different newspapers for my reading pleasure; five minutes' worth to read the entire RTD and 20 minutes' worth for the NYT Food & Dining section alone.
For being the creative magnet that you are, which tonight attracted Americana singer and ukulele player extraordinaire Alison Self and collage artist Adam Juresko. For the delightful clientele always eager to mingle. The girl who sat down next to me couldn't make up her mind between pasta and nachos. "Well, I'm getting the nachos, if that helps," I told her. "Perfect! I'll get the pasta and I can just admire your nachos." See why I love this place?
After my bohemian meal, I set out for the Singelton Center for some musical enlightenment in the form of the VCU Guitar Festival, celebrating the music of Mexican composer Manuel Ponce. Active in the first half of the twentieth century, he's notable for his melding of classical and Mexican folk music and when he wrote for solo instruments, it was guitar and piano, the only instruments on the stage tonight.
Even with no familiarity with Ponce's music, the performance was notable for the beauty of the guitar playing and the approachability of the music. Its popular folk roots shown through, making it as much an expression of Mexican music as classical, although you'd never have known it by the guy directly behind me snoring and snorting throughout. People in rows four and five in front of me kept turning around to see who was drowning out the delicate guitar playing. I wanted to reach around and thump his leg to wake him up, but I knew my mother wouldn't approve.
When I saw Mexican duo Rodrigo y Gabriela and their rhythmic and fast acoustic guitar playing at the National a while back, their "acoustic metal" made me eager to hear a greater variety of guitar playing. So when the opportunity presented itself tonight to enjoy an evening of music I don't often hear, much less for free, I was all about it. Unlike Snorer Guy, who will never even know what he missed.
For being the creative magnet that you are, which tonight attracted Americana singer and ukulele player extraordinaire Alison Self and collage artist Adam Juresko. For the delightful clientele always eager to mingle. The girl who sat down next to me couldn't make up her mind between pasta and nachos. "Well, I'm getting the nachos, if that helps," I told her. "Perfect! I'll get the pasta and I can just admire your nachos." See why I love this place?
After my bohemian meal, I set out for the Singelton Center for some musical enlightenment in the form of the VCU Guitar Festival, celebrating the music of Mexican composer Manuel Ponce. Active in the first half of the twentieth century, he's notable for his melding of classical and Mexican folk music and when he wrote for solo instruments, it was guitar and piano, the only instruments on the stage tonight.
Even with no familiarity with Ponce's music, the performance was notable for the beauty of the guitar playing and the approachability of the music. Its popular folk roots shown through, making it as much an expression of Mexican music as classical, although you'd never have known it by the guy directly behind me snoring and snorting throughout. People in rows four and five in front of me kept turning around to see who was drowning out the delicate guitar playing. I wanted to reach around and thump his leg to wake him up, but I knew my mother wouldn't approve.
When I saw Mexican duo Rodrigo y Gabriela and their rhythmic and fast acoustic guitar playing at the National a while back, their "acoustic metal" made me eager to hear a greater variety of guitar playing. So when the opportunity presented itself tonight to enjoy an evening of music I don't often hear, much less for free, I was all about it. Unlike Snorer Guy, who will never even know what he missed.
Of Many Men and Moviegoing with Poe
I have discovered the place for an unattached girl to eat lunch if she wants to be completely surrounded by men.
City Dogs in the Slip.
Waiting at the bar for my friend to arrive, I looked around the place and noticed that except for the servers and me, everyone in the place had a Y chromosome.
Since I was the one who had suggested City Dogs to my (male) friend for lunch, I'm not sure what this says about me, but it was glaringly noticeable.
There were 13 dog choices, not including the corn dog nuggets which I consider beneath mention, although sure enough, a guy came in, perched on the stool next to me and ordered them.
I had the Coney Island Sabrett Dog (chili, mustard, onions and shredded cheese) and my friend had the Boston Dog (sauerkraut, bacon and relish) and we shared an order of onion rings.
Next to us, two guys started with beers and shots before moving on to their dogs; theirs was a manly lunch for sure.
Afterwards, our destination was the Poe Museum for the Poe Goes to the Movies exhibit of posters and memorabilia from Poe-related film projects.
In several cases, there were movie posters from multiple countries for the same movie. 1963's The Raven, for instance, had U.S., Czech and French verisons.
Notable was that Jack Nicholson was in that film and pictured on one of the posters; he looked so young as to be almost unrecognizable.
Along with the posters for The Murders in the Rue Morgue was a letter from Universal Pictures sending stills of the soon-to-be-released 1932 film to the Poe Museum for display.
I was fascinated to see that the letter was signed by Joe Weil, the Director of Exploitation. Is that a great job title or what?
I'm willing to bet that there are no more officially titled Directors of Exploitation in any field in 2010.
The poster for the 1968 version of Spirits of the Dead billed itself as "Edgar Allen Poe's Ultimate Orgy," an apt come-on for that free-wheeling period of the sexual revolution.
The film starred Brigitte Bardot, scantily clad on the poster, but also featured an early appearance by a very young Jane Fonda in a small role.
For whatever reason, Brigitte and Jane must have seemed the perfect embodiment of a Poe orgy in the sixties.
Promotional materials for the films that were sent to theaters provided a chuckle (references to the "French wench" in one) as did a Vincent Price doll, commanding in a cape inside his little box.
Price appeared in so many of the Poe films that he will forever be remembered for those types of roles, but who exactly would want an action figure of him?
We found it vintage funny.
We finished up our visit with a short film version of The Tell-Tale Heart upstairs in the tiny room under the eaves.
A chilly and dark spot, it was ideal to digest our dogs and enjoy our last taste of Poe for the day.
"Dissemble no more...It is the beating of his hideous heart!"
City Dogs in the Slip.
Waiting at the bar for my friend to arrive, I looked around the place and noticed that except for the servers and me, everyone in the place had a Y chromosome.
Since I was the one who had suggested City Dogs to my (male) friend for lunch, I'm not sure what this says about me, but it was glaringly noticeable.
There were 13 dog choices, not including the corn dog nuggets which I consider beneath mention, although sure enough, a guy came in, perched on the stool next to me and ordered them.
I had the Coney Island Sabrett Dog (chili, mustard, onions and shredded cheese) and my friend had the Boston Dog (sauerkraut, bacon and relish) and we shared an order of onion rings.
Next to us, two guys started with beers and shots before moving on to their dogs; theirs was a manly lunch for sure.
Afterwards, our destination was the Poe Museum for the Poe Goes to the Movies exhibit of posters and memorabilia from Poe-related film projects.
In several cases, there were movie posters from multiple countries for the same movie. 1963's The Raven, for instance, had U.S., Czech and French verisons.
Notable was that Jack Nicholson was in that film and pictured on one of the posters; he looked so young as to be almost unrecognizable.
Along with the posters for The Murders in the Rue Morgue was a letter from Universal Pictures sending stills of the soon-to-be-released 1932 film to the Poe Museum for display.
I was fascinated to see that the letter was signed by Joe Weil, the Director of Exploitation. Is that a great job title or what?
I'm willing to bet that there are no more officially titled Directors of Exploitation in any field in 2010.
The poster for the 1968 version of Spirits of the Dead billed itself as "Edgar Allen Poe's Ultimate Orgy," an apt come-on for that free-wheeling period of the sexual revolution.
The film starred Brigitte Bardot, scantily clad on the poster, but also featured an early appearance by a very young Jane Fonda in a small role.
For whatever reason, Brigitte and Jane must have seemed the perfect embodiment of a Poe orgy in the sixties.
Promotional materials for the films that were sent to theaters provided a chuckle (references to the "French wench" in one) as did a Vincent Price doll, commanding in a cape inside his little box.
Price appeared in so many of the Poe films that he will forever be remembered for those types of roles, but who exactly would want an action figure of him?
We found it vintage funny.
We finished up our visit with a short film version of The Tell-Tale Heart upstairs in the tiny room under the eaves.
A chilly and dark spot, it was ideal to digest our dogs and enjoy our last taste of Poe for the day.
"Dissemble no more...It is the beating of his hideous heart!"
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Fat Tuesday at Acacia
Not that I have any intention of going without, but the concept of one night devoted to eating richer, fatty foods before the ritual fasting of Lent holds a lot of appeal, even for a heathen like me. Call it Shrove Tuesday or call it an excuse to overeat, but count me in.
My evening of excess began at the Belvidere at Broad, where I met a friend for a drink. The latest addition to the wine list was the Osborne Solaz Tempranillo Cabernet, a worthy match for the grilled tenderloin and onion canapes we shared while sharing stories. Nothing starts an evening of eating off quite as well as red meat. I knew how good they were, having had them before, but their flavorful goodness was a surprise and delight to my friend. Then she was off like a shot to be with her boyfriend.
Afterwards, I was meeting another friend at Acacia for dinner. Although I'd received an e-mail from Acacia about their Fat Tuesday drink specials (Cocktail a la Louisiane, Sazerac, Brandy Crusta and Bramble), I was not prepared for the madness that greeted me at the restaurant. On arrival shortly before 8:00, there was not an available seat in the house. Or at the bar. In fact, there was a 20-30 minute wait for a table or to eat at the bar. Clearly the good times were already rolling.
While we would have preferred the bar, a table came open first and we took it. Fortunately, it was in the side room and I say that only because of the din in the main dining room. With its hard surfaces, it always tends to be a loud room, and with tonight's capacity crowd, even more so. Our cheerful if overwhelmed server wisely brought us our wine posthaste and even offered his approval of the choice of the Honig Rutherford Sauvignon Blanc, a steal at $21 since it was half-off wine night, too.
Looking to eke out as much fat from my dinner choices as possible, I began with the creamy lobster soup with bacon and winter veggies. Oh, it was creamy and oh, it was rich and we all know the bacon rule. I followed that with the sauteed grouper swimming in a pool of garlic herb butter sauce and with stone-ground cheddar cheese grits on the side. The last thing I managed to down was the root beer-spiced creme brulee. Although I'm not a soda drinker, root beer is hands-down my favorite kind, so I loved the novelty of combining its distinctive taste with my requisite dessert.
It felt like we had inhaled our rich dinner, but by the time we walked out of our cozy back alcove, the restaurant had cleared except for the bar patrons putting on their coats. Of course, it was almost 11:00, late by the dining standards of most Tuesday nights in rva, but then it wasn't just any Tuesday. It was a night to eat until we were ready to pop and call it Mardi Gras.
Gras, indeed.
My evening of excess began at the Belvidere at Broad, where I met a friend for a drink. The latest addition to the wine list was the Osborne Solaz Tempranillo Cabernet, a worthy match for the grilled tenderloin and onion canapes we shared while sharing stories. Nothing starts an evening of eating off quite as well as red meat. I knew how good they were, having had them before, but their flavorful goodness was a surprise and delight to my friend. Then she was off like a shot to be with her boyfriend.
Afterwards, I was meeting another friend at Acacia for dinner. Although I'd received an e-mail from Acacia about their Fat Tuesday drink specials (Cocktail a la Louisiane, Sazerac, Brandy Crusta and Bramble), I was not prepared for the madness that greeted me at the restaurant. On arrival shortly before 8:00, there was not an available seat in the house. Or at the bar. In fact, there was a 20-30 minute wait for a table or to eat at the bar. Clearly the good times were already rolling.
While we would have preferred the bar, a table came open first and we took it. Fortunately, it was in the side room and I say that only because of the din in the main dining room. With its hard surfaces, it always tends to be a loud room, and with tonight's capacity crowd, even more so. Our cheerful if overwhelmed server wisely brought us our wine posthaste and even offered his approval of the choice of the Honig Rutherford Sauvignon Blanc, a steal at $21 since it was half-off wine night, too.
Looking to eke out as much fat from my dinner choices as possible, I began with the creamy lobster soup with bacon and winter veggies. Oh, it was creamy and oh, it was rich and we all know the bacon rule. I followed that with the sauteed grouper swimming in a pool of garlic herb butter sauce and with stone-ground cheddar cheese grits on the side. The last thing I managed to down was the root beer-spiced creme brulee. Although I'm not a soda drinker, root beer is hands-down my favorite kind, so I loved the novelty of combining its distinctive taste with my requisite dessert.
It felt like we had inhaled our rich dinner, but by the time we walked out of our cozy back alcove, the restaurant had cleared except for the bar patrons putting on their coats. Of course, it was almost 11:00, late by the dining standards of most Tuesday nights in rva, but then it wasn't just any Tuesday. It was a night to eat until we were ready to pop and call it Mardi Gras.
Gras, indeed.
