The first rule of the Down Home Family Reunion is you don't leave.
That is, if you live in Jackson Ward, you don't want to risk giving up your parking space because chances are, you won't easily find a replacement in the neighborhood all day and night today.
Fair enough. After a wildly busy week (I was away five of the last seven days), it didn't take much incentive to keep me in the 'hood for food and music.
All afternoon long, cars had been driving down Clay Street, music blaring into my open windows, for the most part classic R & B such as Roberta Flack and Rick James.
People were gearing up for the show.
Bound for the Rogue Gentlemen down Leigh Street, I got a backside view of the stage and Proverbs Reggae Band giving it their all for the crowd.
Walking down St. Peter Street past endless lines of cars circling the block for non-existent parking spaces, I saw a cop at the end near where the street was blocked off.
Pointing out that at least he could hear the band despite not being able to see it, he said, "I've been working this festival for ten years and I like it fine from right here."
Amen, brother.
At the Rogue Gentlemen, I found the bar empty and took a stool at the end where the music (Killers, Black Keys, Kooks) was easy to hear.
Starving after this morning's nearly seven mile hike, part of it along the Northbank trail, I proceeded to order far too much food.
Lemon verbena tomato gazpacho with pressed melon, pine nuts and buttermilk got me started on solid footing with the exquisitely melded flavors of summer.
A man came in and sat down at the bar around the time my pork crepinette - a good-sized flattened sausage patty - was delivered.
Vermouth-soaked cherries complemented the saltiness of the sausage and a soft-cooked quail egg added richness.
On the side was frisee with speck and pistachios, making for a decadent plate of food.
Midway through tucking into it, my sweet corn agnolotti showed up and I immediately switched over to that for fear of overindulging in pig and not being able to fully appreciate the little dumplings.
Floating in a pale orange sea of paprika butter and ringed with heirloom yellow cherry tomatoes and sprinkled with Pecorino Toscano and bits of guanciale (cured pork jowls), wonderful flavors all, it was the purity and sweetness of the summer corn in the agnolotti that was the undisputed flavor star of the dish.
As it should be.
Like the tomatoes and melon in my soup, there is no better time to be savoring them.
Walking home, I saw that people were arriving in droves to add to the already teeming crowd, so I went to get my chair and join the other music lovers in the park.
It was between sets so Al Green was blasting from the speakers and I found a place to set up with an unobstructed view.
People watching was great because so many people were styling for the festival and despite it being held in a field, there were lots of high heels.
After a while, a guy came over and asked if I was ready for the show.
Telling him I was, he said, "You look comfortable. I like to see that!"
Not long after, a woman came by passing out fliers reminding people to vote (not that I ever forget).
Then the guy came back to ask if I was alone and although I told him I was waiting for a date, he took that as a cue to stand behind me and tell his friend what a terrific singing voice he had.
To prove it, he began singing.
You must be a special lady
And a very exciting girl
The Elegba Folklore Society's dancers and drummers performed next and then there was an unexpected lag for Ray, Goodman and Brown.
After all kinds of delay tactics, MC Micah "Boom Boom" White admitted that there had been some mis-communication and that the band, who had been here earlier, had thought they were due at a much later time than they actually were.
The good news was they were just arriving, but with set -up and sound checking, it was practically 11 when they took the stage.
Their set had supposed to run from 9:30 to 11. Oops.
"It's been a long time since we played Richmond," singer Billy "Get Down" Brown told the crowd. "We used to play DJ's Supper Club!"
A woman in the crowd corrected him. "TJ's Supper Club. And I was your waitress!"
With a full band behind the three singers, they took us back to the days of love songs, even doing the synchronized hand gestures and dance steps to every song.
They'd been introduced as the band who were originally called as The Moments and known for their incredibly tight harmonies.
Their mouths were barely open before it was clear that all three voices were still spot on.
Referring to Barry White-like songs that women love, Billy said, "All you gotta do is sit on the bed and drop the needle on the record and let Barry sing. Then I say, take it off, baby. Well, we got a song just like that for the ladies here."
He wasn't lying. From "With You" ("loving you is easier than breathing") to "Look at Me" ("I'm in love") to "Lovely Way She Loves," it was music made for scoring.
When someone in the golden circle yelled out a request, he said, "Yes, honey, we're gonna do that. We're gonna do two way street and three way street."
Given the band's late start, I think everyone in the crowd was worried that they'd have to cut their set short.
The woman nearest me about lost it when they kicked into "I Don't Wanna Go," but everyone seemed to have their favorites.
"Special Lady," the song the guy had been serenading me with earlier, got the full singalong treatment with men and women doing separate parts.
Things got groovy when all three singers were introduced by name, zodiac sign and birth city,
I was impressed that Kevin used to sing with Luther Vandross but also bowled over that Billy's voice still hit those notes on the hits I recognized.
The crowd, meanwhile, danced and even sang along like they were back in high school.
Of course, the most reaction came for "Love on a Two-Way Street" and people began singing at the top of their lungs.
"It's the Richmond Tabernacle Choir!" Billy said as we sang and an extended arrangement took the song long past the three-minute mark.
It was a shame we only got a 45 minute set, but life's not always fair. Killer harmonies helped make up for fewer songs.
As I made my way toward home among clusters of people dragging chairs, I heard more than one ask a companion, "Where did we park?"
Happily, some of us didn't have that concern. We'd never left the 'hood.
Down home is right here.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Stylish Self Control
I'm not most people's first choice for going to a museum.
You see, I'm that art geek who can spend six hours looking at art with only a half hour for lunch and a couple of bathroom breaks.
Luckily for me, I happen to know someone who can do the same.
Even better, Moira's an artist, so she can fill me in when I see a term I don't recognize, like casein paint, which we saw a surprising amount of today.
Where to start with a day filled with so much fantastic art that my head is still spinning?
"An American in London: Whistler and the Thames" at the Smithsonian's Sackler Gallery set the bar incredibly high right off the bat.
Over 80 works - paintings, drawings and prints - detailed the changes going on along London's Thames river during the period Whistler lived there.
Looking at a print, suddenly there was a little boy in front of us holding up a magnifying glass to more closely examine the highly detailed picture.
Sure enough, the gallery had a whole rack of glasses, the better to see the minute detail of Whistler's work, and two of them were soon in our hands.
At one point, after reading about Whistler's second mistress, Moira turned to me and said, "Okay, we need a really great biography of Whistler now."
Don't I know it.
It was almost too much to take in, from his colorful early works to the later impressionistic ones that had the art critics in a tizzy over their near abstraction. And the man's use of color - blue particularly- was nothing short of breathtaking.
After a walk through the Smithsonian Castle garden, we ate lunch in the cafe, inhaling chicken salad with dried cherries and arugula and double chocolate cupcakes while people watching.
My favorite was the woman who looked like a pack animal, her belt strung with a fanny pack, a seat cushion, a bag from the museum's gift shop and on the back, a small stuffed dog. Heaven only knows what was hanging from that belt by the end of the day.
Next stop: National Gallery of Art where we made a beeline for Titian's "Danae," on short term loan from the Capodimonte Museum in Naples.
The sensual image of Danae awaiting a visit from Jupiter with Cupid at her side was stunning and a reminder that beautiful women have curves.
Walking in to "Andrew Wyeth: Looking Out, Looking In" was like walking into an old beach house; you could practically smell the salty air.
"Wind from the Sea" was the centerpiece of an exhibition where every painting and sketch featured images of windows, spare and elegant and in many cases, open to a gentle breeze causing tattered lace curtains to flutter.
Many paintings showed the bedroom windows of Christina Olsen, the crippled woman who became his model for so many years.
We agreed that the work, sometimes bordering on abstraction, often a study in tonality, proved that while Wyeth was considered old-fashioned in his time because of the emphasis on action painting and abstract expressionism, that was far from the case.
I found it especially fascinating to look at the studies that preceded the paintings to see how he reworked compositions, deleting elements until he'd achieved the most possible with the least number of elements.
Andrew, we hardly knew ye.
Then it was on to our third American of the morning, although this one accompanied by a Frenchman.
"Degas/Cassatt" was a feast for the eyes, covering the period when the older, established French master took the younger American female artist under his wing.
Cassatt's art has such a decidedly female bent - subject, palette, handling - that I couldn't help but respond to it instinctively.
Included was the VMFA Cassatt, "Child Picking Fruit," and we both felt a little local pride at seeing it as part of this landmark show.
If I could have left with one piece, it would have been "Woman Bathing," a color drypoint showing a woman in a striped robe stripped to the waist on a patterned rug surrounded by the bluest of walls.
So feminine, so beautiful.
About "Young Woman Picking Fruit," Degas had written, "No woman has a right to draw like that," a major compliment that only sounds like a sexist remark.
Hands down my favorite Degas was the series "Mary Cassatt at the Louvre," showing Cassatt from behind, dressed stylishly, leaning on a walking stick, the curve of her waist and hip quite provocative.
You can tell from her intent gaze at a painting that this is an educated and intelligent woman who also happens to be very attractive.
And she is, by far, the most feminine of all the women depicted by Degas in the show.
By now our heads were spinning from all the wonderful things we'd seen.
Did we take a break? We did not. Instead, we headed directly to the Smithsonian American Art Museum and National Portrait Gallery for more.
"Modern American Realism" covered the period from 1910 to 1980 and contained a lot of artists who are just now getting the recognition they deserve in addition to the expected Edward Hopper, Jacob Lawrence and Paul Cadmus.
And, just so you know, there was a lot of casein paint used during those years.
One of the most whimsical was Philip Evergood's colorful "Dowager in a Wheelchair" showing an aged, fat woman being pushed by a nubile, fresh-faced young thing down a bustling city street circa 1952.
No, she did not have a fanny pack or seat cushion strapped to her wheelchair.
It was a stellar show and strong reminder of how many artists were sticking to realism through the years of abstraction and pop art.
Our final museum was the Portrait Gallery for "American Cool," a photography show that attempted to define coolness, defined as "stylish self control."
Some of the photos were just plain extraordinary: Carlos Santana at 25, all soft eyes and full lips; Jimi Hendrix at 25, shot by Linda McCartney, with a sly grin on his face; an atmospheric Allen Ginsburg photo of William Burroughs from 1953.
Some of the galleries had video of the people in the photographs and early footage of Chrissie Hynde reminded me how gorgeous she was in the '80s with her great haircut and comfortable sexuality.
Paul Newman was gorgeous at 34 and Marvin Gaye was intense at the same age. Willie Nelson was downright handsome.
At the end of the exhibit was a list of people who had been considered for the exhibition and deemed not cool enough.Sort of a wannabe list.
The guard made a joke that his name had been mistakenly left off.
And our final exhibit (drum roll, please) was "Face Value: Portraiture in the Age of Abstraction," an array of mid-century portraits done at a time when portraiture was considered old, dull and very uncool.
These works were anything but.
Here we found a Warhol portrait of Jamie Wyeth, Andrew's son, as well as a Jamie Wyeth portrait of Warhol.
We'd been at this art thing so long today that motifs were starting to repeat themselves.
It was time for happy hour.
Needing to process all that art, we got ourselves to Mockingbird Hill, a sherry and ham bar that welcomed us with sunny stools and a flight of sherries labeled "Dias Baccanalia," a fitting Friday descriptor.
Dias Bacus "Ria Pita" Manzanilla was paired with olives. Grant "La Garrocha" Amontillado, probably my favorite of the three, came with peanuts.
Spanish hand-carved Mangalica was magical ham from a wooly pig, fatty and cured to perfection.
The final sherry - with a hint of cherries and screaming to be an after dinner sipper -was Gonzalez Beass "Christina" Medium Olorosa paired with chunks of walnut brittle.
That's right, Christina sherry. Now art was following us into the bar.
It was time for our art bacchanalia to end and return to Richmond.
Degas knew. No women have a right to take so much pleasure from art.
You see, I'm that art geek who can spend six hours looking at art with only a half hour for lunch and a couple of bathroom breaks.
Luckily for me, I happen to know someone who can do the same.
Even better, Moira's an artist, so she can fill me in when I see a term I don't recognize, like casein paint, which we saw a surprising amount of today.
Where to start with a day filled with so much fantastic art that my head is still spinning?
"An American in London: Whistler and the Thames" at the Smithsonian's Sackler Gallery set the bar incredibly high right off the bat.
Over 80 works - paintings, drawings and prints - detailed the changes going on along London's Thames river during the period Whistler lived there.
Looking at a print, suddenly there was a little boy in front of us holding up a magnifying glass to more closely examine the highly detailed picture.
Sure enough, the gallery had a whole rack of glasses, the better to see the minute detail of Whistler's work, and two of them were soon in our hands.
At one point, after reading about Whistler's second mistress, Moira turned to me and said, "Okay, we need a really great biography of Whistler now."
Don't I know it.
It was almost too much to take in, from his colorful early works to the later impressionistic ones that had the art critics in a tizzy over their near abstraction. And the man's use of color - blue particularly- was nothing short of breathtaking.
After a walk through the Smithsonian Castle garden, we ate lunch in the cafe, inhaling chicken salad with dried cherries and arugula and double chocolate cupcakes while people watching.
My favorite was the woman who looked like a pack animal, her belt strung with a fanny pack, a seat cushion, a bag from the museum's gift shop and on the back, a small stuffed dog. Heaven only knows what was hanging from that belt by the end of the day.
Next stop: National Gallery of Art where we made a beeline for Titian's "Danae," on short term loan from the Capodimonte Museum in Naples.
The sensual image of Danae awaiting a visit from Jupiter with Cupid at her side was stunning and a reminder that beautiful women have curves.
Walking in to "Andrew Wyeth: Looking Out, Looking In" was like walking into an old beach house; you could practically smell the salty air.
"Wind from the Sea" was the centerpiece of an exhibition where every painting and sketch featured images of windows, spare and elegant and in many cases, open to a gentle breeze causing tattered lace curtains to flutter.
Many paintings showed the bedroom windows of Christina Olsen, the crippled woman who became his model for so many years.
We agreed that the work, sometimes bordering on abstraction, often a study in tonality, proved that while Wyeth was considered old-fashioned in his time because of the emphasis on action painting and abstract expressionism, that was far from the case.
I found it especially fascinating to look at the studies that preceded the paintings to see how he reworked compositions, deleting elements until he'd achieved the most possible with the least number of elements.
Andrew, we hardly knew ye.
Then it was on to our third American of the morning, although this one accompanied by a Frenchman.
"Degas/Cassatt" was a feast for the eyes, covering the period when the older, established French master took the younger American female artist under his wing.
Cassatt's art has such a decidedly female bent - subject, palette, handling - that I couldn't help but respond to it instinctively.
Included was the VMFA Cassatt, "Child Picking Fruit," and we both felt a little local pride at seeing it as part of this landmark show.
If I could have left with one piece, it would have been "Woman Bathing," a color drypoint showing a woman in a striped robe stripped to the waist on a patterned rug surrounded by the bluest of walls.
So feminine, so beautiful.
About "Young Woman Picking Fruit," Degas had written, "No woman has a right to draw like that," a major compliment that only sounds like a sexist remark.
Hands down my favorite Degas was the series "Mary Cassatt at the Louvre," showing Cassatt from behind, dressed stylishly, leaning on a walking stick, the curve of her waist and hip quite provocative.
You can tell from her intent gaze at a painting that this is an educated and intelligent woman who also happens to be very attractive.
And she is, by far, the most feminine of all the women depicted by Degas in the show.
By now our heads were spinning from all the wonderful things we'd seen.
Did we take a break? We did not. Instead, we headed directly to the Smithsonian American Art Museum and National Portrait Gallery for more.
"Modern American Realism" covered the period from 1910 to 1980 and contained a lot of artists who are just now getting the recognition they deserve in addition to the expected Edward Hopper, Jacob Lawrence and Paul Cadmus.
And, just so you know, there was a lot of casein paint used during those years.
One of the most whimsical was Philip Evergood's colorful "Dowager in a Wheelchair" showing an aged, fat woman being pushed by a nubile, fresh-faced young thing down a bustling city street circa 1952.
No, she did not have a fanny pack or seat cushion strapped to her wheelchair.
It was a stellar show and strong reminder of how many artists were sticking to realism through the years of abstraction and pop art.
Our final museum was the Portrait Gallery for "American Cool," a photography show that attempted to define coolness, defined as "stylish self control."
Some of the photos were just plain extraordinary: Carlos Santana at 25, all soft eyes and full lips; Jimi Hendrix at 25, shot by Linda McCartney, with a sly grin on his face; an atmospheric Allen Ginsburg photo of William Burroughs from 1953.
Some of the galleries had video of the people in the photographs and early footage of Chrissie Hynde reminded me how gorgeous she was in the '80s with her great haircut and comfortable sexuality.
Paul Newman was gorgeous at 34 and Marvin Gaye was intense at the same age. Willie Nelson was downright handsome.
At the end of the exhibit was a list of people who had been considered for the exhibition and deemed not cool enough.Sort of a wannabe list.
The guard made a joke that his name had been mistakenly left off.
And our final exhibit (drum roll, please) was "Face Value: Portraiture in the Age of Abstraction," an array of mid-century portraits done at a time when portraiture was considered old, dull and very uncool.
These works were anything but.
Here we found a Warhol portrait of Jamie Wyeth, Andrew's son, as well as a Jamie Wyeth portrait of Warhol.
We'd been at this art thing so long today that motifs were starting to repeat themselves.
It was time for happy hour.
Needing to process all that art, we got ourselves to Mockingbird Hill, a sherry and ham bar that welcomed us with sunny stools and a flight of sherries labeled "Dias Baccanalia," a fitting Friday descriptor.
Dias Bacus "Ria Pita" Manzanilla was paired with olives. Grant "La Garrocha" Amontillado, probably my favorite of the three, came with peanuts.
Spanish hand-carved Mangalica was magical ham from a wooly pig, fatty and cured to perfection.
The final sherry - with a hint of cherries and screaming to be an after dinner sipper -was Gonzalez Beass "Christina" Medium Olorosa paired with chunks of walnut brittle.
That's right, Christina sherry. Now art was following us into the bar.
It was time for our art bacchanalia to end and return to Richmond.
Degas knew. No women have a right to take so much pleasure from art.
Friday, August 15, 2014
I Like How the Day Sounds
These are days you'll remember
Never before and never since, I promise,
will the whole world be warm as this...
Tuesday morning I awoke to the kind of e-mail that makes you smile at a screen.
"Any chance you could come visit tomorrow (Wed)? We can hang out...spend the night? I know it's late notice. Think about it! You don't need to bring anything but a toothbrush!"
This from the woman I'd just met Sunday night at a crab feast at her colorful and stylish cottage on the northern neck.
You can probably guess how fast I accepted an invitation to the river for a couple of days.
