Under the Darkest Moon at Ashland Coffee & Tea

You've got to love the way Ashland Coffe and Tea quietly brings in these interesting musicians who don't make it to rva because there's nowhere comparable for them to play here.

I've seen Marshall Crenshaw, Sara Bareilles and the Kennedys, among others, there, undoubtedly because we just don't have a dedicated listening room space and Ashland does.

And just this morning I saw that Austin singer-songwriter Darden Smith would be performing his folk-tinged pop there tonight.

The last time I saw him was the mid-nineties and he was opening for Shawn Colvin, whom I didn't even stay to see (I'd seen her before and I was to see her at least three or four more times since, so I think she's forgiven me).

I was excited beyond belief that this show had dropped into my lap.

And then there's the charm of AC&;T; it's not like any Richmond place.

The typed sign on the bathroom door says: "Please knock first. Our locks are less than secure."

Handwritten directly underneath is: "Be sure to scream loudly to be heard."

I thought it was pretty funny until after the show when I went to exit the bathroom only to be trapped inside; I chose not to scream but luckily only had to bang on the door for about a minute before being rescued.

When the twenty-something Ashland-born and bred waitress asked for IDs from a table of obvious thirty-somethings, one guy responded, "Wow, you're a hard ass."

With all earnestness (and probably fear mongering from management) she answered, "I just don't want to go to jail ever."

Such sincerity!

Their menu is basic but more than adequate.

The owner was kind enough to let me get a glass of a by-the-bottle only red, the Lolonis Ladybug Red Old Vines.

I ordered the Chicken Chili and a chocolate milkshake (they also had espresso shakes for those who crave caffeine).

The waitress' eyes got big when I ordered so I felt like I had to defend my choices.

"I think it'll be a great combination," I told her.

Smiling wide, she agreed, "Beans and dairy. No, beans and chocolate. That's gonna be awesome."

So I had her seal of approval.

After taking the stage, Darden Smith proceeded to tune his guitars (including a cherished Collings) before giving up and saying, "It's my birthday and if I want to play an out-of-tune guitar, I can."

And when the man opened his mouth to sing his well-crafted and consistently romantic songs, it was with a voice that didn't sound like it had aged or declined in the least in the intervening years.

He's a huge fan of trains, which come up in his songs repeatedly and after recently returning from Europe, he made a train comparison.

"Their trains are efficient and get you where you're going, but they don't sound like anything. Ours sound great but don't get you anywhere."

During a non-train song, one rattled by outside and he stopped to comment,

"I love that sound."

When he launched into "Midnight train," it was only a matter of seconds before the seventh train of the evening rolled by, causing in a group chuckle.

During a visit to San Diego last summer, he got to see Burt Bacharach perform and became obsessed with him, waking up the next morning to discover that he had drunk-downloaded countless Bacharach songs by Dionne Warwick the night before without remembering doing so.

Next he began learning to play them and as a result, we heard "Say a little prayer" tonight.

Midway through the show, he asked for requests and I was quicker on the draw than anyone else and asked for "Days on End," which got him telling us how the song came about.

"This is why I have a great job. I took a nap and woke up in the middle of it and wrote this song. Then I went back to napping."

For days on end, I'm rising up with the sun
For days on end, I can't get nothing done
Cause the world is spinning a little too fast
The sky's been a little too blue
Too many stars at night
And I've been thinking 'bout you
For days on end

Prior to his last song, Smith mentioned his merch table and told the audience that, "If you came with a date and they don't buy you a CD, they don't love you."

Then he mentioned a recent project he's doing with a NYC collective called the Harlem Parlour Music Club, a group with an emphasis on Appalachian music ("...because, you know, Harlem is a hotbed of Appalachian music," he said).

Everyone involved was supposed to bring a song to contribute to the group and Smith's was a gospel number entitled, "Dying to be Born Again."

He closed his show with it, but that wasn't the one that stuck in my head as I drove back down 301.

I know your lips, the cut of your hair
The shape of your hips, baby I've been there

Think about my coat hanging on your door
And I think about your dress, it was lying on the floor.

Substituting Bike Couriers for David Bowie

So it turned out to be one of those good news/bad news kind of nights. A friend and I were going to meet up at Strange Matter at 7:30 for a showing of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars because neither of us had ever seen it and we wanted to correct that before anybody found out and shamed us.

But upon arriving at Strange Matter, it was business as usual and there was no screen set up. When asked, the waitress told us that the Ziggy screening had been moved and that instead they'd be showing Pedal, a bike documentary. Okay, it wasn't David Bowie, but we both love a good documentary and the bike angle definitely had a lot of appeal. We were disappointed, (this was bad news) but not crushed. But how to fill the time until the film?

The perfect answer: an inaugural night on the Ipanema patio. I spotted a friend out there, went in to the bar and got two more and the five of us enjoyed some excellent conversation in the comfortable night air. Every table on the patio was taken, so it wasn't just us thrilled to be outside at night again. Loads of people were out and about this evening; it seemed like every other person who came by was someone one of us knew.

In order to start the patio season off right, I ordered a big piece of chocolate/chocolate cake with a raspberry filling. They tell me it's vegan, but all I tasted was chocolate heaven. The spring-like air, the delicious dessert, this was all very good news.

A couple of hours later, we pulled ourselves away and went back to Strange Matter for the 2001 documentary, which was about bike couriers in NYC. As most anyone knows, people are bike messengers because they love what they do; some even subscribe to the "ride or die" mentality. And for many, the lure of danger is a very enticing part of what they do. One spoke of "riding the wave," that is, catching a series of green lights for 20-30 blocks straight and the high that results.

And then it was more bad news. The DVD began stuttering, halting for a second or two and destroying the flow of the film, just as the on-camera couriers were talking about how they "fly around" and the sense of "feeling free" that motivates them. One said there was an outlaw mentality to the job.

But the technical problems did not stop. At one point, the DVD was removed and wiped off (as the guy did so, he lectured us about the need to wipe from the center out, prompting some quick person at the bar to challenge that we are supposed to always wipe from front to back. Ew.).

We got another 10 or 15 minutes of decent viewing before the problems began yet again and the DVD was removed and replaced with a different film about bike tricks. It wasn't nearly as interesting to us and my friend and I were genuinely sorry not to see the ending of Pedal; we were both really enjoying it.

Looking back at our unexpected evening, I think the best way to sum it up is: you can't always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need. Ah, spring...bring it on.

Up with a Head

I want a mounted head for my apartment, but not like an actual mounted head. I want something big and impressive and animal-like.

I want one of Lily Lamberta's recycled cardboard and paper mache heads, colorfully painted and with magnificent fabric hair or horns or something equally impressive.

Lily has a show up at 821 cafe right now and the heads on display are absolutely amazing.

There's a giraffe and a dog and a camel and something mountain goat-like and, and, and... In most cases, these heads are bigger than their actual animal counterparts.

But they're so beautifully done, down to the detailing of the mount board, with shading and appropriate ears and nostrils and more personality than I can possibly convey in words.

They really have to be seen to be appreciated and you could do a lot worse than to stop by 821 to check them out.

Lily is the mastermind behind All the Saints Theater Company, the fine folks who bring us the Oregon Hill Halloween parade every year; she also spearheaded the puppet making effort of last year's May Day parade (in which yours truly marched). She is incredibly talented and fun in more ways than any one person should be.

In between admiring the heads and going in for closeups, not one, but two waitresses asked me if I wanted my usual black bean nachos.

Am I really such a creature of habit that I'm that predictable? Apparently so.

Unlike Lily's mounted heads which are anything but the expected. I can't imagine the person who wouldn't react with delight, or at the very least a big old grin, on coming upon one of them mounted on a wall.

I'd just like for one of those walls to be mine.

Of U2 Before the Band

I'd sent a nerd alert to a friend inviting him to join me for the Gallery Walk/Talk at the Virginia Historical Society today, but he had other things going on. It didn't matter because I was curious enough about the topic, "Cold War Crisis; The U-2 Incident" to go it alone. Leading the walk/talk was Gary Powers, Jr., the son of Francis Gary Powers, the man whose CIA U-2 plane had been shot down over Soviet airspace in 1960, resulting in the U-2 incident.

And in case you think the degeneration of the media is a recent development, once Powers was taken prisoner by the Soviets, his CIA training prevented him from divulging key espionage information. Once the U.S. learned of the capture and interrogation, the media published stories about him, some of which contradicted information he'd given his captors. As a result, they came to him, insisting that he'd lied to them and essentially telling him that he'd better tell the truth or they'd get it out of the American press anyway.

After three months of interrogation and a three-day show trial, he was sentenced to ten years in prison (after expecting the death penalty), eighteen months of which he served. While in prison, he earned a meager monthly salary for work done, but since rubels could not be taken out of the country, on the way to the prisoner exchange in Germany, he was first escorted to a department store to spend his rubels. Because, of course, Powers would have wanted souvenirs of his stay in the Soviet Union. Or not, but he bought them anyway.

I don't know enough about the Cold War, which was why I wanted to see the exhibit and hear the talk. But uninformed as I may have been on the specifics of the U-2 incident, I at least knew the cultural reference, Powers' name and the nature of the incident, which couldn't be said for everyone there today.

I know this because as we were waiting for the walk to begin, I heard one incredulous woman say to her mate, "This must be where that band got its name!"

You think?

Kiss Me, Kate. Noisily.

I could get used to this going to restaurants that have their windows open thing.

A friend suggested we eat dinner at Urban Farm House before going to Center Stage for The Taming of the Shrew and I was happy to return to the high-ceilinged place at which I'd recently enjoyed lunch.

They have those huge opening windows on two sides and one of them was open, allowing the evening air in as we enjoyed our pre-theater dinner.

We shared the farmhouse salad, which was a nice mix of organic greens and fruit in the house vinaigrette.

I ordered the Virginia ham Cubano (free-range Virginia ham and pork, locally made organic pickles and organic Swiss cheese and sharp American mustard) and got a delicious grilled pig feast.