Turning Japanese at Niwanohana Sushi (I Really Think So)
Sometimes you need to revisit something you haven't experienced in years, just to find out if the memory matches the current reality. Of course, that opens the door to possible disappointment, but thinking that just because something once gave you pleasure it still could is nothing if not presumptuous. You don't know until you try.
So with last night's cold and rainy weather yet again, my dining partner and I headed down to the Slip to Niwanohana Sushi in the space that was Hana Zushi forever. In fact, when I first came to Richmond, HZ was the only authentic Japanese restaurant to be found and had been a favorite of my friend's when I first met him back in the 90s. The weather was dictating a big bowl of soup and we were counting on Niwanohana to deliver.
Since it was a Monday night, the place was quiet, with only one customer at the sushi bar when we arrived. Unfortunately, once she finished eating, she apparently got bored with herself and got on her phone, filling the room with a personal conversation neither my friend nor I cared to hear. Why don't people realize how rude this is? I don't think it was just us; I can't think of anyone who enjoys hearing someone else's phone conversation while they eat their miso soup and salad.
We tried focusing on the music, but it seemed to be an endless loop of the Goo Goo Dolls' greatest hits and that got a bit tiresome. Luckily our food shortly arrived and we got to the business of eating, first with a Futo Maki roll. Next up was Nabeyaki Udon/Soba Soup and it really was just what a person should be eating on a cold and damp evening, full of chicken, surmi, onion and those lovely noodles; the accompanying tempura shrimp were the perfect dipper.
The restaurant was graced with the presence of a foursome, loud and gregarious, and I might have made a smart-assed observation or two about them when they entered, but it didn't take long for me to be proven right. Minutes after taking their seats, they began singing country songs...loudly. As in, serenading the other seven of us in the restaurant. True, I do have a bias against country music, but I can't imagine what made these people think that such behavior was socially acceptable. I'd have told them to take it outside, except they were all much bigger than me. Especially the woman. Luckily, their food arriving superseded their need to be annoying and we got a reprieve.
Slurping our noodles through theoretical conversation about the differences in how men and women perceive friendship, the choice of being struck blind or deaf and other such important issues fortunately pushed the other guests to the background, leaving us to enjoy our meal.
As to conclusions drawn about revisiting the past, sunshine and lollipops aside, it would appear that occasionally the new reality can actually surpass the memory. Even with the Goo Goo Dolls and country music for a soundtrack.
So with last night's cold and rainy weather yet again, my dining partner and I headed down to the Slip to Niwanohana Sushi in the space that was Hana Zushi forever. In fact, when I first came to Richmond, HZ was the only authentic Japanese restaurant to be found and had been a favorite of my friend's when I first met him back in the 90s. The weather was dictating a big bowl of soup and we were counting on Niwanohana to deliver.
Since it was a Monday night, the place was quiet, with only one customer at the sushi bar when we arrived. Unfortunately, once she finished eating, she apparently got bored with herself and got on her phone, filling the room with a personal conversation neither my friend nor I cared to hear. Why don't people realize how rude this is? I don't think it was just us; I can't think of anyone who enjoys hearing someone else's phone conversation while they eat their miso soup and salad.
We tried focusing on the music, but it seemed to be an endless loop of the Goo Goo Dolls' greatest hits and that got a bit tiresome. Luckily our food shortly arrived and we got to the business of eating, first with a Futo Maki roll. Next up was Nabeyaki Udon/Soba Soup and it really was just what a person should be eating on a cold and damp evening, full of chicken, surmi, onion and those lovely noodles; the accompanying tempura shrimp were the perfect dipper.
The restaurant was graced with the presence of a foursome, loud and gregarious, and I might have made a smart-assed observation or two about them when they entered, but it didn't take long for me to be proven right. Minutes after taking their seats, they began singing country songs...loudly. As in, serenading the other seven of us in the restaurant. True, I do have a bias against country music, but I can't imagine what made these people think that such behavior was socially acceptable. I'd have told them to take it outside, except they were all much bigger than me. Especially the woman. Luckily, their food arriving superseded their need to be annoying and we got a reprieve.
Slurping our noodles through theoretical conversation about the differences in how men and women perceive friendship, the choice of being struck blind or deaf and other such important issues fortunately pushed the other guests to the background, leaving us to enjoy our meal.
As to conclusions drawn about revisiting the past, sunshine and lollipops aside, it would appear that occasionally the new reality can actually surpass the memory. Even with the Goo Goo Dolls and country music for a soundtrack.
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
Letting the Good Times Roll in J-Ward
As a long-lapsed Catholic, it was two things that alerted me to the upcoming season of Lent.
The first was Bistro 27's chef Carlos asking me last week what I'd be giving up for Lent ("Lent," I told him) and the second was the invitation to my neighbors Bob and Steve's annual Mardi Gras extravaganza tonight.
These guys turn Jackson Ward into New Orleans for a night every year and they do it right.
The party starts at 4:00 is all I'm saying.
Beginning with the ornate decorations on their house and continuing in to the foyer, where masks, crowns and beads await incoming guests, this is a party of excesses.
Forget the copious amounts of alcohol (and I bet a lot of the guests will have forgotten it until they wake up tomorrow morning; Larry, I'm talking to you), the multiple rooms of food are obscene.
Of course there's gumbo and rice and king cake. It would still be a great party if that's all they had.
But, no, there is a to-die-for sausage and cheese dip, carved beef, turkey breasts, cocktail shrimp, assorted cheeses, untold vegetable dishes, breads of every kind, crudites, even cocktail wieners. I think I counted five desserts.
I've probably left out at least a half a dozen items, but there were just too many to keep track of.
Someone, not me, but someone initiated a discussion of the J-Ward restaurant scene and I was happy to chime in with my thoughts.
I had just missed neighbors Julie and Dave, the owners of the Belvidere, but I shared my opinion of their place with those who had not yet tried it (shame on them; it's right in the 'hood!).
Tarrant's delivery service was highly touted and 27's cuisine praised. One guest actually knew the Tarrant family and shared some local history with us.
Not long after, the baby was found in Bob's homemade king cake, but luckily not by me since the recipient is supposed to wash all the wine glasses and by then we were on our fourth box of glasses, if that tells you anything about the scale of the partying.
Next up was a short walk to Gallery 5 for the opening reception of Sleight of Hand II, a national juried contemporary craft exhibit.
The opening had been postponed from last week and three musical acts were to play tonight: Gills and Wings, Brad Doggett and Thomas Coleman.
As I walked in, the members of Gills and Wings were standing outside trying to finalize their set list.
"We're gonna figure this out," one of them said. That would be good, I thought.
The array of crafts was definitely more art than crafts,which was the whole concept behind the exhibition.
The pieces pushed the concept of what a craft is and most would be perceived as art objects rather than something utilitarian.
I had just missed the awards ceremony when I arrived, but the pieces were subsequently labeled with their awards for the interested viewer.
There was no shortage of unusual materials and thought-provoking imagery; the only shortage was of stereotypical "crafts."
But then, when is Gallery 5 ever stereotypical?
The DJ downstairs was actually spinning records, always a pleasure to see and hear, but his extension cord extended into the bathroom, making it impossible to close the door for privacy.
I'm no prude, but it didn't seem wise to use the facility with the open door, so I just stood there, trying to figure a solution.
Luckily a guy came along who had no problem going with the door open a crack while I averted my gaze and when he finished, he offered to hold the door so I could go in private.
He got a little too into his job, though, and when I went to leave, he hung onto that doorknob like a champ.
Just before it got weird, he felt my tug and released me.
Laissez les bon temps rouler.
The first was Bistro 27's chef Carlos asking me last week what I'd be giving up for Lent ("Lent," I told him) and the second was the invitation to my neighbors Bob and Steve's annual Mardi Gras extravaganza tonight.
These guys turn Jackson Ward into New Orleans for a night every year and they do it right.
The party starts at 4:00 is all I'm saying.
Beginning with the ornate decorations on their house and continuing in to the foyer, where masks, crowns and beads await incoming guests, this is a party of excesses.
Forget the copious amounts of alcohol (and I bet a lot of the guests will have forgotten it until they wake up tomorrow morning; Larry, I'm talking to you), the multiple rooms of food are obscene.
Of course there's gumbo and rice and king cake. It would still be a great party if that's all they had.
But, no, there is a to-die-for sausage and cheese dip, carved beef, turkey breasts, cocktail shrimp, assorted cheeses, untold vegetable dishes, breads of every kind, crudites, even cocktail wieners. I think I counted five desserts.
I've probably left out at least a half a dozen items, but there were just too many to keep track of.
Someone, not me, but someone initiated a discussion of the J-Ward restaurant scene and I was happy to chime in with my thoughts.
I had just missed neighbors Julie and Dave, the owners of the Belvidere, but I shared my opinion of their place with those who had not yet tried it (shame on them; it's right in the 'hood!).
Tarrant's delivery service was highly touted and 27's cuisine praised. One guest actually knew the Tarrant family and shared some local history with us.
Not long after, the baby was found in Bob's homemade king cake, but luckily not by me since the recipient is supposed to wash all the wine glasses and by then we were on our fourth box of glasses, if that tells you anything about the scale of the partying.
Next up was a short walk to Gallery 5 for the opening reception of Sleight of Hand II, a national juried contemporary craft exhibit.
The opening had been postponed from last week and three musical acts were to play tonight: Gills and Wings, Brad Doggett and Thomas Coleman.
As I walked in, the members of Gills and Wings were standing outside trying to finalize their set list.
"We're gonna figure this out," one of them said. That would be good, I thought.
The array of crafts was definitely more art than crafts,which was the whole concept behind the exhibition.
The pieces pushed the concept of what a craft is and most would be perceived as art objects rather than something utilitarian.
I had just missed the awards ceremony when I arrived, but the pieces were subsequently labeled with their awards for the interested viewer.
There was no shortage of unusual materials and thought-provoking imagery; the only shortage was of stereotypical "crafts."
But then, when is Gallery 5 ever stereotypical?
The DJ downstairs was actually spinning records, always a pleasure to see and hear, but his extension cord extended into the bathroom, making it impossible to close the door for privacy.
I'm no prude, but it didn't seem wise to use the facility with the open door, so I just stood there, trying to figure a solution.
Luckily a guy came along who had no problem going with the door open a crack while I averted my gaze and when he finished, he offered to hold the door so I could go in private.
He got a little too into his job, though, and when I went to leave, he hung onto that doorknob like a champ.
Just before it got weird, he felt my tug and released me.
Laissez les bon temps rouler.
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?
Friday, February 12, 2010
Six Hours, Six Stops
The cancellation of February's First Friday Art walk because of the weekly weekend storm meant that it didn't take much to get me gallery-hopping tonight.
Adding in a few other activities, I planned an evening that began in Carytown, swung through the Fan then up to Church Hill and ended back a half mile from my house.
Tres convenient.
Any good Friday evening starts with a wine tasting and tonight River City Cellars was also doing a (Gearhart's) chocolate tasting in honor of St. Valentine's Day.
The place was packed, but I needed a bottle of wine for an upcoming dinner, so it wasn't just about quaffing wine and scarfing good chocolate.
Okay, it was mostly about that, but they were pouring, among others, the Innocent Bystander Pink Moscato, which paired divinely with the dark chocolate.
I got the wine I came for and a little of those heavenly Charlottesville-made chocolates.
At Chop Suey, I checked out Adam Juresko's latest show, "Flight of the Rat."
As an added attraction, Adam had also painted a mural on the wall of the staircase leading up to the second floor, which added some personality to the trip upstairs.
I already own one of his works and I was curious to see how the new work differed from what I had.
As always, he'd found fresh imagery to use throughout his collages; he may be eccentric, but the work is always interesting.
And then for something completely different, I went to Glave-Kocen Gallery on Main Street to see the "Click" Invitation Photography exhibit, showcasing local photographers like Scott Elmquist, Jay Paul and Ash Daniel.
The problem was navigating the gallery: clearly this was a see-and-be-seen event and chatty, well-dressed cliques impeded the progress of those of us there to actually see the photographs, some of which were well worth seeing.
By the time I'd finished looking at everything, I couldn't wait to escape that crowd.
Starving by now, I stopped at Pie for pizza and was greeted by the owner.
My first choice, the Cured Meat pie (garlic, Fontina, mozzarella and soprasetta) was sold out, so I ordered it with sausage instead of soprasetta.
There was some mis-communication, though, because I got a red, not white pizza, but the red sauce was so thinly spread that even I couldn't object.
The thickly sliced sausage was excellent and more than made up for the tomato presence.
And best of all, a nearby table was discussing a local food blogger's rants. Delicious!