I don't want to say I was excited about the trip, but I woke up at 6:15, laid there for an hour and finally realized I was too keyed up to go back to sleep and got up.
This from the person whose earliest waking time is usually 9ish and, more likely, 10ish.
Knowing how beautifully appointed her house is, I shouldn't have been the least bit surprised at the picture perfect day she'd ordered up: sunny, low humidity and the bluest of skies.
Arriving mid-morning after only a slight detour (of course I got lost for a short bit), we immediately took up residence on the deck overlooking the dock and river.
Stretched out under an enormous umbrella only slightly bluer than the sky, on lounge chairs only slightly less blue than the sky, we proceeded to talk as only two women born a year apart and with equivalent amounts of life experience can.
Since we'd been strangers just three days before, we covered every base from our old-fashioned childhoods (can you say crinolines?) through high school (pants, at long last!) and into adulthood with all the unexpected twists and turns of adulthood.
Memories tumbled out of both of us. A lot of Venus and Mars stuff. About the balance of power in a relationship.
It was a blast to discover how much we had in common and not just a disdain for sleepwear although goodness knows I appreciate a kindred soul.
We broke camp long enough to devour BLT salads she whipped up and brought to the deck before resuming our lounging to learn more about each other.
Okay, so maybe I had a little bit of a girl crush.
Mid-afternoon she asked what I wanted to do and graciously indulged my quest to ride the Ottoman ferry, something I'd been unable to do Sunday because the ferry doesn't run then.
Much to our surprise, it wasn't running yesterday either because the tide was so high, but at least I can say I tried. Again.
Someday my ferry will come.
Back at the cottage, we took a walk down Cow Shed lane where she showed me the old shed that used to house a thriving riverfront business .
Fifty cents bought you admission tot he nearby pool and $1 got you a night in one of the log cabins I could just see through the pine trees.
Best of all were the stories about the old shed back when it was a dance hall with bar stools made of saddles and weekly dances.
After too much fighting between male customers over girls, the Shed instituted a rule that men were only admitted if they had a date.
Because we know how men settle down when they're under the influence of a woman.
But since the dance hall days were long over, we were happy to accept her husband's invitation when he called as we were sipping limeades, asking to take us out to dinner.
And since girls gotta shower before being taken out, that meant I got a chance to take advantage of the roomiest, most attractive outdoor shower I've ever seen.
With the blue sky overhead providing accent color to the yellow and white shower room (stall is too small a word for this place), I took my time like I never do showering inside.
If you ask me, the world would be a happier place if more people showered outside.
Clean and dressed, we took glasses of Picpoul de Pinet to the deck to await the arrival of her husband, our collective date.
The drive to Reedville resulted in my first real look at the quaint town I had been in once, but only to catch a boat. This time, we took a slow drive to admire the Victorian and older elaborate houses that lined the main drag.
At the Crazy Crab, we got waterfront seats on the deck with a view of huge fishing boat masts and boats bobbing gently nearby.
The nearest boat was named "Love's Last Episode," a fitting title, we decided, for true love.
It was our server's first night and she barely looked old enough to bring us wine and Arrogant Bastards, but she did so she must have been older than we could tell.
She did a fine job of bringing us all kinds of fresh seafood: mussels, steamed shrimp, crab cake on fried green tomatoes, hush puppies and slaw.
Midway through the meal, another young girl approached us, asking if we wanted popcorn.
Not sure why we were being given snack food mid-meal, we happily accepted nonetheless and a basket of popcorn soon showed up.
With a sweeping view of Cockrell's Creek and the orange setting sun, we took advantage of having male company to talk about relationships, both beginnings, endings and restarts.
My friends dated for years before breaking up, then spent a few years dating others before reuniting.
They now refer to the period apart as "the terrible awful," a phrase I find very romantic coming from them both.
Somehow the subject of music led to his penchant for a satellite radio Italian contemporary music station, music he finds sexy but not distracting.
"When Italian contemporary comes on, I know what's next," my friend said, making me laugh out loud.
Dessert was creme brulee and chocolate pots de creme under a dusky sky, pushing us solidly into stuffed territory. We left full and happy after such a pleasant and talkative evening.
I'd been given a choice of three beds to spend the night in and chose the one on the guesthouse porch, a twin bed under a ceiling fan and inches away from one of the three screened walls.
With the breeze whispering through the trees just outside, I fell asleep on the porch bed and slept like a rock until a cardinal alighted on the nearby picket fence this morning and began singing me awake.
After breakfast we took a walk down Queenstown Road to find the commemorative stones where local lore claimed that John Rolfe had first set foot.
No trespassing signs stopped us not long before the river, so we had to imagine it after all.
Today's plan was to take a ride in the boat and it turned out to be a glorious day for it because the river was almost smooth as glass under a cloudless sky.
We started out and toward Irvington and in no time, spotted dolphins nearby. Within seconds, one grazed the boat next to where I sat.
Jumping up to see them better, we powered down the boat and began, well, stalking them, allowing them to lead us, follow us or just frolic for our delight.
My friends said they'd never seen dolphins out there on all their boat rides, so I felt privileged to have been along when it happened.
After a while, it seemed as if the dolphins were playing with us, staying underwater for a bit and then popping up incredibly nearby, dipping far under the boat and coming up on the other side, entertaining us constantly.
Scads of pictures were taken as they rose out of the water in unison, so close we could hear the sound of them breathing as they broke water, impossible when you watch them from the beach at the ocean.
We followed, snapping pictures all the way to and under the White Stone bridge, where the bridge above created a silver and blue metallic reflection on the barely rippling surface of the river.
We passed a midnight blue sailboat looking quite patriotic with white sails trimmed in red.
They pointed out Merroir and the red-roofed Tides Inn with yachts docked in front of it. You could almost smell the money from where we were.
But natural beauty aside, the dolphins were our main focus and honestly, the delight we took in their antics was no less after an hour and a half than when they first began.
It had been so unexpected. They were so close. It was such a random thing. We were so lucky.
Eventually we returned to the dock for lunch and one last adventure: my first ride on a jet ski.
Taking the rear-facing position behind them, we sprinted around the river, even making a loop around the Ottoman Ferry in progress from shore to shore.
I'll ride you yet, Ottoman, she vowed shaking her fist at the quaint little boat making its way along at a snail's pace.
Back at the cottage, sadly it was time for me to pack and leave.
You lose track of time at this magic little place, not just because there aren't clocks to remind you of it, but because the days last so nicely with nothing more to do than relax and enjoy whatever is happening (or not happening).
If I were the type to conserve words (as if), I could have done a post that said, "Went to river. Got to know fabulously interesting and beautiful woman and the adoring love of her life. Dinner out. Boat ride."
But where's the fun in that?
...These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break
These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face
And when you do, you'll know how it was meant to be
Never before and never since, I promise,
will the whole world be warm as this...
Tuesday morning I awoke to the kind of e-mail that makes you smile at a screen.
"Any chance you could come visit tomorrow (Wed)? We can hang out...spend the night? I know it's late notice. Think about it! You don't need to bring anything but a toothbrush!"
This from the woman I'd just met Sunday night at a crab feast at her colorful and stylish cottage on the northern neck.
You can probably guess how fast I accepted an invitation to the river for a couple of days.
I don't want to say I was excited about the trip, but I woke up at 6:15, laid there for an hour and finally realized I was too keyed up to go back to sleep and got up.
This from the person whose earliest waking time is usually 9ish and, more likely, 10ish.
Knowing how beautifully appointed her house is, I shouldn't have been the least bit surprised at the picture perfect day she'd ordered up: sunny, low humidity and the bluest of skies.
Arriving mid-morning after only a slight detour (of course I got lost for a short bit), we immediately took up residence on the deck overlooking the dock and river.
Stretched out under an enormous umbrella only slightly bluer than the sky, on lounge chairs only slightly less blue than the sky, we proceeded to talk as only two women born a year apart and with equivalent amounts of life experience can.
Since we'd been strangers just three days before, we covered every base from our old-fashioned childhoods (can you say crinolines?) through high school (pants, at long last!) and into adulthood with all the unexpected twists and turns of adulthood.
Memories tumbled out of both of us. A lot of Venus and Mars stuff. About the balance of power in a relationship.
It was a blast to discover how much we had in common and not just a disdain for sleepwear although goodness knows I appreciate a kindred soul.
We broke camp long enough to devour BLT salads she whipped up and brought to the deck before resuming our lounging to learn more about each other.
Okay, so maybe I had a little bit of a girl crush.
Mid-afternoon she asked what I wanted to do and graciously indulged my quest to ride the Ottoman ferry, something I'd been unable to do Sunday because the ferry doesn't run then.
Much to our surprise, it wasn't running yesterday either because the tide was so high, but at least I can say I tried. Again.
Someday my ferry will come.
Back at the cottage, we took a walk down Cow Shed lane where she showed me the old shed that used to house a thriving riverfront business .
Fifty cents bought you admission tot he nearby pool and $1 got you a night in one of the log cabins I could just see through the pine trees.
Best of all were the stories about the old shed back when it was a dance hall with bar stools made of saddles and weekly dances.
After too much fighting between male customers over girls, the Shed instituted a rule that men were only admitted if they had a date.
Because we know how men settle down when they're under the influence of a woman.
But since the dance hall days were long over, we were happy to accept her husband's invitation when he called as we were sipping limeades, asking to take us out to dinner.
And since girls gotta shower before being taken out, that meant I got a chance to take advantage of the roomiest, most attractive outdoor shower I've ever seen.
With the blue sky overhead providing accent color to the yellow and white shower room (stall is too small a word for this place), I took my time like I never do showering inside.
If you ask me, the world would be a happier place if more people showered outside.
Clean and dressed, we took glasses of Picpoul de Pinet to the deck to await the arrival of her husband, our collective date.
The drive to Reedville resulted in my first real look at the quaint town I had been in once, but only to catch a boat. This time, we took a slow drive to admire the Victorian and older elaborate houses that lined the main drag.
At the Crazy Crab, we got waterfront seats on the deck with a view of huge fishing boat masts and boats bobbing gently nearby.
The nearest boat was named "Love's Last Episode," a fitting title, we decided, for true love.
It was our server's first night and she barely looked old enough to bring us wine and Arrogant Bastards, but she did so she must have been older than we could tell.
She did a fine job of bringing us all kinds of fresh seafood: mussels, steamed shrimp, crab cake on fried green tomatoes, hush puppies and slaw.
Midway through the meal, another young girl approached us, asking if we wanted popcorn.
Not sure why we were being given snack food mid-meal, we happily accepted nonetheless and a basket of popcorn soon showed up.
With a sweeping view of Cockrell's Creek and the orange setting sun, we took advantage of having male company to talk about relationships, both beginnings, endings and restarts.
My friends dated for years before breaking up, then spent a few years dating others before reuniting.
They now refer to the period apart as "the terrible awful," a phrase I find very romantic coming from them both.
Somehow the subject of music led to his penchant for a satellite radio Italian contemporary music station, music he finds sexy but not distracting.
"When Italian contemporary comes on, I know what's next," my friend said, making me laugh out loud.
Dessert was creme brulee and chocolate pots de creme under a dusky sky, pushing us solidly into stuffed territory. We left full and happy after such a pleasant and talkative evening.
I'd been given a choice of three beds to spend the night in and chose the one on the guesthouse porch, a twin bed under a ceiling fan and inches away from one of the three screened walls.
With the breeze whispering through the trees just outside, I fell asleep on the porch bed and slept like a rock until a cardinal alighted on the nearby picket fence this morning and began singing me awake.
After breakfast we took a walk down Queenstown Road to find the commemorative stones where local lore claimed that John Rolfe had first set foot.
No trespassing signs stopped us not long before the river, so we had to imagine it after all.
Today's plan was to take a ride in the boat and it turned out to be a glorious day for it because the river was almost smooth as glass under a cloudless sky.
We started out and toward Irvington and in no time, spotted dolphins nearby. Within seconds, one grazed the boat next to where I sat.
Jumping up to see them better, we powered down the boat and began, well, stalking them, allowing them to lead us, follow us or just frolic for our delight.
My friends said they'd never seen dolphins out there on all their boat rides, so I felt privileged to have been along when it happened.
After a while, it seemed as if the dolphins were playing with us, staying underwater for a bit and then popping up incredibly nearby, dipping far under the boat and coming up on the other side, entertaining us constantly.
Scads of pictures were taken as they rose out of the water in unison, so close we could hear the sound of them breathing as they broke water, impossible when you watch them from the beach at the ocean.
We followed, snapping pictures all the way to and under the White Stone bridge, where the bridge above created a silver and blue metallic reflection on the barely rippling surface of the river.
We passed a midnight blue sailboat looking quite patriotic with white sails trimmed in red.
They pointed out Merroir and the red-roofed Tides Inn with yachts docked in front of it. You could almost smell the money from where we were.
But natural beauty aside, the dolphins were our main focus and honestly, the delight we took in their antics was no less after an hour and a half than when they first began.
It had been so unexpected. They were so close. It was such a random thing. We were so lucky.
Eventually we returned to the dock for lunch and one last adventure: my first ride on a jet ski.
Taking the rear-facing position behind them, we sprinted around the river, even making a loop around the Ottoman Ferry in progress from shore to shore.
I'll ride you yet, Ottoman, she vowed shaking her fist at the quaint little boat making its way along at a snail's pace.
Back at the cottage, sadly it was time for me to pack and leave.
You lose track of time at this magic little place, not just because there aren't clocks to remind you of it, but because the days last so nicely with nothing more to do than relax and enjoy whatever is happening (or not happening).
If I were the type to conserve words (as if), I could have done a post that said, "Went to river. Got to know fabulously interesting and beautiful woman and the adoring love of her life. Dinner out. Boat ride."
But where's the fun in that?
...These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break
These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face
And when you do, you'll know how it was meant to be
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Only Endless Horror
I think I got everything out of Tuesday I possibly could.
First up was a navigation lesson, one of the bazillion in my clueless life.
Although I was sure I'd walked the buttermilk trail on the southside of the river last week, today I learned differently.
I'd walked the service road, not the trail. Oops.
No problemo, a willing walker joined me and we began at Texas beach, crossed the Boulevard bridge (my first time on foot) and wound our way down to the real buttermilk trail.
No, really. This time I had a corroborating witness.
With the heavens alternately spitting, raining and closing in on us with humidity, I arrived back at Texas beach with my shirt soaked through with sweat, front and back.
Very satisfying.
Lunch followed at Doner Kebab (inside so our sweaty clothes could dry in the air conditioning), where I convinced my fellow walker that the chicken shawarma is actually more delicious than the beef/lamb one, not an easy thing to believe until you taste it.
He gave me an amen.
Finally making myself sit down to write an article for which I'd done four interviews last week, the words flowed easily and the afternoon passed in a haze of winnowing down thousands of words to merely 800.
You know how I like to run on.
Once showered to removed trail sweat and worse, I did the easiest possible thing on a Tuesday: went to watch a bad movie at a bar.
River City Classic not so classic movie night was showing 1962's "The Flesh Eaters," considered one of the first gore movies ever for its graphic violence. In black and white naturally, but I guess that's what passed for gore in 1962.
Right up my alley? Not really. Sure to be a good time? You know it.
Getting there early enough to claim my favorite booth, I watched cheesy trailers to "Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde," "Equinox" - "in supernatural color," it claimed, and "The Leech Woman" - "for her, there could be no love, only endless horror."
Must've sucked to be leech woman.
A couple came in just as the trailers ended, sat down at the bar and announced to no one in particular, "Let the flesh eating begin!"
Premise: faded movie star and her nubile assistant enlist ruggedly handsome pilot to fly them to Provincetown despite a forecast of a hurricane.
Ergo, the plane is downed on a remote island that happens to house an evil German-accented doctor working on cultivating the terrifying flesh eaters.
Totally plausible, right?
And soon enough, glowing, flesh-eating microbes began eating fish and hapless victims in the water.
Since they only ate flesh, that meant that they were always finding full skeletons in the water, bones picked clean (hair and bikini top left in place).
Once it becomes obvious the three are stranded on the island, they make do by retrieving the raft from the boat for the women to sleep on.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll go inflate the bed," our hero Grant says suavely.
"Cause we deflated it last night!" a guy in a nearby booth called out.
We soon learned that the has-been movie actress has some addiction issues when she insists on going back to the plane to get her suitcase full of booze.
"Gentlemen, I drink! Not polite cocktails, I drink!"
Which means when she finally gets to her stash, she cradles the bottle in her arms and says, "Everybody keeps trying to take my medicine away!" and a guy at the bar called out, "Bartender, I need my medicine!"
Of course she gets trashed and passes out on the beach for the night, waking up to blinding sun and a headache you could almost see.
"I know what that's like!" a guy shouted.
"You know what it's like to wake up on a beach with a rope around your hand?" someone else yelled.
Uh-oh, our drunkard had let the plane get away, leaving her holding the rope where the plane's anchor used to be.
Watching the comely assistant climb a dune, someone said in a German accent, "Ooh, zee junk in zee trunk!"
But it was when the actress spots her liquor suitcase bobbing in the waves and goes after it that a guy said, "I have a feeling this isn't going to end well..." but square-jawed Grant rescued her, losing only a little calf flesh in the process.
Just when I thought the film couldn't get any cornier, there appeared on the horizon a beatnik (using words such as kooky and jazz) on a raft with a record player and a flag with a heart on it flying in the breeze.
Real gone, man.
"That beatnik music won't keep the flesh eaters away!" someone at the bar yelled at him in warning.
He ignored it ("Don't worry, Omar's got the love weapon," he assured them) and sure enough, soon the flesh eaters were sizzling through the rope sandals that had taken him three weeks to make.
By then the actress was convinced that there was no chance of rescue. "Oh, heaven protect a simple lady lush in a place like this!" she said to the sky.
That's the kind of prayer I might want to pull out at some future date to dazzle party guests.
Her solution is to put on lipstick and perfume, unbutton her shirt a few notches and try to convince the evil doctor that she's on his side.
Doesn't work, he stabs her and leaves her for dead, but like in any good gore movie, she pops up unexpectedly later to help fight evil.
I wouldn't think of spoiling the ending or the suicide, giant hypodermic full of the castaways' blood and recorded death screams leading up to it, but I will tell you this.
After a back flip, Grant and the blond assistant have a shoreline hug before heading up toward the center of the island, away from the freshly dead flesh eater monster and dead doc.
"Let's just get naked," the guy in the booth to my right suggested to the happy couple.
"And they died on the island," deadpanned another. The end.
Moral of the story: as long as you've got the love weapon, you've got it all. Flesh eaters excepted.
First up was a navigation lesson, one of the bazillion in my clueless life.