My friend got the Tangy Curry Tuna salad sandwich, which did have a great kick to its flavor.

We were the only twosome in the place; everyone else sat in front of a laptop, some also on the phone, some using iPods and not a one speaking, so it was strangely quiet except for us.

Tonight's staged reading by Richmond Shakespeare was of one of my favorite plays about relationships.

I've read all the arguments about how dated the attitude toward the sexes are, but it's really a play about passion with loads of comedic dialogue and a terrific ending, so that's enough for me.

Who can resist a line like "Thus have I politically begun my reign!" from Petrucchio after the first time he beds Kate? Not me.

The beauty of a staged reading is the informality (and the fact that glass of wine comes with the price of admission).

At one point during a passionate argument scene between the lovers, the actor playing Petrucchio lost his place in the script.

The actress playing Kate waited momentarily for him to find his place, but he continued to flip through the pages unsuccessfully.

Finally she yelled, "Page 42!" at him in her most argumentative voice to assist him, garnering a big laugh from the audience.

Improvisation aside, it's those well-crafted words that enthrall me every time. Describing how the groom behaved at the wedding, Gremio said:

This done, he took the bride about the neck
And kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack
That, at the parting, all the church did echo.

Clamorous smacking, now that's something we could all use a little more of.

Am I wrong?

With TJ it was Science, With Me Luck

Have you ever had one of those conversations where, as the words are being spoken, you realize that a future outcome has just been changed? I've had these experiences before and I had one again today.

I walked to the Library of Virginia for their noontime lecture; today's speaker was Martin Clagett, the author of a new book, Scientific Jefferson Revealed. Having attended these events many times, I know they have a table outside the lecture hall for people to enter to win the book being discussed that day. As I stopped to fill out an entry, a woman already there started to tell me why I should fill out a card. I told her that I'd been to dozens of these lectures, so I knew the drill. "Oh, then you've probably already won dozens of the books," she presumed.

"Actually I've never once won, but I enjoy the lectures so much that it doesn't matter." As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew what had just happened.

Clagett's book was about how T.J. always saw himself as a scientist and it was only his ego that got him into politics, a distraction which he felt only got in the way of his scientific endeavors. His book Notes on the State of Virginia was considered the most important scientific book written by an American in the 18th century; it established the superiority and fecundity of the New World, completely disproving the European assumption that ours was an inferior continent.

His scientific interests ranged from archaeology to zoology with practically everything scientific in between. As evidenced by an inventory of his extensive library, fully a third of the books were scientific in nature; the next most populated subject was Ethics, a category that included law, obviously a necessity for him. What fascinated me most was how a man who saw himself as a scientist, a man who spoke and thought in mathematical terms, was a failure at financial matters, always owing and dying deeply in debt.

And then it was the end of the lecture and Clagett went to pull a name from the entry box; I heard my name before he even said it. So after years of going to these lectures, I had finally been gifted with the book of the day. It wasn't much of a surprise since I'd sensed the shift in my fate when that woman and I were talking, but it was a lovely bonus to today's lecture experience.

Walking back down Broad Street with my new book in hand, the streets were full of people waiting for the bus, having animated conversations, just enjoying the weather. I ducked into a mini-mart for a Chocolate Eclair ice cream bar because it felt like a great day for eating ice cream on a walk.

Continuing on with my eavesdropping and ice cream enjoyment, I was rewarded with three student-looking types having an intense linguistics discussion as I passed. " It's called a southern accent for a reason, yo!" the guy told the two girls.

Okay, it may not be scientific observation, but it was hysterical.

Checking in at The Whisky Grill & Smokehouse

I'm not a whisky drinker.

In fact, I'm not even a spirits drinker except for good tequila.

But I am a smoked meat eater, so when a friend invited me to a new place with an emphasis on smoked meats, I enthusiastically accepted.

He was talking about McCormack's Whisky Grill & Smokehouse over on Robinson Street, the old World Cup and former Ninja Sushi building.

Let me just warn you that when you walk in, you will see a back bar that is a monument to drinking.

Three large shelves support double and triple rows of booze and not just the pedestrian and slightly obscure varieties.

Sure, there are $80 and $90 bottles, but there are also selections far more expensive than those.

There's an entire shelf devoted to obscure spirits that go into even more obscure drinks, but it's the owner's intention never to be without a drink ingredient, no matter how rarely used.

There's a southern slant to the simple menu, including using Earl Grey tea for the sweet tea, but we were there for smoking, so I got the Brisket with collard greens and my companion got the Carolina BBQ with fries (baked beans are the third side).

Clearly someone in the back knows how to smoke; we were told it's one of the two partners.

Both of our sandwiches were extremely well executed, the meat succulent and well-flavored atop the appropriate rolls.

My collards could have made a collard green lover out of anyone. They had just the right amount of tang with enough sweetness on the finish to assuage those who fear that tartness.

The place is full of owner Mac McCormack's music and movie memorabilia (he's a long-time bartender) with a particular emphasis on Elvis Presley, John Wayne and Clint Eastwood.

My favorite was an Italian movie poster of The Good, The Bad and the Ugly.

The place has been completely renovated; only the cream cart from the World Cup remains, but the owner intends to put a plaque over it indicating its historical significance.

You can joke that Richmonders can't leave their history alone, but I love the sense of continuity that designation will give the simple stand, especially to those who were World Cup regulars.

Leaving The Whisky to the mixed drink crowd, we strolled down the street to Metro Grill for dessert.

I've been in Metro maybe three times in the past decade, and my most recent memory had been of a smokey environment full of loud and obnoxious drinkers shouting over the TVs.

Last night we were the only customers in an empty bar playing some pretty classic 80s music, so it was perfect.

I got the truffle plate and my friend the banana creme brulee, each with a glass of red wine.

My plate consisted of four pieces, a dark chocolate covered coconut truffle, a white chocolate-covered chocolate ganache truffle, a nut covered dark chocolate truffle and a piece of chocolate bark studded with toffee.

It was a nice variety of intensely chocolate treats; I left only the white chocolate outer shell, not caring for something that neither looks nor tastes chocolate.

Should you be a fan of the cocktail, The Whisky's $42,000 bar is a must-visit for the sheer spectacle of it.

The martini glasses alone are worth seeing; the glass is a stemless cone shape which rests in a bowl-shaped glass of ice to maintain a perfect chill.

The whisky selection is unparalleled in rva I was told by a nearby whisky lover.

And if, like me, you're not a cocktail type, that brisket sandwich alone is worth the visit.

But be warned: they don't have desserts yet so you'll need to allow time to go elsewhere to scratch that itch.

They're working on it, though, and if they succeed half as well as they do with smoking meats and slinging drinks, The Whisky could be a great little place for an interesting meal.

Taking Sally Belle to Belle Isle

"Sorry, we're sold out of sweet potato tarts today." These are not the words you want to hear upon entering that Grace Street relic, Sally Belle's Kitchen. On my walk this morning, I'd come up with this brilliant idea for how to enjoy this balmy day, so my friend and I were there to score a couple of boxed lunches and take them down to the river to enjoy on a sunny rock. Yes, we were indulging in a bit of spring fever fun, but we were powerless to resist it.

Sally Belle's is so classically Richmond; where else can you get a boxed lunch with corned beef spread? Cream cheese and nut? But I wanted a sandwich that was made on their own roll, so that let out tuna, turkey and a host of others.It was really no contest, I wanted a boxed lunch that would represent the kind of lunches Richmonders have been eating at the river for decades, so I got the Smithfield Ham on a S.B. roll, potato salad (probably the sweetest I've ever had), half a deviled egg, a cheese wafer with a walnut half atop it and a traditional inverted cupcake of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.

With the food neatly arranged in the white Sally Belle box, the ancient woman behind the counter asked if we wanted our boxes taped or tied. Are you kidding? We didn't come to Sally Belle's for no stinkin' tape! Get out your string and tie those boxes up, ma'am, just like they've been tied up since the roaring twenties. It was too quaint for words.

The parking lot for Belle isle was surprisingly full when we arrived, making it clear that we weren't the only ones with spring fever. My friend grabbed the boxes and I had my straw hat and we had everything we needed. Heading over to the island, we passed joggers, bikers, a lot of dog walkers and even a guy telling the girl with him, "I am a dickweed." We admired his honesty even if she didn't.

The water was over five feet and rushing madly, which made for an almost ocean-like soundtrack. With the bright blue sky completely cloudless, all we needed was a sunny rock on which to spread out. We found one and tucked into our Southern repasts (he had a tuna salad sandwich on bread with macaroni salad and, by the way, tasted his cupcake before his sandwich, in case anyone wants to know), starting with eating the sweet pickle slice off of our salads; it's rva protocol to do so

There were what looked like hundreds of white birds perched on the rocks on the other side, doing exactly what we were doing: enjoying the sun and maybe some food while admiring the view. It would have made a beautiful photograph with their whiteness contrasted against the very blue water and sky.

Afterwards we walked the island, reading all the historic marker signs, admiring the structures that still stand and talking about all the things that had happened on the island before our time. My friend called it "nerding out together." I challenged him to tell me how we could have better enjoyed a beautiful Monday in March.

He was smart enough to acknowledge that I had nailed it.

Opera> Fan House> Rollins

A gorgeous sunny day like today calls for being outside...except when all your plans are for indoor activities. Not that I'm complaining considering what thoroughly enjoyable activities these were. I'm counting on there being other sunny days, but how often can you start with Mozart, move on to a new restaurant and finish with spoken word? Not enough, I'm afraid. Not enough.

A friend had suggested we see Don Giovanni at Center Stage and it sounded like a great idea to me. There were four of us, not a one who'd seen it, and with the vastly improved acoustics of the Carpenter stage, we were expecting great sound, which we got. Don Giovanni, the consummate player, had a theory about women based on their hair; with blonds you get gentleness, with brunettes, fidelity. Choose your priority, gentlemen. But my favorite line came from the besotted Masetto who, after allowing himself to be won over by his fiancee's physical entreaties, says, "We men are so pathetic." As long as you know.

