Yesterday's escape to the river was enough to make me forego poetry.
My Tuesday evening plan had been to go to Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia, an event I always look forward to.
The only problem was that it was still 82 degrees when I got home from my road trip and I couldn't bear the thought of being inside while all that summer-like warmth was still outside.
I laid out a Plan B and my fellow poetry-lover was gracious enough to agree to a change in plans.
The river it was, albeit the James this time, by way of my favorite waterfront stopover, the Lilly Pad. Expecting it to be mobbed on such a gorgeous evening, we found only one large table celebrating a birthday, complete with balloons tied to the chairs.
Inside, we inquired what our choices were in white wine and were told, "I have this Chardonnay," as she hauled out a big 1.5 bottle and looked at us expectantly. Well, if that's what the options are, we'd love two glasses of it.
Looking at the chalkboard menu, I gravitated to the adjective adorned "juicy cheeseburger" and since it was also sushi night, the poet chose a spicy roll to round out our pan Asian-American meal.
Back outside, we headed straight for the coveted glider table closest to the river, aiming for the most distance from the raucous birthday celebrants and the best views of the goings-on near the water.
Boaters were pulling their boats out of the river and a couple of small crafts were still making their way along the dock. On the other side were what looked like a couple of houseboats with the blue light of TV screens glowing from within and the occasional occupant on the upper deck.
It must be an interesting life living on a houseboat. I met a woman a couple of years ago who had a house in Urbanna but chose to live on a houseboat at the end of her dock rather than in the house, which is where she let her guests stay when she had visitors.
Touring the boat with her, I couldn't help but be impressed with what an efficient use of space it was while they still had everything they needed. She was a talented cook who whipped up elaborate meals on the boat every night for her husband after a liberal happy hour on the deck above first. It sounded like a pretty good life to me.
For all I knew, some of those houseboat residents we were looking at were doing the same.
After polishing of the (juicy) cheeseburger and spicy roll, we wasted time gliding in the warm night air and watching new arrivals - a couple who surprisingly chose to eat inside, a biker who arrived on a chopper and then walked around to get feeling back in his legs before going in - help populate the place.
I know it's October, but I was still surprised that more people hadn't been lured down to the river on this beautiful evening like we had.
The only problem with the Lily Pad is how early it closes, so we stopped on the way back to the city for a nightcap at the Checkered Flag, a place I knew I was going to like as soon as I approached the door and could hear the jukebox playing "Me and Mrs. Jones."
Inside, we were welcomed warmly and a couple gave up their stools to go play video bowling so we could sit down.
The bartender, affable, welcoming and attentive, looked pleased as punch when I asked for 1800. "I got a bottle already in the freezer, honey" she said, beaming. After asking us our names, she used them every time she addressed us, as if were old friends.
Turns out her mother owns the bar and it'll become hers in a few more years, something she was clearly looking forward to. So now that we knew her five-year plan, we kind of did qualify as friends. That and when we asked if the kitchen was still open, she went right in the back and perfectly fried up some chicken wings for us.
I was way into the music someone had selected on the jukebox and when it ended, the woman who'd been bowling got up to put more money in, inviting me to join her to make selections while her boyfriend did a quick shot at the bar.
Since it was her money, I didn't want to foist my taste on her, but luckily I didn't have to because she was as big a fan of old-school soul as I am. Between the two of us, we chose Marvin Gay, Four Tops, Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder and a bunch of others.
When I asked her what her first concert had been, she didn't hesitate. "Hall and Oates, Three Rivers Stadium, 1987" and then selected "Sara Smile" from the Hall and Oates offerings on the screen.
Not a personal favorite, but it wasn't my money.
Returning to the bar, we chatted with her and her younger boyfriend who didn't recognize a lot of the old R & B we'd chosen. Technically, she was also too young to recognize it but she said her taste reflected her mother's taste and that her mother had been young.
And by young, she meant fourteen.
When you're told such personal facts as that by a stranger, you just take a sip of your 1800 and smile.
With apologies to the Sundays, poetry was not for me tonight.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Rock Me, Baby
Afraid that today is the last time it's going to feel so gloriously summer-like this year, I took full advantage.
Conveniently, I had multiple interviews to do in Kilmarnock, leaving me mere minutes from Merroir at 1:45. Only an idiot would have high-tailed it back to Richmond without stopping by.
Driving back over the bridge, the river looked silver-gray and the sky was crowded with clouds but once on the gravel road to Merroir, I could see blue sky and bluer water beckoning.