Although I was sure I'd walked the buttermilk trail on the southside of the river last week, today I learned differently.
I'd walked the service road, not the trail. Oops.
No problemo, a willing walker joined me and we began at Texas beach, crossed the Boulevard bridge (my first time on foot) and wound our way down to the real buttermilk trail.
No, really. This time I had a corroborating witness.
With the heavens alternately spitting, raining and closing in on us with humidity, I arrived back at Texas beach with my shirt soaked through with sweat, front and back.
Very satisfying.
Lunch followed at Doner Kebab (inside so our sweaty clothes could dry in the air conditioning), where I convinced my fellow walker that the chicken shawarma is actually more delicious than the beef/lamb one, not an easy thing to believe until you taste it.
He gave me an amen.
Finally making myself sit down to write an article for which I'd done four interviews last week, the words flowed easily and the afternoon passed in a haze of winnowing down thousands of words to merely 800.
You know how I like to run on.
Once showered to removed trail sweat and worse, I did the easiest possible thing on a Tuesday: went to watch a bad movie at a bar.
River City Classic not so classic movie night was showing 1962's "The Flesh Eaters," considered one of the first gore movies ever for its graphic violence. In black and white naturally, but I guess that's what passed for gore in 1962.
Right up my alley? Not really. Sure to be a good time? You know it.
Getting there early enough to claim my favorite booth, I watched cheesy trailers to "Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde," "Equinox" - "in supernatural color," it claimed, and "The Leech Woman" - "for her, there could be no love, only endless horror."
Must've sucked to be leech woman.
A couple came in just as the trailers ended, sat down at the bar and announced to no one in particular, "Let the flesh eating begin!"
Premise: faded movie star and her nubile assistant enlist ruggedly handsome pilot to fly them to Provincetown despite a forecast of a hurricane.
Ergo, the plane is downed on a remote island that happens to house an evil German-accented doctor working on cultivating the terrifying flesh eaters.
Totally plausible, right?
And soon enough, glowing, flesh-eating microbes began eating fish and hapless victims in the water.
Since they only ate flesh, that meant that they were always finding full skeletons in the water, bones picked clean (hair and bikini top left in place).
Once it becomes obvious the three are stranded on the island, they make do by retrieving the raft from the boat for the women to sleep on.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll go inflate the bed," our hero Grant says suavely.
"Cause we deflated it last night!" a guy in a nearby booth called out.
We soon learned that the has-been movie actress has some addiction issues when she insists on going back to the plane to get her suitcase full of booze.
"Gentlemen, I drink! Not polite cocktails, I drink!"
Which means when she finally gets to her stash, she cradles the bottle in her arms and says, "Everybody keeps trying to take my medicine away!" and a guy at the bar called out, "Bartender, I need my medicine!"
Of course she gets trashed and passes out on the beach for the night, waking up to blinding sun and a headache you could almost see.
"I know what that's like!" a guy shouted.
"You know what it's like to wake up on a beach with a rope around your hand?" someone else yelled.
Uh-oh, our drunkard had let the plane get away, leaving her holding the rope where the plane's anchor used to be.
Watching the comely assistant climb a dune, someone said in a German accent, "Ooh, zee junk in zee trunk!"
But it was when the actress spots her liquor suitcase bobbing in the waves and goes after it that a guy said, "I have a feeling this isn't going to end well..." but square-jawed Grant rescued her, losing only a little calf flesh in the process.
Just when I thought the film couldn't get any cornier, there appeared on the horizon a beatnik (using words such as kooky and jazz) on a raft with a record player and a flag with a heart on it flying in the breeze.
Real gone, man.
"That beatnik music won't keep the flesh eaters away!" someone at the bar yelled at him in warning.
He ignored it ("Don't worry, Omar's got the love weapon," he assured them) and sure enough, soon the flesh eaters were sizzling through the rope sandals that had taken him three weeks to make.
By then the actress was convinced that there was no chance of rescue. "Oh, heaven protect a simple lady lush in a place like this!" she said to the sky.
That's the kind of prayer I might want to pull out at some future date to dazzle party guests.
Her solution is to put on lipstick and perfume, unbutton her shirt a few notches and try to convince the evil doctor that she's on his side.
Doesn't work, he stabs her and leaves her for dead, but like in any good gore movie, she pops up unexpectedly later to help fight evil.
I wouldn't think of spoiling the ending or the suicide, giant hypodermic full of the castaways' blood and recorded death screams leading up to it, but I will tell you this.
After a back flip, Grant and the blond assistant have a shoreline hug before heading up toward the center of the island, away from the freshly dead flesh eater monster and dead doc.
"Let's just get naked," the guy in the booth to my right suggested to the happy couple.
"And they died on the island," deadpanned another. The end.
Moral of the story: as long as you've got the love weapon, you've got it all. Flesh eaters excepted.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Give Me a Reason
Of all the ways I could wile away a couple of days, I may have found one of the best.
So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city
The National had it right. How fortunate was I to be asked to escape the city for the river?
Invited to the northern neck to eat crabs, I packed one sundress, a toothbrush and enough fruit to mitigate the bad influences.
Stop one was Willoby's on the Rappahannock where I had a lunch of an epic crab cake, the kind where you wonder how those lumps of back fin are bound together, and a view of the Rapphannock sparkling in the afternoon sun at one of its widest points.
Next came Good Luck Cellars, a place I'd been before, but new to my date and a pleasure to experience with the owners.
From the dozen wines offered in the tasting to a tour of the cupola and wine cellar, we found strangers to talk to, photographs to inspect and winery dogs sniffing around my companion's.
We lingered on the porch with glasses of Good Luck Cellars' Vignoles 2013 with a big, peachy nose and a rich stone fruit finish, appealing to those of us allergic to stone fruit but still eager to get my fix where I can.
Fact is, we spent so much time at the winery that we just barely made it to our friends' house at a respectable hour for the crab feast.
As much as I love crabs, they were forgotten when we arrived and found what surely must be the most charming river house on the planet.
Where do I start? Beds and colorful, antique quilts on porches, steps leading down to a lengthy dock and the biggest, hands down biggest, outdoor shower I've ever seen.
Half covered by a roof overhang and half open to the sun or moon, it was the kind of outdoor shower I dream about: big enough to dance and/or get clean in.
After meeting our hosts, the man of the house said that if anyone wanted him to put the boat in the water so we could go for a ride, to let him know.
My hand went up as fast as a Jeopardy contestant hits the buzzer and next thing I know, we are all dock-bound for a ride on the western branch of the Caratoman river in the late afternoon sun.
Splayed out on the front of the boat next to my just-met hostess, we bonded over age, true love and having sex in outdoor showers (her, not me).
Amazing what a woman will share with a glass of pink bubbles in her hand and the wind blowing through her hair.
Back on the deck, newspaper was laid out for crab picking, a specialty of mine, followed by steaks and steelhead trout, a sumptuous feast set out under a beautifully clear sky with great company both familiar and new.
Once everything in sight had been consumed, we debated the super moon and decided that the best way to chase it was via boat and all piled back in the craft again.
Our route was much shorter at dusk, essentially a straight shot in the direction of that big, fat yellow moon lingering low in the August night sky and then back again.
Returned to the deck, we savored our hostess' key lime pie and a moon that just kept climbing higher in the clear, night sky.
Richmond felt like a world away.
Today's adventure began with a change to the other sundress and a walk on Windmill Point, a sandy beach where a lighthouse once stood, waves gently lapping at the sand as we made our way along the shore.
Next came a history lesson at Christ Church - a 1735 colonial Anglican church - led by an enthusiastic volunteer who'd once volunteered at Mount Vernon and seemed to share as much about Washington's house as the church we were standing in.
So she digressed a bit. Don't we all?
But it was an impressive structure, with floors of 400,000 year old stone, a vaulted roof and pew boxes so high it was impossible to see other churchgoers (intentional, she said).
I know plenty of people would be bored listening to a guide talk about a nearly 400 year old building, but not me. It was impressive to think about the role this still-imposing building must have played in colonial life.
Lunch was at Merroir on a day meant to be outside, alternately sunny and cloudy, occasionally spitting a raindrop or two, at the same umbrella-covered table at which I'd eaten just a few weeks ago.
Our server was the able-bodied Caleb, a sincere and efficient young man who told us he went to Hampden Sydney and was spending the summer earning money at Merroir.
For the first time ever, they were out of Old Saltes after the weekend, so we ordered a dozen Rapphannocks and a dozen Stingrays and Caleb warned us that they were short-staffed so he'd have to shuck the oysters himself.
Fortunately, he brought over our bottle of Gruet Brut before donning his shucking gloves and proving how multi-talented he was.
When he returned in record time with the second dozen, he admitted he hadn't shucked them, not that he wasn't a talented shucker, he assured us. "They call me Shuck Norris," he joked.
On the other side of the patio was a long table and person by person, the group at it grew until it seemed obvious that it was a clutch of restaurant employees. You can just tell.
Also obvious, to me at least, was that these were not Richmond people but hipsters of another type, more affected, less genuine and trying oh-so hard to ooze coolness.
Fun to watch, not the types I'd want joining my fun.
After further fortifying ourselves with steamed shrimp and a special of scallops and slaw, we decided to take the show on the oyster road.
So we asked Caleb for a bottle of the tangy and complex Las Fils de Gras Mouton Muscadet and made tracks for Merroir's deck to spend the afternoon.
I got barely a few steps when a woman approached me, only to realize I knew her.
She was part of that huge table, who turned out to be D.C. restaurant Eat the Rich's staff, and someone I knew from Richmond's restaurant and theater scene.
"I know you're everywhere, but I still never expected to see you here!" she said.
That's what they all say.
After catching up on her life in Washington, my date and I continued on to the dock, taking Adirondack chairs and setting our wine bucket between us in the shade.
Before long, a couple of the D.C. hipsters strolled down and picked up some of the crushed oyster shells lining the walkway.
"What are these white things?" one girl asked.
After all, why should someone at an oyster growing and packing (not to mention serving) facility immediately think of crushed oyster shells when they see crushed white things?
No need to answer that.
Driving back to Richmond, I couldn't help but think that it had been a pretty terrific little getaway, with outstanding food and drink, unexpected boat rides, serious stargazing (some of it to Chaka Khan) and sightseeing, a lot for 36 hours, even for me.
And while you might think we'd seen enough action for the time being, we wound up making our last stop The Roosevelt for dinner.
People gotta eat.
Hardly surprisingly, it was hopping even on a Monday night, but we still scored bar stools (the only two free) and Thibaud Jannison bubbles to accompany lamb nachos, a specialty of the kitchen tonight.
Smoked chicken wings and a cheeseburger rounded out the meal, making for an upscale southern take on classic bar food.
I got home to an e-mail from my new river friend. "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"
Yes, I admit I'm tired after so much non-stop fun.
But, make no mistake, also oh-so happy to have been invited.
So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city
The National had it right. How fortunate was I to be asked to escape the city for the river?
Invited to the northern neck to eat crabs, I packed one sundress, a toothbrush and enough fruit to mitigate the bad influences.
Stop one was Willoby's on the Rappahannock where I had a lunch of an epic crab cake, the kind where you wonder how those lumps of back fin are bound together, and a view of the Rapphannock sparkling in the afternoon sun at one of its widest points.
Next came Good Luck Cellars, a place I'd been before, but new to my date and a pleasure to experience with the owners.
From the dozen wines offered in the tasting to a tour of the cupola and wine cellar, we found strangers to talk to, photographs to inspect and winery dogs sniffing around my companion's.
We lingered on the porch with glasses of Good Luck Cellars' Vignoles 2013 with a big, peachy nose and a rich stone fruit finish, appealing to those of us allergic to stone fruit but still eager to get my fix where I can.
Fact is, we spent so much time at the winery that we just barely made it to our friends' house at a respectable hour for the crab feast.
As much as I love crabs, they were forgotten when we arrived and found what surely must be the most charming river house on the planet.
Where do I start? Beds and colorful, antique quilts on porches, steps leading down to a lengthy dock and the biggest, hands down biggest, outdoor shower I've ever seen.
Half covered by a roof overhang and half open to the sun or moon, it was the kind of outdoor shower I dream about: big enough to dance and/or get clean in.
After meeting our hosts, the man of the house said that if anyone wanted him to put the boat in the water so we could go for a ride, to let him know.
My hand went up as fast as a Jeopardy contestant hits the buzzer and next thing I know, we are all dock-bound for a ride on the western branch of the Caratoman river in the late afternoon sun.
Splayed out on the front of the boat next to my just-met hostess, we bonded over age, true love and having sex in outdoor showers (her, not me).
Amazing what a woman will share with a glass of pink bubbles in her hand and the wind blowing through her hair.
Back on the deck, newspaper was laid out for crab picking, a specialty of mine, followed by steaks and steelhead trout, a sumptuous feast set out under a beautifully clear sky with great company both familiar and new.
Once everything in sight had been consumed, we debated the super moon and decided that the best way to chase it was via boat and all piled back in the craft again.
Our route was much shorter at dusk, essentially a straight shot in the direction of that big, fat yellow moon lingering low in the August night sky and then back again.
Returned to the deck, we savored our hostess' key lime pie and a moon that just kept climbing higher in the clear, night sky.
Richmond felt like a world away.
Today's adventure began with a change to the other sundress and a walk on Windmill Point, a sandy beach where a lighthouse once stood, waves gently lapping at the sand as we made our way along the shore.
Next came a history lesson at Christ Church - a 1735 colonial Anglican church - led by an enthusiastic volunteer who'd once volunteered at Mount Vernon and seemed to share as much about Washington's house as the church we were standing in.
So she digressed a bit. Don't we all?
But it was an impressive structure, with floors of 400,000 year old stone, a vaulted roof and pew boxes so high it was impossible to see other churchgoers (intentional, she said).
I know plenty of people would be bored listening to a guide talk about a nearly 400 year old building, but not me. It was impressive to think about the role this still-imposing building must have played in colonial life.
Lunch was at Merroir on a day meant to be outside, alternately sunny and cloudy, occasionally spitting a raindrop or two, at the same umbrella-covered table at which I'd eaten just a few weeks ago.
Our server was the able-bodied Caleb, a sincere and efficient young man who told us he went to Hampden Sydney and was spending the summer earning money at Merroir.
For the first time ever, they were out of Old Saltes after the weekend, so we ordered a dozen Rapphannocks and a dozen Stingrays and Caleb warned us that they were short-staffed so he'd have to shuck the oysters himself.
Fortunately, he brought over our bottle of Gruet Brut before donning his shucking gloves and proving how multi-talented he was.
When he returned in record time with the second dozen, he admitted he hadn't shucked them, not that he wasn't a talented shucker, he assured us. "They call me Shuck Norris," he joked.
On the other side of the patio was a long table and person by person, the group at it grew until it seemed obvious that it was a clutch of restaurant employees. You can just tell.
Also obvious, to me at least, was that these were not Richmond people but hipsters of another type, more affected, less genuine and trying oh-so hard to ooze coolness.
Fun to watch, not the types I'd want joining my fun.
After further fortifying ourselves with steamed shrimp and a special of scallops and slaw, we decided to take the show on the oyster road.
So we asked Caleb for a bottle of the tangy and complex Las Fils de Gras Mouton Muscadet and made tracks for Merroir's deck to spend the afternoon.
I got barely a few steps when a woman approached me, only to realize I knew her.
She was part of that huge table, who turned out to be D.C. restaurant Eat the Rich's staff, and someone I knew from Richmond's restaurant and theater scene.
"I know you're everywhere, but I still never expected to see you here!" she said.
That's what they all say.
After catching up on her life in Washington, my date and I continued on to the dock, taking Adirondack chairs and setting our wine bucket between us in the shade.
Before long, a couple of the D.C. hipsters strolled down and picked up some of the crushed oyster shells lining the walkway.
"What are these white things?" one girl asked.
After all, why should someone at an oyster growing and packing (not to mention serving) facility immediately think of crushed oyster shells when they see crushed white things?
No need to answer that.
Driving back to Richmond, I couldn't help but think that it had been a pretty terrific little getaway, with outstanding food and drink, unexpected boat rides, serious stargazing (some of it to Chaka Khan) and sightseeing, a lot for 36 hours, even for me.
And while you might think we'd seen enough action for the time being, we wound up making our last stop The Roosevelt for dinner.
People gotta eat.
Hardly surprisingly, it was hopping even on a Monday night, but we still scored bar stools (the only two free) and Thibaud Jannison bubbles to accompany lamb nachos, a specialty of the kitchen tonight.
Smoked chicken wings and a cheeseburger rounded out the meal, making for an upscale southern take on classic bar food.
I got home to an e-mail from my new river friend. "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"
Yes, I admit I'm tired after so much non-stop fun.
But, make no mistake, also oh-so happy to have been invited.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
When American Women Talk
Saturday nights are alright for belated birthday celebrations, not fighting.
The Leo being feted is a long-time friend, something like almost 20 years, and one with whom I have much in common and with the rest, we complement one another magnificently
When she picked me up, she made sure I knew she'd gotten as far as her car before going back in the house to put on lipstick "because I was meeting Karen," according to her.
It's satisfying to know I can inspire friends to the heights of lipstick wearing for our dates.
Properly made up, we wiped the lipstick off our teeth and drove straight to Bistro Bobette where we found the door stuck closed, swollen the way doors do in the summertime.
Bartender Olivier was kind enough to push it open from the inside, revealing reservation signs on most of the tables but not a person in the restaurant other than staff.
We settled into a corner of the bar to catch up after a month and a half apart ("Never more than three weeks again!") with glasses of intensely pink and aromatic Chateau de Campuget Rose and more stories than we could possibly share in one evening.
Happily, we had the bar to ourselves so we could laugh hysterically and shriek over high points in the narrative without disturbing anyone else.
Back and forth we went - my beach week, her Massachusetts vacation, my hurricane story, her hoarder tale, my writing life, her dead car on the side of the road.
Breaking to eat something obscenely rich, we chose tonight's featured appetizer, a big, fat slab of pate en croute, a decadent combination of veal, rabbit, pistachios and foie gras in puff pastry with cornichons, apricot puree and gelee.
Bobette's pates are always out of this world and this one was no different, earthy and addictive, especially when paired with a vinegar or sweet complement.
My friend is a master storyteller (having graced Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story on several occasions) and tonight she had a couple of beauts, including one revolving around her health of late.
"So it's been kind of a tough summer what with having the plague and going blind," she deadpanned and we both laughed uproariously.
And while it's certainly one way to put it, the shame of it is that it's more or less true.
Meanwhile, three women arrived and took seats at the bar and I soon learned that the two younger ones were actresses in Meg Ryan's upcoming film "Ithaca" and the middle-aged one was the set director.
If there's anywhere I know I will reliably see/meet actors, directors and movie people, whetehr I want to or not, it's Bistro Bobette.