Then I drove up the big hill to Eric Schindler Gallery for "z-black series," acrylic paintings by Scott Phillips.
The man wields paint densely and color lavishly.
There was a sense of vibrancy in his brushstrokes that made every object, every sky, everything undulate, almost van Gogh-like.
I fell particularly hard for probably the least colorful painting in the show, but unfortunately, although well-priced, it just wasn't in my budget.
My final stop of the evening was at Ipanema for some wine and girl talk; my friend had suggested I come by so that we could dish about her work life (crushing at the moment) and my social life (having a really good time lately).
She kindly pointed out that it was way more satisfying to hear about what I was up to face to face rather than just reading it on the blog, especially for the edited material.
And lest I make it sound like all we did was gab, we did discuss my local art collection; like me, she appreciates how much talent there is in this town.
So it wasn't a true First Friday since there was driving involved and I'd never have seen that Glave-Kocen crowd in J-Ward, but tonight had all the components of an art-driven evening with enough wine, food and conversation to keep me from complete art immersion.
Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, but a Friday night calls for considerably more, especially for us innocent bystander types.
Adding in a few other activities, I planned an evening that began in Carytown, swung through the Fan then up to Church Hill and ended back a half mile from my house.
Tres convenient.
Any good Friday evening starts with a wine tasting and tonight River City Cellars was also doing a (Gearhart's) chocolate tasting in honor of St. Valentine's Day.
The place was packed, but I needed a bottle of wine for an upcoming dinner, so it wasn't just about quaffing wine and scarfing good chocolate.
Okay, it was mostly about that, but they were pouring, among others, the Innocent Bystander Pink Moscato, which paired divinely with the dark chocolate.
I got the wine I came for and a little of those heavenly Charlottesville-made chocolates.
At Chop Suey, I checked out Adam Juresko's latest show, "Flight of the Rat."
As an added attraction, Adam had also painted a mural on the wall of the staircase leading up to the second floor, which added some personality to the trip upstairs.
I already own one of his works and I was curious to see how the new work differed from what I had.
As always, he'd found fresh imagery to use throughout his collages; he may be eccentric, but the work is always interesting.
And then for something completely different, I went to Glave-Kocen Gallery on Main Street to see the "Click" Invitation Photography exhibit, showcasing local photographers like Scott Elmquist, Jay Paul and Ash Daniel.
The problem was navigating the gallery: clearly this was a see-and-be-seen event and chatty, well-dressed cliques impeded the progress of those of us there to actually see the photographs, some of which were well worth seeing.
By the time I'd finished looking at everything, I couldn't wait to escape that crowd.
Starving by now, I stopped at Pie for pizza and was greeted by the owner.
My first choice, the Cured Meat pie (garlic, Fontina, mozzarella and soprasetta) was sold out, so I ordered it with sausage instead of soprasetta.
There was some mis-communication, though, because I got a red, not white pizza, but the red sauce was so thinly spread that even I couldn't object.
The thickly sliced sausage was excellent and more than made up for the tomato presence.
And best of all, a nearby table was discussing a local food blogger's rants. Delicious!
Then I drove up the big hill to Eric Schindler Gallery for "z-black series," acrylic paintings by Scott Phillips.
The man wields paint densely and color lavishly.
There was a sense of vibrancy in his brushstrokes that made every object, every sky, everything undulate, almost van Gogh-like.
I fell particularly hard for probably the least colorful painting in the show, but unfortunately, although well-priced, it just wasn't in my budget.
My final stop of the evening was at Ipanema for some wine and girl talk; my friend had suggested I come by so that we could dish about her work life (crushing at the moment) and my social life (having a really good time lately).
She kindly pointed out that it was way more satisfying to hear about what I was up to face to face rather than just reading it on the blog, especially for the edited material.
And lest I make it sound like all we did was gab, we did discuss my local art collection; like me, she appreciates how much talent there is in this town.
So it wasn't a true First Friday since there was driving involved and I'd never have seen that Glave-Kocen crowd in J-Ward, but tonight had all the components of an art-driven evening with enough wine, food and conversation to keep me from complete art immersion.
Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, but a Friday night calls for considerably more, especially for us innocent bystander types.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
True Love and Bouchon
If it's Thursday, I must be at my Modern Romance class and tonight's topic was true love.
Last week was about that giddy first kiss stage, but tonight we moved on to something more substantial, namely true love.
That stage where reality sets in, compromises are made and love deepens. You know.
Of course, this modern love class is all about architecture and tonight we covered 1930-1960.
After the exuberance of movements, manifestos and the shock of the new in the first 30 years of the last century, the next 30 were all about the socially-driven architecture of Europe rebuilding after the war versus the capitally-driven need for commerce in the U.S. (now there's a surprise).
Luckily for us, many European architects came here to share their talent on our soil.
From the first exhibit of modern architecture at the MOMA in 1932 to the flying exuberance of the TWA Terminal at JFK, this was the period when compromises were made to the realities of economics and site, while still creating landmark buildings.
You know, the Seagram's Building and the Empire State Building and although the Guggenheim Museum was built at the tail end of this period, it clearly represents no compromises with reality whatsoever, but such is its charm.
Tonight's after-school snack was at Bouchon, where I was joined by my extremely hungover friend.
She was slow to order, but I dove right into their bar menu, a steal at only $4 per item.
I had the pork rillettes with toasted baguette slices and gherkins, along with the Portabello stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and Gruyere.
The rillettes, made with pork shoulder, was everything it should be: rich, fatty, salty and addictive.
The mushroom, which came with a side salad, was a perfect combination of veggies and cheese.
I definitely wasn't scoring any points with my arteries tonight, but, oh, was it good.
The owner surprised us with dessert, apparently thinking my friend could use some rich ice cream to coat her stomach and ease her malaise.
I don't expect she'll drink that many cosmos again in this lifetime.
Topics on the table tonight were stalking exes, overly late nights and Valentine's Day plans and even a hungover friend has strong thoughts on all three.
What we didn't get around to discussing tonight was true love, despite my new-found knowledge on the subject.
No need to jump the gun; I'm still processing what I learned last week about the first kiss stage and all the ensuing giddiness.
Twitterpation, if you will.
That's more than enough to process for the time being.
Last week was about that giddy first kiss stage, but tonight we moved on to something more substantial, namely true love.
That stage where reality sets in, compromises are made and love deepens. You know.
Of course, this modern love class is all about architecture and tonight we covered 1930-1960.
After the exuberance of movements, manifestos and the shock of the new in the first 30 years of the last century, the next 30 were all about the socially-driven architecture of Europe rebuilding after the war versus the capitally-driven need for commerce in the U.S. (now there's a surprise).
Luckily for us, many European architects came here to share their talent on our soil.
From the first exhibit of modern architecture at the MOMA in 1932 to the flying exuberance of the TWA Terminal at JFK, this was the period when compromises were made to the realities of economics and site, while still creating landmark buildings.
You know, the Seagram's Building and the Empire State Building and although the Guggenheim Museum was built at the tail end of this period, it clearly represents no compromises with reality whatsoever, but such is its charm.
Tonight's after-school snack was at Bouchon, where I was joined by my extremely hungover friend.
She was slow to order, but I dove right into their bar menu, a steal at only $4 per item.
I had the pork rillettes with toasted baguette slices and gherkins, along with the Portabello stuffed with ratatouille, spinach and Gruyere.
The rillettes, made with pork shoulder, was everything it should be: rich, fatty, salty and addictive.
The mushroom, which came with a side salad, was a perfect combination of veggies and cheese.
I definitely wasn't scoring any points with my arteries tonight, but, oh, was it good.
The owner surprised us with dessert, apparently thinking my friend could use some rich ice cream to coat her stomach and ease her malaise.
I don't expect she'll drink that many cosmos again in this lifetime.
Topics on the table tonight were stalking exes, overly late nights and Valentine's Day plans and even a hungover friend has strong thoughts on all three.
What we didn't get around to discussing tonight was true love, despite my new-found knowledge on the subject.
No need to jump the gun; I'm still processing what I learned last week about the first kiss stage and all the ensuing giddiness.
Twitterpation, if you will.
That's more than enough to process for the time being.
Houston, We Have Closure
Since I don't ever wear jewelry (hell, I don't even have pierced ears; find another woman who doesn't), I don't get many invitations to go to jewelry shows.
But this morning, a friend called to invite me to join him at the What Is Your Heart Made Of? show at Quirk Gallery, a VCU jewelry sale to benefit victims in Haiti .
As he pointed out, this was not like typical jewelry; this was the kind of unusual, almost sculptural jewelry that was as much about being admired as being worn.
Admiring I can do; it's wearing that I find impossible.
The array of necklaces, rings, earrings, pins and even cuff links was a tribute to the imagination and talent of VCU Craft/Material Studies students.
There were brooches made of fur, rings with ornamentation that extended up several inches, necklaces that resembled looking glasses, with tiny images inside.
It was not like ordinary jewelry, made, as it was, with unusual materials, colors and detailing.
I even tried on one necklace, just to show my friend how ridiculous it looked on me. He denied it, but ended up agreeing that I just can't pull it off.
Browsing Quirk's market afterwards is worth mentioning for the offbeat items I found, which is saying something since I don't like shopping (except for food and wine).
The "Indie Rock Coloring Book" cracked me up. There was a a Broken Social Scene maze, a connect-the-dots to find Stars and MGMT's psychedelic playground to color...even finding all the birds in Devendra Banhart's beard, no easy task.
I must know someone who needs this coloring book, if only ironically.
Their card selection was unique, to say the least.
My favorite? One that said, "Houston, we have CLOSURE."
There's a card I can think of a use for and I hadn't known till today that closure cards even existed!
Then there was the "Fortune Telling Book of Names," a resource to uncover the future, and who can resist a peek at what's coming?
Broken down by girls' names and boys' names, it provided only one fortune for each name, so if you're not ready for a glimpse at your guaranteed future, better not to look.
As for me, I couldn't resist seeing what my name foretold:
You will be reunited with an old friend who will quickly become a new lover.
I warned you.
Don't look if you don't want to know.
But I just may have a new favorite place to buy cards and the odd gift.
But this morning, a friend called to invite me to join him at the What Is Your Heart Made Of? show at Quirk Gallery, a VCU jewelry sale to benefit victims in Haiti .
As he pointed out, this was not like typical jewelry; this was the kind of unusual, almost sculptural jewelry that was as much about being admired as being worn.
Admiring I can do; it's wearing that I find impossible.
The array of necklaces, rings, earrings, pins and even cuff links was a tribute to the imagination and talent of VCU Craft/Material Studies students.
There were brooches made of fur, rings with ornamentation that extended up several inches, necklaces that resembled looking glasses, with tiny images inside.
It was not like ordinary jewelry, made, as it was, with unusual materials, colors and detailing.
I even tried on one necklace, just to show my friend how ridiculous it looked on me. He denied it, but ended up agreeing that I just can't pull it off.
Browsing Quirk's market afterwards is worth mentioning for the offbeat items I found, which is saying something since I don't like shopping (except for food and wine).
The "Indie Rock Coloring Book" cracked me up. There was a a Broken Social Scene maze, a connect-the-dots to find Stars and MGMT's psychedelic playground to color...even finding all the birds in Devendra Banhart's beard, no easy task.
I must know someone who needs this coloring book, if only ironically.
Their card selection was unique, to say the least.
My favorite? One that said, "Houston, we have CLOSURE."
There's a card I can think of a use for and I hadn't known till today that closure cards even existed!
Then there was the "Fortune Telling Book of Names," a resource to uncover the future, and who can resist a peek at what's coming?
Broken down by girls' names and boys' names, it provided only one fortune for each name, so if you're not ready for a glimpse at your guaranteed future, better not to look.
As for me, I couldn't resist seeing what my name foretold:
You will be reunited with an old friend who will quickly become a new lover.
I warned you.
Don't look if you don't want to know.
But I just may have a new favorite place to buy cards and the odd gift.
Richmond Noir: Andrew Slept Here
If you've read this blog more than once, you're undoubtedly noticed I'm very into two things: writing and Richmond.
So the publication of a new anthology of local writers called 'Richmond Noir" had me from the first announcement.
Tapping fifteen diverse local writers, each of whom celebrated a different Richmond neighborhood and produced a short story in the noir vein, the editors have compiled a love letter to rva's hard-bitten side.
That means hard-boiled characters, evocative moods, desperate situations and any of the multitude of variations that have developed in that genre in the past 50 years.
"Richmond Noir" is part of a series, begun with "Brooklyn Noir," and was three years in the making. Today at the Library of Virginia,editors Andrew Blossom, Brian Castleberry and Tom De Haven talked about the project before readings by four of the writers.