The hostess sat me in the center-most table, the sun on my back and the river view spread out before me. Only two other tables were occupied (and only two when I left) and one was by a staff member schooling the visitors on oysters and how much more slowly the river heats and cools off than the air.
Boats were bobbing at the marina next door - one had a small pirate flag next to a small Confederate flag - and sailboats were spanning the mouth of the bay.
I began with Wimmer Gruner Veltliner and a salad of hydroponic butter lettuce with cranberries (not craisins, so decidedly tart), sunflowers, sauteed honey onions and fromage bleu. Only problem? The hearty breeze kept trying to blow my lettuce leaves off my plate. Solution? Eat faster.
The music was pretty much bluegrass, with occasional recognizable songs such as "Wagon Wheel," easy background listening on such a gorgeous day.
Next to me was a trio who weren't speaking English but the most interesting thing I noted was how one of the guys would suck the spices off the steamed shrimp before shelling it. Brilliant! How had that never occurred to me?
I could hardly enjoy such a perfect day at the river without oysters, so I got my favorite Old Saltes and sucked the briny liquor out of the shells.
When I inquired of my server if I could finish with a half glass of wine, she said they didn't do that but she'd check with her manager and ask, returning with a generous half pour which accompanied me down to an Adirondack chair by the dock.
There, I again put my back to the sun and watched as sea gulls battled it out for supremacy on posts in the water, squawking at each other as they tried to assert themselves.
One dock over, a series of tiny American flags stood out stiffly in the warm, afternoon breeze.
Summer was teasing me even as she was ripping out my heart with a day as gloriously warm and perfect as this set to the sounds of water lapping, tree tops rustling in the wind and bird calls. Is there any feeling more exquisite than sitting waterside on an 82-degree day?
Let's put it this way: if I hadn't had a date tonight, I'd have sat there until Merroir closed, returning to the restaurant only to score more food and drink.
My only regret was that now that the dock has railings, I couldn't stick my feet in the water. And I'd just heard from an oyster expert that the river is till plenty warm, so that was just too bad.
I was alone down there until a couple of employees came down to rearrange tables for an upcoming wedding on Saturday. Apparently they had their first one a couple of weeks ago and now they're hosting another. Couples get married at the end of the dock and the reception swirls in the area where I was sitting. The bride and groom-to be could only wish for a day as beautiful as today for their celebration.
I left them to their rearranging and headed back up to visit the loo and leave. On the way, I chatted with the duo who'd been seated near me, discovering that he was a visitor from Michigan who'd been to Merroir before a couple of years ago.
Like two old-timers, we immediately lapsed into a "remember when?" session, lamenting how fancy Merroir has gotten and missing its rustic elements. The old dock! The long-gone oyster shell pile! The mismatched tables!
Yet despite how uptown things have become, here we both were, back on a random gorgeous Tuesday, loving our lives because we'd spent the afternoon there.
It feels like today might be the last day of summer 2014, I told him. "Then we were exactly where we should've been for it," he agreed.
Out of the mouths of strangers straight to my sun-tinged ears. Oh, happy day.
Conveniently, I had multiple interviews to do in Kilmarnock, leaving me mere minutes from Merroir at 1:45. Only an idiot would have high-tailed it back to Richmond without stopping by.
Driving back over the bridge, the river looked silver-gray and the sky was crowded with clouds but once on the gravel road to Merroir, I could see blue sky and bluer water beckoning.
The hostess sat me in the center-most table, the sun on my back and the river view spread out before me. Only two other tables were occupied (and only two when I left) and one was by a staff member schooling the visitors on oysters and how much more slowly the river heats and cools off than the air.
Boats were bobbing at the marina next door - one had a small pirate flag next to a small Confederate flag - and sailboats were spanning the mouth of the bay.
I began with Wimmer Gruner Veltliner and a salad of hydroponic butter lettuce with cranberries (not craisins, so decidedly tart), sunflowers, sauteed honey onions and fromage bleu. Only problem? The hearty breeze kept trying to blow my lettuce leaves off my plate. Solution? Eat faster.
The music was pretty much bluegrass, with occasional recognizable songs such as "Wagon Wheel," easy background listening on such a gorgeous day.
Next to me was a trio who weren't speaking English but the most interesting thing I noted was how one of the guys would suck the spices off the steamed shrimp before shelling it. Brilliant! How had that never occurred to me?
I could hardly enjoy such a perfect day at the river without oysters, so I got my favorite Old Saltes and sucked the briny liquor out of the shells.
When I inquired of my server if I could finish with a half glass of wine, she said they didn't do that but she'd check with her manager and ask, returning with a generous half pour which accompanied me down to an Adirondack chair by the dock.