For that matter, a handsome young man appeared out of nowhere and threw his arms around my friend and he turned out to be a costume and wig designer from NYC down for the weekend.
On the way to the loo, Olivier asked where my usual beautiful tights were and I had to remind him it was bare leg season. Silly bartender, tights are for cold weather.
As part of the birthday business, I presented my friend, a fabulous cook and hostess, with a card and book - the tantalizing "When French Women Cook: A Gastronomic Memoir" - as a present, a nod to her having gifted m with "The Goldfinch" for my birthday.
That also turned out to be a jumping off point since she'd read "The Goldfinch" first and we'd both recently read some juicy criticism of the book.
You have no idea how much I enjoy dissecting a book with a friend, even more so when that friend was the one gave me the book with the caveat, "I know you don't usually read fiction, but I think you're going to love this."
The bottom line is this: is there any difference between a good read and literature?
History has proven that so many books we now consider classics were originally panned by critics as frivolous and with little redeeming value, only to become essential to subsequent generations.
Will the Pulitzer prize- winning "The Goldfinch" still be a must-read in 100 years? Hard to say and I guess I'll never know.
For dessert we chose chocolate mousse, deeply flavorful and with a mouthfeel that spoke to the quality ingredients used to make it, a fitting close to our belated birthday soiree.
Fully aware that we hadn't begun to cover all the ground we needed to, we spent the last of our evening together plotting a road trip for next week so we can be guaranteed a whole day to talk until we run out of stories and opinions.
Yea, like that'll ever happen.
The Leo being feted is a long-time friend, something like almost 20 years, and one with whom I have much in common and with the rest, we complement one another magnificently
When she picked me up, she made sure I knew she'd gotten as far as her car before going back in the house to put on lipstick "because I was meeting Karen," according to her.
It's satisfying to know I can inspire friends to the heights of lipstick wearing for our dates.
Properly made up, we wiped the lipstick off our teeth and drove straight to Bistro Bobette where we found the door stuck closed, swollen the way doors do in the summertime.
Bartender Olivier was kind enough to push it open from the inside, revealing reservation signs on most of the tables but not a person in the restaurant other than staff.
We settled into a corner of the bar to catch up after a month and a half apart ("Never more than three weeks again!") with glasses of intensely pink and aromatic Chateau de Campuget Rose and more stories than we could possibly share in one evening.
Happily, we had the bar to ourselves so we could laugh hysterically and shriek over high points in the narrative without disturbing anyone else.
Back and forth we went - my beach week, her Massachusetts vacation, my hurricane story, her hoarder tale, my writing life, her dead car on the side of the road.
Breaking to eat something obscenely rich, we chose tonight's featured appetizer, a big, fat slab of pate en croute, a decadent combination of veal, rabbit, pistachios and foie gras in puff pastry with cornichons, apricot puree and gelee.
Bobette's pates are always out of this world and this one was no different, earthy and addictive, especially when paired with a vinegar or sweet complement.
My friend is a master storyteller (having graced Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story on several occasions) and tonight she had a couple of beauts, including one revolving around her health of late.
"So it's been kind of a tough summer what with having the plague and going blind," she deadpanned and we both laughed uproariously.
And while it's certainly one way to put it, the shame of it is that it's more or less true.
Meanwhile, three women arrived and took seats at the bar and I soon learned that the two younger ones were actresses in Meg Ryan's upcoming film "Ithaca" and the middle-aged one was the set director.
If there's anywhere I know I will reliably see/meet actors, directors and movie people, whetehr I want to or not, it's Bistro Bobette.
For that matter, a handsome young man appeared out of nowhere and threw his arms around my friend and he turned out to be a costume and wig designer from NYC down for the weekend.
On the way to the loo, Olivier asked where my usual beautiful tights were and I had to remind him it was bare leg season. Silly bartender, tights are for cold weather.
As part of the birthday business, I presented my friend, a fabulous cook and hostess, with a card and book - the tantalizing "When French Women Cook: A Gastronomic Memoir" - as a present, a nod to her having gifted m with "The Goldfinch" for my birthday.
That also turned out to be a jumping off point since she'd read "The Goldfinch" first and we'd both recently read some juicy criticism of the book.
You have no idea how much I enjoy dissecting a book with a friend, even more so when that friend was the one gave me the book with the caveat, "I know you don't usually read fiction, but I think you're going to love this."
The bottom line is this: is there any difference between a good read and literature?
History has proven that so many books we now consider classics were originally panned by critics as frivolous and with little redeeming value, only to become essential to subsequent generations.
Will the Pulitzer prize- winning "The Goldfinch" still be a must-read in 100 years? Hard to say and I guess I'll never know.
For dessert we chose chocolate mousse, deeply flavorful and with a mouthfeel that spoke to the quality ingredients used to make it, a fitting close to our belated birthday soiree.
Fully aware that we hadn't begun to cover all the ground we needed to, we spent the last of our evening together plotting a road trip for next week so we can be guaranteed a whole day to talk until we run out of stories and opinions.
Yea, like that'll ever happen.
Throw Me, Babycakes
There was a grand show happening at Gallery 5.
After taking my hired mouth and a friend to dinner, I dropped her off at home at 8:10 and by 8:30 was strolling over to G5.
Unfortunately, having to eat for a living had prevented me from hearing a couple of friends' DJ sets but I heard she played a lot of amazing girl-fronted bands and he played a bunch of ambient soundscapes, so all I know is I missed some great stuff.
Playing first was Positive No with their dynamic front woman Tracy sporting a fabulous haircut, colorful tunic and high wattage smiles as she pogoed in place and sang in her dreamy voice over fuzzed out guitar.
"Because there's burlesque here sometimes, I'm seeing some really interesting stuff on the floor up here," she said. "Sequins I like to think once covered naughty bits, entire peel-off nails that look like fingernails."
She dedicated one song to their drummer Willis, saying it was his third to last show with the band, a real shame since I'm a big fan of his hard-hitting drumming.
By the end of their energetic set, everyone looked hot but Tracy said it best. "I welcome anyone to tell me where my mascara ended up on my face."
Guitarist Kenny volunteered, "I believe Boy George is DJ-ing at the Hat Factory tonight..."
"We'll all need to freshen up first," she cracked back.
During the break we had another guest DJ, but I spent my time chatting with friends about buying frilly underwear at Taboo, couples breaking up and not breaking up and whether it's okay to use someone's phone to respond as the phone owner or not.
A friend approached me to chat, leaning in and asking about the crowd, "Who are these people?" Very few were familiar to me, so I had no answer.
It was business as usual when Dave Watkins came onstage with his (handmade) dulcitar and looping pedals and began blowing minds by layering his music to make dense, atmospheric songs.
The three young girls next to me, each with a big "X" on her hand, were mesmerized and watched slack-jawed as Dave made music.
There were more than the usual number of photographers there tonight and I laughed watching them repeatedly shoot pictures of Dave performing.
No photograph is capable of capturing the magic and energy of a Dave Watkins set, but damn if they didn't try.
I could have told them they'd end up with shots of a handsome guy, his curly hair hanging over his forehead, concentrating on doing 12 things at once. Just doesn't convey.
During that break, a group of us got into a discussion of Interpol and how fans of the band can immediately name their favorite song or two.
What was striking was that three of us immediately named "Leif Erikson" as our top choice.
She swears that I was prey for the female
Well then hook me up and throw me, babycakes, cause I'd like to get hooked
My cute friend referred to Interpol as great road trip music and I told her that the first two Interpol albums live permanently in my car for just that reason.
A guy I see at so many shows came up to chat only to discover we have a mutual love of summer heat and disdain for air conditioning.
He lived 20 years in San Francisco and cited our warmer weather and lower cost of living as reasons why Richmond beats San Fran any day.
And for the second time tonight, a friend walked up and asked me sotto voice, "So who are all these people? I've never seen them at shows here before."
We had to guess that they'd read about the Hoax Hunters show and didn't want to miss it. We gave them credit for that.
Then it was on to the reason tonight was such a celebration: Hoax Hunters' "Comfort & Safety" record release show.
The album, which boasts the tin foil-looking Markel building on the cover was being played start to finish for tonight's lucky fans.
Band leader PJ began by thanking producer Allen for his infinite patience as they recorded the dozen songs, mostly hard and fast, always loud (I saw far more earplugs than usual tonight) and short, but with an assurance that was impressive to behold.
PJ rhapsodized about Richmond's scene, about how it was challenging to make it musically here but how that was the thing that drew him here.
"There's so much good music here now. This town has really transformed."
I still recall the first time I saw PJ, whom I knew as a band photographer (met him when I bought one of his Interpol photographs from him) and all around nice guy, play music onstage at Sprout three summers ago.
I'd been blown away with what stage presence he'd had, becoming someone very different than the sweet guy I knew.
That talent has only grown over the years as PJ has become a hell of a showman, pushing the mic stand away as if it's a bully on the playground and then snatching it back as if to say, where the hell do you think you're going?
Plus he has all the rock star guitar moves and faces to ensure you can't take your eyes off of him for fear you'll miss something epic.
True to form, at one point he knocked the mic stand over entirely, saying. "Sorry, James. Not sorry."
After that, PJ felt the need to tune before doing "Six/Five" and then inviting Dave Watkins onstage to play guitar (not dulcitar) with them.
After a raffle to give away a clear copy of the new album, PJ said, "We're going to reward those who stayed around with a song by a guy I recently took a selfie with."
Right there I knew he meant Bob Mould (saw the selfie on Facebook) and they tore through a Husker Du song with all the energy and volume of, well, Husker Du.
Based on what a stellar set they played, I think it's a safe bet that from now on, I'm going to hear a whole lot of "Who are these people?" at their shows as word about Hoax Hunters gets out.
PJ's right about how Richmond's scene has transformed. Killer bands like his made sure of that.
Hmm, wonder what his favorite Interpol song is?
After taking my hired mouth and a friend to dinner, I dropped her off at home at 8:10 and by 8:30 was strolling over to G5.
Unfortunately, having to eat for a living had prevented me from hearing a couple of friends' DJ sets but I heard she played a lot of amazing girl-fronted bands and he played a bunch of ambient soundscapes, so all I know is I missed some great stuff.
Playing first was Positive No with their dynamic front woman Tracy sporting a fabulous haircut, colorful tunic and high wattage smiles as she pogoed in place and sang in her dreamy voice over fuzzed out guitar.
"Because there's burlesque here sometimes, I'm seeing some really interesting stuff on the floor up here," she said. "Sequins I like to think once covered naughty bits, entire peel-off nails that look like fingernails."
She dedicated one song to their drummer Willis, saying it was his third to last show with the band, a real shame since I'm a big fan of his hard-hitting drumming.
By the end of their energetic set, everyone looked hot but Tracy said it best. "I welcome anyone to tell me where my mascara ended up on my face."
Guitarist Kenny volunteered, "I believe Boy George is DJ-ing at the Hat Factory tonight..."
"We'll all need to freshen up first," she cracked back.
During the break we had another guest DJ, but I spent my time chatting with friends about buying frilly underwear at Taboo, couples breaking up and not breaking up and whether it's okay to use someone's phone to respond as the phone owner or not.
A friend approached me to chat, leaning in and asking about the crowd, "Who are these people?" Very few were familiar to me, so I had no answer.
It was business as usual when Dave Watkins came onstage with his (handmade) dulcitar and looping pedals and began blowing minds by layering his music to make dense, atmospheric songs.
The three young girls next to me, each with a big "X" on her hand, were mesmerized and watched slack-jawed as Dave made music.
There were more than the usual number of photographers there tonight and I laughed watching them repeatedly shoot pictures of Dave performing.
No photograph is capable of capturing the magic and energy of a Dave Watkins set, but damn if they didn't try.
I could have told them they'd end up with shots of a handsome guy, his curly hair hanging over his forehead, concentrating on doing 12 things at once. Just doesn't convey.
During that break, a group of us got into a discussion of Interpol and how fans of the band can immediately name their favorite song or two.
What was striking was that three of us immediately named "Leif Erikson" as our top choice.
She swears that I was prey for the female
Well then hook me up and throw me, babycakes, cause I'd like to get hooked
My cute friend referred to Interpol as great road trip music and I told her that the first two Interpol albums live permanently in my car for just that reason.
A guy I see at so many shows came up to chat only to discover we have a mutual love of summer heat and disdain for air conditioning.
He lived 20 years in San Francisco and cited our warmer weather and lower cost of living as reasons why Richmond beats San Fran any day.
And for the second time tonight, a friend walked up and asked me sotto voice, "So who are all these people? I've never seen them at shows here before."
We had to guess that they'd read about the Hoax Hunters show and didn't want to miss it. We gave them credit for that.
Then it was on to the reason tonight was such a celebration: Hoax Hunters' "Comfort & Safety" record release show.
The album, which boasts the tin foil-looking Markel building on the cover was being played start to finish for tonight's lucky fans.
Band leader PJ began by thanking producer Allen for his infinite patience as they recorded the dozen songs, mostly hard and fast, always loud (I saw far more earplugs than usual tonight) and short, but with an assurance that was impressive to behold.
PJ rhapsodized about Richmond's scene, about how it was challenging to make it musically here but how that was the thing that drew him here.
"There's so much good music here now. This town has really transformed."
I still recall the first time I saw PJ, whom I knew as a band photographer (met him when I bought one of his Interpol photographs from him) and all around nice guy, play music onstage at Sprout three summers ago.
I'd been blown away with what stage presence he'd had, becoming someone very different than the sweet guy I knew.
That talent has only grown over the years as PJ has become a hell of a showman, pushing the mic stand away as if it's a bully on the playground and then snatching it back as if to say, where the hell do you think you're going?
Plus he has all the rock star guitar moves and faces to ensure you can't take your eyes off of him for fear you'll miss something epic.
True to form, at one point he knocked the mic stand over entirely, saying. "Sorry, James. Not sorry."
After that, PJ felt the need to tune before doing "Six/Five" and then inviting Dave Watkins onstage to play guitar (not dulcitar) with them.
After a raffle to give away a clear copy of the new album, PJ said, "We're going to reward those who stayed around with a song by a guy I recently took a selfie with."
Right there I knew he meant Bob Mould (saw the selfie on Facebook) and they tore through a Husker Du song with all the energy and volume of, well, Husker Du.
Based on what a stellar set they played, I think it's a safe bet that from now on, I'm going to hear a whole lot of "Who are these people?" at their shows as word about Hoax Hunters gets out.
PJ's right about how Richmond's scene has transformed. Killer bands like his made sure of that.
Hmm, wonder what his favorite Interpol song is?
Friday, August 8, 2014
Taking It in Stride
I'm hooked, finding it impossible to resist exploring new river trails now that I've started.
Today I intended to walk the entire Buttermilk Trail on the south side of the river for the first time.
Walking toward the pedestrian bridge to Belle Isle, I found myself behind a woman with a map, which is like catnip to me.
Asking if she was a visitor (Albany, NY), I asked where she was headed and that's when things got good.
"Do you know what Volkssport is?" she asked. Sure don't.
She went on to explain about this international group begun in Germany devoted to the walking lifestyle. What a great phrase!
I've been doing my daily walks since 1998 but I'd never thought of myself as having a walking lifestyle, but of course I do.
She explained that she was doing a 10K walk laid out by Volkssport that would take her by the state capital and end at Legend. Apparently there are capital walks in every state that Volkssporters can get credit for.
"I've done the walks in 45 states, including Alaska, but not Hawaii," she explained to my amazement. "But it's taken me 20 years to do it!"
I was still impressed.
Her advice before we parted was to find the local chapter and join since I clearly had a taste for walking.
Today's was off to a terrific start.
Crossing over the bridge to the southside, I saw people sunning down on the rocks below before I turned onto the shaded path and set out.
It was so different than the North bank trail, more open, mostly graveled and with only intermittent glimpses of the river.
What it did have was frequent points of entry to the water and I saw more than a few people scrambling down rocks and wooded paths toward the river, lunches and towels in hand.
Reedy Creek meadow was breathtaking and had the most charming signs, one of which was almost completely hidden in the plants.
These meadows were planted with wildflowers to feed butterflies, hummingbirds and the inner human heart.
Consider mine fed.
Not sure why, but I was surprised to spot a tucked away picnic pavilion up against some rocks. Further on, I saw one labeled "Boulevard picnic area" and coming back along the rocks, I found one where someone had pitched a tent under the shelter next to the picnic tables.
Probably my favorite thing about the Buttermilk trail was how often I came upon places where moving water was diverted alongside the path from some hidden source hidden in the woods.
Hearing the pleasure squeals of kids in the river and on the rocks made for a fine soundtrack to accompany the rushing water.
Of course I managed to get lost on my way back, winding up down on the rocks under the bridge to Belle Isle instead of up where I could actually cross the bridge back.
But I figured it out by retracing steps and soon started up the ramp to the pedestrian bridge only to find stupidity in action.
Four young guys had decided to climb up an old bridge trestle, walk out on the narrow girder with one foot in front of the other and climb down the angled bridge support.
Walking the pedestrian bridge back over provided a front row seat to how high they were, how narrow the girder and how shallow and rocky the river there would be should they fall.
All along the pedestrian bridge, people stopped to watch the potential train wreck of these four guys.
I saw only one of them make it down safely before taking my clenched stomach and heading away.
Young man idiocy aside, it had been a most satisfying 10K. I'd been clued in to Volkssporting, seen some new river views and had my inner heart fed.
In addiction terms, I'd gotten my fix.
Today I intended to walk the entire Buttermilk Trail on the south side of the river for the first time.
Walking toward the pedestrian bridge to Belle Isle, I found myself behind a woman with a map, which is like catnip to me.
Asking if she was a visitor (Albany, NY), I asked where she was headed and that's when things got good.
"Do you know what Volkssport is?" she asked. Sure don't.
She went on to explain about this international group begun in Germany devoted to the walking lifestyle. What a great phrase!
I've been doing my daily walks since 1998 but I'd never thought of myself as having a walking lifestyle, but of course I do.
She explained that she was doing a 10K walk laid out by Volkssport that would take her by the state capital and end at Legend. Apparently there are capital walks in every state that Volkssporters can get credit for.
"I've done the walks in 45 states, including Alaska, but not Hawaii," she explained to my amazement. "But it's taken me 20 years to do it!"
I was still impressed.
Her advice before we parted was to find the local chapter and join since I clearly had a taste for walking.
Today's was off to a terrific start.
Crossing over the bridge to the southside, I saw people sunning down on the rocks below before I turned onto the shaded path and set out.
It was so different than the North bank trail, more open, mostly graveled and with only intermittent glimpses of the river.
What it did have was frequent points of entry to the water and I saw more than a few people scrambling down rocks and wooded paths toward the river, lunches and towels in hand.