The opera was long (over three hours) and for dinner my hungry friend and I wanted to check out the new Fan House in the old Verbena space. We couldn't have made a better Sunday night selection. As it happened, the guy sitting next to me at the bar eating was Sonny, the mastermind behind the menu. He saw us perusing the menu and offered to assist in any way he could. We braved it ourselves but got a major nod of approval based on our choices.

The grilled calamari salad was beautifully seasoned with perfectly cooked calamari. The beef kabobs had a savory sauce that he told us came from a region on the China/Russia border; it made the dish. The tuna tartare trio was tartare three ways, all outstanding in their own way. The tofu was probably the biggest surprise in that it was absolutely sublime: scallions, sesame oil and salt and a flavor to die for. The Surprise dumplings are billed as a family recipe and a secret and for good reason. The portion was generous and the flavor unlike any dumplings either of us have had.

Music was courtesy of Pandora, with Phoenix as the starting point, so I liked everything I heard. It would have been much better to discover it was somebody's iPod and thus chosen specifically, but at least it was all current, worth hearing and loud enough to enjoy.

And last, but certainly not least, was Henry Rollins at the National doing his particular brand of spoken word. It hasn't even been two years since I saw him at the Canal Club, but he's so topical, informed and well spoken that you can never really see the man too often. He described the Internet as "allowing people to hurl invective with impunity," in his opening discussion of the First Amendment. But then he also covered his child-like role-modeling, telling kids that"the nasal cavity can hold a lot more than you think." Segueing from children to teens, he observed, "I know how teenagers are. That's why there's Joy Division records."

Discussing his extensive travels, Rollins said he takes a huge hard drive of music to introduce foreigners to and that his mission was to be "like Johnny Appleseed, there to spread the funk." One kid was so awed by the music Rollins shared that he could only get out two words: The Stooges. I find it oddly reassuring to think of Henry Rollins as our musical ambassador overseas.

But mainly Rollins advocated overcoming cynicism, which he called "intellectual sloth." His solution? Engagement in the world. "Make as much trouble as you can and support the Strummer-Jeffersonian belief."

I'd like to think I'm already doing that.

What's Your Musical Motivation?

I go to so many music shows because I love the excitement of seeing a band perform live. But as I was reminded tonight, everyone has their own agenda when it comes to why they're in the audience and it's naive of me to assume it's because they feel the way I do.

Last night I went to the Camel to see Marionette, one of my very favorite local bands and with good reason. Their sound is unlike most with enough of a varied appeal to grab many kinds of music lovers. In the 2+ years I've been attending their shows, I've gotten to know most of the band members and concluded that they're such interesting musicians because they're such interesting people. As a bonus, yesterday was multi-instrumentalist Marshall's birthday, adding another reason to celebrate the evening.

A photographer there shooting the crowd came over to take a picture. I was sitting with Kerri and Adam from Marionette, so I opted out of the snapshot and afterwards the photog sat down to get their names and chat. She pointed out a couple who came to the show only because the band was described as "indie folk." Apparently, they'd said that there just wasn't any indie folk in rva. And while I'm certainly pleased to hear of anyone who comes out for live music, all I can say is wtf? No indie folk here? That's like saying there was no hardcore here in the 90s.

As proof that we have an extremely active indie folk scene here, I would offer up Jonathan Vassar and Speckled Bird, Josh Small, Alison Self (and, when they're all in the same country, Arise Sweet Donkey!), the Colloquial Orchestra, the Low Branches, the Florentines...don't make me go on and on. No indie folk scene, indeed.

Since I'd taken the very front booth, I had lots of good visitors the whole evening. People would sit with me for a while and then move on. Prabir planted himself for most of the evening and he's always a charming conversational partner, full of good adventures and intrigue. An ex of his was in-house last night, so it was an especially eventful evening.

One guy who sat down for a bit and to whom I was introduced by Prabir was a musician. He talked about his plans to move west to further pursue his musical goals. But he also said he was only sticking around to hear one song by headliners, Marionette. I couldn't understand why. "Well, you know, most bands, like 98%, aren't any good and what's the chance I'm gonna find out this is one of the good ones?" Great attitude, friend. I told him I'd seen them plenty and that they were excellent, but he'd already made up his mind. What kind of a music lover is that?

Last time I'd been in the Camel, the owner Rand had boasted to me, knowing that I'm a wine drinker, that they'd finally gotten in some decent wine and adjusted their pricing. One of my few complaints with that venue has always been the cheap wine at exorbitant prices, and it had been duly noted. I had an excellent glass of Nero d'Avolo for seven bucks last night and that's a huge improvement over my past drinking experiences there. Kudos to Rand for choosing to address all of his audience's libation needs.

And grudgingly I'll also offer kudos to everyone who came out to hear last night's live music, even if some of your motivations were weak or unfounded. The important thing is that you were there supporting your local musicians and venue and no matter how misguided your reasons, you got to see a stellar show. Fortunately for me, I didn't have any of that baggage, so I just reveled in the music. Marionette makes that easy to do.

Dining with DJs at Kuba Kuba

Maybe it was the nice weather, but when I got to Kuba Kuba at 5:30 there was already a 25-minute wait.

 Luckily, the two people I was meeting, DJ types form Northern Virginia, were already waiting inside and, even better, there were three bar stools available.

Within 10 minutes, there were six or seven people waiting for tables; half an hour later there were more like a dozen.

People were circling like vultures to score a table or bar stools.

At one point, a threesome waiting up front spotted a recently vacated table still littered with glassware and dishes and swooped in and sat down.

The servers who saw this were dumbfounded.

"They couldn't even wait till we cleared the table?" one asked. Obviously not.

With the exception of breaking bad once, I have always gotten the same thing at Kuba Kuba since it opened, so I don't really need a menu.

Given the crowds breathing down our backs, it was probably good that we ordered right away, too.

As always my camarones y mejillones were perfect, as much because of the Tasso ham broth as those mussels (I opt out of the shrimp; I think the dish is better served with all mussels).

One of the two guys commented that he didn't eat mussels or clams which seems like such a shame, but I also know a guy who loves mussels but won't touch the broth, not sopping it with bread or enjoying it with a soup spoon. I told him he didn't deserve to eat mussels at all then.

This guy tonight did say that he'd rather crack crabs and eat them than have a crab cake, though, so he can't be all bad.

Naturally, with two music types there was plenty of that kind of talk, the two of them having been doing/listening to the 80s show on WRIR this afternoon.

Nothing like Songs from the Big Hair to remind you of your youth or to demonstrate where so much of today's sounds came from.

Let's just say Oingo Boingo came up in conversation.

It's saying a lot when you can order the exact same thing from a restaurant for years and never be disappointed in it; somebody's doing something consistently right.

The only wild card is how good the company is and these two music geeks were fun, if very male.

It was a good beginning to my Saturday night.

Deflowering a First Friday Virgin

It's not that difficult to do the First Friday art walk, right?

You walk, you go in places that look appealing, you look at art and hear music.

I've done it dozens of times, so I was more than a little surprised to be asked to be the guide for my friend (he'd only been once) and his date (she'd never been) at tonight's art walk.

Lead you around by the nose?

Why, sure, I can do that.

With ADA closed, we began at Ghostprint Gallery with Tom McCormack's acid etchings on steel.

They were striking: frameless, for the most past stark and industrial looking with holes to nail them onto the walls.

But they were also evocative and compelling.

Several had already sold, including my favorite, "Clear Skies Over West Bank Street," a view of the narrow street with houses on either side.

Gull was playing outside Lift, so we had to pause so my tour guests could experience the one-man phenomenon that is Gull.

I don't usually stop at Visual Arts Studio, but it was impossible not to tonight.

Greg Lewis' sculpture "Pamlico," made out of 87,000 toothpicks (stay with me here) was in the front window.

Lewis had shaped thousands of toothpicks into the figure of a mermaid kneeling.

She was about 5'8" from her knees to the crown on her curly head of hair (made of broken toothpicks; frickin' unbelievable).

The artist told me it took a year and a half to complete this piece; the selling price is $72,000.

Do yourself a favor and walk by the gallery to admire the work in the window.

At Turnstyle there was actually art in progress.

Mural artist Michael Owen was in the process of painting a piece commissioned by the store.

It was an image of a guy holding a record sleeve amongst shelves of records, and he was even painting as we spoke.

An exhibit of his paintings was also on display, all images of musicians.

Naturally I was curious about why he'd painted certain ones and he said that those were the people he listened to while painting, people like Lenny Kravitz, The Edge and Tracey Thorne

The latter surprised me, but I gave him a lot of credit for it; she does have an amazing voice.

It was my first time at the Eric Schindler Annex on Broad Street after which we made a stop at Art 6.

There we found a photography show by Lloyd Chaser; the black and white photographs in it were of Richmond in the snow and contained some stunning images given the subject and the weather.

Other pieces were shot out west and in Alaska and were in color, but it was the local shots that drew the most onlookers.

As a bonus, the three degrees of separation between me and one of my favorite blog readers was eliminated tonight when I was finally introduced to her.

Unfortunately, we didn't get to talk long and I would have loved to, but at least now I can recognize her when we attend the same functions, which we seem to frequently do.

Ahh, the thrill of the online world colliding with the real!

When we got to 1708 Gallery, I explained the significance of the lit squares in the sidewalk; oh, I was just full of good guide tidbits of information and they ate it up.

But shortly thereafter, they were getting hungry and it was nearing 10:00, so we decided to get out of Dodge (all the restaurants were mobbed) and head over to Carytown and hopefully away from the madding crowds.

We went to NY Deli for some good grub and loud dance music.

It was interesting though; I can't say I'd ever heard a dance remix of the Doors' "Riders on the Storm" and now I can say I have.

By the time I took my fifth-wheel self and prepared to leave the daters at NYD, they were gushing about the evening.