There, I again put my back to the sun and watched as sea gulls battled it out for supremacy on posts in the water, squawking at each other as they tried to assert themselves.
One dock over, a series of tiny American flags stood out stiffly in the warm, afternoon breeze.
Summer was teasing me even as she was ripping out my heart with a day as gloriously warm and perfect as this set to the sounds of water lapping, tree tops rustling in the wind and bird calls. Is there any feeling more exquisite than sitting waterside on an 82-degree day?
Let's put it this way: if I hadn't had a date tonight, I'd have sat there until Merroir closed, returning to the restaurant only to score more food and drink.
My only regret was that now that the dock has railings, I couldn't stick my feet in the water. And I'd just heard from an oyster expert that the river is till plenty warm, so that was just too bad.
I was alone down there until a couple of employees came down to rearrange tables for an upcoming wedding on Saturday. Apparently they had their first one a couple of weeks ago and now they're hosting another. Couples get married at the end of the dock and the reception swirls in the area where I was sitting. The bride and groom-to be could only wish for a day as beautiful as today for their celebration.
I left them to their rearranging and headed back up to visit the loo and leave. On the way, I chatted with the duo who'd been seated near me, discovering that he was a visitor from Michigan who'd been to Merroir before a couple of years ago.
Like two old-timers, we immediately lapsed into a "remember when?" session, lamenting how fancy Merroir has gotten and missing its rustic elements. The old dock! The long-gone oyster shell pile! The mismatched tables!
Yet despite how uptown things have become, here we both were, back on a random gorgeous Tuesday, loving our lives because we'd spent the afternoon there.
It feels like today might be the last day of summer 2014, I told him. "Then we were exactly where we should've been for it," he agreed.
Out of the mouths of strangers straight to my sun-tinged ears. Oh, happy day.
Down versus Pound
It was really too beautiful to spend the evening indoors - 77 degrees in mid-October - unless love was involved.
As it turned out, it was, but I didn't know that. I thought I was getting dinner and a play.
Given the bodacious weather, I was hardly surprised when I arrived at Magpie to find only one couple in attendance. I took a seat at the bar to await my friend's arrival and discuss my theater plans with the bartender.
Although he'd never been to Richmond Triangle Players, he used to work with their bartender, a woman I've bought wine from on many an occasion. Funny how there's never more than three degrees of separation from anyone in this town.
Right on time, my friend arrived (amuse bouche: easter egg radish slice with golden raisin chutney and carrot top) and we lost no time ordering so we could discuss theater without our mouths being full.
My only regret was that he invited me to go with him to see "Book of Mormon," a show I could never afford, and I'll be out of town that weekend. Drat the luck.
Once dinner came, we focused on that.
Not that anyone needs to eat their sweetbreads chicken-fried, but as long as they were offering, why not? These came with turnip hash, pickled relish and house hot sauce and I also shared a side of roasted brussels sprouts with my friend as he ate his huntsman's stew, which smelled divine.
Unfortunately, we had so little time left that dessert wasn't an option so we left for the theater to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of John Anastasi's new play, "Transition," without my sweet tooth being satisfied.
Instead, I sublimated it when the reading began with a sex scene between two women, one of whom came noisily moments after the action began. Unfortunately, her partner hadn't come (or enjoyed the strap-on she'd been using), causing her to lament, "I'd rather you went downtown instead of taking me to Pound Town."
Hmm, "Pound Town." That's a new one on me.
"Transition" was the story of a man born in a woman's body who takes 28 years to decide he needs to transition to the male he's always been. The problem is that his partner, the love of his life, is a lesbian who wants a female, not male, partner.
When he tells his mother about his planned hormone treatments and surgery, she's forced to come to terms with what she always knew but never acknowledged: her daughter is her son. "You haven't even started the male hormones and already you're acting just like your father!" Jacqueline Jones as the mother said to a big laugh.
Ditto the laughs when the subject of genital reconstruction surgery came up. "That glorious organ with the head but no brain." Ah, yes, we know the one.
But the most unexpectedly funny moment came when Melissa Johnston Price (as the doctor planning to do the surgery) explained all that was involved, right down to creation of the brain-less head. "So that's it in the nutshell," she said before turning to look at the audience with a classic WTF? look on her face. "I never saw that coming."
The audience laughed long and hard at her reaction to the line in the script.
Danya/Daniel, the woman transitioning, was played superbly by Eva DeVirgilis, who tries to convince her true love Addison (played by Sara Heifetz) that even if she has the surgery, they'll still love each other just the same, pulling out Shakespeare's "A rose by another name would smell as sweet" to prove her point.