Reedy Creek meadow was breathtaking and had the most charming signs, one of which was almost completely hidden in the plants.
These meadows were planted with wildflowers to feed butterflies, hummingbirds and the inner human heart.
Consider mine fed.
Not sure why, but I was surprised to spot a tucked away picnic pavilion up against some rocks. Further on, I saw one labeled "Boulevard picnic area" and coming back along the rocks, I found one where someone had pitched a tent under the shelter next to the picnic tables.
Probably my favorite thing about the Buttermilk trail was how often I came upon places where moving water was diverted alongside the path from some hidden source hidden in the woods.
Hearing the pleasure squeals of kids in the river and on the rocks made for a fine soundtrack to accompany the rushing water.
Of course I managed to get lost on my way back, winding up down on the rocks under the bridge to Belle Isle instead of up where I could actually cross the bridge back.
But I figured it out by retracing steps and soon started up the ramp to the pedestrian bridge only to find stupidity in action.
Four young guys had decided to climb up an old bridge trestle, walk out on the narrow girder with one foot in front of the other and climb down the angled bridge support.
Walking the pedestrian bridge back over provided a front row seat to how high they were, how narrow the girder and how shallow and rocky the river there would be should they fall.
All along the pedestrian bridge, people stopped to watch the potential train wreck of these four guys.
I saw only one of them make it down safely before taking my clenched stomach and heading away.
Young man idiocy aside, it had been a most satisfying 10K. I'd been clued in to Volkssporting, seen some new river views and had my inner heart fed.
In addiction terms, I'd gotten my fix.
Slamming and Hanging
My "real job" days are a distant memory.
It'll be six years in December since I last worked 9 to 5. Granted, I make a third of what I used to make, but the trade off is immeasurable.
A position for which I'd be well-suited recently recently came up and I didn't for a minute consider applying. As a trusted friend put it, why on earth - besides money - would I give up the freedom I have?
Short answer: I wouldn't.
Not when I can have adventures any day, any time I want to. Not when I can pick up and go out of town on a whim. Not when I can stay out as late - or early the next morning - as the fun's still happening.
Thursday's escapades, all focused eastward, began with a drive to Kilmarnock to meet my parents for lunch at Northern Neck Burger Company.
Written on the walls were aphorisms such as, "Every so often, go where you can hear a wooden door slam," which had no attribution.
I pointed out one from Winston Churchill on the wall behind us and Mom read it to Dad as he smiled and nodded in agreement, "The most beautiful voice in the world is that of an educated southern woman."
Mom and I are southern women only by virtue of where we live, both of us having been born in Washington, D.C., a city of, as JFK famously put it, northern charm and southern efficiency.
But we understood the point.
Over decidedly tasty burgers laden with grilled onions, bacon and cheese, they told me the continuing saga of getting their house put back together after a storm in late May sent a massive tree through two stories of it.
Things move slow in these parts.
Kilmarnock is the kind of small town where a man reading the local paper as he eats doesn't throw it away afterwards, he takes it to a couple at a nearby table and offers it to them, saying it's only been read once.
The beautiful weather and low humidity made for glorious road trip weather, never more so than on my maiden voyage crossing the wide bridge near the mouth of the river and so close to the bay that takes me to and from Kilmarnock.
Once back in Richmond, I had just enough time to get cleaned up for a date, which also moved progressively eastward.
There was a Rose and corn fritter pit stop at Lucy's where the always-charming bartender posed philosophical questions about the nature of people in the restaurant industry, pulling in Meyers Briggs and positing that the only difference in front of the house and back of the house is extroversion versus introversion.
As a full on ENFP, I guess that means I'm front of the house material.
From there, we set our sites on Osbourne boat landing and the Lilly Pad for dinner, expecting a crowd given what a beautiful evening it was.
No crowd, but we did find both table gliders occupied so contented ourselves with tumblers of Chardonnay, dumplings and cheeseburgers enjoyed at a table while perusing a map of the Northern Neck to plan an upcoming road trip.
Once sated, we moved over to the swing for a view of the river, the bikers who came in for a bucket of beer and the three very drunk young guys on the nearest glider.
We had the same amiable server we'd had last time and she's a hoot, keeping a cigarette burning just outside the cafe door and taking a drag on it every time she walks out to serve something or pick up dishes.
At one point, she brought the remains of the bottle of wine out, filled our glasses to the brim and left a plastic cup with the last little bit of wine with us.
That's east end service for you.
The little boom box that provides the music outside there was set to K95, meaning all kinds of deplorable modern country music auto-tuned and sounding so generically pop and bland that finally one woman got fed up, walked over and changed the station to classic rock.
Hello Bad Company, Supertramp and Tom Petty, each song already heard hundreds of times in my lifetime.
Still, it beats Florida Georgia Line, or whatever other new country band we'd been subjected to earlier.
But the Lilly Pad only stays open so late (and that's not very late at all: 9ish) so we knew we had to find another fine east end establishment to entertain us.
Enter Bubba's, a place I hadn't been in years, much less for karaoke night which tonight just happened to be.
Could we have been any luckier?
There wasn't much of a crowd, but there were several guys clearly there for the purpose of singing country songs.
One must have had a fear of performing because he'd get up there and turn away from the room and toward the wall to belt it out.
Once everyone got enough liquor in them, some girls got up and began dancing, squatting over a bucket inexplicably placed in the center of the dance floor.
Because it doesn't seem to be possible for me to go to a redneck bar without making friends - although at least no one motorboated me this time - a woman I met in the restroom later approached my date to inform him, "You're a lucky man, you know that?"
Doesn't every girl want her date to think that?
I wasn't surprised when the DJ started playing "Sweet Home Alabama," only the song stopped playing after the first few seconds.
I laughed out loud when the big guy sitting in the bar stool next to me intoned with no irony, "That's a hanging offense in Florida," but fortunately no noose was necessary because the song came back on.
At Bubba's, you don't mess with Skynyrd.
But you do dance. And when the DJ plays a few slow songs late in the evening and I'm dancing with my date, I'm hardly surprised when I see a stranger at the bar giving me a thumbs up and a big grin, for what I'm not sure, but I smile back.
Because, let's face it, when a person can be in a smoky east end dive bar in the wee hours of a weekday night dancing, her life is pretty sweet.
And that's got everything to do with not having a real job and having the time to go hear wooden doors slam any time I care to.
Just call me lucky.
It'll be six years in December since I last worked 9 to 5. Granted, I make a third of what I used to make, but the trade off is immeasurable.
A position for which I'd be well-suited recently recently came up and I didn't for a minute consider applying. As a trusted friend put it, why on earth - besides money - would I give up the freedom I have?
Short answer: I wouldn't.
Not when I can have adventures any day, any time I want to. Not when I can pick up and go out of town on a whim. Not when I can stay out as late - or early the next morning - as the fun's still happening.
Thursday's escapades, all focused eastward, began with a drive to Kilmarnock to meet my parents for lunch at Northern Neck Burger Company.
Written on the walls were aphorisms such as, "Every so often, go where you can hear a wooden door slam," which had no attribution.
I pointed out one from Winston Churchill on the wall behind us and Mom read it to Dad as he smiled and nodded in agreement, "The most beautiful voice in the world is that of an educated southern woman."
Mom and I are southern women only by virtue of where we live, both of us having been born in Washington, D.C., a city of, as JFK famously put it, northern charm and southern efficiency.
But we understood the point.
Over decidedly tasty burgers laden with grilled onions, bacon and cheese, they told me the continuing saga of getting their house put back together after a storm in late May sent a massive tree through two stories of it.
Things move slow in these parts.
Kilmarnock is the kind of small town where a man reading the local paper as he eats doesn't throw it away afterwards, he takes it to a couple at a nearby table and offers it to them, saying it's only been read once.
The beautiful weather and low humidity made for glorious road trip weather, never more so than on my maiden voyage crossing the wide bridge near the mouth of the river and so close to the bay that takes me to and from Kilmarnock.
Once back in Richmond, I had just enough time to get cleaned up for a date, which also moved progressively eastward.
There was a Rose and corn fritter pit stop at Lucy's where the always-charming bartender posed philosophical questions about the nature of people in the restaurant industry, pulling in Meyers Briggs and positing that the only difference in front of the house and back of the house is extroversion versus introversion.
As a full on ENFP, I guess that means I'm front of the house material.
From there, we set our sites on Osbourne boat landing and the Lilly Pad for dinner, expecting a crowd given what a beautiful evening it was.
No crowd, but we did find both table gliders occupied so contented ourselves with tumblers of Chardonnay, dumplings and cheeseburgers enjoyed at a table while perusing a map of the Northern Neck to plan an upcoming road trip.
Once sated, we moved over to the swing for a view of the river, the bikers who came in for a bucket of beer and the three very drunk young guys on the nearest glider.
We had the same amiable server we'd had last time and she's a hoot, keeping a cigarette burning just outside the cafe door and taking a drag on it every time she walks out to serve something or pick up dishes.
At one point, she brought the remains of the bottle of wine out, filled our glasses to the brim and left a plastic cup with the last little bit of wine with us.
That's east end service for you.
The little boom box that provides the music outside there was set to K95, meaning all kinds of deplorable modern country music auto-tuned and sounding so generically pop and bland that finally one woman got fed up, walked over and changed the station to classic rock.
Hello Bad Company, Supertramp and Tom Petty, each song already heard hundreds of times in my lifetime.
Still, it beats Florida Georgia Line, or whatever other new country band we'd been subjected to earlier.
But the Lilly Pad only stays open so late (and that's not very late at all: 9ish) so we knew we had to find another fine east end establishment to entertain us.
Enter Bubba's, a place I hadn't been in years, much less for karaoke night which tonight just happened to be.
Could we have been any luckier?
There wasn't much of a crowd, but there were several guys clearly there for the purpose of singing country songs.
One must have had a fear of performing because he'd get up there and turn away from the room and toward the wall to belt it out.
Once everyone got enough liquor in them, some girls got up and began dancing, squatting over a bucket inexplicably placed in the center of the dance floor.
Because it doesn't seem to be possible for me to go to a redneck bar without making friends - although at least no one motorboated me this time - a woman I met in the restroom later approached my date to inform him, "You're a lucky man, you know that?"
Doesn't every girl want her date to think that?
I wasn't surprised when the DJ started playing "Sweet Home Alabama," only the song stopped playing after the first few seconds.
I laughed out loud when the big guy sitting in the bar stool next to me intoned with no irony, "That's a hanging offense in Florida," but fortunately no noose was necessary because the song came back on.
At Bubba's, you don't mess with Skynyrd.
But you do dance. And when the DJ plays a few slow songs late in the evening and I'm dancing with my date, I'm hardly surprised when I see a stranger at the bar giving me a thumbs up and a big grin, for what I'm not sure, but I smile back.
Because, let's face it, when a person can be in a smoky east end dive bar in the wee hours of a weekday night dancing, her life is pretty sweet.
And that's got everything to do with not having a real job and having the time to go hear wooden doors slam any time I care to.
Just call me lucky.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Here's To the Girls Who Stay Smart
It was a theater lover's wet dream.
The preview and party for 5th Wall, the new production company from Carol Piersol and B.C. Maupin, was a great big celebration at the Hippodrome (how convenient for me) showcasing some of the major talent in this town.
Walking in, there were plenty of familiar faces - the hat, the neighbors, the critic - and before long we invited ourselves to join the table of a handsome couple we did not know.
By the time we finished introductions, the show was starting.
Host Eva DeVirgilis began by saying, "It's fun to be out on a Wednesday night, huh? Feels kind of naughty."
As someone who's out every night of the week, it feels kind of right to me.
The program was a satisfying mix of theatrical scenes and musical numbers, the cast changing up for each one. The crowd ate it all up.
In the first act, songs alternated with scenes from 5th Wall's last season, so I recognized the adoration humor of "Patti Issues," the excruciating tension of "Gidion's Knot," the touchy issues of "Race."
Singer Susan Greenbaum came out with her guitar and smiled, saying, "I learned this from my theater friends," and tossed her red scarf over her shoulder. Saying, "Despite the fact that it's twelve degrees in here..." and boy, was she right about that, she launched into "Summertime."
Seeing a scene from "Breast in Show" made me sorry I hadn't seen it.
Eva provided some humor with a monologue about how directors are always expecting her take her clothes off. "I'm an actress, too, you know," she insisted before being called over by the pianist, revealing that the pants she was wearing had no fabric over her butt cheeks.
It got her lots of laughs and we got a great view of her lovely backside.
Georgia Rogers Farmer came out looking demure with her blond hair and sweet face and began singing a slow burn cabaret style version of "Baby Got Back," so far removed from the original in tone and tempo that I'd bet some people didn't even recognize it.
It was fabulous beyond words on a night with many stellar performances.
As if her languorous version wasn't enough, she complemented the singing with some magnificent ass-shaking, twitching, hip rolling and just about any other possible bottom motion.
When she finished my friend learned over and told me that after her divorce, her husband had sent her a copy of that song because he'd missed his baby's back.
True story.
Next came Matt Shofner killing it on "Wig in a Box," but then every theatergoer in town knows he's chomping at the bit to start rehearsals for "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" this Fall.
When Debra Wagoner came out to close the first act, she walked up to the mic stand and looked up. "Every time, it's too tall," she joked.
Matt came rushing over to adjust it. "A diva doesn't move her own mic." More truth.
"Also, we need a clean-up on chair five," she cracked, pointing to where she'd just left.
Drink in hand, her version of "The Ladies Who Lunch" was hilarious, powerful and pointed.
Over intermission, I chatted with our table mates, unexpectedly discovering that we shared some common history.
You never know when you'll meet someone who's experienced the same difficult thing you have.
The handsome and big-voiced Russell Rowland did a great job with "Being Alive," pulling everyone back from the bar to their tables.
The second act began with Eva introduced as local actor extraordinaire, Scott Wichmann, and she came out dressed like him, moving like him and even talking like him, to the great amusement of the crowd.
Introducing "a woman who needs no introduction," Carol Piersol came out ("Thanks, Scotty!" to Eva) to start the preview portion of the evening with scenes from upcoming plays.
"The Lyons" provided some of the funniest lines of the evening around a dying Jewish father talking to his adult children and wife while in the hospital.
Mother: Everyone feels uncomfortable when they're intimate
Father: Your mother used to vomit.
"The Human Terrain" featured the always impressive Molly Hood in a story of an anthropologist embedded with a combat unit, something that apparently happens in real life.
D.C. actress Felicia Curry (currently appearing in "The Color Purple") came out in what had to be the best shoes of the entire evening and sang, "Whatever Happened to My Part?" from "Spamalot," subbing in lines such as, "This is one unhappy diva, Billy Christopher has deceived her."
She raved about her time in Richmond, singing "Get Here" as a love song to our city, then doing a duet with Katrinah Carol Lewis of "For Good" that had them holding hands and tearing up as they traded "love letters" to Richmond.
But when she really brought down the house was with "Random Black Girl," singing, scatting and strutting as "just the random black girl singing the soul," while the crowd clapped along.
Everyone who'd performed tonight came back on stage for a sing-it-to-the-rafters version of "Seasons of Love" from "Rent" that was goose bump worthy.
It had been an all-star coming out party for Richmond's newest production company.
Eva had the last (hilarious) words with, "Join us tomorrow night as we do it all again with a gender-reversed take on tonight's program directed by B.C. Maupin."
If only.
But if they did, my money is on Matt wearing those epic shoes of Felicia's.
The preview and party for 5th Wall, the new production company from Carol Piersol and B.C. Maupin, was a great big celebration at the Hippodrome (how convenient for me) showcasing some of the major talent in this town.
Walking in, there were plenty of familiar faces - the hat, the neighbors, the critic - and before long we invited ourselves to join the table of a handsome couple we did not know.
By the time we finished introductions, the show was starting.
Host Eva DeVirgilis began by saying, "It's fun to be out on a Wednesday night, huh? Feels kind of naughty."
As someone who's out every night of the week, it feels kind of right to me.
The program was a satisfying mix of theatrical scenes and musical numbers, the cast changing up for each one. The crowd ate it all up.
In the first act, songs alternated with scenes from 5th Wall's last season, so I recognized the adoration humor of "Patti Issues," the excruciating tension of "Gidion's Knot," the touchy issues of "Race."
Singer Susan Greenbaum came out with her guitar and smiled, saying, "I learned this from my theater friends," and tossed her red scarf over her shoulder. Saying, "Despite the fact that it's twelve degrees in here..." and boy, was she right about that, she launched into "Summertime."
Seeing a scene from "Breast in Show" made me sorry I hadn't seen it.
Eva provided some humor with a monologue about how directors are always expecting her take her clothes off. "I'm an actress, too, you know," she insisted before being called over by the pianist, revealing that the pants she was wearing had no fabric over her butt cheeks.
It got her lots of laughs and we got a great view of her lovely backside.
Georgia Rogers Farmer came out looking demure with her blond hair and sweet face and began singing a slow burn cabaret style version of "Baby Got Back," so far removed from the original in tone and tempo that I'd bet some people didn't even recognize it.
It was fabulous beyond words on a night with many stellar performances.
As if her languorous version wasn't enough, she complemented the singing with some magnificent ass-shaking, twitching, hip rolling and just about any other possible bottom motion.
When she finished my friend learned over and told me that after her divorce, her husband had sent her a copy of that song because he'd missed his baby's back.
True story.
Next came Matt Shofner killing it on "Wig in a Box," but then every theatergoer in town knows he's chomping at the bit to start rehearsals for "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" this Fall.
When Debra Wagoner came out to close the first act, she walked up to the mic stand and looked up. "Every time, it's too tall," she joked.
Matt came rushing over to adjust it. "A diva doesn't move her own mic." More truth.
"Also, we need a clean-up on chair five," she cracked, pointing to where she'd just left.
Drink in hand, her version of "The Ladies Who Lunch" was hilarious, powerful and pointed.
Over intermission, I chatted with our table mates, unexpectedly discovering that we shared some common history.
You never know when you'll meet someone who's experienced the same difficult thing you have.
The handsome and big-voiced Russell Rowland did a great job with "Being Alive," pulling everyone back from the bar to their tables.
The second act began with Eva introduced as local actor extraordinaire, Scott Wichmann, and she came out dressed like him, moving like him and even talking like him, to the great amusement of the crowd.
Introducing "a woman who needs no introduction," Carol Piersol came out ("Thanks, Scotty!" to Eva) to start the preview portion of the evening with scenes from upcoming plays.
"The Lyons" provided some of the funniest lines of the evening around a dying Jewish father talking to his adult children and wife while in the hospital.
Mother: Everyone feels uncomfortable when they're intimate
Father: Your mother used to vomit.