The woman especially couldn't have been more impressed.

"I can't believe how fast that time went! That was so amazing! Thank you!"

Yea, well, anytime you need help walking, looking and listening and can't figure it out on your own, I'm your girl.

But I'm willing to bet that if you just got out there and gave it a try, you'd see how simple it really is.

But I'll keep my guide certification up to date...just in case.

Lunching with a Lawyer at Garnett's

What's a lawyer's favorite clothing? A LAW suit. Corny but not always true. I had lunch today with a good friend who's a lawyer and he was wearing jeans, a sweater and Chuck Taylors; there was nothing lawyerly about him except his tasteful office overlooking the Lee statue on Monument Avenue (which I have to say had a magnificent view from his third floor window).

He couldn't be more pleased since Garnett's opened, given its proximity, so it was his suggestion for lunch. Still on my quest to taste every sandwich there, I was happy to oblige. We strolled over during the heart of the lunch rush, but miraculously there were two tables open and we took the one closest to the kitchen so as to admire the outbound food.

Today's soup sounded so appealing that we both had to order it. It was ham, potatoes, pepperoni, onion and garbanzo beans in a clear broth, which only made it all the more enticing. I told Mac how great I thought his soup was and he teased me with, "What did you expect?" Mac's humor and humility are two of his best qualities. He said that that recipe was a creation of his father's, which didn't surprise me in the least. Or, as my lawyer friend put it, "If it's got pepperoni in it, a man came up with it." Now that I think about it, that's probably true; men are inordinately fond of pepperoni, although I never turn it down either and I'm anything but a guy.

After such a magnificent first course, we decided to split a sandwich (which still counts toward my goal of trying them all) and agreed upon the Black Forest Ham with Gorgonzola and apple slices on toasted wheat bread. Three thick roll-ups of ham sat atop an array of sliced apples and a seriously thick layer of Gorgonzola. The varying textures, the richness of the cheese and apples, the thickness of it all made for an out-of-the-ordinary sandwich we both were impressed with.

You don't eat a half sandwich without expecting desert afterwards, so we got the chocolate cake with chocolate icing and two forks. I've had it before and I'll undoubtedly have it again. Enough said.

Walking back to my friend's office, he was telling me that his car had been in the shop for three weeks because it only intermittently played music. Completely unacceptable, we agreed. One of the most important parts of a car's function is to provide a musical soundtrack to a person's driving and he was willing to leave the car as long as it took for the problem to be solved. It came down to a software patch and he now has the full use of his vehicle again.

If he sounds like a music fanatic, he is. His smarts and humor aside, that's probably my favorite thing about him. In fact, in deference to his musical enthusiasm, I'll even forgo any more bad lawyer jokes.

Learning How to Out-Drink the Guys

I'd spent the last four Thursdays at my Modern Romance class at the Virginia Center for Architecture. So tonight, for the first time in a month, I was free to start my Thursday evening anywhere I chose. So where did I end up but at the opening off the new exhibit Glass Ceilings: Women in Architecture at, no surprise, the VCA, but it was completely worth the return visit.

Given the male domination of the architecture field, the women who have made names for themselves were not run-of-the-mill types. Nobiko Nakahara visited a firm back in the 50s, asking for a job. She was told that it was a ten-person office but if she could redesign the space to accommodate eleven desks, she'd be hired. Of course she succeeded, but why do I doubt that a man would have been challenged in the same way?

Another female architect told the story of the ongoing issue of not getting any respect on construction sites, despite being the architect of the project. She finally asked the foreman how she could win them over. "Out-drink them," she was told. She went home and asked her mother and a nurse how best to accomplish this. Her mother advised her to eat a big fatty meal to line her stomach first. The nurse gave her a bottle of cod liver oil to take hourly in the bathroom, thus allowing her to throw up what she'd just drank. Between the two, she held her own and gained their respect.

Besides being a learning experience, the opening was a good night to be a wine drinker. Barboursville was pouring tonight and I made sure to try the rose, the perfect pink wine to accompany an exhibit about females. At least, that's how I justified it. It was a blend of one of Virginia's best-growing grapes, Cabernet Franc, with Merlot and Barbera and as good a reason as any to drink pink.

I followed all that girl talk with dinner at a friend's and while she's female, the other three guests were not. It was a casual meal of chili and cornbread, but the chili was a standout. Made with spicy venison sausage, it had all kinds of veggies and even garbanzo beans in it, enough variety anyway to appall a chili purist. But with big hunks of steaming cornbread, it was as deliciously satisfying a meal as I could have hoped for, especially after my pink cocktail hour.

One of the guests was from NYC and spending a week in RVA, so I was curious about his take on us. He remarked on the friendliness of the people and I naturally asked him about which restaurants he'd eaten at (come on, I had to know). Sadly, a mutual friend had taken him to Chili's at VCU, undoubtedly the worst possible representation of a Richmond bar; he was underwhelmed, as well he should be. He'd loved 821 Cafe and Black Sheep though.

I had brought the dessert, a chocolate torte, which is insanely rich and meant to be served in 1/4" slices. Not with these guys; they each had an inch and a half piece and finished it off in about four bites. My dessert for twelve was decimated in moments, but they all raved about it and how well it went with the beer.

And since I wasn't about to try to out-drink them, that was enough respect for me. But then, I'm not a female architect.

It's Women Who Drove You to Drink

What's the best way to take the edge off of an isolated lifestyle? Alcohol, of course! And if coffee is for the wealthy and tea heavily taxed and water believed to cause illness and even death, what does that leave you with? Alcohol again! These things could explain why the average person in the 17th century drank a gallon of ale every day, starting at breakfast.

Then there's the all-purpose uses of alcohol, like cosmetic, household, medicinal and even for bathing. Name a product today that can do so much. I learned all this at today's Library of Virginia noon lecture by Sarah Meacham, author of Every Home A Distillery: Alcohol, Gender and Technology in the Colonial Chesapeake.

Seems taverns were the only place to socialize and guess who ran taverns? Women. And guess who made the ale and cider served in those taverns? Women. And since taverns were built before courthouses and churches, they were often called into use for those purposes. Juries were even given alcohol. A quart of brandy was the normal accompanying beverage for childbirth. At funerals, the alcohol for the guests was positioned directly on the casket.

Making alcohol was considered women's work up until the Revolution when men began taking it over because it required mastery and science, two skills not generally attributed to us women-folk at the time. We just weren't thought of as bright enough to use the new technology, you know, thermometers and hydrometers.

As I've stated before, I love history lectures about my people. Don't tell me women didn't help shape this country because I know it's not true. Learning more about as crucial a role as providing the only sociability in remote places and supplying the alcohol the made it possible could be seen as pivotal to the success of the development of our region.

After all that affirmation, I just had to meet a guy friend for lunch and crow about how great my sex is. Since the Library of Virginia is on the next block from Gibson's Grill, we made that our destination. I chose the white pizza (spinach, tomatoes, caramelized onions and Asiago cheese) and Andrew played copy-cat with pizza, getting the BBQ chicken version (with the same onions).
I know mine was better than I expected, generous with spinach and tiny little pieces of tomato
and plenty of those scrumptious onions. He did finish all of his, which is always a good sign, although I think that's just what guys do with pizza.

And while we didn't drink at lunch, unlike the Chesapeake colonists, we did acknowledge that it was thanks to my people that drinking got off to the fine start that it did here in Virginia. After all, someone had to stay home and do the brewing while the men were off fighting for independence and all that sort of noble endeavor. What would be the good of freedom from the motherland if you couldn't celebrate it with a stiff one?

Feel free to toast us when you have your next cold beverage.

Avoiding the Revenge Apology

I could say that my evening began highbrow and moved to lowbrow, but that's not really a fair representation of the two parts of my night. How about I began with the low key and moved on to the more raucous? Let's just say managed to cover two vastly disparate bases, both quite enjoyably tonight.

The Fresh Ink literary series was conveniently (for me) being held at the Library of VA and was to feature Jake Adam York and Kathleen Graber. He teaches creative writing at the University of Colorado Denver and she at VCU. And the man sitting next to me had on the most exuberant pair of blue, black and white plaid pants I've ever laid eyes on; it was hard not to stare.

Graber mentioned meeting the Scottish poet John Burnside and his comment that the tenderest kind of love is unexpressed or unrequited love. "Now that's an idea I can get behind," she enthused. "Let's not talk about it!" Spoken like a true poet, one who writes lines like, "Each living bone carries more than it can bear."

York began by telling us that he'd be reading "...five poems about music and two that are not." Several had song titles for names, including "Blue Velvet" and "Some Enchanted Evening" and dealt with the Civil Rights movement. About traveling south, he noted, "If you've never been to Oxford, Mississippi, pack an extra liver because you're going to need it." His final reading was a new poem he read off his phone because he hadn't had the time to print it out. It was a very 21st century reading.

And then for something completely different, I headed over to Strange Matter on Grace Street to see the documentary End of the Century: The Story of the Ramones. Apparently the guys in the band became friends because of shared musical taste. As Dee-Dee Ramone put it, "If you liked the Stooges, you had to be friends with each other. There were only three of us." Inspired by seeing bands like The New York Dolls and Television, it was the end of overblown 70s rock with narcissistic guitar solos (thank goodness). Joey Ramone explained the development of the group as a chemical thing.

To the world, the Ramones were proof of how good music could be without good musicianship and generations of kids were inspired to imitate that spirit. Between their first national tour and their second, a host of bands like the Replacements, Bad Brains, the Dead Kennedys and Black Flag sprung up in the Ramones' wake.

As was said in the film, "The songs were short and fast and these guys were dead serious." And no guitar solos ever. Footage of the early live shows were awe-inspiring with such energy and brevity; it's hard to fathom that these guys toured that hard and relentlessly for 22 years.