Addison is having none of it. "Male hormones do not smell good," she retorts, miserable at the idea of having a male partner when she's madly in love with a woman.
But the bigger issue wasn't about smell or hormones or any of that. The play asks us why do we love the person we do? Is it their heart, their soul, their personality, their body?
The play was terribly poignant in parts, especially in a scene that takes place five years after surgery and the couple's split, when Daniel runs into the doctor who tries to assure him he'll get over the loss of his true love. He corrects her.
"Those who've had a real loss know that it never gets better. You just get better at living with it." I'd like to see someone put that in a fortune cookie.
The play ended ambiguously, leaving the outcome to the viewer's imagination. Some saw a happy ending and others didn't. Sort of like life.
But the biggest question remained. Could you still have real love if one of the people changes?
During the talkback with the playwright, director Carol Piersol and cast, the audience had a lot of questions and a lot of opinions on what needed to be changed and not changed in the script.
That's a major reason I look forward to this kind of reading. Part of its purpose is to provide feedback to the author and another part is to gauge audience reaction to the idea of seeing the play fully produced.
As an opinionated woman and a theater lover, I find it immensely satisfying to have a chance to provide that kind of input.
Playwright Anastasi told us he'd spent a great deal of time talking to a doctor who does this kind of surgery in order to get the finer points right. "I still take a lot of criticism as a heterosexual writing about the trans experience. But, Stephen King, did he kill all those people?"
I think not. Clearly, the man had a sense of humor.
What he did make clear was that what he had written was, more than anything else, a love story. By the end, Daniel has fully transitioned and has finally gotten what he's wanted his whole life. But in the process, he's lost the only person he ever needed. He's alone but acknowledges that that's his choice.
"He chooses not to have someone else if he can't have the love of his life, "Anastasi told us to wrap things up.
And that, if you ask me, makes it a hell of a love story.
As it turned out, it was, but I didn't know that. I thought I was getting dinner and a play.
Given the bodacious weather, I was hardly surprised when I arrived at Magpie to find only one couple in attendance. I took a seat at the bar to await my friend's arrival and discuss my theater plans with the bartender.
Although he'd never been to Richmond Triangle Players, he used to work with their bartender, a woman I've bought wine from on many an occasion. Funny how there's never more than three degrees of separation from anyone in this town.
Right on time, my friend arrived (amuse bouche: easter egg radish slice with golden raisin chutney and carrot top) and we lost no time ordering so we could discuss theater without our mouths being full.
My only regret was that he invited me to go with him to see "Book of Mormon," a show I could never afford, and I'll be out of town that weekend. Drat the luck.
Once dinner came, we focused on that.
Not that anyone needs to eat their sweetbreads chicken-fried, but as long as they were offering, why not? These came with turnip hash, pickled relish and house hot sauce and I also shared a side of roasted brussels sprouts with my friend as he ate his huntsman's stew, which smelled divine.
Unfortunately, we had so little time left that dessert wasn't an option so we left for the theater to see 5th Wall Theater's staged reading of John Anastasi's new play, "Transition," without my sweet tooth being satisfied.
Instead, I sublimated it when the reading began with a sex scene between two women, one of whom came noisily moments after the action began. Unfortunately, her partner hadn't come (or enjoyed the strap-on she'd been using), causing her to lament, "I'd rather you went downtown instead of taking me to Pound Town."
Hmm, "Pound Town." That's a new one on me.
"Transition" was the story of a man born in a woman's body who takes 28 years to decide he needs to transition to the male he's always been. The problem is that his partner, the love of his life, is a lesbian who wants a female, not male, partner.
When he tells his mother about his planned hormone treatments and surgery, she's forced to come to terms with what she always knew but never acknowledged: her daughter is her son. "You haven't even started the male hormones and already you're acting just like your father!" Jacqueline Jones as the mother said to a big laugh.
Ditto the laughs when the subject of genital reconstruction surgery came up. "That glorious organ with the head but no brain." Ah, yes, we know the one.
But the most unexpectedly funny moment came when Melissa Johnston Price (as the doctor planning to do the surgery) explained all that was involved, right down to creation of the brain-less head. "So that's it in the nutshell," she said before turning to look at the audience with a classic WTF? look on her face. "I never saw that coming."
The audience laughed long and hard at her reaction to the line in the script.