I was pleased that we got to hear writer Megan Saunders share her Jackson Ward tale of drugs and jazz at the Hippodrome.
Interestingly, Dennis Danvers' story of Texas Beach was part noir, part 21st-century topical. All the excerpts we heard sounded worthy of a full read.
The writers got to pick the neighborhood they wrote about, so many neighborhoods are included in the book: Hollywood Cemetery, of course, Manchester, the East End, Oregon Hill, the West End, the Museum District, all the obvious choices except the Fan. But then, how noir-like is the Fan, really?
Just saying.
One other thing had attracted me to this project and that was editor Andrew Blossom. Andrew was the prior long-time occupant of the apartment in which I now live.
When I moved here in March, my landlord bragged that a really talented writer lived here before me.
Since then, we have run into each other repeatedly, at parties, shows and, of course, at Chop Suey where he works.
We share anecdotes about the charm and unusual qualities of a space we both know well.
Not that I'm bragging, but just so you know, Andrew slept here first.
That's what I want him to inscribe in my copy of "Richmond Noir."
I can only hope that his talent with words has rubbed off on me as a result.
So the publication of a new anthology of local writers called 'Richmond Noir" had me from the first announcement.
Tapping fifteen diverse local writers, each of whom celebrated a different Richmond neighborhood and produced a short story in the noir vein, the editors have compiled a love letter to rva's hard-bitten side.
That means hard-boiled characters, evocative moods, desperate situations and any of the multitude of variations that have developed in that genre in the past 50 years.
"Richmond Noir" is part of a series, begun with "Brooklyn Noir," and was three years in the making. Today at the Library of Virginia,editors Andrew Blossom, Brian Castleberry and Tom De Haven talked about the project before readings by four of the writers.
I was pleased that we got to hear writer Megan Saunders share her Jackson Ward tale of drugs and jazz at the Hippodrome.
Interestingly, Dennis Danvers' story of Texas Beach was part noir, part 21st-century topical. All the excerpts we heard sounded worthy of a full read.
The writers got to pick the neighborhood they wrote about, so many neighborhoods are included in the book: Hollywood Cemetery, of course, Manchester, the East End, Oregon Hill, the West End, the Museum District, all the obvious choices except the Fan. But then, how noir-like is the Fan, really?
Just saying.
One other thing had attracted me to this project and that was editor Andrew Blossom. Andrew was the prior long-time occupant of the apartment in which I now live.
When I moved here in March, my landlord bragged that a really talented writer lived here before me.
Since then, we have run into each other repeatedly, at parties, shows and, of course, at Chop Suey where he works.
We share anecdotes about the charm and unusual qualities of a space we both know well.
Not that I'm bragging, but just so you know, Andrew slept here first.
That's what I want him to inscribe in my copy of "Richmond Noir."
I can only hope that his talent with words has rubbed off on me as a result.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Easy Rider at Capital Ale House
Get your motor running? Head out on the highway?
How is it I had never seen this classic movie before?
Beats me, but if Cap Ale was going to show it on a big screen, I was going to grab a friend and eat dinner there to see it.
Lookin' for adventure and whatever comes our way.
Not being a beer drinker, I tend to frequent Capital Ale House only when they give me some sort of reason to be there.
A film, for instance, Richmond Jazz Society on occasion, some of my favorite local bands (Ilad, Marionette), even waltzing lessons once.
But not beer.
I'd had a bit of convincing to do to get my friend to eat there, though.
Seems he'd had a couple of so-so meals there and wasn't sure he wanted to risk another.
I assured him I'd steer him right and he genially agreed.
Besides, he'd never seen Easy Rider on the big screen and his interest was piqued, too.
I had the Crab BLT, an enormous sandwich on ciabatta bread with ailoi standing in for the standard mayo.
The crab salad was thick on the bread and the bacon was applewood smoked and thickly cut.
Think of it as a BLT on steroids.
My friend was leaning toward a burger for safety's sake when I told him that several friends have raved about the lamb burger (seasoned ground lamb topped with feta cheese, tomato, cucumber, relish and mint jelly), something you don't see on many menus in Richmond.
It was a thing of beauty on arrival, so much so that he was reluctant to put the top bun on it and ruin the artistry of the toppings.
He loved it.
I'd broken his string of mediocrity at Cap Ale; mission accomplished.
The movie portion of the evening fittingly began with a cartoon and a Looney Tune at that. A Star is Bored told the story of Bugs making a movie with Daffy as his stunt double.
Predictably, bad things kept happening to Daffy; he lost his feathers, his bill, was blown up, shot at, crashed in a plane, you name it.
Remind me, why don't we show cartoons before movies anymore?
Despite knowing some of the cultural references to Easy Rider, I knew very little about the film's story or specifics.
And actually that made it so much greater the pleasure to experience it for the first time.
The sheer youth of the actors, the breathtaking scenery of the West, and even a New Orleans that looked unchanged from the Depression.
The snapshot of another era: communes, anti-hippie sentiment, laissez-faire attitudes, sixties jargon.
And classic music as a powerful backdrop to it all.
Groovy and dig it aside, the philosophy expounded by the two main characters was simple and timeless and I found it natural to relate to it.
Talking to Billy about life and what he may have aspired to be, Captain America says, "I never wanted to be anyone else."
I know exactly what he meant.
Me, either.
How is it I had never seen this classic movie before?
Beats me, but if Cap Ale was going to show it on a big screen, I was going to grab a friend and eat dinner there to see it.
Lookin' for adventure and whatever comes our way.
Not being a beer drinker, I tend to frequent Capital Ale House only when they give me some sort of reason to be there.
A film, for instance, Richmond Jazz Society on occasion, some of my favorite local bands (Ilad, Marionette), even waltzing lessons once.
But not beer.
I'd had a bit of convincing to do to get my friend to eat there, though.
Seems he'd had a couple of so-so meals there and wasn't sure he wanted to risk another.
I assured him I'd steer him right and he genially agreed.
Besides, he'd never seen Easy Rider on the big screen and his interest was piqued, too.
I had the Crab BLT, an enormous sandwich on ciabatta bread with ailoi standing in for the standard mayo.
The crab salad was thick on the bread and the bacon was applewood smoked and thickly cut.
Think of it as a BLT on steroids.
My friend was leaning toward a burger for safety's sake when I told him that several friends have raved about the lamb burger (seasoned ground lamb topped with feta cheese, tomato, cucumber, relish and mint jelly), something you don't see on many menus in Richmond.
It was a thing of beauty on arrival, so much so that he was reluctant to put the top bun on it and ruin the artistry of the toppings.
He loved it.
I'd broken his string of mediocrity at Cap Ale; mission accomplished.
The movie portion of the evening fittingly began with a cartoon and a Looney Tune at that. A Star is Bored told the story of Bugs making a movie with Daffy as his stunt double.
Predictably, bad things kept happening to Daffy; he lost his feathers, his bill, was blown up, shot at, crashed in a plane, you name it.
Remind me, why don't we show cartoons before movies anymore?
Despite knowing some of the cultural references to Easy Rider, I knew very little about the film's story or specifics.
And actually that made it so much greater the pleasure to experience it for the first time.
The sheer youth of the actors, the breathtaking scenery of the West, and even a New Orleans that looked unchanged from the Depression.
The snapshot of another era: communes, anti-hippie sentiment, laissez-faire attitudes, sixties jargon.
And classic music as a powerful backdrop to it all.
Groovy and dig it aside, the philosophy expounded by the two main characters was simple and timeless and I found it natural to relate to it.
Talking to Billy about life and what he may have aspired to be, Captain America says, "I never wanted to be anyone else."
I know exactly what he meant.
Me, either.
These Clothes are Staying On
I know I get cold more easily than 98% of the population.
When I go in a restaurant and the hostess points out the coat rack, I smile politely and keep my coat.
A musician friend posted a picture of me at a show at the Camel and I have a sweater across my legs and my big muffler still on; the people around me are dressed normally.
Apparently I have no blood.
Even so, it's cold outside today by anyone's estimation.
There's a wind advisory, it's gusting to 30 mph and it feels like 20 degrees.
Going out to walk the dog, I was bundled up like a kid in a snowsuit, arms akimbo, scarf covering half my face.
And here's a guy on my street shoveling snow in a short-sleeved T-shirt.
I couldn't stop myself. "You have to be cold, right?" I asked with a smile.
He looks at me with dead eyes, no expression and says, "It's not cold out here."
Well, okay then, the beagle and I will just move along.
Around the corner, we see a guy clearing off his car wearing shorts and no socks.
As he flings the snow, I see a flurry hit his bare legs. I cringe for him and ask why he's wearing shorts.
"All my jeans are dirty," he explains. Because, you know, clean clothes are essential for snow removal.
We did talk to one halfway sane soul who was dressed appropriately for the snow.
A guy biking down the street said hi and mentioned how challenging it was biking in this mess.
I offered my empathy for his situation, but he laughed it off. "I got my snow tires on, sweet baby," he assured me. "I'm good."
Me, I'm cold out there with that wind blowing over the ice and snow.
Even with four layers on top, a coat, two layers on bottom, two pairs of socks and two pairs of gloves, it's not enough.
My first choice for relief would be shared body heat.
Barring that, I'm at least going to spend the afternoon inside and away from this wind.
And I'll take off the coat and gloves, but the rest stays on.
Luckily, no one will be taking a picture of me to post this time.
When I go in a restaurant and the hostess points out the coat rack, I smile politely and keep my coat.
A musician friend posted a picture of me at a show at the Camel and I have a sweater across my legs and my big muffler still on; the people around me are dressed normally.
Apparently I have no blood.
Even so, it's cold outside today by anyone's estimation.
There's a wind advisory, it's gusting to 30 mph and it feels like 20 degrees.
Going out to walk the dog, I was bundled up like a kid in a snowsuit, arms akimbo, scarf covering half my face.
And here's a guy on my street shoveling snow in a short-sleeved T-shirt.
I couldn't stop myself. "You have to be cold, right?" I asked with a smile.
He looks at me with dead eyes, no expression and says, "It's not cold out here."
Well, okay then, the beagle and I will just move along.
Around the corner, we see a guy clearing off his car wearing shorts and no socks.
As he flings the snow, I see a flurry hit his bare legs. I cringe for him and ask why he's wearing shorts.
"All my jeans are dirty," he explains. Because, you know, clean clothes are essential for snow removal.
We did talk to one halfway sane soul who was dressed appropriately for the snow.
A guy biking down the street said hi and mentioned how challenging it was biking in this mess.
I offered my empathy for his situation, but he laughed it off. "I got my snow tires on, sweet baby," he assured me. "I'm good."
Me, I'm cold out there with that wind blowing over the ice and snow.
Even with four layers on top, a coat, two layers on bottom, two pairs of socks and two pairs of gloves, it's not enough.
My first choice for relief would be shared body heat.
Barring that, I'm at least going to spend the afternoon inside and away from this wind.
And I'll take off the coat and gloves, but the rest stays on.
Luckily, no one will be taking a picture of me to post this time.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Best Burger @ Belvidere & Beautiful Boxer @ G5
When I was a kid, we got to choose our birthday dinners and anything was fair game.
It was the one time nothing was off limits, which drove my five sisters crazy because every year I chose the exact same dinner: cheeseburgers.
The reason for my passion for the humble burger was the way my mom cooked them.
Because there were so many of us, she cooked them in her big electric fry pan using the cheapest possible beef.
As a result of this method, she was essentially simmering the burgers in beef fat.
As the meat cooked and the amount of grease increased, the burgers were almost submerged in grease.
Yum.
I don't use this method, but when I do crave a cheeseburger, I want something good enough to make me forget about the burgers of my youth.
That craving hit today, so I found a burger-loving friend to accompany me to the Belvidere for one of their superb specimens.
Some publication recently named their burger one of RVA's best and I'd have to agree.
It was the first thing I ever tried at the Belvidere last August and it's lost none of its appeal six months later.
Is it that crusty ciabatta roll they use? The Cheddar-less cheese choices (smoked Gouda, feta, fresh, Parmesan, mozzarella, bleu)? The perfectly caramelized onions? That aioli?
In any case, we both happily had cheeseburgers even though it's nowhere near my birthday.
He had the sweet potato fries but I had the updated starch, roasted root veggies.
This was a cheeseburger meal about as far from my mom's version as could be; my arteries probably weren't hardening at quite the same rate, either.
Gallery 5 was doing their monthly free film showing and tonight it was Beautiful Boxer, preceded by a demonstration of Muay Thai kickboxing to familiarize the audience with the sport we were about to see.