Now that Strange Matter is selling beer, the crowd for the movie was larger. I even ate there tonight, choosing the special, a turkey, Gouda and Granny Smith apple sandwich with honey mustard on rye bread, which was tasty. The most expensive item on the menu is the Apology for $10. It's turkey, prosciutto and bacon with fried bacon mayo between two grilled cheeses. Even funnier, though, was the Revenge Apology with vegan ham, vegan bacon, Jackfruit and basil mayo between two grilled teeses. Ha!

From poetry to punk with puns in between; now that's a hell of a Wednesday.

Check, Please!

I am not so shallow that I need others to validate my opinion. I'm confident that my beliefs are based on life experience, careful consideration and general smarts. Still, it's incredibly gratifying to have a random conversation that proves that my thinking is not completely off the wall.

I was at Garnett's around 11:00 and a musician I know came in for coffee and a scone. The music on the stereo made him look at me and ask, "Do you know if this is Bowerbirds?" Why, yes it was, I told him, leading to a discussion of the band's acoustic Americana sound, of which we were both very fond. He'd even seen them in Charlottesville last month, a show I told him I'd missed because of prior plans.

Realizing he'd found a kindred music soul, he shared a recent story with me. Seems he was really interested in this girl and was trying to figure out the best way to approach her. He'd wanted to ask her out on a date, so he suggested they go to Balliceaux to see Fight the Big Bull. Her response was, "Oh, that's kind of late and I'm not really into live music."

I looked at him incredulously and he just nodded at me. "Yea, it kind of told me everything I needed to know about her." As I told him, at least he didn't waste another minute of his life with someone with such a skewed life-view.

Or as we like to say about a near-miss like that, "Check, please!"

The Four-Block Evening

After having had to put on my J-Ward Girl tiara yesterday, it was only fitting that I spend the evening in the neighborhood, availing myself of all it had had to offer on a Tuesday night. Besides, I'm a big fan of getting out my big umbrella and walking in the rain and snow, both of which were coming down at various times last night.

My friend and I started at the Belvidere because he'd never been there and I wanted to see this month's art show by Tyler Thomas. It was interesting stuff; he works mainly in ballpoint pen, sometimes colored in, sometimes not; he recently did an album cover for Mouthbreather on Rorschach Records. My favorite work was a collage composed of restaurant menu tickets, each with a different drawing on it, all of which were then collaged on to the canvas. I loved the irony of an artist's drawing paper of choice being a restaurant staple; how many artists haven't supported themselves in the service industry? The show is definitely worth checking out.

For dinner, I got the roasted stuffed mushrooms (spinach, tomato, herbed cream cheese, parmigiana reggiano in a tomato cream sauce) and the organic white bean hummus plate and my friend had the soup of the day and the grilled ahi tuna sandwich with spicy Sriracha Aioli on a crusty baguette. The hummus may be the best I've had around here and that's saying something and the sandwich was perfect with its toothsome roll and perfectly cooked rare tuna.

With art and eating behind us, we strolled over to Gallery 5 for music. They had just hours before finished the renovations on the downstairs gallery, so the smell of paint was fresh in the air. The space looked really nice and it will definitely increase their art display capabilities.

First up were locals Last Century, followed by Pretty & Nice from Boston. Clearly drawing on early XTC, this quartet was high energy and highly entertaining, with tightly written pop/rock/punk sounding songs and an engaging sound. There was a lot to like about them and talking to the drummer later, he told me how impressed he was with the venue and the attendance.I told him that they looked like they were having a good time and he assured me that they were. "Why do this if you're not having fun?" he asked me rhetorically; of course, he was preaching to the choir with me.

Headliners Title Tracks are from DC and they had more of a melodic indie sound, probably influenced by all kinds of power pop. After the punch of Pretty & Nice, they were low-key in comparison, but their upbeat sound and pretty guitars made for most enjoyable listening. All that pleasurable poppiness even got part of the crowd dancing, or at least moving, which seemed to please the band.

By the time we left, the snow had more or less stopped and what better way to enjoy the beauty of J-Ward than through the haze of a misty night? And while we did see people out and about (it was only 11:15 after all), fortunately I didn't have to interrupt our walk to defend the 'hood to any non-believers. Everyone, including us, wanted to be exactly where we were.

J-Ward Girl Steps In

Since you just never know when and where you'll be called on to defend your neighborhood, it's important to be prepared at all times. There I was innocently taking a bag of trash out to the Supercan when a guy strolling the alley set me into action. I said hi and he said hello. I dumped my trash and was about to go back inside when he began it with, "Can I ask you a question?"

Why sure; I talk to everybody. "What do you think of this neighborhood? I'm thinking of buying a house here." Good god, man, do you know who you've asked? I closed the gate behind me and approached the guy.

"This is a great neighborhood," I told him. "You're not going to find more a beautiful neighborhood, architecturally speaking, in the city. The neighbors are incredibly friendly; I've been invited to more parties and get-togethers since I moved here than I can remember. And no matter how late I get home at night, there are always people around, which makes me feel incredibly safe. We're close to galleries, restaurants and music venues. And we've got Abner Clay Park plus they're building a dog park."

Okay, so I may have come on a bit strong, but don't ask me my opinion if you don't want to hear it. He looked a little taken aback, but then challenged me.

"What about the graffiti on that garage door mover there?" he countered, pointing at it. And, yes, a nearby garage door, one of those cheesy suburban-looking kind with the multiple panels, had a different tag on five of the panels. It was kind of a tag sampler, if you will.

"Well, we are only a few blocks from VCU and it is an art school and inevitably when the kids come back after breaks, there's a flurry of graffiti. The cops come out and paint over it and they arrest a few people and life goes on. I wouldn't let a few tags determine your opinion of this place."

"And you feel safe here?" Jeez, I'm tired of answering this question, but I'd put on my J-Ward Girl cape and gloves, so I had to keep defending.

"I've lived here three and a half years and I wouldn't live anywhere else in the city," I boasted. Then it occurred to me: why was I trying to sell this doubter on my 'hood? Clearly he wasn't worthy of it. And you notice I never even mentioned Whiskey Wednesdays to someone so obviously neighborhood-challenged.

It was time to go back behind the fence and remove my J-Ward Girl ensemble. My work here was through.

Getting My Film Fix and Hearing about Hemp

Inebriating the public at the Wine Expo kept me too busy today to attend the Independent Film Fest at the Byrd Theater.

Luckily for me, tonight was the monthly Project Resolution at the Firehouse Theater, so I was still able to get a healthy dose of independent film making before the day was over.

You never know what you'll end up seeing at P-Res, but since it's always entertaining, I'm willing to take that chance every month. Local filmmakers bring their shorts (5 minutes and under) to be shown and discussed and the evening ends with the P-Resentation, a longer format film chosen to be featured.

After each screening, the filmmaker explains his goals and process and the audience shares their opinions and critiques. Given the make-up of the audience (mostly film geeks) it's always enlightening to hear what they have to say.

"Assassin's Promise" was an example of guerrilla-style filming, made in one day with no money.

"Pantheon Black" was a trailer for a movie that has been five years in the making and is finally approaching completion.

"The Artie Lange Driving School" was film of a stand-up comedy routine shot at Cafe Diem.

We saw a promo piece for a moving graphic designer, Charles Bevan, demonstrating a sampler of some of his best work.

"Rel-A-Tiv-I-Ty" was another guerrilla style project made by the same director, but a different crew; the story, written in an hour, was a perfect example of telling a story concisely.

The P-Resentation was Eric Miller's "Taste the Blood of Frankenstein," a 23-minute piece divided into chapters and absolutely hilarious. His next step is submitting it to film festivals. Turns out that most of the crew were people he had met through P-Res.

Another benefit to attending are the announcements letting people know about interesting upcoming events, usually film-related, but not always. Tonight we heard about Hemp Fest in Monroe Park on May 8th. There will be acoustic music and rallying for legalization.

And, much like during the Civil War, if you're too busy to attend such an important event, it was suggested that you send a substitute in your stead.

Coming up April 17th at the Byrd will be a 2:00 screening of "The Taint." The filmmaker displayed the flier and explained the premise of the film. "The water in the town is turning men into misogynists who want to kill women by crushing their heads."

Before the audience could even get their heads around that plot line, he finished with, "It's a comedy." Now that's a film I don't want to miss.

Such is the pleasure of attending Project Resolution.

Pouring for the Drunk at the VA Wine Expo

Because volunteering once already this weekend wasn't enough, I did it again today only for a radically different event than the Handmade Bike Show. Today I poured at the Virginia Wine Expo, also at the Convention Center, but full of inebriated people instead of awed bike geeks.

It's fascinating pouring wine for people at an event like this (I did it for Cardinal Point Winery at least year's event, too) because the attendees run the gamut form wine snobs to novices and everything in between. And the later in the afternoon it gets, the less people care about what they're drinking or learning. The increasingly frequent sound of a wine glass crashing on the concrete floor brings up cheers every time it happens.

Three different people came up and asked if they could sample the wine to erase the taste of burnt rice in their mouth (apparently a nearby food table had overcooked the rice and palates everywhere were suffering for it). One girl walked up, put her hand on her hip and asked me, "What have you got with at least 2% sugar?" Clearly she knew her palate and wanted no part of tasting beyond that.

One guy came up to the table, called a friend and told him where he was. After liberal use of colorful language, he hung up and apologized. "Sorry, but I love dropping the f-bomb. And I'm inebriated, so I really like dropping the f-bomb." He then introduced himself to me and the other pourers and even an innocent bystander.

My favorite was the group of five who definitely had a buzz on and were greatly enjoying tasting and shooting the breeze with each other. I had to keep reminding them what we were doing and bringing them back to the moment. Finally, one woman looked at her friends and, clearly perplexed, asked them,"How ARE we getting back to Powhatan anyway?

Ma'am, I don't even want to think about that.

A Corny Dinner at Bacchus

"YOU'RE not my wife!" said the handsome man in the bar stool next to me at Bacchus. No, actually his wife and her friend had vacated the bar some time before and moved to a booth. My friend and I had taken their place and he was just now pausing in his conversation with the other husband to notice her absence. "Thank you for noticing I'm not your wife," I told him, "but shouldn't you have noticed sooner?"He sheepishly admitted he should have and slunk off to the booth with his friend.