Danya/Daniel, the woman transitioning, was played superbly by Eva DeVirgilis, who tries to convince her true love Addison (played by Sara Heifetz) that even if she has the surgery, they'll still love each other just the same, pulling out Shakespeare's "A rose by another name would smell as sweet" to prove her point.
Addison is having none of it. "Male hormones do not smell good," she retorts, miserable at the idea of having a male partner when she's madly in love with a woman.
But the bigger issue wasn't about smell or hormones or any of that. The play asks us why do we love the person we do? Is it their heart, their soul, their personality, their body?
The play was terribly poignant in parts, especially in a scene that takes place five years after surgery and the couple's split, when Daniel runs into the doctor who tries to assure him he'll get over the loss of his true love. He corrects her.
"Those who've had a real loss know that it never gets better. You just get better at living with it." I'd like to see someone put that in a fortune cookie.
The play ended ambiguously, leaving the outcome to the viewer's imagination. Some saw a happy ending and others didn't. Sort of like life.
But the biggest question remained. Could you still have real love if one of the people changes?
During the talkback with the playwright, director Carol Piersol and cast, the audience had a lot of questions and a lot of opinions on what needed to be changed and not changed in the script.
That's a major reason I look forward to this kind of reading. Part of its purpose is to provide feedback to the author and another part is to gauge audience reaction to the idea of seeing the play fully produced.
As an opinionated woman and a theater lover, I find it immensely satisfying to have a chance to provide that kind of input.
Playwright Anastasi told us he'd spent a great deal of time talking to a doctor who does this kind of surgery in order to get the finer points right. "I still take a lot of criticism as a heterosexual writing about the trans experience. But, Stephen King, did he kill all those people?"
I think not. Clearly, the man had a sense of humor.
What he did make clear was that what he had written was, more than anything else, a love story. By the end, Daniel has fully transitioned and has finally gotten what he's wanted his whole life. But in the process, he's lost the only person he ever needed. He's alone but acknowledges that that's his choice.
"He chooses not to have someone else if he can't have the love of his life, "Anastasi told us to wrap things up.
And that, if you ask me, makes it a hell of a love story.
Monday, October 13, 2014
The Remains of the Days (and Nights)
It was like going to the frat house where the big party had been the night before.
I'm talking about the riverfront after the Folk Fest this weekend.
Sneaking up on the remains of it all by taking 14th Street to the pipeline walkway, I got behind a British couple who've been Richmond residents for three years now.
The paused to let me pass by, presuming I was moving at a faster pace than they were, but instead I stopped to chat with them, learning it was their first time on the pipeline. We gushed about the river views it afforded and the pleasures of rushing water so nearby.
Like me, they'd been to the Folk Fest, but had to leave after seeing only two bands because their kids were getting restless. Today the kids were at school and they were enjoying a leisurely hike.
When the subject of the weekend weather came up, they laughed it off as "English weather," something they were used to. Good for the complexion, that's how I like to look at it. I hadn't minded it a bit.
Since they'd never taken the pipeline up to Brown's Island, they followed me up to see where it came out and then headed back down to the riverfront.
Teams of workers were busy disassembling all the trappings of the Folk Fest on the island - collapsing tents, folding chairs -and while the Dominion Dance pavilion stage was gone, the big dance floor remained so I glided across it, alone on the expanse that had seen so many dancing feet (including my own) all weekend.
Passing a Segway tour group further on, I paused to listen to the guide's spiel, learning something I never knew about the Federal Reserve building: it's a 1/8 scale version of the World Trade Center.
How had I never heard (or noticed) that interesting fact?
Heading up Fifth Street, I turned off on Gary Gerloff Way where a worker was pulling up the protective strips that cover the countless extension cords that went to the nearby stage.
I waited until he drove his little golf cart away and then ran down the hill to the RTD stage and mounted it like I had a right to be there. I may have even taken a bow to the empty field while I was up there.
The way I see it, life is full of opportunities and it's my right to grab them when I see them.
Good for way more than the complexion.
I'm talking about the riverfront after the Folk Fest this weekend.
Sneaking up on the remains of it all by taking 14th Street to the pipeline walkway, I got behind a British couple who've been Richmond residents for three years now.
The paused to let me pass by, presuming I was moving at a faster pace than they were, but instead I stopped to chat with them, learning it was their first time on the pipeline. We gushed about the river views it afforded and the pleasures of rushing water so nearby.
Like me, they'd been to the Folk Fest, but had to leave after seeing only two bands because their kids were getting restless. Today the kids were at school and they were enjoying a leisurely hike.
When the subject of the weekend weather came up, they laughed it off as "English weather," something they were used to. Good for the complexion, that's how I like to look at it. I hadn't minded it a bit.