With little knowledge of martial arts, I was intrigued enough to want to see it.
It had a certain grace, but clearly required a lot of strength; both fighters were winded by the end of the demonstration.
The documentary about a transvestite who became a kick boxer in order to earn enough money to pay for a sex-change operation was beautifully shot in Thailand and Japan.
The irony of a woman trapped in a man's body having to take up such a physical and potentially lethal sport for the sake of future happiness was touching and painful at the same time.
Once he began wearing makeup in the ring, he had to deal with skepticism about his true sexuality, charges of hypocrisy for the sake of self-promotion and even public derision.
A friend at Gallery 5 had told me months ago that this was a must-see film and I understand now why he felt so strongly about showing it; the film had deservedly won numerous film festival awards.
My only issue with the film was that for a squeamish type like me, much of the violence in the fight scenes was difficult to watch.
Heads snapping, aching-looking falls, blood spurting, oh my!
Good thing I'd bulked up with that cheeseburger beforehand the better to handle all that physicality.
It was the one time nothing was off limits, which drove my five sisters crazy because every year I chose the exact same dinner: cheeseburgers.
The reason for my passion for the humble burger was the way my mom cooked them.
Because there were so many of us, she cooked them in her big electric fry pan using the cheapest possible beef.
As a result of this method, she was essentially simmering the burgers in beef fat.
As the meat cooked and the amount of grease increased, the burgers were almost submerged in grease.
Yum.
I don't use this method, but when I do crave a cheeseburger, I want something good enough to make me forget about the burgers of my youth.
That craving hit today, so I found a burger-loving friend to accompany me to the Belvidere for one of their superb specimens.
Some publication recently named their burger one of RVA's best and I'd have to agree.
It was the first thing I ever tried at the Belvidere last August and it's lost none of its appeal six months later.
Is it that crusty ciabatta roll they use? The Cheddar-less cheese choices (smoked Gouda, feta, fresh, Parmesan, mozzarella, bleu)? The perfectly caramelized onions? That aioli?
In any case, we both happily had cheeseburgers even though it's nowhere near my birthday.
He had the sweet potato fries but I had the updated starch, roasted root veggies.
This was a cheeseburger meal about as far from my mom's version as could be; my arteries probably weren't hardening at quite the same rate, either.
Gallery 5 was doing their monthly free film showing and tonight it was Beautiful Boxer, preceded by a demonstration of Muay Thai kickboxing to familiarize the audience with the sport we were about to see.
With little knowledge of martial arts, I was intrigued enough to want to see it.
It had a certain grace, but clearly required a lot of strength; both fighters were winded by the end of the demonstration.
The documentary about a transvestite who became a kick boxer in order to earn enough money to pay for a sex-change operation was beautifully shot in Thailand and Japan.
The irony of a woman trapped in a man's body having to take up such a physical and potentially lethal sport for the sake of future happiness was touching and painful at the same time.
Once he began wearing makeup in the ring, he had to deal with skepticism about his true sexuality, charges of hypocrisy for the sake of self-promotion and even public derision.
A friend at Gallery 5 had told me months ago that this was a must-see film and I understand now why he felt so strongly about showing it; the film had deservedly won numerous film festival awards.
My only issue with the film was that for a squeamish type like me, much of the violence in the fight scenes was difficult to watch.
Heads snapping, aching-looking falls, blood spurting, oh my!
Good thing I'd bulked up with that cheeseburger beforehand the better to handle all that physicality.
La Grotta: Oh, the Pressure!
When you have an Italian guest coming in from NOVA on a Monday, it's important to choose a restaurant that's not going to pale in comparison to what he's used to at home.
And when it's someone you haven't seen much in a very long time, you also seek out an atmosphere conducive to private conversation with unobtrusive service.
And preferably no large groups or babies.
So it was that we ended up at La Grotta in the Slip, a place I don't frequent often and yet, I've always had excellent food and service there.
Maybe it's the challenges of parking in the area, but on a Monday night, it was easy enough in the less-than-crowded streets.
So uncrowded, in fact, that a couple of kitchen guys were throwing a football back and forth in the middle of 13th Street, not something you see every day in the Slip.
Our table was away from the fray, although within earshot of a large group with a baby, drat the luck.
Luckily, they were much further along in the meal process than we were, so we only had to put up with them for a while.
And while we weren't purposely eavesdropping, some comments just catch your ear, for instance, a boast about taking the 7-year old to the shooting range.
We wondered how long before the little one in the car seat gets his turn with the trigger.
But they left soon enough and we had plenty of privacy to talk.
I had the Insalate Tricolore (homemade mozzarella, tomato and organic baby greens in a white balsamic) and he had a special that was similar with the mozzarella, roasted eggplant and roasted red peppers in the balsamic.
We agreed that the mozzarella was just lovely. I followed with the Cape Sante (baked scallops on the half shell with jumbo lump crab and roasted red peppers), decadent with butter and crab meat oozing, and he with a special of rock fish, perfectly cooked and seasoned.
As good as the food was, we had a lot of talking to do, so our server made countless unnecessary trips over to our table thinking perhaps we'd finally finished, but alas for him, it was a long, lingering meal.
We were the last ones out and I feel certain those were looks of relief on the staff's faces when we finally stood to leave.
Even the football guys had moved on.
Mondays can be tough nights to make a dining choice because the variety of open restaurants is more limited than the rest of the week.
Of course, depending on how good the company is, the food's importance is a relative thing.
La Grotta delivered an excellent meal, but we probably would have enjoyed Perly's just as much.
It was all about the conversation.
And when it's someone you haven't seen much in a very long time, you also seek out an atmosphere conducive to private conversation with unobtrusive service.
And preferably no large groups or babies.
So it was that we ended up at La Grotta in the Slip, a place I don't frequent often and yet, I've always had excellent food and service there.
Maybe it's the challenges of parking in the area, but on a Monday night, it was easy enough in the less-than-crowded streets.
So uncrowded, in fact, that a couple of kitchen guys were throwing a football back and forth in the middle of 13th Street, not something you see every day in the Slip.
Our table was away from the fray, although within earshot of a large group with a baby, drat the luck.
Luckily, they were much further along in the meal process than we were, so we only had to put up with them for a while.
And while we weren't purposely eavesdropping, some comments just catch your ear, for instance, a boast about taking the 7-year old to the shooting range.
We wondered how long before the little one in the car seat gets his turn with the trigger.
But they left soon enough and we had plenty of privacy to talk.
I had the Insalate Tricolore (homemade mozzarella, tomato and organic baby greens in a white balsamic) and he had a special that was similar with the mozzarella, roasted eggplant and roasted red peppers in the balsamic.
We agreed that the mozzarella was just lovely. I followed with the Cape Sante (baked scallops on the half shell with jumbo lump crab and roasted red peppers), decadent with butter and crab meat oozing, and he with a special of rock fish, perfectly cooked and seasoned.
As good as the food was, we had a lot of talking to do, so our server made countless unnecessary trips over to our table thinking perhaps we'd finally finished, but alas for him, it was a long, lingering meal.
We were the last ones out and I feel certain those were looks of relief on the staff's faces when we finally stood to leave.
Even the football guys had moved on.
Mondays can be tough nights to make a dining choice because the variety of open restaurants is more limited than the rest of the week.
Of course, depending on how good the company is, the food's importance is a relative thing.
La Grotta delivered an excellent meal, but we probably would have enjoyed Perly's just as much.
It was all about the conversation.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Soundtrack to My Life
Thank god it's Monday so I could have a break from the non-stop activity of the snowy weekend.
I know a lot of people are back at work and, for that, you have my condolences, but I just wanted a day to hang out without any set times to do anything.
I even turned down a lunch invitation so that I could accomplish the small and insignificant business of life, which in my case meant going to the groceria, baking cookies and cleaning house.
It may sound domestic, but it's really just me playing catch-up after being out and about non-stop lately.
And, of course, listening to some new and new-to-me music all the while. Andrew sent me the new Josh Ritter, from Austin came Atlas Sound and Allen recommended Hem's Eveningland after I was underwhelmed by Rabbit Songs.
So far, Atlas Sound is my favorite of the three, but I'm just happy to have some new stuff to consider.
I've been completely engrossed of late by my most recent mix tape gift, Still Naive, for both its virtuosity in capturing a mood as well as the specifically-chosen lyrics.
It's too tempting to listen to it on endless repeat.
But then, one of the great things about an entire day spent around the house is the opportunity to blast my music without disturbing anyone.
The best thing is having the whole day to just listen before I go out.
Luckily, tonight's plans include someone who is, like me, far too into music.
No telling how amazing a Monday this could ultimately turn out to be with another music-lover for company.
One thing's for sure; the soundtrack to it will be stellar.
I know a lot of people are back at work and, for that, you have my condolences, but I just wanted a day to hang out without any set times to do anything.
I even turned down a lunch invitation so that I could accomplish the small and insignificant business of life, which in my case meant going to the groceria, baking cookies and cleaning house.
It may sound domestic, but it's really just me playing catch-up after being out and about non-stop lately.
And, of course, listening to some new and new-to-me music all the while. Andrew sent me the new Josh Ritter, from Austin came Atlas Sound and Allen recommended Hem's Eveningland after I was underwhelmed by Rabbit Songs.
So far, Atlas Sound is my favorite of the three, but I'm just happy to have some new stuff to consider.
I've been completely engrossed of late by my most recent mix tape gift, Still Naive, for both its virtuosity in capturing a mood as well as the specifically-chosen lyrics.
It's too tempting to listen to it on endless repeat.
But then, one of the great things about an entire day spent around the house is the opportunity to blast my music without disturbing anyone.
The best thing is having the whole day to just listen before I go out.
Luckily, tonight's plans include someone who is, like me, far too into music.
No telling how amazing a Monday this could ultimately turn out to be with another music-lover for company.
One thing's for sure; the soundtrack to it will be stellar.
Balliceaux Sunday Supper> Film> Music
It's an excellent Sunday night when I can enjoy dinner out, a local film screening, live music AND discover a new band.
As a bonus I got a CD recommendation by a band I'd heard but not been bowled over by (seems I hadn't heard their best work).
And all in a space of only six hours. What football game?
Balliceaux was my starting point because I was supposed to meet a friend there for the James River Filmmakers' Forum.
I went early to eat, but since it was just me, the Sunday Supper offerings were a tad large for my appetite.
I've done their supper before and it was excellent, , but tonight I kept it simple with wine, a cheese plate (goat's milk, a Wisconsin blue, two Virginians, one extremely stinky, and a long-aged Gouda, almost caramel-like) and a mocha torte with almond ice cream.
It may not have been everyone's idea of Sunday supper but it more than fit the bill for me.
The bartender is a friend and since his computer was providing the music, I had the pleasure of extended music talk and discovering a new band on his recommendation; he only needed to play two songs and I was hooked.
Almost too soon, film geeks started arriving and it was time for the movies.
If you enjoy seeing what's going on in local film making, the James River Filmmakers Forum is an ideal way to see what's being made and participate in a forum with the filmmakers afterwards.
Tonight we enjoyed a short, a music video for La Mere Vipere, a non-linear experimental film. a director's montage and a horror sequel.
It's well worth the opportunity to question the directors and share comments about the viewers's interpretations of the films.
My final stop tonight was at RVA's best vegetarian joint for the monthly Live at Ipanema show, this month featuring Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat, a band I saw and raved about not long ago, here.
Any bona fide music lover is going to be sucked in for one reason or another: those drums, that violin, that double bass, that beautiful voice, take your pick.
Unfortunately, the crowd was noisy and the band's sound can be delicate, except for the drumming which will grab you from the get-go, so big brother Josh Hryciak (of Mermaid Skeletons) at what point shushed the crowd, a gesture appreciated by many of us.
Since the shows are recorded to be posted online at rvanews, conversation in no way enhances the playback.
The band's members are young, so young that they each had a big X drawn on their hands to indicate underage.
Zac's joke before their last song was, "This will be it, then it's Malbec time."
Actually, after the last song it was probably bedtime since it's a school night, but that only makes their talent all the more impressive given their tender ages.
Yes, I know I could have been at a Superbowl party eating chili and other sports-appropriate foodstuffs and cheering on large men.
But I don't believe for a second that it would have been anywhere near as pleasurable as my evening.
And when's the last time the Superbowl turned me on to new music?
As a bonus I got a CD recommendation by a band I'd heard but not been bowled over by (seems I hadn't heard their best work).
And all in a space of only six hours. What football game?
Balliceaux was my starting point because I was supposed to meet a friend there for the James River Filmmakers' Forum.