Bacchus was mobbed when we arrived around 8ish so when we asked to place our order, the bartender ominously told us we could, but that it was going to take a long time to get our food. I think he was hoping we'd give up and go, but I insisted we remain optimistic despite his doom and gloom prophesy and we were rewarded with a reasonable wait time for our meal.

I ordered the lamb sausage and white beans with a side of roasted sweet white corn. It's the dead of winter, so if you're putting corn on your menu, I'm curious how good it's going to be. My friend wanted the pork shank and sauteed spinach. Next to us was a vegetarian couple obviously on a date and when our meat dishes were mistakenly set down in front of them, they were not happy about it (I'm guessing it was mainly the huge pig shank that repulsed them so). They wouldn't actually touch our plates with meat on them, so the bartender came back and moved them in front of us.

My dish looked a bit like pale but upscale Beanie Weenies, with fat little slices of sausage dotting the white beans underneath. The flavors were wonderful and I was tucking in with gusto when I noticed the man to my friend's left ogling my plate. "Is that the lamb sausage?" he inquired, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth. I confirmed that it was and asked if that's why he was staring longingly at my plate. Seems he'd been considering the dish and once he saw it, he was sold. He apologized for his rudeness, thanked me for helping him make his decision and promptly moved to a booth, presumably to enjoy his own plate without anyone salivating over it.

My side of roasted sweet white corn was a standout. Recently cut from the cob in large chunks of kernels, it was lightly buttered, incredibly sweet and tasted like summer. I didn't come close to finishing the generous-sized bowl of it and to make sure it wasn't just me, I offered a taste to my friend, who swooned over it. She ate more of her shank and spinach and then ordered herself a bowl of that corn; that's how good it was.

I was close to forgoing dessert, what with being so full after beans and sausage and corn, but my friend was counting on sharing something sweet with me. Early on in our friendship, she informed me that one of her favorite qualities about me is that I always order dessert, with no bogus talk of regrets or "being good." I let her choose and she wanted apple crisp with vanilla ice cream, which I did enjoy. Apple crisp is a childhood dessert for me, easy to make and one that uses ingredients we always had around, but that doesn't make it any less pleasurable on a cold night.

But nothing, least of all oblivious husbands, repulsed vegetarians and salivating diners, was going to top that corn tonight. Ah, the pleasures of an ear in February. You just can't beat it.

Lamplighter Lunch and a Western

I believe it's called creative reuse when you take a former garage and make it into a coffee and sandwich shop.

I've been by what is now Lamplighter plenty of times when it was the garage and it doesn't look all that different now because cars were parked everywhere out front as if waiting to be serviced.

It was so crowded when we arrived around noon today that some people were actually huddled out there eating and drinking.

We got a perky greeting from one of the owners, who told us to take our time at the counter perusing the paper menu.

When my friend asked for the breakfast menu, I grabbed one of the laminated menus from the holder on the wall, causing him to ask her why it was laminated.

"So you can lick it," the owner said laughing, which my friend pretended to do.

"I can't say that to just anyone," she teased. I already liked the place a lot.

My friend had only been awake for 20 minutes by the time we arrived, so he was looking for breakfast and a huge coffee.

For me, there was a nice selection of paninis, sandwiches (including sweet-tooth sammies like pb &
j and Fluffernutters), salads and soups.

He ordered the egg sandwich with Capicola, provolone and tomato and by the time he finished enjoying it and his mondo coffee, was starting to feel human.

When I spotted a Muffuletta (salami, Capicola and provolone with olive tapenade)) on the menu, that New Orleans classic, I had to get it to see how close it was to the original sandwich.

It was grilled, which is not usually the case and not made on the traditional round, flat Sicilian bread, but most of the required ingredients were there (no mortadella) and it was absolutely delicious and way bigger than I needed.

It came with a side of fruit salad, which was a perfect sweet contrast to the saltiness of the sandwich.

I loved their bike emphasis, with a picture of a tall bike on the to-go cups, and bike delivery service.

Their website is tallbikecoffee.com, which makes for a very Richmond association (those sculpture degrees in use!).

Today at least, though, we saw no bikes locked up out front, but it was only noon.

Afterwards, we got nerdy over at the Historical Society for a VMFA showing of "Sergeant Rutledge," a 1960 John Ford movie about the Buffalo soldiers.

I don't know that I've ever seen a John Ford western, or any western for that matter, but this one had all the kinds of scenes I'd imagined they would: Indians, gunfights, damsels in distress.

The difference was this was about the court martial of a black soldier, considered one of the finest of the Buffalo Soldiers, for accusations involving a white woman (naturally).

Of course, it was seen through the prism of 1960 and in technicolor, so it was only so honest, but most of the audience appreciated the noble depiction of the soldiers in the film.

Afterwards, there was an interactive panel discussion of the movie and African American history.

The audience, including a motorcycle group called Buffalo Soldiers, was quite verbal on both topics.

It turns out that the film only played in RVA for one week and even so, it was at the National Theater, a segregated movie house.

The RTD ads for it showed no black actors, only a couple kissing, probably so as to not offend a genteel audience.

I was genuinely surprised to learn that it hadn't shown at any of the black theaters in Jackson Ward where it would have almost certainly garnered a huge audience.

Buffalo Soldiers: thank you for your trail-blazing efforts.

I only hope we are teaching our youth about your contribution to history...and not just during African-American History month.

And Lamplighter: definitely worth a return visit for the great vibe, interesting choices and because we were too stuffed to try any of their alluring pastries.

And because I never know when I'll have a craving to lick a menu. Don't judge.

I'm One of the Un-Inked

If you get eleven women together for a dinner party, how many of them will have tattoos?

Five.

How many of them will have at least three tattoos? Three.

How many of them will have parents who still don't know about their tattoo? One.

How many of them will have left their home state (S.C.) because tattooing was illegal and gone to a neighboring state (GA) to be tattooed? One.

When we weren't discussing ink or displaying body parts, this group was opening endless bottles of wine and eating a fabulous repast prepared by both tattooed and ink-free women.

Our meal began with a multi-cheese course, hummus, and a lentil salsa that dazzled everyone with its flavor and texture.

Then we adjourned to the dining room for Chicken Marbella (chicken quarters with prunes, garlic, olive oil, capers, olives, wine and brown sugar), superbly seasoned roasted veggies (red pepper, onion, eggplant, potato and probably something else I'm forgetting), Hungarian sweet and sour braised cabbage and bread.

Dinner talk centered around wedding vows, crying at such ceremonies, the use of "till death do us part" and the difference in dating younger men and men with some life experience behind them (the latter were the clear favorite).

We also touched on how to try on wedding dresses in front of your mother without revealing your tattoo (see above).

As you would expect in a room with nothing but X chromosomes, most of the guests chose to try both desserts, one a delicate but creamy rich citrus cheesecake and the other an obscenely rich multi-layered chocolate torte.

Between the two offerings, close to a dozen eggs and a pound of butter were sacrificed, not that anyone was keeping track, except to justify coming back for seconds.

With the exception of me and one other woman, everyone else at tonight's soiree works in the theater world.

So they're stylish, project well and tell great stories, but our evening was completely drama-free.

Maybe it was just the huge amounts of food and wine we consumed while dishing on girly subjects that kept everyone placated.

Maybe it was the thickness of the estrogen in the air. Maybe Cyndi Lauper was right.

Something must explain why the hostess' boyfriend was afraid to come home while we were all still there.

Smart men know their limitations.

RVA: Center of the Bike World This Weekend

I am a lucky girl.

I could have just paid to see the North American Handmade Bicycle Show and been awed by the state of the art of bicycle making in 2010.

Instead, I volunteered and was assigned to be a photographer's assistant, allowing me to not only see the show for free, but also spend hours behind the scenes chatting up various fascinating bike- makers from all over the world.

Like everyone else, I was excited that the event was going to be held in RVA this year.

When I saw the lists of media attending to cover the show, they ranged from the mundane and mainstream, USA Today and the RTD, to Canadian Cycling Magazine, Bike Talk Radio and Fixed Gear Gallery with everything from NPR to Cyclelicious in between.

I was lucky enough to be assisting Brad, the photography half of the team that publishes Urban Velo magazine; I couldn't have chosen a more pleasurable assignment.

We spent the afternoon talking bike polo (he plays for Pittsburgh's team, so we both know a couple of the guys on RVA's team), the perks of working in publishing and, naturally, bikes.

Sometimes it was my job to return bikes to the show, but mostly it was my responsibility to entertain bike- makers when they brought their bikes back to be photographed.

It was amazing.

I saw a stylish tandem made by Calfee Design on which the shop had been given carte blanche on the paint job by the customer.

Apparently that doesn't happen much and the owner acknowledged going a little crazy with the custom painting and it was just beautiful.

The bamboo bike from Bamboosero out of Santa Cruz was painted by an artist in New Zealand using henna ink.

The frame was so smooth, artistic and beautiful as to be sculptural.

They use artists from places like Ghana, Uganda, the Philippines and New Zealand to create their one-of-a-kind bikes.

The owner of Dominguez Cycles, from St. Paul, told me it had been an easy winter there; they only had about three feet of snow piled up at home at the moment. I guess everything's relative to what you're used to.

He'd brought an unusually colored, but short, red bike that he'd built for his wife.

The color was an exquisite shade of lipstick red, not bright or deep. Of course, she had a helmet to match.

The owner of Kirk Frameworks Co. out of Montana told me he began designing and building skateboards as a teen and segued into bike-making.

I asked what it was like living in a state like Montana (total population 900,000 people) and he bragged that his city had 30,000, so it was one of the larger ones, which meant it had a symphony, a ballet and other cultural amenities. There'd have to be something, wouldn't there?

The delightful owner of Shamrock Cycles was from Indianapolis and I asked him where the name came from.