Since they'd never taken the pipeline up to Brown's Island, they followed me up to see where it came out and then headed back down to the riverfront.
Teams of workers were busy disassembling all the trappings of the Folk Fest on the island - collapsing tents, folding chairs -and while the Dominion Dance pavilion stage was gone, the big dance floor remained so I glided across it, alone on the expanse that had seen so many dancing feet (including my own) all weekend.
Passing a Segway tour group further on, I paused to listen to the guide's spiel, learning something I never knew about the Federal Reserve building: it's a 1/8 scale version of the World Trade Center.
How had I never heard (or noticed) that interesting fact?
Heading up Fifth Street, I turned off on Gary Gerloff Way where a worker was pulling up the protective strips that cover the countless extension cords that went to the nearby stage.
I waited until he drove his little golf cart away and then ran down the hill to the RTD stage and mounted it like I had a right to be there. I may have even taken a bow to the empty field while I was up there.
The way I see it, life is full of opportunities and it's my right to grab them when I see them.
Good for way more than the complexion.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Folk All Day
Not a lot to write about tonight besides Folk Fest version 3.
Lafayette Gilchrist and the New Volcanoes doing a tribute to go-go and D.C. Slick, lunch at Croaker's Spot (chicken wing basket with fries and cornbread), Wild Ponies doing a Patsy Cline cover and the heart-wrenching "Truthless."
A guy in the Port-Potty next to me burping big time and then saying "'scuse me" to no one in particular.
Hip-hop artist Supaman in full native American regalia, spouting corny jokes like a comedian in Atlantic City or, worse, a vaudevillian.
The Mayans who came down the pole on ropes (annoying guy behind me as they wound the ropes: "I hope this isn't going to be super-anti-climatic") and the incomparable Debashish Bhattacharya doing a different set than yesterday to a far noisier crowd. A pity.
Not to mention the Holmes Brothers absolutely killing it with effortless blues musicianship and scratchy old vocals, with me dancing all the while they played.
Random hoodies and t-shirts: "Vegan Muscle Team" and "Abs of Ale." I'll leave it to your imagination what the wearers looked like.
Spotted en route: the man about town, the neighbors pushing a stroller, the sax player, the chef and his co-owner.
Best summation of Friday's opening rainy night performances: "It was a private show for the few."
Another year of Folk Fest over, another year of sterling entertainment. A good time was had all three days.
Still, some days 'tis better to under-share. Pity.
Lafayette Gilchrist and the New Volcanoes doing a tribute to go-go and D.C. Slick, lunch at Croaker's Spot (chicken wing basket with fries and cornbread), Wild Ponies doing a Patsy Cline cover and the heart-wrenching "Truthless."
A guy in the Port-Potty next to me burping big time and then saying "'scuse me" to no one in particular.
Hip-hop artist Supaman in full native American regalia, spouting corny jokes like a comedian in Atlantic City or, worse, a vaudevillian.
The Mayans who came down the pole on ropes (annoying guy behind me as they wound the ropes: "I hope this isn't going to be super-anti-climatic") and the incomparable Debashish Bhattacharya doing a different set than yesterday to a far noisier crowd. A pity.
Not to mention the Holmes Brothers absolutely killing it with effortless blues musicianship and scratchy old vocals, with me dancing all the while they played.
Random hoodies and t-shirts: "Vegan Muscle Team" and "Abs of Ale." I'll leave it to your imagination what the wearers looked like.
Spotted en route: the man about town, the neighbors pushing a stroller, the sax player, the chef and his co-owner.
Best summation of Friday's opening rainy night performances: "It was a private show for the few."
Another year of Folk Fest over, another year of sterling entertainment. A good time was had all three days.
Still, some days 'tis better to under-share. Pity.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Music Does Intoxicate
Meanwhile, back at the Folk Fest...
What I mean is, of course I went back today, setting out on foot from my house and going down Fifth Street with the throngs of people intent on enjoying music now that the rain had stopped.
I began with Afro-Persian band Ensemble Shanbehzadeh and wasn't there five minutes before running into the former baker and the guitarist/writer, both captured by the activity onstage featuring dancing and large sticks. It was even better when volunteers from the audience joined them, trying to match their movements.
Then it was over to the MWV stage (passing the smart-assed gardener and my J-Ward neighbors) to score a third row seat for Debashish Bhattacharya and family, meaning brother Subhasis, a master tabla player, and daughter Anandi singing.
They're touring behind their new album "Madiera: If Music Could Intoxicate," setting out to prove that we didn't need other substances to get to another place.