I went early to eat, but since it was just me, the Sunday Supper offerings were a tad large for my appetite.
I've done their supper before and it was excellent, , but tonight I kept it simple with wine, a cheese plate (goat's milk, a Wisconsin blue, two Virginians, one extremely stinky, and a long-aged Gouda, almost caramel-like) and a mocha torte with almond ice cream.
It may not have been everyone's idea of Sunday supper but it more than fit the bill for me.
The bartender is a friend and since his computer was providing the music, I had the pleasure of extended music talk and discovering a new band on his recommendation; he only needed to play two songs and I was hooked.
Almost too soon, film geeks started arriving and it was time for the movies.
If you enjoy seeing what's going on in local film making, the James River Filmmakers Forum is an ideal way to see what's being made and participate in a forum with the filmmakers afterwards.
Tonight we enjoyed a short, a music video for La Mere Vipere, a non-linear experimental film. a director's montage and a horror sequel.
It's well worth the opportunity to question the directors and share comments about the viewers's interpretations of the films.
My final stop tonight was at RVA's best vegetarian joint for the monthly Live at Ipanema show, this month featuring Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat, a band I saw and raved about not long ago, here.
Any bona fide music lover is going to be sucked in for one reason or another: those drums, that violin, that double bass, that beautiful voice, take your pick.
Unfortunately, the crowd was noisy and the band's sound can be delicate, except for the drumming which will grab you from the get-go, so big brother Josh Hryciak (of Mermaid Skeletons) at what point shushed the crowd, a gesture appreciated by many of us.
Since the shows are recorded to be posted online at rvanews, conversation in no way enhances the playback.
The band's members are young, so young that they each had a big X drawn on their hands to indicate underage.
Zac's joke before their last song was, "This will be it, then it's Malbec time."
Actually, after the last song it was probably bedtime since it's a school night, but that only makes their talent all the more impressive given their tender ages.
Yes, I know I could have been at a Superbowl party eating chili and other sports-appropriate foodstuffs and cheering on large men.
But I don't believe for a second that it would have been anywhere near as pleasurable as my evening.
And when's the last time the Superbowl turned me on to new music?
Sunday, February 7, 2010
She Tells Me What I Must See
I've seen Prince in concert twice, both times at the Landmark, of all places, and both times with the same person. She's a friend I met when I worked in radio and we immediately hit it off; she's smart, funny, an avid reader, music lover and die hard movie fan. And while we don't always share the same taste in books and music (there's more overlap in music than books), I absolutely respect her taste in movies. She sees far more of them than I do and when she raves, I listen.
So when she not only recommended Crazy Heart, but qualified it by saying that Jeff Bridges was certain to get the Oscar for his performance as the broken-down alcoholic country singer, I knew I needed to see it. And of course she was right on both counts.
Produced by T. Bone Burnett, it's a music movie for sure. But it's the character study of Bridges' Bad Blake, that was completely enthralling. I'm not an actor, so I don't know how difficult it is to play an alcoholic, but playing a dissolute and resigned human being has got to be challenging, and Bridges nailed it with his dead eyes and beaten posture. Every debauched choice of his life showed in his face and body. She was right, I needed to see this movie.
You have to figure out what your friends know better than you and follow their lead. Unless, of course, you're on the same page to start with and then you can just go forward jointly. Like seeing the Purple One together whenever he's in town; that she doesn't need to tell me.
So when she not only recommended Crazy Heart, but qualified it by saying that Jeff Bridges was certain to get the Oscar for his performance as the broken-down alcoholic country singer, I knew I needed to see it. And of course she was right on both counts.
Produced by T. Bone Burnett, it's a music movie for sure. But it's the character study of Bridges' Bad Blake, that was completely enthralling. I'm not an actor, so I don't know how difficult it is to play an alcoholic, but playing a dissolute and resigned human being has got to be challenging, and Bridges nailed it with his dead eyes and beaten posture. Every debauched choice of his life showed in his face and body. She was right, I needed to see this movie.
You have to figure out what your friends know better than you and follow their lead. Unless, of course, you're on the same page to start with and then you can just go forward jointly. Like seeing the Purple One together whenever he's in town; that she doesn't need to tell me.
RVA Jazzfest Killed It
Given how many events were cancelled for tonight, I felt lucky to find that the RVA Jazzfest was on.
With a focus on the Richmond jazz scene due to the snow-related absence of the two visiting artists, Ray Anderson and Adam Larrabee, our local musicians represented exceedingly well.
The crowd was much smaller than usual when the music began around 9, but fortunately people continued to come in for the first hour.
It was too bad for some of the late arrivals, because missing any of Trio of Justice's set was a major loss.
Reggie (Can't Stop/Won't Stop) Pace's latest project of low brass and percussion meant loud volume and heavy weights.
Trombone, tuba and drums drove the grooves and captured the audience in the palm of their musical hands.
Talking to Reggie before the show, he assured me that he'll be doing the Thompson and Grace balcony series again this summer; it's still one of my favorite free summer events and a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
And Reggie remains one of the most genuinely nice and most talented musicians in this town and that's saying a lot.
And did I mention that his lemonade is legendary?
The second act was the indomitable Kuhl (JC) + Jones (Brian), practically the RVA godfathers of jazz, despite their relatively young ages.
Jones' drumming may be a blur to watch, but it's such an amazing thing to hear.
There's no part of the sticks, mallets or drums themselves that he doesn't use and it's mesmerizing.
Headlining was Ombak, composer and trombonist Bryan Hooten's project, with their pastiche of musical influences and original compositions.
Luckily if you missed tonight's show, they do a regular gig at Balliceaux.
Needless to say, the audience was full of local musicians, as eager to enjoy this array of talent as the non-musical of us in the audience.
WCVE's Peter Solomon was there, taking in the show and offering me job advice.
There also looked to be students from VCU's jazz studies program, worshiping at the feet of their jazz elders, so to speak.
It was my third year for the Jazzfest, yet another example of the stellar and low-cost entertainment that goes on in RVA all the time.
If you weren't willing to brave the elements to check it out tonight, I won't judge you, but it's not that hard to find these musicians playing around town on a regular basis and often at the Camel.
You won't be disappointed and you'll likely be hugely impressed, I can assure you.
With a focus on the Richmond jazz scene due to the snow-related absence of the two visiting artists, Ray Anderson and Adam Larrabee, our local musicians represented exceedingly well.
The crowd was much smaller than usual when the music began around 9, but fortunately people continued to come in for the first hour.
It was too bad for some of the late arrivals, because missing any of Trio of Justice's set was a major loss.
Reggie (Can't Stop/Won't Stop) Pace's latest project of low brass and percussion meant loud volume and heavy weights.
Trombone, tuba and drums drove the grooves and captured the audience in the palm of their musical hands.
Talking to Reggie before the show, he assured me that he'll be doing the Thompson and Grace balcony series again this summer; it's still one of my favorite free summer events and a great way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
And Reggie remains one of the most genuinely nice and most talented musicians in this town and that's saying a lot.
And did I mention that his lemonade is legendary?
The second act was the indomitable Kuhl (JC) + Jones (Brian), practically the RVA godfathers of jazz, despite their relatively young ages.
Jones' drumming may be a blur to watch, but it's such an amazing thing to hear.
There's no part of the sticks, mallets or drums themselves that he doesn't use and it's mesmerizing.
Headlining was Ombak, composer and trombonist Bryan Hooten's project, with their pastiche of musical influences and original compositions.
Luckily if you missed tonight's show, they do a regular gig at Balliceaux.
Needless to say, the audience was full of local musicians, as eager to enjoy this array of talent as the non-musical of us in the audience.
WCVE's Peter Solomon was there, taking in the show and offering me job advice.
There also looked to be students from VCU's jazz studies program, worshiping at the feet of their jazz elders, so to speak.
It was my third year for the Jazzfest, yet another example of the stellar and low-cost entertainment that goes on in RVA all the time.
If you weren't willing to brave the elements to check it out tonight, I won't judge you, but it's not that hard to find these musicians playing around town on a regular basis and often at the Camel.
You won't be disappointed and you'll likely be hugely impressed, I can assure you.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Maker's Mark Slushies at Garnett's
One of the many events cancelled due to snow is tonight's performance of the Richmond Symphony, which worked out well for me because it left my friend Nicholas, who plays bass clarinet for the symphony, with a free afternoon and nobody better than me to hang out with.
Nicholas lives in NYC, so we can only get together when he's down here for a performance and he offered to pick me up for a late lunch.
Where do you take a former Richmonder to show him what's new and delicious since we last ate together?
I'd dazzled him with the Belvidere (here) last time, which meant it was time to impress him with Garnett's today.
Walking in, the place was only half full, a rarity for Garnett's, but perfect for us.
We sat at the raised table by the door, so as to have the best view of the room since it was Nicholas' first visit.
In all the times I've eaten at Garnett's, I've never gotten anything but sandwiches and desserts.
Today I ordered the spinach salad with avocado, pine nuts, red onions and grapefruit vinaigrette and it was wonderful and, most important, not over-dressed (my chief complaint with far too many salads).
Nicholas got the chicken salad sandwich on gluten-free bread, arguably the best chicken salad in RVA.
Well done, Hunter.
Semi-permanent Garnett's guest Cy was there, assembling a snowball stockpile with which to do battle with two five-year olds.
He was stacking them on the vintage chair collection outside the restaurant; it made for a very charming picture to anyone walking by.
Cy, like Nicholas, is gluten-intolerant, which led to a discussion of which spirits are okay for those who are.
Maker's Mark came up quite a bit; in fact, Maker's slushies made with snow occupied the conversation for far longer than it should have.
When we weren't being alcoholically distracted by Cy, Nicholas and I discussed the state of our love lives and why some people are willing to settle while others continue to seek out "the one."
Meanwhile, a couple came in wearing the latest snow accessory: plastic bags rubber-banded over their shoes.
Nicholas had never seen this before, but the last snowfall seems to have made it practically commonplace around here.
There used to be a time when boots weren't absolutely essential to get through a Richmond winter, but not so much anymore.
So we adapt.
Like Nicholas adapted to unexpectedly having his day free.
It's a shame for symphony-goers, but it worked out awfully well for me.
And he loved Garnett's, not that I thought for a moment he wouldn't.
Of all people, a transplanted New Yorker would see the beauty of a cozy neighborhood sandwich spot with a view of the snowfall...especially one with curbside parking.
So quaint!
Nicholas lives in NYC, so we can only get together when he's down here for a performance and he offered to pick me up for a late lunch.
Where do you take a former Richmonder to show him what's new and delicious since we last ate together?
I'd dazzled him with the Belvidere (here) last time, which meant it was time to impress him with Garnett's today.
Walking in, the place was only half full, a rarity for Garnett's, but perfect for us.
We sat at the raised table by the door, so as to have the best view of the room since it was Nicholas' first visit.
In all the times I've eaten at Garnett's, I've never gotten anything but sandwiches and desserts.
Today I ordered the spinach salad with avocado, pine nuts, red onions and grapefruit vinaigrette and it was wonderful and, most important, not over-dressed (my chief complaint with far too many salads).
Nicholas got the chicken salad sandwich on gluten-free bread, arguably the best chicken salad in RVA.
Well done, Hunter.
Semi-permanent Garnett's guest Cy was there, assembling a snowball stockpile with which to do battle with two five-year olds.
He was stacking them on the vintage chair collection outside the restaurant; it made for a very charming picture to anyone walking by.
Cy, like Nicholas, is gluten-intolerant, which led to a discussion of which spirits are okay for those who are.
Maker's Mark came up quite a bit; in fact, Maker's slushies made with snow occupied the conversation for far longer than it should have.
When we weren't being alcoholically distracted by Cy, Nicholas and I discussed the state of our love lives and why some people are willing to settle while others continue to seek out "the one."
Meanwhile, a couple came in wearing the latest snow accessory: plastic bags rubber-banded over their shoes.
Nicholas had never seen this before, but the last snowfall seems to have made it practically commonplace around here.
There used to be a time when boots weren't absolutely essential to get through a Richmond winter, but not so much anymore.
So we adapt.
Like Nicholas adapted to unexpectedly having his day free.
It's a shame for symphony-goers, but it worked out awfully well for me.
And he loved Garnett's, not that I thought for a moment he wouldn't.
Of all people, a transplanted New Yorker would see the beauty of a cozy neighborhood sandwich spot with a view of the snowfall...especially one with curbside parking.
So quaint!
It's Not About who You Think is Hot
Fact: a documentary dork will go out even in a snowstorm for the sake of some non-fiction on film.