"The Human Terrain" featured the always impressive Molly Hood in a story of an anthropologist embedded with a combat unit, something that apparently happens in real life.
D.C. actress Felicia Curry (currently appearing in "The Color Purple") came out in what had to be the best shoes of the entire evening and sang, "Whatever Happened to My Part?" from "Spamalot," subbing in lines such as, "This is one unhappy diva, Billy Christopher has deceived her."
She raved about her time in Richmond, singing "Get Here" as a love song to our city, then doing a duet with Katrinah Carol Lewis of "For Good" that had them holding hands and tearing up as they traded "love letters" to Richmond.
But when she really brought down the house was with "Random Black Girl," singing, scatting and strutting as "just the random black girl singing the soul," while the crowd clapped along.
Everyone who'd performed tonight came back on stage for a sing-it-to-the-rafters version of "Seasons of Love" from "Rent" that was goose bump worthy.
It had been an all-star coming out party for Richmond's newest production company.
Eva had the last (hilarious) words with, "Join us tomorrow night as we do it all again with a gender-reversed take on tonight's program directed by B.C. Maupin."
If only.
But if they did, my money is on Matt wearing those epic shoes of Felicia's.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
You Had Me at Hello Hefeweizen
Highlights from an evening:
Isley brewing; what's a non-beer drinker doing in a brewery that looks like a bar?
Drinking warm water.
A nearby Jenga games ends with screams and a full collapse.
The newly open Supper: Arrived to find an overall-wearing painter working on the outline of a pig outside the front door ("I'll be finished when I'm done").
The extension of Lunch is kitschy (those beaded lamps hanging from the nose of a cow are captivating), crowded (even the community table was practically full) and just as filling (so what else is new?).
Tomato a la Greek salad with feta; bacon and corn griddle cakes loaded with pork barbecue and brussels sprouts slaw; crab cakes with more sprouts and bacon plus grilled asparagus.
At what point are we full and cry "uncle"?
Not so classic movie night: "Gang Wars," a '70s martial arts blaxploitation film with every corny artifice possible employed.
When the actors' speech becomes a slo-mo drone, a guy at the bar calls out, "Put another quarter in!"
Demons in the subway, black gangs fighting Chinese and more bell bottoms than anyone has seen since 1975.
Star's name: Warhawk Tanzania (!) and that doesn't begin to convey how amazing his Afro or his gold lame unitard are.
A black man knows all, rules all in NYC circa 1976.
Accompaniments: Patron, beer, wings and a hot fudge sundae. Much commentary and laughter from an audience who comes as much to dissect as to watch.
Last stop: Ipanema where we are greeted by a gold unitard hanging in a nearby window. What are the chances?
Inside, there is Lopez de Heredia Rioja, endless discussion of FDR, McDonnell and Israel to a vaguely classic rock-influenced soundtrack.
When does a screaming liberal become something more right wing? Who do you take when visiting Chicago? When does a fun evening become wooing?
The battle of the song titles. This tornado loves you. I've been waiting for a girl like you.
This Tuesday night rules.
Isley brewing; what's a non-beer drinker doing in a brewery that looks like a bar?
Drinking warm water.
A nearby Jenga games ends with screams and a full collapse.
The newly open Supper: Arrived to find an overall-wearing painter working on the outline of a pig outside the front door ("I'll be finished when I'm done").
The extension of Lunch is kitschy (those beaded lamps hanging from the nose of a cow are captivating), crowded (even the community table was practically full) and just as filling (so what else is new?).
Tomato a la Greek salad with feta; bacon and corn griddle cakes loaded with pork barbecue and brussels sprouts slaw; crab cakes with more sprouts and bacon plus grilled asparagus.
At what point are we full and cry "uncle"?
Not so classic movie night: "Gang Wars," a '70s martial arts blaxploitation film with every corny artifice possible employed.
When the actors' speech becomes a slo-mo drone, a guy at the bar calls out, "Put another quarter in!"
Demons in the subway, black gangs fighting Chinese and more bell bottoms than anyone has seen since 1975.
Star's name: Warhawk Tanzania (!) and that doesn't begin to convey how amazing his Afro or his gold lame unitard are.
A black man knows all, rules all in NYC circa 1976.
Accompaniments: Patron, beer, wings and a hot fudge sundae. Much commentary and laughter from an audience who comes as much to dissect as to watch.
Last stop: Ipanema where we are greeted by a gold unitard hanging in a nearby window. What are the chances?
Inside, there is Lopez de Heredia Rioja, endless discussion of FDR, McDonnell and Israel to a vaguely classic rock-influenced soundtrack.
When does a screaming liberal become something more right wing? Who do you take when visiting Chicago? When does a fun evening become wooing?
The battle of the song titles. This tornado loves you. I've been waiting for a girl like you.
This Tuesday night rules.
Monday, August 4, 2014
Super Bad
If I'd been asked, I probably couldn't have named five James Brown songs.
So besides the entertainment value, part of my motivation for seeing "Get On Up" was to learn a little something.
Standing in line to get popcorn, I chatted with the guy in front of me about how slow the girl behind the counter was.
"I'm from Buffalo," he said. "To me, everyone here moves slow." Ouch. He might have rethought that if he'd seen me eating my popcorn.
It was a far bigger crowd than I would have expected on a Monday night and mostly middle-aged, which was no surprise.
The story of the godfather of soul's wild ride of a life is told out of order, so it begins in 1988, well after his heyday but squarely in his druggy period.
That's followed by he and his band in a plane on their way to entertain troops in Vietnam when the plane is attacked.
"Who wants to go down in history as the one that killed the funk?" he yells at his band mates in the oddest of reactions.
But by then his ego was massive, according to this version, requiring that his band address him as Mr. Brown and ask permission for everything.
When a promoter tries to tell him to keep his set to under 30 minutes, he screams, "Don't tell me for how long I can be funky!"
As early as 1964, he gets angry when he finds out he has to play before the other band on the bill - the Rolling Stones- complaining that they haven't even had a hit record. Yet anyway.
Interestingly enough, Mick Jagger produced this film.
One thing I did know about Brown before this movie was how progressively awful his hair looked and the film did a great job of moving him through the early pompadours with high and tight sides through the Afro stage and the later years when he'd use yellow plastic rollers to set his hair.
RVA even got a couple of shout outs when Brown tells his manager (played by Dan Aykroyd as "an old, lucky Jew") that they can book the band themselves and save the cost of paying a promoter.
"We get some 20-year old white deejay in Richmond, Virginia who's playing my music because he loves it to promote the show!" Brilliant and goodbye payola.
Parts of the film were difficult to watch (the women next to me made a lot of empathetic noises), especially Brown's childhood with issues of abuse and abandonment (not to mention coming upon a lynched man).
And it was hard to understand how he was sentenced to 5-13 years for stealing a suit from a car. A suit, for goodness' sake.
No easier were scenes of him hitting and grabbing his wife.
But as the godfather himself put it, "It's a Man's Man's Man's World." Or at least it was then.
After seeing the movie and hearing all those James Brown songs performed, here's what I learned.
I still don't know the names of most of them. Oh, sure, I recognized bits and pieces of many of them.
"Get on Up" is not a song title but a line from "Get Up (I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine)." Who knew?
The signature JB starter,"I feel good," apparently comes from "I Got You." No clue.
Just for the record, I nailed "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag." So there's that.
Okay, I didn't learn as much as I could have, but this much I know: I need to add some James Brown to my collection.
I'm going to get up on that right away.
So besides the entertainment value, part of my motivation for seeing "Get On Up" was to learn a little something.
Standing in line to get popcorn, I chatted with the guy in front of me about how slow the girl behind the counter was.
"I'm from Buffalo," he said. "To me, everyone here moves slow." Ouch. He might have rethought that if he'd seen me eating my popcorn.
It was a far bigger crowd than I would have expected on a Monday night and mostly middle-aged, which was no surprise.
The story of the godfather of soul's wild ride of a life is told out of order, so it begins in 1988, well after his heyday but squarely in his druggy period.
That's followed by he and his band in a plane on their way to entertain troops in Vietnam when the plane is attacked.
"Who wants to go down in history as the one that killed the funk?" he yells at his band mates in the oddest of reactions.
But by then his ego was massive, according to this version, requiring that his band address him as Mr. Brown and ask permission for everything.
When a promoter tries to tell him to keep his set to under 30 minutes, he screams, "Don't tell me for how long I can be funky!"
As early as 1964, he gets angry when he finds out he has to play before the other band on the bill - the Rolling Stones- complaining that they haven't even had a hit record. Yet anyway.
Interestingly enough, Mick Jagger produced this film.
One thing I did know about Brown before this movie was how progressively awful his hair looked and the film did a great job of moving him through the early pompadours with high and tight sides through the Afro stage and the later years when he'd use yellow plastic rollers to set his hair.
RVA even got a couple of shout outs when Brown tells his manager (played by Dan Aykroyd as "an old, lucky Jew") that they can book the band themselves and save the cost of paying a promoter.
"We get some 20-year old white deejay in Richmond, Virginia who's playing my music because he loves it to promote the show!" Brilliant and goodbye payola.
Parts of the film were difficult to watch (the women next to me made a lot of empathetic noises), especially Brown's childhood with issues of abuse and abandonment (not to mention coming upon a lynched man).
And it was hard to understand how he was sentenced to 5-13 years for stealing a suit from a car. A suit, for goodness' sake.
No easier were scenes of him hitting and grabbing his wife.
But as the godfather himself put it, "It's a Man's Man's Man's World." Or at least it was then.
After seeing the movie and hearing all those James Brown songs performed, here's what I learned.
I still don't know the names of most of them. Oh, sure, I recognized bits and pieces of many of them.
"Get on Up" is not a song title but a line from "Get Up (I Feel Like Being a Sex Machine)." Who knew?
The signature JB starter,"I feel good," apparently comes from "I Got You." No clue.
Just for the record, I nailed "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag." So there's that.
Okay, I didn't learn as much as I could have, but this much I know: I need to add some James Brown to my collection.
I'm going to get up on that right away.
One Cure for Love
Walk alone (you already heard about that). Work alone (two deadlines). Eat alone (Garnett's, but at least the cook was wearing a navy captain's hat and I walked into "This Must Be the Place" playing on the stereo).
After a while, all that alone gets old.
That's when you call up a friend and ask if they'll come out and play with you.
And if they're someone who knows you well and wants to make you happy, they woo you with Pinotage Rose and fresh figs.
Driving over to pick up my date, I saw a horse drawn carriage pulling a smiling couple up Robinson Street toward Monument Avenue.
Both of the carriage drivers wore top hats and tuxes. The couple were making goo-goo eyes at each other.
Must be love.
The crowd at Dogwood Dell was small but mighty when we arrived with our contraband Riebeek Rose, a bag of figs freshly plucked off Friend's backyard fig tree and chairs.
We were there to see "Spite Marriage," a 1929 silent comedy with the handsome Buster Keaton. The kicker was that live music was being provided by Ben Miller, he of Ghost Light after party fame and a ridiculously talented pianist.
We took our place one row behind Ben, who was outfitted in a tuxedo t-shirt, and spread out our picnic blanket.
The Pinotage Rose was lovely, well-chilled and boasting flavors of cherries and strawberries, a treat from someone who knew my taste.
The film soon began while I dove into the fresh figs, devouring three within the first ten minutes of the film.
Call me a fig pig.
Ben had thoughtfully chosen the perfect music for the story of a lowly pants presser who falls in love with a Broadway star.
"Dixieland," "When the Saints Go Marching In," he had all the corny bases covered.
The story centered around a simple man who worshiped an actress in a play about life on a plantation.
Every southern cliche was trotted out - "A scratch is nothing to a southern gentleman" - as our heroine fought off northern soldiers while pining for her true southern love.
Of course, the northern soldier was evil - "Remember, gal, there's only one way to save him"- sending her beau off to the barn to be shot.
The movie had its lessons, too, such as, "There's only one cure for love: marriage and suicide," a rather dire reaction to attraction if you ask me, but then, I'm a northerner.
Ben kept us entertained with the appropriate songs: "We're in the Money" when our hero marries the actress and a personal favorite, "Shall We Dance?" when the newlyweds celebrate at Cafe la Boheme," a hangout "for actors and those with money."
We watched our heroine resort to a drunken fit of jealousy when her man takes up with another, younger woman and heard the archaic command, "Douse the lights."
When's the last time you heard anyone use the verb "douse"? Exactly.
During the scene on the yacht when Keaton tries to woo the actress, Ben played Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer," to great effect.
Fortunately for fans of romance, the object of her affection comes to his senses, telling the actress, "You should have known that woman meant nothing to me. I love you, dear."
I'm still waiting for a man to refer to me as "dear."
Things got dramatic when the action switched to the ship and the boiler caught fire ("Save me! Save me, dear!") and the weather turned bad ("A squall!" - another terrific, underused word), forcing our hero to hang from masts, put out fires and bail water.
Never fear, he not only squelched all the problems aboard ship (mainly by hitting every man with a bottle over the head and knocking him out) but won our heroine's heart.
The end.
I've seen my fair share of silent movies, but few as romantic as this gem. Add in the moon moving from tree to tree over the Dell and it turned out to be a lovely way to spend an evening sipping Pinotage.
After dropping off my companion, I soldiered on alone to Commercial Taphouse to hear the Scott Clark 4-tet.
Everyone I know in the local jazz world is concerned that now that Commercial has been bought by An of Mekong, the sublime evenings of jazz will be history.
I hope that's not true, but in case it is, I didn't want to miss hearing one of my favorite local jazz groups perform for what may be the last time there.
Unexpectedly, I found several friends - a guitarist, a trombonist, a teacher, a songbird - although I was discouraged to hear they no longer carry any decent tequilas.
Sorry, I don't want to have to drink wine while listening to jazz. I will, but I don't want to. Not a good sign, friends.
From Mingus ("Weird Nightmare") to Scott Clark originals ("Plum"), it was an evening of killer jazz riffs, the quartet as tight and on point as I've ever heard them.
So the evening ends alone, but only after some superb entertainment.
Still waiting for someone to ask, "Shall we dance?"
After a while, all that alone gets old.
That's when you call up a friend and ask if they'll come out and play with you.
And if they're someone who knows you well and wants to make you happy, they woo you with Pinotage Rose and fresh figs.
Driving over to pick up my date, I saw a horse drawn carriage pulling a smiling couple up Robinson Street toward Monument Avenue.
Both of the carriage drivers wore top hats and tuxes. The couple were making goo-goo eyes at each other.
Must be love.
The crowd at Dogwood Dell was small but mighty when we arrived with our contraband Riebeek Rose, a bag of figs freshly plucked off Friend's backyard fig tree and chairs.
We were there to see "Spite Marriage," a 1929 silent comedy with the handsome Buster Keaton. The kicker was that live music was being provided by Ben Miller, he of Ghost Light after party fame and a ridiculously talented pianist.
We took our place one row behind Ben, who was outfitted in a tuxedo t-shirt, and spread out our picnic blanket.
The Pinotage Rose was lovely, well-chilled and boasting flavors of cherries and strawberries, a treat from someone who knew my taste.
The film soon began while I dove into the fresh figs, devouring three within the first ten minutes of the film.
Call me a fig pig.
Ben had thoughtfully chosen the perfect music for the story of a lowly pants presser who falls in love with a Broadway star.
"Dixieland," "When the Saints Go Marching In," he had all the corny bases covered.
The story centered around a simple man who worshiped an actress in a play about life on a plantation.
Every southern cliche was trotted out - "A scratch is nothing to a southern gentleman" - as our heroine fought off northern soldiers while pining for her true southern love.
Of course, the northern soldier was evil - "Remember, gal, there's only one way to save him"- sending her beau off to the barn to be shot.
The movie had its lessons, too, such as, "There's only one cure for love: marriage and suicide," a rather dire reaction to attraction if you ask me, but then, I'm a northerner.
Ben kept us entertained with the appropriate songs: "We're in the Money" when our hero marries the actress and a personal favorite, "Shall We Dance?" when the newlyweds celebrate at Cafe la Boheme," a hangout "for actors and those with money."
We watched our heroine resort to a drunken fit of jealousy when her man takes up with another, younger woman and heard the archaic command, "Douse the lights."
When's the last time you heard anyone use the verb "douse"? Exactly.
During the scene on the yacht when Keaton tries to woo the actress, Ben played Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer," to great effect.
Fortunately for fans of romance, the object of her affection comes to his senses, telling the actress, "You should have known that woman meant nothing to me. I love you, dear."
I'm still waiting for a man to refer to me as "dear."
Things got dramatic when the action switched to the ship and the boiler caught fire ("Save me! Save me, dear!") and the weather turned bad ("A squall!" - another terrific, underused word), forcing our hero to hang from masts, put out fires and bail water.
Never fear, he not only squelched all the problems aboard ship (mainly by hitting every man with a bottle over the head and knocking him out) but won our heroine's heart.
The end.
I've seen my fair share of silent movies, but few as romantic as this gem. Add in the moon moving from tree to tree over the Dell and it turned out to be a lovely way to spend an evening sipping Pinotage.
After dropping off my companion, I soldiered on alone to Commercial Taphouse to hear the Scott Clark 4-tet.
Everyone I know in the local jazz world is concerned that now that Commercial has been bought by An of Mekong, the sublime evenings of jazz will be history.
I hope that's not true, but in case it is, I didn't want to miss hearing one of my favorite local jazz groups perform for what may be the last time there.
Unexpectedly, I found several friends - a guitarist, a trombonist, a teacher, a songbird - although I was discouraged to hear they no longer carry any decent tequilas.
Sorry, I don't want to have to drink wine while listening to jazz. I will, but I don't want to. Not a good sign, friends.
From Mingus ("Weird Nightmare") to Scott Clark originals ("Plum"), it was an evening of killer jazz riffs, the quartet as tight and on point as I've ever heard them.
So the evening ends alone, but only after some superb entertainment.
Still waiting for someone to ask, "Shall we dance?"
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Sitting on Bubba
Imagine being shown up by a couple of newcomers.
Yesterday I'd decided that I was going to walk the North Bank Trail today, with a secondary goal of finding the trail to Texas Beach. If I could because I am directionally-challenged.
I know all this sounds like a modest plan, but take into account that in two decades of living here, I'd never walked either trail.
In fact, the main reason I was doing this at all was because on my way back from Belle Isle yesterday, I'd come through Oregon Hill and seen a sign pointing to the North Bank Trail.
Well, looky there!
With no idea what to expect trail-wise, I set out down the path, which soon changed from paved to gravel to dirt and rocks.
On either side was thick growth and in many spots, a living canopy overhead hemming in the air flow to almost non-existent. Places felt almost rain forest like.