I saw Debashish and Subhasis at the Folk Fest back in 2009 (where he'd earned my undying fandom by pronouncing, "Music is a better religious activity than doing anything else") and, like at that show, their timing was so spot on, stopping and starting on a dime simultaneously, that the crowd couldn't help but burst into spontaneous applause throughout the show.
This time, with the addition of Anandi singing so beautifully, it was just as impressive but even more moving.
Explaining that she was going to sing an aggressive song about a king who decided not to marry a courtesan because of the color of her skin, so she "danced like lightening and sang like rain" to show him that his decision would come back to haunt him, she sang like she meant it.
It was a song, she said, that changes with every performance so it can't be written down.
My only complaint with their entire set was ongoing sound problems resulting in ear-bleeding feedback more than a few times. You'd think after ten years of Folk Fests, we'd have sound issues figured out.
After she sang "My Beloved" and her father kissed her on the head, Anandi jumped off the low stage, looking both traditional and contemporary in her pink tunic over black leggings.
Then we were treated to Indian slide guitar and tabla by two brothers who can anticipate each other so superbly that it's like they're a single four-handed musical wizard.
Deebashish told how his mother had been an exceptionally talented singer but that Indian women in the '40s and '50s weren't allowed to perform in public, so she couldn't sing outside the house.
"Now my Mom has a voice in her granddaughter," he said, praising to an already impressed crowd his daughter's talent.
When their set ended, the audience jumped to its feet in a standing ovation much like they'd done that night back in 2009 when I first saw them.
From there, I headed to the Folklife Stage to see the oyster shucking sisters I had interviewed for Style Weekly's Folk Fest issue.
Deborah, decked out in multiple loops of pearls, threw her arms around me and her sister Clementine bragged that they'd seen my piece on them at the hotel last night before they went back to shucking and answering oyster questions.
I spotted two of the local art scene's high priestesses eating lunch from the Goatacado truck and stopped to see what they'd seen so far. They'd attempted the Throwdown on Brown breakdancing competition but it had been mobbed. "The only way we could see anything was in people's phone screens," they reported.
Don't get me started, I'd replied, because the thought of people too busy filming for the future to be present in the moment is the curse of the 21st century.
A stop at the Benevolent Burrito got me a black bean quesadilla with guacamole, pickled slaw and sour cream and as I stood there devouring it, a couple walked up to me and inquired what it was and where I'd gotten it. I like to think I looked like I was enjoying my lunch.
Thus fortified, I showed my colors as the groupie I am, making a beeline for the dancing pavilion to see William Bell. Again.
Okay, yes, I'd seen him last night, although just an hour of his 90-minute performance and I wanted more.
This time I stood rather than sitting, starting out maybe eight people back from the stage and winding up in the third row by the time his set ended.
The emcee told the crowd, "If you aren't with your sweetheart now, you'll wish you were by the end of William Bell's show."
Tell me something I didn't already know.
Immediately, he got everyone moving and grooving to "Easy Coming Out, Hard Going In" (how he got away with that title in 1977, I have no idea) and just kept it up as more and more people kept arriving.
Sure, I heard some of the songs I'd heard last night and absolutely, I enjoyed hearing them live again.
During "You Don't Miss Your Water," a woman in a pink hat in the front row kept making heart signs in Bell's direction until he finally acknowledged her. "I love you, too!"
Because the crowd was so much bigger than last night's there was even more slow dancing going on all around me, but who can resist the soul stylings of William Bell?
"Can I testify a little bit, y'all?" he called out and the audience roared back their assent. Me, I just kept dancing by myself, occasionally getting knocked into my women with big purses or couples caught up in each other.
I stayed for the whole set because I knew it was my last chance to see him and if that makes me a groupie, then so be it.
Even so, I was able to catch the last few songs of duo Kostas Fetfatsidis and Evan Karapanagiotides playing traditional Pontic Greek music that sounded like it came from high on a hill from a sheepherder's lonely perch.
Walking back up to Second Street when they finished, I came upon Supaman, the Indian hip-hop performer, in his full headdress and regalia, waiting to be picked up after his recent performance.
As I walked up the rest of the hill, the wind making me cold, the van with Supaman in it drove beside me. As it should be.I'm just the rabid fan, the groupie, if you will.
I'm all for the talent saving their strength to perform for people like us. I'll even testify to that.
What I mean is, of course I went back today, setting out on foot from my house and going down Fifth Street with the throngs of people intent on enjoying music now that the rain had stopped.