He said, "I considered Pasta Cycles or Sausage Cycles, but they didn't have the right ring to them." Smart ass.

Actually, it was about his name, so we bonded over shared heritage. He was an O'Donnell, as is my mother, and we agreed that there's something lucky about meeting another O'Donnell.

He also said that Indianapolis is more of a road bike town than a mountain bike town, so that you know.

Probably my favorite conversation was with Ton of Vittorio Fietsen in Holland.

I couldn't resist talking to him about the surprising pictures and videos I've seen of girls riding their bikes in Holland with cute high-heeled shoes and fashionable clothes on and wanted to know if it really was that common,

Laughing, he said it was, but qualified it with, "But they're not the best biking shoes!"

He also said that the average person there has three bikes.

I asked what he thought of Richmond and with his succinct European sensibility, he summed it up. "Garish hotels and not enough bikers."

Amen.

As if all the backstage conversation didn't make my day, strolling the show reminded me what being a female at a male-dominated event can do for the ego.

In the middle of a bike discussion, one of the guys from Mosaic Cycles in Boulder looked down at my legs and said, "Awesome tights!"

Strolling another aisle, a guy informed me that,"That color is magnificent on you!" referring to the day-glow yellow volunteer t-shirt I had on; maybe it was the contrast with the black I was wearing.

I got more flirtatious smiles and greetings from out-of-town bike people than I should have, but I figure they were just looking for someone to show them the town once the show ends for the day at 6.

Which I would be very good at doing and I could practically guarantee that they'd leave with a great impression of what our fair city has to offer beyond the obvious, but I'm already booked.

With any luck, they'll discover all RVA has to offer on their own.

Anything Goes at Avalon

Tonight was the last night of my Modern Romance class, so I finally discovered what happens after the First Kiss, True Love, and Broken Hearts.

And the final stage of a modern romance is...drum roll...anything goes!

As I can attest, you can go through those first three stages and any number of outcomes are possible, good, painful and bad.

My plan going forward is to revel in the first two categories, skip the third and replace anything goes with a happy ending.

But, of course, we're talking about architecture here and tonight's class was about the years 1980-2000, the period representing the death of modernism's dogmatic point of view and the opening up of numerous viewpoints.

We'll call it post-modernism; it's the years when the focus was on how architects shifted from an emphasis on problem-solving to an attitude of opportunity finding.

Like in a relationship, it was all about how you look at these moments when they present themselves.

This week's after-school snack was at Avalon with a friend who wanted to discuss architecture, romance and fancy food, a category he thinks Avalon falls into because of the abundance of ingredients listed for each item on the menu.

Personally, I like any place that offers small plates and since he always defers to my choice of restaurants, he just has to sift through the menu for dishes that don't contain something on his "will not eat" list, like beets and Brussels Sprouts.

He did so as the bartender opened a bottle of the Fantail Pinotage for our quaffing pleasure.

Okay, so Avalon does use long-winded ingredient descriptions.

My salad read as: watercress with golden raisins, blackberries, crispy toasted pumpkin seeds and Hooks 1 year bleu cheese chunks with nutmeg vinaigrette.

I just asked for the blue cheese salad and let it go at that.

My friend ordered the deconstructed tuna sushi roll: ginger sticky rice wrapped in a wasabi pickle slice and ahi tuna with carrot coulis and a soy, rice wine gastrique.

Then he turned to me and asked, "Why they gotta deconstruct it and what does that even mean?"

I explained, knowing the man had a point about the overly descriptive names, but both dishes were excellent so what's a little extra reading?

Then we both moved on to the Chorizo course.

He followed seafood with seafood, namely the Littleneck clams with Spanish Chorizo and fennel in almond, pine nut and sherry broth with focaccia.

The broth was incredibly rich and creamy, and ideal for soaking the bread in; I know because he insisted I try it.

My plate of richness came in the form of Spanish Chorizo over saffron Israeli cous cous with Parmesan cheese.

Luckily I'd had the sense to order the small plate of this and not the entree because it was decadent.

Dessert was sharing the chocolate rum pate with berries while discussing other restaurants.

He and a date had been to a play I'd recommended with a pre-performance dinner at, of all places, Bill's BBQ behind CVS.

I made a limeade crack and he was quick to tell me about the new bar at Bill's, where you can now enjoy your limeade with the refreshing addition of gin, vodka or rum.

He questioned the owner about the origin of this brilliant stroke, only to be told, "People been doing it in their cars for years, so why not us?"

Don't you just love the corruption of a Richmond tradition?

Limeades all around!!

A Windy Walk to the Urban Farmhouse

Yes, it is windy and cold outside, but at least it's not snowing (yet), which was cause enough for my friend and I to walk from J-Ward to the Slip and lunch at the Urban Farmhouse Market and Cafe.

We were both curious about their commitment to both urban renewal and good food from local sources.

The space is beautiful with incredibly high ceilings and cozy love seats sandwiched between tables.

When we arrived shortly after 12:30, there was only one two-top free, which we grabbed, but within a half hour, the tables had turned over completely.

Lots of creative business-looking types came and went while we lingered.

It's one of those places where you order at the counter, take a seat and wait for your name to be shouted out, which makes me want to come up with a more creative name for myself next time.

I ordered the Turkey and Sesame with Fresh Scallions (with ginger garlic aioli, toasted sesame seeds and fresh organic scallions) and my friend got the Lemony Ceasar Salad with free-range chicken with their house made egg-less Ceasar dressing.

She was especially pleased that walnuts replaced the usual tired croutons in her salad. I enjoyed actual sliced turkey breast rather than deli turkey on my grilled sandwich which came with carrot sticks and potato chips, no doubt to balance each other out.

The large windows made for a delightfully sunny meal and really opened up the corner space.

I was amazed to find that the ceilings were just as high in the bathroom; I can't say I've ever been in a bathroom with walls easily four times my height.

Add in colorfully tiled walls on the lower third and an enormous window and it was a pretty spectacular bathroom experience, if you're into such things.

Apparently I am.

Although they had an assortment of desserts like cookies, brownies and candies, we opted to go around the corner to Shockoe Espresso, me for a slice of chocolate cake with coconut icing and her for coffee.

I was surprised to learn that their desserts came from Garnett's which explained why my huge piece of cake was so well done.

Coconut + chocolate = dessert nirvana, at least in my world. Can you say Samoas?

Walking home and into the wind on shadowed streets wasn't nearly as enjoyable as the walk east had been, but we detoured into Ghostprint Gallery to check out their latest show "Italian Art &Design."

There were some striking ceramic relief pieces in colors too beautiful to describe, as well as vintage Italian pieces from the mid-twentieth century.

One was a wooden bar cart with swans for handles connecting the wheels and trays. Another was a lacquered goatskin coffee table with a built-in well for an ice bucket; it was incredibly groovy circa 1960.

Chairs of various styles and materials looked more like sculpture than furniture.

Most of the pieces looked like they would have been right at home in an urban loft right around the time the cultural revolution was taking off.

Walking the last few blocks home in the wind, my friend thanked me for helping her wile way a rare afternoon off.

Hell, I'm practically an expert when it comes to creative time use, even with a wind advisory that would have kept saner people inside.

But then I've heard sanity is overrated.

Of WIne and Being Read To

Once upon a time back in the late 90s, I had a boyfriend who liked me to read to him, so he'd pour a glass of wine and we'd lay in bed and night after night, I'd read a book of his choosing. He was slow reader, so that was part of it, but mostly he just enjoyed hearing someone else read to him. I thought of him tonight as I spent an evening drinking wine and being read to.

I met my most hipster-like friend for wine at Ipanema (where else?) and to catch up since we hadn't gotten together since before Christmas. I went with the Beyond Sauvignon Blanc out of Constantia, South Africa, an area I've visited and one which produces superior white wines. My friend presumed I was drinking white wine in hopes of Spring coming soon ( a girl can wish, can't she?). We had a lot of ground to cover, he and I, in terms of what we'd each been up to for the past two months and then I had to run. He accused me of using him to fill an empty interim period, but actually he had canceled on me last week, so I felt no friend guilt and left.

I wanted to catch the Richmond Shakespeare Second Tuesday staged reading. I know it's the fourth Wednesday, but snow had rescheduled things a bit. It's a great deal; they gather actors to do a show using minimal scenery, props and rehearsal and it's for one night only. While I've never been to one of theirs, most staged readings I've attended were essentially seated actors rising when they read their lines. In this case, the action was staged (although they did hold their scripts throughout; it is a reading after all)) with a fair amount of physicality and interaction. And the extremely reasonable cost of admission ($15) entitles you to wine with the reading.

Tonight they were doing The Merchant of Venice, notorious for its perceived anti-Semetism, an attitude which clearly made the audience uncomfortable in places (there were a lot of students there tonight). More striking to me was the glaring and obnoxious superiority of the Christians in the play. But it's Shakespeare, so there was also hidden identities, lovers wanting to be together and wonderfully comic characters. And of course, beautiful language, like, "Choose me and risk everything you've got." But is he referring to marriage being a gamble or just to a drastic turning point in life?

I would have been satisfied with just wine and being read to and ended up with even more. For one thing, they had dessert; the chocolate sponge cake with cherry whipped cream filling was to die for. And while I wasn't stretched out in bed, I didn't have to do the reading either.

I think my former BF was on to something.

Bountiful Lunch at Balliceaux

My plans to meet a friend last night at Balliceaux had to be postponed until lunch today, but given the gloomy skies, it was a great day for lunch out anyway. Since she'd never been but had heard about the very un-Richmond-like decor and interesting food, we did the full tour of the renovated space first and then covered as much of the menu as two lunchers could hope to.

The damp and cold outside made us suckers for soup; I had the split pea and Italian sausage and she savored the creamy seafood stew with rock fish, oysters, bacon and fennel. In fact, she was so inspired by the stew that I expect she'll be making some of her own very soon. Not me, I'll just enjoy the efforts of other soup makers.