The greenery eliminated any view of the river until I came up a hill and all of a sudden, I had the most sweeping view of the rapids and Belle Isle.
First thought: there ought to be a bench here.
Looking behind me, I saw why. I was at a high point directly in front of Hollywood Cemetery, one of the loveliest river views in the city.
I continued around the bend and there it was: Bubba's bench, with not one, but two plaques designating it as such.
It was a high bench - it came to my hip - so I had to hoist myself up on it like a kid, but the view (and seat) were worth it.
From there I kept going on the path, pausing to let mountain bikers, clutches of runners and and nervous-looking groups of walkers pass me on the narrow trail.
Eventually the shrubbery broke and I saw more of Hollywood Cemetery to my right and not long after another cemetery - Mount Calvary- spreading out beyond the trail.
Signs along the trail warned that parts were considered difficult, mainly due to elevation which in places reached 200' but once you're hot and sweaty, what's a few hills more?
In a couple of places I took shortcuts to avoid loops in the trail, other times I balanced on boards to cross muddy parts of the trail.
Finally I spotted the hiker's best friend, a PortaPotty, and climbed up to the parking lot for Texas Beach. Ta-da! But where was the beach?
I gravitated to the map to see if I was getting close, only to meet a couple already studying it who'd just moved to RVA two days ago.
Warning me that they'd be no help in finding Texas Beach, I nonetheless took the time to welcome them and tell them about Belle Isle, Brown's Island and the pipeline walkway.
I was terribly impressed that they'd been ambitious enough to already be out and experiencing their new city.
We parted company and it didn't take long for me to find the bridge that crosses the railroad tracks (where a coal train sat) and leads to the beach.
Best of all, when I arrived it was completely empty.
It took me no time at all to shed my shoes and socks and wade out into the river up to my shorts (on me, that's over half my body).
The view coupled with the solitude made me feel like I was far from home, a lovely, unexpected experience.
As I was wading out toward the rushing water, I heard voices and turned to see a father and son with fishing poles arriving at the beach.
They had a radio with them -the voices I'd heard- and all of a sudden, the peaceful scene had become a lively one.
Cooled to my core by then anyway, I climbed back on a rock to put my shoes and socks back on and continue my walk, passing a couple and their dog turning into the beach as I left.
Coming back over the bridge to the trail, I again ran into the newcomers and this time we stopped for a longer get-to-know-you chat on the bridge.
From Fairfax, one high school age daughter, live in Short Pump but hope to move to the city once she's off to college.
And guess what they wanted? Restaurant recommendations. Naturally I obliged.
The walk back flew by, perhaps because I recognized landmarks now, although one surprise came at the end of a small bridge where I looked down to see a broken gravestone next to the bridge.
"Katie Low," it said but the end of Katie's last name was broken off. Lowe? Lowell? Lowery? "1877-1941. Rest in peace."
Such an interesting place to be buried, so close to the river but away from the cemeteries.
It was a far quieter walk back with no hikers or bikers passing me as they had earlier. It was also hotter, sunnier and more humid if that was possible, so perhaps wiser souls had gotten their trailing done in the morning.
Not me. I'd set out at 11:00 and by the time I made it back to Jackson Ward, it was 1:30.
Of course, that allowed time for river wading, conversation with strangers, sitting on Bubba's bench twice and one pit stop.
I'd say I did pretty well for a first-timer. But, when strangers express surprise that it's your first time, you know you're way overdue.
Don't worry, I intend to make up for it with future frequency.
I can't wait to take some of my favorite walkers with me. Who'll be the expert then?
Yesterday I'd decided that I was going to walk the North Bank Trail today, with a secondary goal of finding the trail to Texas Beach. If I could because I am directionally-challenged.
I know all this sounds like a modest plan, but take into account that in two decades of living here, I'd never walked either trail.
In fact, the main reason I was doing this at all was because on my way back from Belle Isle yesterday, I'd come through Oregon Hill and seen a sign pointing to the North Bank Trail.
Well, looky there!
With no idea what to expect trail-wise, I set out down the path, which soon changed from paved to gravel to dirt and rocks.
On either side was thick growth and in many spots, a living canopy overhead hemming in the air flow to almost non-existent. Places felt almost rain forest like.
The greenery eliminated any view of the river until I came up a hill and all of a sudden, I had the most sweeping view of the rapids and Belle Isle.
First thought: there ought to be a bench here.
Looking behind me, I saw why. I was at a high point directly in front of Hollywood Cemetery, one of the loveliest river views in the city.
I continued around the bend and there it was: Bubba's bench, with not one, but two plaques designating it as such.
It was a high bench - it came to my hip - so I had to hoist myself up on it like a kid, but the view (and seat) were worth it.
From there I kept going on the path, pausing to let mountain bikers, clutches of runners and and nervous-looking groups of walkers pass me on the narrow trail.
Eventually the shrubbery broke and I saw more of Hollywood Cemetery to my right and not long after another cemetery - Mount Calvary- spreading out beyond the trail.
Signs along the trail warned that parts were considered difficult, mainly due to elevation which in places reached 200' but once you're hot and sweaty, what's a few hills more?
In a couple of places I took shortcuts to avoid loops in the trail, other times I balanced on boards to cross muddy parts of the trail.
Finally I spotted the hiker's best friend, a PortaPotty, and climbed up to the parking lot for Texas Beach. Ta-da! But where was the beach?
I gravitated to the map to see if I was getting close, only to meet a couple already studying it who'd just moved to RVA two days ago.
Warning me that they'd be no help in finding Texas Beach, I nonetheless took the time to welcome them and tell them about Belle Isle, Brown's Island and the pipeline walkway.
I was terribly impressed that they'd been ambitious enough to already be out and experiencing their new city.
We parted company and it didn't take long for me to find the bridge that crosses the railroad tracks (where a coal train sat) and leads to the beach.
Best of all, when I arrived it was completely empty.
It took me no time at all to shed my shoes and socks and wade out into the river up to my shorts (on me, that's over half my body).
The view coupled with the solitude made me feel like I was far from home, a lovely, unexpected experience.
As I was wading out toward the rushing water, I heard voices and turned to see a father and son with fishing poles arriving at the beach.
They had a radio with them -the voices I'd heard- and all of a sudden, the peaceful scene had become a lively one.
Cooled to my core by then anyway, I climbed back on a rock to put my shoes and socks back on and continue my walk, passing a couple and their dog turning into the beach as I left.
Coming back over the bridge to the trail, I again ran into the newcomers and this time we stopped for a longer get-to-know-you chat on the bridge.
From Fairfax, one high school age daughter, live in Short Pump but hope to move to the city once she's off to college.
And guess what they wanted? Restaurant recommendations. Naturally I obliged.
The walk back flew by, perhaps because I recognized landmarks now, although one surprise came at the end of a small bridge where I looked down to see a broken gravestone next to the bridge.
"Katie Low," it said but the end of Katie's last name was broken off. Lowe? Lowell? Lowery? "1877-1941. Rest in peace."
Such an interesting place to be buried, so close to the river but away from the cemeteries.
It was a far quieter walk back with no hikers or bikers passing me as they had earlier. It was also hotter, sunnier and more humid if that was possible, so perhaps wiser souls had gotten their trailing done in the morning.
Not me. I'd set out at 11:00 and by the time I made it back to Jackson Ward, it was 1:30.
Of course, that allowed time for river wading, conversation with strangers, sitting on Bubba's bench twice and one pit stop.
I'd say I did pretty well for a first-timer. But, when strangers express surprise that it's your first time, you know you're way overdue.
Don't worry, I intend to make up for it with future frequency.
I can't wait to take some of my favorite walkers with me. Who'll be the expert then?
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Cowboy Up
Okay, so this was my first rodeo.
A billboard had caught my eye, I'd done some research and decided that yes, I did need to experience a rodeo before I die. Why not tonight?
A favorite couple had agreed that watching roping and riding was the way to spend a Saturday night, although their interest began to wane once the rain showed up.
Do rodeos get rained out? Won't it be a mud fest?
The word from Colonial Downs was that the rodeo was going on regardless of weather, so we put on boots and drove due east.
Walking in and presenting our tickets, a guard looked at my pink and green flowered rubbers - standing in sharp contrast to a sea of cowboy boots of all kinds and colors - and said, "Love your rain boots."
So there. Not exactly fitting in, but I couldn't if I'd wanted to.
It was a cowboy hat-wearing, jean-sporting crowd who filed in, some, like us, with chairs in hand and others making for the metal risers. We set up our chairs directly in front of the pen holding steers, a fact of which we were reminded every time the wind shifted.
Some of the cowboys climbed the fence and made their way through the crowd, including one wearing a New Mexico Junior College jacket over the standard outfit of jeans, Western shirt, boots and hat.
Not surprisingly given that it was Saturday night, there were plenty of couples and a fair number of them sat with the girl stretched out on the guy's lap, his hat tipped back so as not to interfere with their closeness.
It wasn't long before the announcer came out astride his horse to welcome the crowd, telling us he hoped to create lifelong rodeo fans out of us first-timers.
I couldn't have been more surprised when he instructed the crowd to turn off all electronic devices and strap yourself into your seat for wild ride.
Needless to say, no one followed the device rule.
Out came the rodeo clown dancing and tossing his hat to warm up the crowd.
Just when I thought the action was about to begin, I was reminded that only a heathen like me would jump right into something important like a rodeo without taking care of business first.
That meant our mounted announcer asked us all to bow our heads and led us in a prayer asking the big guy upstairs to help us make it through the arena of life so that when we all get to that lush green field in the sky, we're fortunate enough to find that all our entry fees have been paid.
I may have tittered a bit during the prayer and been reproached by my companions, but, come on, how do you not laugh at something like that?
The singer from country band Jackson Ward (yes, I'd come to New Kent to hear a band named after my 'hood) sang the national anthem while a mounted woman in a red glittery shirt holding a flag took the center spot and gave us all a patriotic focus.
Well, not all of us, because I noticed some of the cowboys were busy stretching and jumping around to warm up when they should have been standing rigidly at attention like the rest of us had been told to.
It may not have been ideal rodeo weather - it sprinkled very lightly through much of the show, although it was warm so it didn't matter much - but the sky was stunning with shades of velvety blue reaching down to the tree line.
The first event was bareback riding and to my surprise, many of the cowboys wore neck braces, an indicator of the potential bodily harm involved in riding a bucking bronco.
Interesting to me was that some laid back almost horizontal on the horse while others sat bolt upright as their bodies were jerked around unmercifully before a wrangler rode by and the rider grabbed hold of him to separate himself from the crazy horse.
A couple of the riders would drop to their knees and make a sign of the cross once back on terra firma. I feel your relief, brother.
And then there was the music. Each time a cowboy competed, a snippet of music was played, all of it cheesy classic rock.
Think I'm exaggerating? J. Geils' "Centerfold." Rolling Stones' "Start Me Up." Bon Jovi "You Give Love a Bad Name." Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop." Fortunately, never the entire song.
Calf roping came next and I had a feeling I wasn't going to like watching a helpless calf get thrown to the ground and his legs tied up.
The very first cowboy further convinced me of it when he chose to forfeit because once he'd gotten the calf roped and down on the ground, he realized he wasn't going to be able to tie it up without hurting it.
We saw several cowboys rope successfully, although I never got to the point where I enjoyed seeing the calf struggle. Call me a rodeo wussy.
There were several local cowboys from Mechanicsville, Sandston and New Kent participating but the crowd was generous enough to applaud everyone who performed, not just our own.
Or maybe the crowd was clapping their appreciation of the music. "Great Balls of Fire." "Old Time Rick and Roll." "My Sharona." "Jessie's Girl." It was hard to tell.
Turns out that a rodeo is as good as the State Fair for trashy food, meaning hot dogs, soft pretzels and funnel cake, all of which we sampled.
The announcer and rodeo clown both had southern accents you could cut with a knife. Like so many one-syllable words, New Kent became two: New Ke-ent. Fe-ence. Pa-ants.
I was curious about rodeo sexism when the cowgirls came out to do calf roping because all they had to do was throw the rope around his neck, not jump down and tie up the feet.
It seemed like the rodeo version of girl push-ups and while I certainly wouldn't want to rope a calf, surely some women must.
The rodeo clown was a big part of the show, dancing to all kinds of songs including Right Said Fred, Chic and Micheal Jackson, but he also turned out to be a three time world champion rope twirler.
He showed us his crazy roping skills, jumping in and out of lassos he was twirling.
There was even a massive pink rope he used for good. "With your help and god's grace, we're gonna get all 65 feet of pink rope out there and fight breast cancer," the announcer said before the clown managed to twirl that pink rope in an enormous circle around his body.
I wasn't exactly sure how he was raising money but the rope sure was pink.
Then we were up to steer roping and this was the first event where the cowboys got to use a helper.
Two mounted cowboys came barreling out with a steer between them and one dropped down on top of the hapless steer and wrestled him down while the other cowboy wrangled the now-riderless horse away from the action.
In such a small area, it was ridiculously fast, quantified by the announcer as 35 miles per hour. 35!
I was told that the key was for the steer roper to ensure his foot cleared the stirrup or else he was likely to break his foot.
What you have to imagine with all these wild and hectic competitions going on is that every cowboy and cowgirl starts out wearing a hat, no matter what crazy thing they're about to do.
Why you'd want to drop onto a steer wearing headgear other than a protective helmet, I can't imagine, but let's remember, this is my first rodeo.
Of course, maybe they were hoping the hat would drown out the cheesy music. "I Love Rock and Roll." "The Warrior." "I'm So Excited." Yeesh.
Last up was team roping where one cowboy ropes the neck and the other the feet and they sort of stretch out the poor animal for a few seconds.
It happens incredibly fast; the winner did it in 4.9 seconds.
Some of the competitor teams were females and, in once case, a cowgirl succeeded at roping not long after her husband had failed.
"Cowgirls don't forget anything," the announcer informed us.
I've also heard they get the blues, but since I'm the furthest thing from a cowgirl you're going to find, I'm no expert.
But now I do know what a rodeo entails and maybe, just maybe, when I get to that lush green field in the sky, I'll find that all my entry fees have been paid.
Yea, I know. Not likely.
A billboard had caught my eye, I'd done some research and decided that yes, I did need to experience a rodeo before I die. Why not tonight?
A favorite couple had agreed that watching roping and riding was the way to spend a Saturday night, although their interest began to wane once the rain showed up.
Do rodeos get rained out? Won't it be a mud fest?
The word from Colonial Downs was that the rodeo was going on regardless of weather, so we put on boots and drove due east.
Walking in and presenting our tickets, a guard looked at my pink and green flowered rubbers - standing in sharp contrast to a sea of cowboy boots of all kinds and colors - and said, "Love your rain boots."
So there. Not exactly fitting in, but I couldn't if I'd wanted to.
It was a cowboy hat-wearing, jean-sporting crowd who filed in, some, like us, with chairs in hand and others making for the metal risers. We set up our chairs directly in front of the pen holding steers, a fact of which we were reminded every time the wind shifted.
Some of the cowboys climbed the fence and made their way through the crowd, including one wearing a New Mexico Junior College jacket over the standard outfit of jeans, Western shirt, boots and hat.
Not surprisingly given that it was Saturday night, there were plenty of couples and a fair number of them sat with the girl stretched out on the guy's lap, his hat tipped back so as not to interfere with their closeness.
It wasn't long before the announcer came out astride his horse to welcome the crowd, telling us he hoped to create lifelong rodeo fans out of us first-timers.
I couldn't have been more surprised when he instructed the crowd to turn off all electronic devices and strap yourself into your seat for wild ride.
Needless to say, no one followed the device rule.
Out came the rodeo clown dancing and tossing his hat to warm up the crowd.
Just when I thought the action was about to begin, I was reminded that only a heathen like me would jump right into something important like a rodeo without taking care of business first.
That meant our mounted announcer asked us all to bow our heads and led us in a prayer asking the big guy upstairs to help us make it through the arena of life so that when we all get to that lush green field in the sky, we're fortunate enough to find that all our entry fees have been paid.
I may have tittered a bit during the prayer and been reproached by my companions, but, come on, how do you not laugh at something like that?
The singer from country band Jackson Ward (yes, I'd come to New Kent to hear a band named after my 'hood) sang the national anthem while a mounted woman in a red glittery shirt holding a flag took the center spot and gave us all a patriotic focus.
Well, not all of us, because I noticed some of the cowboys were busy stretching and jumping around to warm up when they should have been standing rigidly at attention like the rest of us had been told to.
It may not have been ideal rodeo weather - it sprinkled very lightly through much of the show, although it was warm so it didn't matter much - but the sky was stunning with shades of velvety blue reaching down to the tree line.
The first event was bareback riding and to my surprise, many of the cowboys wore neck braces, an indicator of the potential bodily harm involved in riding a bucking bronco.
Interesting to me was that some laid back almost horizontal on the horse while others sat bolt upright as their bodies were jerked around unmercifully before a wrangler rode by and the rider grabbed hold of him to separate himself from the crazy horse.
A couple of the riders would drop to their knees and make a sign of the cross once back on terra firma. I feel your relief, brother.
And then there was the music. Each time a cowboy competed, a snippet of music was played, all of it cheesy classic rock.
Think I'm exaggerating? J. Geils' "Centerfold." Rolling Stones' "Start Me Up." Bon Jovi "You Give Love a Bad Name." Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop." Fortunately, never the entire song.
Calf roping came next and I had a feeling I wasn't going to like watching a helpless calf get thrown to the ground and his legs tied up.
The very first cowboy further convinced me of it when he chose to forfeit because once he'd gotten the calf roped and down on the ground, he realized he wasn't going to be able to tie it up without hurting it.
We saw several cowboys rope successfully, although I never got to the point where I enjoyed seeing the calf struggle. Call me a rodeo wussy.
There were several local cowboys from Mechanicsville, Sandston and New Kent participating but the crowd was generous enough to applaud everyone who performed, not just our own.
Or maybe the crowd was clapping their appreciation of the music. "Great Balls of Fire." "Old Time Rick and Roll." "My Sharona." "Jessie's Girl." It was hard to tell.
Turns out that a rodeo is as good as the State Fair for trashy food, meaning hot dogs, soft pretzels and funnel cake, all of which we sampled.
The announcer and rodeo clown both had southern accents you could cut with a knife. Like so many one-syllable words, New Kent became two: New Ke-ent. Fe-ence. Pa-ants.
I was curious about rodeo sexism when the cowgirls came out to do calf roping because all they had to do was throw the rope around his neck, not jump down and tie up the feet.
It seemed like the rodeo version of girl push-ups and while I certainly wouldn't want to rope a calf, surely some women must.
The rodeo clown was a big part of the show, dancing to all kinds of songs including Right Said Fred, Chic and Micheal Jackson, but he also turned out to be a three time world champion rope twirler.