So there I was outside clearing off my car at 10:45 this morning to drive over to the Firehouse Theater for the Reel Pride Richmond First Annual LGBT Film Festival.
But lest you think I am crazy, let me assure you that the house was nearly full, so plenty of people must have shared my documentary devotion.
The film being shown at 11:00, Out in Silence, was made by Joe Wilson, a gay man then living in D.C., whose wedding announcement in his small hometown newspaper ignited a firestorm of controversy and anti-gay sentiment.
When the mother of a gay teen in his hometown saw the announcement, she wrote him seeking help for her gay teen-aged son who was facing daily torment at his high school, while school officials ignored it.
Eventually he left school rather than suffer any longer.
It was an especially interesting documentary because it was so personal to director Wilson, resulting in more than just a fact piece.
He had been scheduled to speak after the film screening today, but was unable to get to rva because of the snowstorm.
He narrates part of the film, while his partner shoots, but gives the teen a camera so he can document his life as well.
They use the camera to confront anti-gay activists and go beneath the surface of life in Oilville, PA, the town Wilson left so he could live openly.
Talking to an Arab-American teen waitress about the discrimination she faced at her school, he acknowledges what a tough town Oilville is if you're not white and male and solely use the missionary position.
His attempts to befriend a minister who struggles with his Christianity and his inherent feelings about the gay lifestyle showed a real effort on Wilson's part to understand the challenges the straight community face in evolving their attitudes.
The documentary was not without humor, though.
At a community event organized by Wilson, a gay group from out of town performed, followed by a discussion on discrimination.
The minister raises the question of whether or not groups like gays don't have some stereotypes of their own.
One of the gay performers, acknowledges that they do saying, "Yea, I assume all straight people dress poorly."
I admit, I laughed loudly right along with the entire audience at that.
Eventually, the ACLU becomes involved and a suit is brought against the school system for turning a blind eye to the discrimination against the teen; anti-discrimination seminars were implemented in the school system, albeit too late to benefit the teen.
It would have been fascinating to have been able to participate in a discussion led by Wilson afterwards, but snow conquers all.
The title of this post is a quote from the teen in the movie, explaining how people's perception about him changed solely because he came out and not because of anything else.
The audience did have a lively discussion instead, with many members sharing their stories of the difficulties of coming out and the prejudices they faced, both recently and decades ago.
The festival continues through tonight with film screenings at 2:30, 4:30 and 8.
The last film will be A Very Long Engagement, about finding an all-encompassing passionate love that will last a lifetime; in this case it's two lesbians who have been together for 42 years.
Soulmates, their love began with an instant magnetic attraction and just never let up.
Now there's something to aspire to, straight or gay.
So there I was outside clearing off my car at 10:45 this morning to drive over to the Firehouse Theater for the Reel Pride Richmond First Annual LGBT Film Festival.
But lest you think I am crazy, let me assure you that the house was nearly full, so plenty of people must have shared my documentary devotion.
The film being shown at 11:00, Out in Silence, was made by Joe Wilson, a gay man then living in D.C., whose wedding announcement in his small hometown newspaper ignited a firestorm of controversy and anti-gay sentiment.
When the mother of a gay teen in his hometown saw the announcement, she wrote him seeking help for her gay teen-aged son who was facing daily torment at his high school, while school officials ignored it.
Eventually he left school rather than suffer any longer.
It was an especially interesting documentary because it was so personal to director Wilson, resulting in more than just a fact piece.
He had been scheduled to speak after the film screening today, but was unable to get to rva because of the snowstorm.
He narrates part of the film, while his partner shoots, but gives the teen a camera so he can document his life as well.
They use the camera to confront anti-gay activists and go beneath the surface of life in Oilville, PA, the town Wilson left so he could live openly.
Talking to an Arab-American teen waitress about the discrimination she faced at her school, he acknowledges what a tough town Oilville is if you're not white and male and solely use the missionary position.
His attempts to befriend a minister who struggles with his Christianity and his inherent feelings about the gay lifestyle showed a real effort on Wilson's part to understand the challenges the straight community face in evolving their attitudes.
The documentary was not without humor, though.
At a community event organized by Wilson, a gay group from out of town performed, followed by a discussion on discrimination.
The minister raises the question of whether or not groups like gays don't have some stereotypes of their own.
One of the gay performers, acknowledges that they do saying, "Yea, I assume all straight people dress poorly."
I admit, I laughed loudly right along with the entire audience at that.
Eventually, the ACLU becomes involved and a suit is brought against the school system for turning a blind eye to the discrimination against the teen; anti-discrimination seminars were implemented in the school system, albeit too late to benefit the teen.
It would have been fascinating to have been able to participate in a discussion led by Wilson afterwards, but snow conquers all.
The title of this post is a quote from the teen in the movie, explaining how people's perception about him changed solely because he came out and not because of anything else.
The audience did have a lively discussion instead, with many members sharing their stories of the difficulties of coming out and the prejudices they faced, both recently and decades ago.
The festival continues through tonight with film screenings at 2:30, 4:30 and 8.
The last film will be A Very Long Engagement, about finding an all-encompassing passionate love that will last a lifetime; in this case it's two lesbians who have been together for 42 years.
Soulmates, their love began with an instant magnetic attraction and just never let up.
Now there's something to aspire to, straight or gay.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Sweetbreads and Celebrating WRIR
Never tell a chef who's just added sweetbreads to his menu that you just had sweetbreads three days before at another restaurant.
Or, if you choose to do so, you can expect to eat sweetbreads twice in three days.
Which, if you're as fortunate as me, can be a very good thing.
I'd gotten a call from a friend alerting me that First Fridays was canceled tonight, which wasn't a problem because the WRIR 5th birthday bash was still on.
Now I had time to eat dinner out before the party and it seemed logical to pick the restaurant closest to the Renaissance Center, the location of the soiree.
It was obvious that the rain had scared more than just the First Friday organizers because, upon entering my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, I was surprised at how few people were out on this rainy night dining.
On the other hand, the staff greeted me with, "Now the party is complete," and there were a couple of neighbors present, so I didn't really need much more.
Chef Carlos wanted to know where I'd had my recent sweetbreads and how they were prepared, and then he disappeared.
After ordering the touted Angeline Pinot Noir, the bartender pointed me toward several interesting new things on the menu.
Just as I had about decided to go for the seared foie gras, Carlos appeared with an overly generous serving of the veal sweetbreads in a mushroom, sage, shallot and Marsala sauce.
As he pointed out, it's a traditional preparation, but when done as well as these were, I'd have to say sublime.
Okay, he'd won me over. Again.
I followed with a guilt salad for having eaten sweetbreads twice in 72 hours.
Because it was so slow, I had the pleasure of Carlos' company for the entire evening.
We got off on a rant about the local restaurant scene, who's over-promoted, who doesn't really live up to their press, who's over-priced and who curries favor with the local critics.
As it turned out, he's as opinionated on this subject as I am and we share many of the same opinions, so it was a very satisfying discussion.
Our other hot topic was the lack of special events to keep pulling people to First Fridays.
Happenings like the May Day parade and the Chinese lantern parade drew people in droves to First Fridays last year, but during the months where the galleries alone represent the focus, the numbers seem to drop.
It's a subject Carlos has discussed with the mayor, a regular customer, who claims to fully support the idea of doing more, even suggesting that the organizers need to address the issue.
After dessert and a wine lecture by Carlos for the benefit of the neighbors at the bar, I bundled up to walk the half a block to the WRIR party.
I got teased about not bringing an ID (seriously?) and immediately ran into scads of people I knew.
It began with Matt from Amazing Ghost; I had just missed their performance.
But as I told him, I could hardly be faulted since I've seen them twice in the past few weeks.
I caught most of the Hot Damns set and ran into Johnny H. and his camera, the one person I knew without a doubt I'd see tonight.
Naturally there were plenty of musicians I knew, a favorite blogger and assorted others, all out supporting independent radio.
Cam from Heks Orkest came up to say hi and I teased him about them headlining; he thought it was because they were the loudest band performing and would probably clear the room.
I told him that my first show had been the Who, I'd seen Stinkeye play inside ADA Gallery and had been at the My Bloody Valentine show, so loud didn't scare me.
Grinning hugely, he pulled up his shirt to show me his MBV t-shirt underneath; okay, he knew loud, too.
Probably my favorite performance was one of the WRIR DJ's band, Photosynthesizers, in the back room.
Standing off to the side, a guy spotted me and motioned me forward to stand in front of him.
"You feel sorry for me because I'm short, don't you?" I asked.
Laughing, he said, "Nah, but I was short once , too."
Considering he was about 6"2", I had to ask, "What, when you were ten?" which got him to laugh again. I did appreciate the better view, though.
I went back to the main stage for HO's set and they were loud, but the crowd was really into them and that always makes a show better.
Their volume did make it impossible to carry on phone conversations, so it was gratifying to see people have to leave the room to talk on their phones.
Don't let the screen door hit you in the ass on your way out, guys.
And despite having had dessert already, I enjoyed a piece of cake before leaving.
It was a birthday party after all and I, for one, am thrilled that we have such a station in RVA (keep that Breakfast Blend coming).
Happy birthday, WRIR and here's to many more.
Or, if you choose to do so, you can expect to eat sweetbreads twice in three days.
Which, if you're as fortunate as me, can be a very good thing.
I'd gotten a call from a friend alerting me that First Fridays was canceled tonight, which wasn't a problem because the WRIR 5th birthday bash was still on.
Now I had time to eat dinner out before the party and it seemed logical to pick the restaurant closest to the Renaissance Center, the location of the soiree.
It was obvious that the rain had scared more than just the First Friday organizers because, upon entering my neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, I was surprised at how few people were out on this rainy night dining.
On the other hand, the staff greeted me with, "Now the party is complete," and there were a couple of neighbors present, so I didn't really need much more.
Chef Carlos wanted to know where I'd had my recent sweetbreads and how they were prepared, and then he disappeared.
After ordering the touted Angeline Pinot Noir, the bartender pointed me toward several interesting new things on the menu.
Just as I had about decided to go for the seared foie gras, Carlos appeared with an overly generous serving of the veal sweetbreads in a mushroom, sage, shallot and Marsala sauce.
As he pointed out, it's a traditional preparation, but when done as well as these were, I'd have to say sublime.
Okay, he'd won me over. Again.
I followed with a guilt salad for having eaten sweetbreads twice in 72 hours.
Because it was so slow, I had the pleasure of Carlos' company for the entire evening.
We got off on a rant about the local restaurant scene, who's over-promoted, who doesn't really live up to their press, who's over-priced and who curries favor with the local critics.
As it turned out, he's as opinionated on this subject as I am and we share many of the same opinions, so it was a very satisfying discussion.
Our other hot topic was the lack of special events to keep pulling people to First Fridays.
Happenings like the May Day parade and the Chinese lantern parade drew people in droves to First Fridays last year, but during the months where the galleries alone represent the focus, the numbers seem to drop.
It's a subject Carlos has discussed with the mayor, a regular customer, who claims to fully support the idea of doing more, even suggesting that the organizers need to address the issue.
After dessert and a wine lecture by Carlos for the benefit of the neighbors at the bar, I bundled up to walk the half a block to the WRIR party.
I got teased about not bringing an ID (seriously?) and immediately ran into scads of people I knew.
It began with Matt from Amazing Ghost; I had just missed their performance.
But as I told him, I could hardly be faulted since I've seen them twice in the past few weeks.
I caught most of the Hot Damns set and ran into Johnny H. and his camera, the one person I knew without a doubt I'd see tonight.
Naturally there were plenty of musicians I knew, a favorite blogger and assorted others, all out supporting independent radio.
Cam from Heks Orkest came up to say hi and I teased him about them headlining; he thought it was because they were the loudest band performing and would probably clear the room.
I told him that my first show had been the Who, I'd seen Stinkeye play inside ADA Gallery and had been at the My Bloody Valentine show, so loud didn't scare me.
Grinning hugely, he pulled up his shirt to show me his MBV t-shirt underneath; okay, he knew loud, too.
Probably my favorite performance was one of the WRIR DJ's band, Photosynthesizers, in the back room.
Standing off to the side, a guy spotted me and motioned me forward to stand in front of him.
"You feel sorry for me because I'm short, don't you?" I asked.
Laughing, he said, "Nah, but I was short once , too."
Considering he was about 6"2", I had to ask, "What, when you were ten?" which got him to laugh again. I did appreciate the better view, though.
I went back to the main stage for HO's set and they were loud, but the crowd was really into them and that always makes a show better.
Their volume did make it impossible to carry on phone conversations, so it was gratifying to see people have to leave the room to talk on their phones.