Choosing a sandwich was more difficult, so we settled for our top two favorites and agreed to split them so we could each have half. I wanted the Morta Torta, consisting of shaved Mortadella with melted Raclette (like Swiss, the server told me, but with more of an assertive personality), and pickled peppers on crusty bread. Served warm, it was a salty, fatty, flavorful delight.

She got the shaved leg of lamb with arugula, red onion and pommery aioli, also on a roll. The arugula and red onion added the perfect punch to the lamb, although we both agreed that the lamb being so cold detracted a bit from the overall effect. Still, it was delicious, just not quite as good as it would have been at room temperature. Both sandwiches came with mountain o' fries, crisp and salty and unnecessary, but then we didn't have to eat so many of them, either. Perhaps it was the discussion of the secret sex signal that distracted us from noticing how many we ate.

But we did have to have dessert and with only one chocolate option, our choice was pre-determined. The mocha torte was cake and mousse covered in chocolate ganache and served with berries and hazelnut ice cream. The thick coating of ganache would have made whatever was inside irrelevant, but actually it was lovely and the ice cream's unusual flavor was worth experiencing with the torte.

My friend was amazed at the transformation of Bogart's Back Room into the sleek 60s light-filled destination that it now is. Despite my raves about the shows back there, she admitted that it's unlikely she'd be back for late night music, but I feel certain she'll want to add Balliceaux to our Ladies Who Lunch List of worthy destinations.

I'll just have to remember not to make dinner plans on days that we end up at Balliceaux for lunch.

Garnett's Sets the Tone for Music Done Right

"I feel like I just ate in your kitchen," the departing customer said to Kendra, owner of Garnett's moments after I sat down at the bar. That compliment just about sums up what a comfortable place this months-old restaurant is; as for me, I still haven't tried every single sandwich, so I was back to cross one more off my list. Besides, I knew Mac missed me.

Tonight it was the turkey with Swiss, bacon and coleslaw on rye bread that caught my eye and while it was almost too thick to get my mouth around, I managed. The beauty of this sandwich was the contrast between the sweetness of the cole slaw and the saltiness of the bacon. One of my favorite bearded regulars came in and ordered a BLT with a fried egg...and a side of a grilled cheese. I remember my first time eating at Garnett's a guy had a side of potato salad with his sandwich and then ordered another side of potato salad for dessert. I've also seen people order an extra side of those fabulous pickles; Garnett's has that kind of effect on people.

It's also a place where you're a fool not to order dessert; theirs are better priced than any place else in town, except for perhaps Black Sheep, and they're outstanding. Tonight I had yet another variation: chocolate cake with coffee icing. I don't even drink coffee and I thought it was wonderful; imagine how coffee lovers would swoon.

Like several other customers who came through Garnett's while I was there, I was headed to the Michaux House for this month's installment of the Listening Room. I arrived early enough to secure good seats for me and the two friends who were joining me. The well-trained audience was in their seats and hushed by 7:59.

The Colloquial Orchestra was up first, a local super group of sorts, made up of Chad of The Florentines, Matt of the Low Branches and Louisiana Territory and Dave Watkins ("I'm just Dave Watkins," he told us). Unusual instruments were the highlight here; Chad played the bouzouki, Matt the baritone ukulele and Dave the dulcitar.

The first song, all instrumental, was highlighted by Dave singing into the body of the dulcitar, causing it to resonate. From my vantage point, he appeared to be kissing his instrument, but the sound he produced was almost as good as a kissing sound. Another song, Pangea's Revenge, was introduced as "for all you hopeless romantics out there," and the lyrics were shown on a screen for a group singalong. Or, as Dave put it,"So you can't talk at the Listening Room, but no one said you couldn't sing." Those three stringed instruments playing together was truly a thing of beauty.

Up next was singer/songwriter Dean Fields, who while tuning his guitar, told the audience that "I wrote this song for banjo. This is not one." He entertained us with stories in between songs ("I wrote this in a bar in Raleigh. That paints a picture, doesn't it?") and explanations (about the song Dandelion Rain: "I find humidity inspiring.") He described the Listening Room environment as a reminder of how all the songs were written: simply and with just him and his guitar. Favorite lyric: "You pray the waiting's worth the next in line." So true. He closed with a song called Imitations, describing it as the first song he ever wrote that he didn't think was garbage. Not even close, Dean.

I wasn't at all familiar with local band The Thirds, a four-piece tonight, who began by telling us that they didn't have any good stories to tell, so they were just going to play. With two guitars, bass and keyboard, they also informed us that they were"kind of a rock band most of the time." Their stripped down acoustic sound for the evening may not have been rock (or, more appropriately, indie rock), but those keyboards and synthesized sounds elevated the music to something compelling. My friend found the vocals Death Cab for Cutie-like, which could be a good or bad thing, depending on your perspective; I liked the guy's voice and phrasing. Favorite lyric: "Chemical reactions that I can't explain/I'm way too old for this."

Without going all superlative on you, the Listening Room never disappoints; the organizers continue to bring in talented musicians to an atmosphere that encourages appreciation. Dean wisecracked with, "How you guys doing? Oh, yeah, you guys can't talk," which drew a huge laugh from the attendees. And, as always happens at these shows, midway through, a section of the strung-up lights broke free of their mooring and dropped, to the surprise of the band and delight of the audience. Like respectful silence during the show, it's one of those things you can always count on at the Listening Room. Fortunately, it doesn't make a sound when it happens.

Burping Added Nothing to the Music

Monday nights can be slim pickins for something interesting to do and then there's a Monday night like last night, with multiple good choices and it's just a matter of deciding where you want to be and what you want to hear. In my case, a friend suggested Cous Cous for Larry and His Flask with a couple of interesting openers, so my decision was made and the Camel and Balliceaux were forgotten.

Since we weren't meeting until 9:30, though, I had plenty of time to visit 27 for dinner and to catch up with one of my favorite waiters. I started with the Morli Neri Chianti and the good news from my friend that he'd just been accepted into graduate school at Columbia, surely cause for celebration.

He recommended the Moules Marinieres (P.E.I. mussels with homemade white wine, shallot and cream sauce) because it was a new preparation for 27, who usually offers a red sauce of some kind. They were savory and delicious; sopping up that cream sauce with a whole lot of bread finished my meal beautifully.

Of course I had dessert, but I at least tried something new. It was the Bombe: passion fruit, mango and raspberry sorbet wrapped in a white and dark chocolate shell. The delicacy of the sorbets with the necessary chocolate (at least in my case) was everything I could have wanted in a dessert. I did share with a member of the staff since he'd never had it.

With shows at Cous Cous, I like to arrive before the crowds to secure a stool for protection. Inevitably it gets mobbed in there and a stool at least ensures that I can only get knocked into from one direction. I'd heard great things about Larry and His Flask's talent with their punk/hillbilly sound. I was expecting to see a certain local Americana singer and, sure enough, she was the first person I saw on arrival. She'd already seen them (of course) and highly recommended them.

Opening was Tom Vanden-Avond & Soda and, I have to tell you, this guy's voice sounded whiskey-soaked and amazing. He could have been singing anything with those pipes and it would have been a pleasure to listen. His fiddle player (Seabass, as he referred to him) added hugely to the sound, which would likely be called alt-country since he's from Texas, but probably owes as much to Dylan.

Next up was Chris McNew and by this time the place was hopping. And by that, I mean everyone was talking loudly non-stop, making it difficult to hear the music. I know that this is how shows at Cous Cous are, but it always annoys me anyway. Even the musicians acknowledged that drunk people just want to talk loud. The guy next to me couldn't stop talking about being dumped; his ex was there with her new guy and it was killing him. One guy belched so incredibly loudly in my companion's ear that it was worthy of comment, not that the burper cared who he'd offended (or noticed the looks of the surrounding onlookers).

So I'm ashamed to say that by midnight we abandoned the crowd for another destination and never got to see Larry and His Flask. I can only hope the Oregon group will be back through again so I can hear their hillbilly folk punk, preferably somewhere where the audience is actually there to appreciate the music. They played a house show last time they were in rva and I'll bet that audience was way more attentive than last night's.

I know it's lot to hope for, but I'm guessing the musicians would be on my side and, in a perfect world, they'd demand attention of their audience. At the very least, guys, get as drunk as you want during the show, but just shut up about it so I can hear the music.

Hey, I can dream, can't I?

Be the Change You Want to See

Today was the 50th anniversary of the day that 34 Virginia Union University students staged a sit-in at Thalhimer's lunch counter to protest segregation. Richmond Center Stage was unveiling an historic marker to commemorate the occasion, complete with official speeches and one of the original Union 34 members speaking. It was something I wanted to witness.

About an hour before the event, the rain began. It occurred to me, did I really want to go stand in the cold rain for the sake of a marker? Staring at the steady rain, I wanted to smack myself. These 34 students had been willing to step up and be arrested to call attention to injustice and I was worried about a little rain? I put on my raincoat, grabbed my umbrella and headed down to 6th and Broad to pay my respects to people more courageous than me. As Shakespeare wrote and Center Stage's Jeff Sadler quoted, "What is a city but its people?" This person needed to experience this event.

Due to the weather, remarks were kept brief, except for those by Elizabeth Johnson Rice, the representative of the Union 34. She told of trying to start a commemorative march for the event back in 2004; her starting point was a phone call to the Richmond Police. She told them who she was and that she'd marched and gotten arrested for it in 1960. "Can I start a march again?" she asked. And, lo and behold, the policeman told her it was a great idea. It was at that march that she'd fortuitously met Elizabeth Thalhimer Smart, the granddaughter of the man who'd owned Thalhimer's at the time of the sit-in, and the woman who , with Rice, unveiled the marker today.

Standing in the crowd under a sea of black Center Stage umbrellas during the presentation, a man told me he liked my floral umbrella. I thanked him and told him it was just a thrift store find. "It's a happy umbrella," he told me. A happy umbrella for acknowledging a happy occasion: the progress made in Richmond toward a more equal society.