He showed us his crazy roping skills, jumping in and out of lassos he was twirling.
There was even a massive pink rope he used for good. "With your help and god's grace, we're gonna get all 65 feet of pink rope out there and fight breast cancer," the announcer said before the clown managed to twirl that pink rope in an enormous circle around his body.
I wasn't exactly sure how he was raising money but the rope sure was pink.
Then we were up to steer roping and this was the first event where the cowboys got to use a helper.
Two mounted cowboys came barreling out with a steer between them and one dropped down on top of the hapless steer and wrestled him down while the other cowboy wrangled the now-riderless horse away from the action.
In such a small area, it was ridiculously fast, quantified by the announcer as 35 miles per hour. 35!
I was told that the key was for the steer roper to ensure his foot cleared the stirrup or else he was likely to break his foot.
What you have to imagine with all these wild and hectic competitions going on is that every cowboy and cowgirl starts out wearing a hat, no matter what crazy thing they're about to do.
Why you'd want to drop onto a steer wearing headgear other than a protective helmet, I can't imagine, but let's remember, this is my first rodeo.
Of course, maybe they were hoping the hat would drown out the cheesy music. "I Love Rock and Roll." "The Warrior." "I'm So Excited." Yeesh.
Last up was team roping where one cowboy ropes the neck and the other the feet and they sort of stretch out the poor animal for a few seconds.
It happens incredibly fast; the winner did it in 4.9 seconds.
Some of the competitor teams were females and, in once case, a cowgirl succeeded at roping not long after her husband had failed.
"Cowgirls don't forget anything," the announcer informed us.
I've also heard they get the blues, but since I'm the furthest thing from a cowgirl you're going to find, I'm no expert.
But now I do know what a rodeo entails and maybe, just maybe, when I get to that lush green field in the sky, I'll find that all my entry fees have been paid.
Yea, I know. Not likely.
I am Queen of the World
I'm on a river roll.
Thursday morning, I walked down to Brown's Island and along the pipeline walkway, where the river level was noticeably low and entire areas around the pipeline were bone dry.
But the most unusual thing about the pipeline Thursday was that I was the sole person on it. That's never happened before.
Yesterday's light mist seemed like an ideal reason to walk down to the river again, only this time I was headed for Belle Isle.
Instead of my usual route behind Ethyl headquarters, I decided to take the steep Second Street connector, which I now know is officially called Brown's Island Way.
What surprised me was all the construction equipment and personnel grading the hill down to the Belle Isle parking lot. Surely they weren't adding more parking on that slope?
Nope, I asked the man who appeared to be in charge and he said it was for Folk Fest, where the stage will be in the parking lot and the hill will be for the audience. So now I knew.
Crossing the pedestrian bridge, I was greeted by all kinds of new graffiti on the path, including such bon mots as "Carpe diem" and everybody's new favorite, "YOLO."
Believe me, no one is a bigger proponent of "you only live once" than me, although not similarly inclined to scrawl it on park property.
People were scarce on Belle Isle, a shame given how beautiful a day it was, a landscape of silver and green punctuated with scores of birds feeding and frolicking in the river.
Eventually I settled on a rock, umbrella overhead, and within a matter of minutes, three young boys came scampering in front of me, their mother trailing behind and apologizing for them interrupting my quiet time.
I assured her I came to the river for sound, not silence.
The oldest of the boys, maybe 7 or 8 at most, mounted a rock jutting out over rushing water and shouted, "I am the king of the world!" to the river.
Water is power.
The climb back up Brown's Island Way was a calf-buster, but a worthy cap to a beautiful, gray morning.
So today I got up and over breakfast contemplated where I might want to walk today, coming to the conclusion that I wanted to go right back down to Belle Isle.
When I got to the connector, though, the construction site was quiet, the machinery frozen in place like a petrified machinery forest.
I took this as a sign to cut through the enormous dirt hill even though it was cordoned off.
I knew it was steep so I purposely started off slow but I hadn't taken into account yesterday's day and evening-long rain and once lost my footing, almost ending up taking a mud bath on the hill before miraculously righting my uncoordinated self and gingerly finishing the trek down.
Nothing like a little adrenaline rush after breakfast.
Over on the island, I encountered plenty of weekend warriors walking dogs, taking pictures and studying trail charts.
Spotting a guy with a camera way out on a rock with glorious proximity to the rushing water, I climbed out to join him.
Turns out he was positioned to take photos of the kayaks coming down the river so I also got a fabulous view of their arrival in jellybean-bright boats.
They seemed to be a seasoned bunch, making u-turns in the rapids and flipping their kayaks underwater and back up with ease.
Taking their time moving downriver, I followed them, enjoying the fragrant breeze in my face and tempted to shout my own water-inspired proclamation,
Staying on the rocks until I no longer could, I stepped over pools of water in the rocks and eventually climbed back up on the path.
Once I got to the pedestrian bridge, I looked over toward the Civil War P.O.W. sheds only to see a photo shoot going on with a pretty brunette in a red dress posing with her leg in the air.
Just another morning on Belle Isle.
Since I'd just endured the nearly vertical walk up Brown's Island Way yesterday, today I opted to come back through Oregon Hill, passing tourists at the overlook point, a cook taking a cigarette break behind Mama Zu and a yard sale next to Fine Foods (where there is anything but fine food).
Walking up Belvidere, I came upon three young guys panhandling on a corner.
One of the was sitting in the trash can, a goofy straw hat on his head, waving to cars while his buddies held up signs soliciting money.
Spotting me, he grinned and said, "Hi! I'm a real redneck. Can you spare some change?"
Holding up my keys, I said they were all I had with me. Grinning, he held up his hand. "Pretty girl like you? That's worth a high five."
What the hell? I gave him one.
"How about a hug?" he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder to pull me in and knocking his straw hat off in the process.
See what happens when you get pushy? I asked. "It was worth it!" he said, scooping up the hat and putting it back on his head without ever moving out of the trash can.
Just another morning in downtown VCU.
Sliding down mud hills and hugging men in trash cans. You only live once.
Thursday morning, I walked down to Brown's Island and along the pipeline walkway, where the river level was noticeably low and entire areas around the pipeline were bone dry.
But the most unusual thing about the pipeline Thursday was that I was the sole person on it. That's never happened before.
Yesterday's light mist seemed like an ideal reason to walk down to the river again, only this time I was headed for Belle Isle.
Instead of my usual route behind Ethyl headquarters, I decided to take the steep Second Street connector, which I now know is officially called Brown's Island Way.
What surprised me was all the construction equipment and personnel grading the hill down to the Belle Isle parking lot. Surely they weren't adding more parking on that slope?
Nope, I asked the man who appeared to be in charge and he said it was for Folk Fest, where the stage will be in the parking lot and the hill will be for the audience. So now I knew.
Crossing the pedestrian bridge, I was greeted by all kinds of new graffiti on the path, including such bon mots as "Carpe diem" and everybody's new favorite, "YOLO."
Believe me, no one is a bigger proponent of "you only live once" than me, although not similarly inclined to scrawl it on park property.
People were scarce on Belle Isle, a shame given how beautiful a day it was, a landscape of silver and green punctuated with scores of birds feeding and frolicking in the river.
Eventually I settled on a rock, umbrella overhead, and within a matter of minutes, three young boys came scampering in front of me, their mother trailing behind and apologizing for them interrupting my quiet time.
I assured her I came to the river for sound, not silence.
The oldest of the boys, maybe 7 or 8 at most, mounted a rock jutting out over rushing water and shouted, "I am the king of the world!" to the river.
Water is power.
The climb back up Brown's Island Way was a calf-buster, but a worthy cap to a beautiful, gray morning.
So today I got up and over breakfast contemplated where I might want to walk today, coming to the conclusion that I wanted to go right back down to Belle Isle.
When I got to the connector, though, the construction site was quiet, the machinery frozen in place like a petrified machinery forest.
I took this as a sign to cut through the enormous dirt hill even though it was cordoned off.
I knew it was steep so I purposely started off slow but I hadn't taken into account yesterday's day and evening-long rain and once lost my footing, almost ending up taking a mud bath on the hill before miraculously righting my uncoordinated self and gingerly finishing the trek down.
Nothing like a little adrenaline rush after breakfast.
Over on the island, I encountered plenty of weekend warriors walking dogs, taking pictures and studying trail charts.
Spotting a guy with a camera way out on a rock with glorious proximity to the rushing water, I climbed out to join him.
Turns out he was positioned to take photos of the kayaks coming down the river so I also got a fabulous view of their arrival in jellybean-bright boats.
They seemed to be a seasoned bunch, making u-turns in the rapids and flipping their kayaks underwater and back up with ease.
Taking their time moving downriver, I followed them, enjoying the fragrant breeze in my face and tempted to shout my own water-inspired proclamation,
Staying on the rocks until I no longer could, I stepped over pools of water in the rocks and eventually climbed back up on the path.
Once I got to the pedestrian bridge, I looked over toward the Civil War P.O.W. sheds only to see a photo shoot going on with a pretty brunette in a red dress posing with her leg in the air.
Just another morning on Belle Isle.
Since I'd just endured the nearly vertical walk up Brown's Island Way yesterday, today I opted to come back through Oregon Hill, passing tourists at the overlook point, a cook taking a cigarette break behind Mama Zu and a yard sale next to Fine Foods (where there is anything but fine food).
Walking up Belvidere, I came upon three young guys panhandling on a corner.
One of the was sitting in the trash can, a goofy straw hat on his head, waving to cars while his buddies held up signs soliciting money.
Spotting me, he grinned and said, "Hi! I'm a real redneck. Can you spare some change?"
Holding up my keys, I said they were all I had with me. Grinning, he held up his hand. "Pretty girl like you? That's worth a high five."
What the hell? I gave him one.
"How about a hug?" he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder to pull me in and knocking his straw hat off in the process.
See what happens when you get pushy? I asked. "It was worth it!" he said, scooping up the hat and putting it back on his head without ever moving out of the trash can.
Just another morning in downtown VCU.
Sliding down mud hills and hugging men in trash cans. You only live once.
You Don't Even Have to Say It
Don't be so sure I have plans.
Everybody assumes my schedule is jam-packed every minute of every evening - it's even been referred to as CSS, as in "crowded social schedule" - but in reality, many nights find me with multiple options but no actual commitments.
Which means when a friend phones at 3:30 saying he's decided he wants to celebrate his birthday eve tonight and asking if I can join him and a favorite couple at 6, I enthusiastically say yes.
Think about that question. Can I join three good friends in two and a half hours for an evening of good food, drink and conversation? Must be a rhetorical question.
The plan was to meet at Rappahannock and I was the first to arrive, staking out seats on the far side of the bar and soon joined by the birthday boy toting two bottles of French Chardonnay (2006 and 2009) to enliven the festivities.
Before long the happy couple arrived and we learned that tonight was also the 13 year anniversary of their first date, so everyone had something to celebrate. For me, Friday night with friends was plenty.
Jumping right in with the intimacy of good friends and some vague details about the birthday boy's recent sex life, the 2006 wine was poured, revealing a very slightly oxidized nose and leading to discussion of wine and women past their prime but still worth savoring.
You know I had a few things to say on that subject.
It was the birthday celebrant's first time at Rappahannock so we began by diving into oysters on the half shell: butter Rapphannocks, slightly salty Stingrays, Old Saltes and, as a treat from the great north, Blue Hill Bay oysters from Maine, tasting like a mouth full of saltwater when a wave knocks you down. Divine.
Half of us (okay, me and the birthday boy) thought that the wine paired better with the saltier oysters while the other two thought the opposite.
It didn't matter what anyone thought because in no time at all, both were history.
We took an educational detour for a lesson in oxidation with a glass of sherry (but made no converts in the process) and the pork and pickles plate with pork rillettes and country pate, both nice enough but safe tasting.
"Needs more liver!" the celebrant pronounced and I agreed. Both seemed to have come from innocuous cuts like pork shoulder and lacked any real earthiness or rustic qualities, tastes well seek out.
Opening the 2009 Chardonnay, we found far more minerality, a much lighter color and a lovely choice to go with first a ceviche and then rockfish and barcat oyster bourride, a satisfying bowl with potatoes, garlic and a poached egg in a sop-worthy broth.
Sopping vehicles became the topic as the merits of Billy Bread and Sub Rosa were compared.
As usual with this crowd, a lot of the talk centered on food, drink and going out and before long we found ourselves listing future occasions for get togethers.
An authentic Ukrainian meal. A guest bartender competition party. A blind wine tasting. A trip to Merroir for the one who's never been. A mezcal tasting.
We could come up with countless reasons to hang out and put things in our mouths. And, no, we're not creepy swingers.
By then Rappahannock was completely full, so we decided to hit the road, with our first stop being Art 6 to see Helena Magnusson Ogburn's vibrantly colored, texturally dynamic painting show.
Funniest thing I was told about the artist? "She was so happy when she discovered hinges," a reference to several pieces that incorporated sections of brass hinges into the exuberant works.
My second favorite thing was that she paints every single day, a tenacity I respect.
The show was large with paintings of many sizes and we took our time seeing them all as they wound up the staircase, each of us choosing a favorite and explaining to the others why.
It's not enough to have an opinion with this group. You have to be able to defend it, too.
At one point, a girl walked by wearing abbreviated shorts she had no business wearing and before I could even form the words, my friend grinned and said, "You don't even have to say it."
It's a good friend who already knows how you're going to judge a stranger's shorts with just a look.
From Art 6 it was a quick hop, skip and a jump through the rain showers to Saison which was hopping, too. Perhaps too much so because all three of my companions were disappointed with their cocktails while I had no problem whatsoever with my Espolon.
Sometimes keeping things simple is the way to go.
Somehow a discussion of making moonshine led to my friend sharing some Russian history about Peter and Catherine the Great (who, I have to admit, sounded pretty interesting), at least until her man insisted on saving me from the educational tangent.
What? They don't teach us that stuff in America.
We nibbled on oxtail sopes before finding our passion in tender and fragrant chicken a la brassa, its smoky broth a sensory delight we drank with spoons until it was gone.
Our final stop of the evening was for dessert because what's a birthday without sweets? The birthday boy was presented with obscure beers from the happy couple while accepting nothing more than sincere wishes from me.
Standing on the sidewalk under umbrellas saying goodnight, I reminded my friends that it never hurts to check with me at the last minute to see if I'm busy.
Hey, I've got no problem chucking my CSS when the party's this good.
Everybody assumes my schedule is jam-packed every minute of every evening - it's even been referred to as CSS, as in "crowded social schedule" - but in reality, many nights find me with multiple options but no actual commitments.
Which means when a friend phones at 3:30 saying he's decided he wants to celebrate his birthday eve tonight and asking if I can join him and a favorite couple at 6, I enthusiastically say yes.
Think about that question. Can I join three good friends in two and a half hours for an evening of good food, drink and conversation? Must be a rhetorical question.
The plan was to meet at Rappahannock and I was the first to arrive, staking out seats on the far side of the bar and soon joined by the birthday boy toting two bottles of French Chardonnay (2006 and 2009) to enliven the festivities.
Before long the happy couple arrived and we learned that tonight was also the 13 year anniversary of their first date, so everyone had something to celebrate. For me, Friday night with friends was plenty.
Jumping right in with the intimacy of good friends and some vague details about the birthday boy's recent sex life, the 2006 wine was poured, revealing a very slightly oxidized nose and leading to discussion of wine and women past their prime but still worth savoring.
You know I had a few things to say on that subject.
It was the birthday celebrant's first time at Rappahannock so we began by diving into oysters on the half shell: butter Rapphannocks, slightly salty Stingrays, Old Saltes and, as a treat from the great north, Blue Hill Bay oysters from Maine, tasting like a mouth full of saltwater when a wave knocks you down. Divine.
Half of us (okay, me and the birthday boy) thought that the wine paired better with the saltier oysters while the other two thought the opposite.
It didn't matter what anyone thought because in no time at all, both were history.
We took an educational detour for a lesson in oxidation with a glass of sherry (but made no converts in the process) and the pork and pickles plate with pork rillettes and country pate, both nice enough but safe tasting.
"Needs more liver!" the celebrant pronounced and I agreed. Both seemed to have come from innocuous cuts like pork shoulder and lacked any real earthiness or rustic qualities, tastes well seek out.
Opening the 2009 Chardonnay, we found far more minerality, a much lighter color and a lovely choice to go with first a ceviche and then rockfish and barcat oyster bourride, a satisfying bowl with potatoes, garlic and a poached egg in a sop-worthy broth.
Sopping vehicles became the topic as the merits of Billy Bread and Sub Rosa were compared.
As usual with this crowd, a lot of the talk centered on food, drink and going out and before long we found ourselves listing future occasions for get togethers.
An authentic Ukrainian meal. A guest bartender competition party. A blind wine tasting. A trip to Merroir for the one who's never been. A mezcal tasting.
We could come up with countless reasons to hang out and put things in our mouths. And, no, we're not creepy swingers.
By then Rappahannock was completely full, so we decided to hit the road, with our first stop being Art 6 to see Helena Magnusson Ogburn's vibrantly colored, texturally dynamic painting show.
Funniest thing I was told about the artist? "She was so happy when she discovered hinges," a reference to several pieces that incorporated sections of brass hinges into the exuberant works.
My second favorite thing was that she paints every single day, a tenacity I respect.
The show was large with paintings of many sizes and we took our time seeing them all as they wound up the staircase, each of us choosing a favorite and explaining to the others why.
It's not enough to have an opinion with this group. You have to be able to defend it, too.
At one point, a girl walked by wearing abbreviated shorts she had no business wearing and before I could even form the words, my friend grinned and said, "You don't even have to say it."
It's a good friend who already knows how you're going to judge a stranger's shorts with just a look.
From Art 6 it was a quick hop, skip and a jump through the rain showers to Saison which was hopping, too. Perhaps too much so because all three of my companions were disappointed with their cocktails while I had no problem whatsoever with my Espolon.
Sometimes keeping things simple is the way to go.
Somehow a discussion of making moonshine led to my friend sharing some Russian history about Peter and Catherine the Great (who, I have to admit, sounded pretty interesting), at least until her man insisted on saving me from the educational tangent.
What? They don't teach us that stuff in America.
We nibbled on oxtail sopes before finding our passion in tender and fragrant chicken a la brassa, its smoky broth a sensory delight we drank with spoons until it was gone.
Our final stop of the evening was for dessert because what's a birthday without sweets? The birthday boy was presented with obscure beers from the happy couple while accepting nothing more than sincere wishes from me.
Standing on the sidewalk under umbrellas saying goodnight, I reminded my friends that it never hurts to check with me at the last minute to see if I'm busy.
Hey, I've got no problem chucking my CSS when the party's this good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