Don't let the screen door hit you in the ass on your way out, guys.
And despite having had dessert already, I enjoyed a piece of cake before leaving.
It was a birthday party after all and I, for one, am thrilled that we have such a station in RVA (keep that Breakfast Blend coming).
Happy birthday, WRIR and here's to many more.
Black Sheep and A View From the Top of rva
When I got up this morning and saw that it was already snowing, I had a brief moment where I worried that it would affect my lunch plans.
I should have known better.
Right on schedule, my friend showed up to pick me up for lunch (with the gift of flowers, always a lovely surprise) in the heart of Carver.
I should have walked the four blocks, but I'd done my four miles this morning, and he had to pass right by my house, so why not?
Of course the Black Sheep was nearly at capacity, but there was one two-top with our name on it.
The soup d.j. was beef stew and if this isn't a beef stew day, what is?
I got a side of the homemade pork and great northern beans baked with molasses and brown sugar.
Warm, filling and flavorful, this was a snow day lunch for the gods.
My friend, having just spoken to his mom before collecting me, ordered the CSS Virginia (fried chicken livers, remoulade, cabbage, green onions, granny smith apple on baguette) in her honor.
He only ordered the half and still had half to take with him, but then he did enjoy some of my pork and beans.
Afterwards, he suggested a drive to the top of the city to admire the view. We began at the old WRVA tower and then went to Richmond Hill, the urban retreat center and former convent that sits atop Church Hill.
We admired the view from the balcony, went down to the tiny little prayer chapel (with the two tiniest windows I've ever seen) overlooking the hill and then strolled around the perimeter of the walled garden under snow laden evergreens and bamboo (and, yes, I was using my umbrella in a snowstorm).
Despite the limited visibility, the garden and views were breathtaking.
Afterwards, we detoured through Chimborazo, admiring the snow-covered rooves of Fulton Bottom, before making our way back to J-Ward.
With a fully belly, a bouquet of unexpected flowers and the memory of the city rooftops covered in white fresh in my mind, I thanked my snow buddy for our excellent adventure.
And in case my new friend George from Toronto is reading this, I want him to know that I saw dozens of people walking around in the snow today with umbrellas.
Make fun of us if you will, but you also have to give us a break; we're clueless when it comes to snow behavior.
Of course, if this weather keeps up, we're bound to get better at it.
Maybe.
I should have known better.
Right on schedule, my friend showed up to pick me up for lunch (with the gift of flowers, always a lovely surprise) in the heart of Carver.
I should have walked the four blocks, but I'd done my four miles this morning, and he had to pass right by my house, so why not?
Of course the Black Sheep was nearly at capacity, but there was one two-top with our name on it.
The soup d.j. was beef stew and if this isn't a beef stew day, what is?
I got a side of the homemade pork and great northern beans baked with molasses and brown sugar.
Warm, filling and flavorful, this was a snow day lunch for the gods.
My friend, having just spoken to his mom before collecting me, ordered the CSS Virginia (fried chicken livers, remoulade, cabbage, green onions, granny smith apple on baguette) in her honor.
He only ordered the half and still had half to take with him, but then he did enjoy some of my pork and beans.
Afterwards, he suggested a drive to the top of the city to admire the view. We began at the old WRVA tower and then went to Richmond Hill, the urban retreat center and former convent that sits atop Church Hill.
We admired the view from the balcony, went down to the tiny little prayer chapel (with the two tiniest windows I've ever seen) overlooking the hill and then strolled around the perimeter of the walled garden under snow laden evergreens and bamboo (and, yes, I was using my umbrella in a snowstorm).
Despite the limited visibility, the garden and views were breathtaking.
Afterwards, we detoured through Chimborazo, admiring the snow-covered rooves of Fulton Bottom, before making our way back to J-Ward.
With a fully belly, a bouquet of unexpected flowers and the memory of the city rooftops covered in white fresh in my mind, I thanked my snow buddy for our excellent adventure.
And in case my new friend George from Toronto is reading this, I want him to know that I saw dozens of people walking around in the snow today with umbrellas.
Make fun of us if you will, but you also have to give us a break; we're clueless when it comes to snow behavior.
Of course, if this weather keeps up, we're bound to get better at it.
Maybe.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
First Kiss and a Blind Date at Bin 22
Modern Love: A Romance in Four Parts about sums up my evening.
Passion! Beauty! Betrayal! Architecture!
Tonight was the first night of a four-week class at the Virginia Center for Architecture on the topic of 20th century architecture.
I wasn't sure what to expect from the other attendees; how many other people could there be like me who would be willing to commit to four Thursday nights in dreary February, albeit for just an hour, just to look at building slides and learn something?
Well, at tonight's installment, First Kiss: 1900-1930, there were easily two dozen or more, pretty evenly split between men and women of all ages.
The lecturer, Roberto Ventura, had broken down the series by the stages of a romance.
Tonight he said it was all about the early stages of love, characterized by twitterpation, that giddy state of being entirely infatuated with someone.
Bambi fans, you know what I'm talking about, but it was a new word to me.
It was an analogy for the changes in architecture brought about by the Industrial Revolution and centered largely on Chicago because of the massive rebuilding that went on there after the great fire.
That, and Mr. Otis' invention.
While he didn't invent the elevator, he did invent the safety elevator, which allowed the elevator to brake if the hoisting ropes failed, which meant buildings could be designed to be much taller.
Believe me, this was fascinating stuff to the group of us in the room.
After class, I moved on to Bin 22 for an after-school snack and ran into Austin, a friend and talented artist, who'd just had a table accepted into a prestigious show to be held at MIT this summer.
While I enjoyed my Pratsch Gruner Vetliner and a Soppressetta, Fontina and arugula Panini, we discussed the music being played (British Sea Power, the National, Talking Heads) as well as the music on his computer, which was equal parts stuff I like and then a whole lot of classic rock.
I no longer shake my head when I see this combination, but I'll never understand it.
Iron and Wine and the Rolling Stones?
Ugly Casanova and Led Zeppelin?
Postal Service and the Kinks?
Sigh.
Greg the owner, was telling me about the waiter race held in Carytown on Bastille day two years ago, in which he'd been a participant.
I'm familiar with a similar annual event in D.C., but didn't recall the one here.
He cracked us up with the dramatic story of victory being snatched from his hands (or more accurately, him almost running into a trashcan and overcompensating, causing the wine bottle to fall off his tray); it's apparently still fairly fresh in his mind.
He was robbed.
Interestingly, considering the romance theme of the evening, there was a couple there on a blind date and the staff was enjoying making observations about how much they were drinking and how it was going.
The couple looked a bit nervous, but also into each other, causing the staff to assume that it was going to end with (insert pounding sound and crude gesture).
I preferred to focus on their body language, which did point to romantic possibilities.
And now, for the finale to my evening, I once again have a new mix tape and specific instructions on how I am to listen to it.
It is a sequel to my all-time favorite mix, Naive Melodies/Waiting and is simply titled Still Naive.
After an evening of twitterpation at the Branch House, it already sounds to be just what I want to hear.
Passion! Beauty! Betrayal! Architecture!
Tonight was the first night of a four-week class at the Virginia Center for Architecture on the topic of 20th century architecture.
I wasn't sure what to expect from the other attendees; how many other people could there be like me who would be willing to commit to four Thursday nights in dreary February, albeit for just an hour, just to look at building slides and learn something?
Well, at tonight's installment, First Kiss: 1900-1930, there were easily two dozen or more, pretty evenly split between men and women of all ages.
The lecturer, Roberto Ventura, had broken down the series by the stages of a romance.
Tonight he said it was all about the early stages of love, characterized by twitterpation, that giddy state of being entirely infatuated with someone.
Bambi fans, you know what I'm talking about, but it was a new word to me.
It was an analogy for the changes in architecture brought about by the Industrial Revolution and centered largely on Chicago because of the massive rebuilding that went on there after the great fire.
That, and Mr. Otis' invention.
While he didn't invent the elevator, he did invent the safety elevator, which allowed the elevator to brake if the hoisting ropes failed, which meant buildings could be designed to be much taller.
Believe me, this was fascinating stuff to the group of us in the room.
After class, I moved on to Bin 22 for an after-school snack and ran into Austin, a friend and talented artist, who'd just had a table accepted into a prestigious show to be held at MIT this summer.
While I enjoyed my Pratsch Gruner Vetliner and a Soppressetta, Fontina and arugula Panini, we discussed the music being played (British Sea Power, the National, Talking Heads) as well as the music on his computer, which was equal parts stuff I like and then a whole lot of classic rock.
I no longer shake my head when I see this combination, but I'll never understand it.
Iron and Wine and the Rolling Stones?
Ugly Casanova and Led Zeppelin?
Postal Service and the Kinks?
Sigh.
Greg the owner, was telling me about the waiter race held in Carytown on Bastille day two years ago, in which he'd been a participant.
I'm familiar with a similar annual event in D.C., but didn't recall the one here.
He cracked us up with the dramatic story of victory being snatched from his hands (or more accurately, him almost running into a trashcan and overcompensating, causing the wine bottle to fall off his tray); it's apparently still fairly fresh in his mind.
He was robbed.
Interestingly, considering the romance theme of the evening, there was a couple there on a blind date and the staff was enjoying making observations about how much they were drinking and how it was going.
The couple looked a bit nervous, but also into each other, causing the staff to assume that it was going to end with (insert pounding sound and crude gesture).
I preferred to focus on their body language, which did point to romantic possibilities.
And now, for the finale to my evening, I once again have a new mix tape and specific instructions on how I am to listen to it.
It is a sequel to my all-time favorite mix, Naive Melodies/Waiting and is simply titled Still Naive.
After an evening of twitterpation at the Branch House, it already sounds to be just what I want to hear.
I Prefer my History with Breasts
The problem with being a history geek and a female is that it can get monotonous listening to lecture after lecture about what men did.
And what men said.
And where men fought.
So today's Banner lecture at the Virginia Historical Society was especially satisfying because it was all about an historical figure who did not stand to pee.
Dolley Madison: A Documentary was a combination lecture and partial viewing of a new PBS film (to be shown here in March) about an especially interesting female figure in American history, one who couldn't walk out of her house without finding ten men hanging around like a bad smell, hoping to catch her eye.
A woman who, although originally a Quaker, decided not only to marry outside her faith, but immediately started lowering her necklines to reveal more bosom and shoulder than was conventionally acceptable (a cousin sent her handkerchiefs and suggested she use them to shield her shelf from public view).
A woman, in other words, who made her own rules.
I suspect Dolley had strong pheromones, based on the gaggle of hopefuls and the passionate declarations of the shy and intellectual James Madison, already a political superstar, who spoke of the flames burning inside of him for her.
Not to mention his inability to think of anything else except her.
For a man presumed by all to remain a life-long bachelor, those are passionate words.
Come to think of it, those are passionate words coming from any guy.
But it was more than just the emotions she elicited in men.
Her far-sightedness in creating a White House for the people, right down to using only American-made furniture and, as her final act before fleeing the soon-to-be-burnt White House, taking down the Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington lest it be marched through the streets of London as a symbolic war trophy, were brilliant and historical.
But then I've always believed that breasts give my sex an intellectual edge.
It's about time the history powers-that-be spread the word to the masses.
And what men said.
And where men fought.
So today's Banner lecture at the Virginia Historical Society was especially satisfying because it was all about an historical figure who did not stand to pee.
Dolley Madison: A Documentary was a combination lecture and partial viewing of a new PBS film (to be shown here in March) about an especially interesting female figure in American history, one who couldn't walk out of her house without finding ten men hanging around like a bad smell, hoping to catch her eye.
A woman who, although originally a Quaker, decided not only to marry outside her faith, but immediately started lowering her necklines to reveal more bosom and shoulder than was conventionally acceptable (a cousin sent her handkerchiefs and suggested she use them to shield her shelf from public view).
A woman, in other words, who made her own rules.
I suspect Dolley had strong pheromones, based on the gaggle of hopefuls and the passionate declarations of the shy and intellectual James Madison, already a political superstar, who spoke of the flames burning inside of him for her.
Not to mention his inability to think of anything else except her.
For a man presumed by all to remain a life-long bachelor, those are passionate words.
Come to think of it, those are passionate words coming from any guy.
But it was more than just the emotions she elicited in men.
Her far-sightedness in creating a White House for the people, right down to using only American-made furniture and, as her final act before fleeing the soon-to-be-burnt White House, taking down the Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington lest it be marched through the streets of London as a symbolic war trophy, were brilliant and historical.
But then I've always believed that breasts give my sex an intellectual edge.
It's about time the history powers-that-be spread the word to the masses.
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