I began with Afro-Persian band Ensemble Shanbehzadeh and wasn't there five minutes before running into the former baker and the guitarist/writer, both captured by the activity onstage featuring dancing and large sticks. It was even better when volunteers from the audience joined them, trying to match their movements.
Then it was over to the MWV stage (passing the smart-assed gardener and my J-Ward neighbors) to score a third row seat for Debashish Bhattacharya and family, meaning brother Subhasis, a master tabla player, and daughter Anandi singing.
They're touring behind their new album "Madiera: If Music Could Intoxicate," setting out to prove that we didn't need other substances to get to another place.
I saw Debashish and Subhasis at the Folk Fest back in 2009 (where he'd earned my undying fandom by pronouncing, "Music is a better religious activity than doing anything else") and, like at that show, their timing was so spot on, stopping and starting on a dime simultaneously, that the crowd couldn't help but burst into spontaneous applause throughout the show.
This time, with the addition of Anandi singing so beautifully, it was just as impressive but even more moving.
Explaining that she was going to sing an aggressive song about a king who decided not to marry a courtesan because of the color of her skin, so she "danced like lightening and sang like rain" to show him that his decision would come back to haunt him, she sang like she meant it.
It was a song, she said, that changes with every performance so it can't be written down.
My only complaint with their entire set was ongoing sound problems resulting in ear-bleeding feedback more than a few times. You'd think after ten years of Folk Fests, we'd have sound issues figured out.
After she sang "My Beloved" and her father kissed her on the head, Anandi jumped off the low stage, looking both traditional and contemporary in her pink tunic over black leggings.
Then we were treated to Indian slide guitar and tabla by two brothers who can anticipate each other so superbly that it's like they're a single four-handed musical wizard.
Deebashish told how his mother had been an exceptionally talented singer but that Indian women in the '40s and '50s weren't allowed to perform in public, so she couldn't sing outside the house.
"Now my Mom has a voice in her granddaughter," he said, praising to an already impressed crowd his daughter's talent.
When their set ended, the audience jumped to its feet in a standing ovation much like they'd done that night back in 2009 when I first saw them.
From there, I headed to the Folklife Stage to see the oyster shucking sisters I had interviewed for Style Weekly's Folk Fest issue.
Deborah, decked out in multiple loops of pearls, threw her arms around me and her sister Clementine bragged that they'd seen my piece on them at the hotel last night before they went back to shucking and answering oyster questions.
I spotted two of the local art scene's high priestesses eating lunch from the Goatacado truck and stopped to see what they'd seen so far. They'd attempted the Throwdown on Brown breakdancing competition but it had been mobbed. "The only way we could see anything was in people's phone screens," they reported.
Don't get me started, I'd replied, because the thought of people too busy filming for the future to be present in the moment is the curse of the 21st century.
A stop at the Benevolent Burrito got me a black bean quesadilla with guacamole, pickled slaw and sour cream and as I stood there devouring it, a couple walked up to me and inquired what it was and where I'd gotten it. I like to think I looked like I was enjoying my lunch.
Thus fortified, I showed my colors as the groupie I am, making a beeline for the dancing pavilion to see William Bell. Again.
Okay, yes, I'd seen him last night, although just an hour of his 90-minute performance and I wanted more.
This time I stood rather than sitting, starting out maybe eight people back from the stage and winding up in the third row by the time his set ended.
The emcee told the crowd, "If you aren't with your sweetheart now, you'll wish you were by the end of William Bell's show."
Tell me something I didn't already know.
Immediately, he got everyone moving and grooving to "Easy Coming Out, Hard Going In" (how he got away with that title in 1977, I have no idea) and just kept it up as more and more people kept arriving.
Sure, I heard some of the songs I'd heard last night and absolutely, I enjoyed hearing them live again.
During "You Don't Miss Your Water," a woman in a pink hat in the front row kept making heart signs in Bell's direction until he finally acknowledged her. "I love you, too!"
Because the crowd was so much bigger than last night's there was even more slow dancing going on all around me, but who can resist the soul stylings of William Bell?
"Can I testify a little bit, y'all?" he called out and the audience roared back their assent. Me, I just kept dancing by myself, occasionally getting knocked into my women with big purses or couples caught up in each other.
I stayed for the whole set because I knew it was my last chance to see him and if that makes me a groupie, then so be it.
Even so, I was able to catch the last few songs of duo Kostas Fetfatsidis and Evan Karapanagiotides playing traditional Pontic Greek music that sounded like it came from high on a hill from a sheepherder's lonely perch.
Walking back up to Second Street when they finished, I came upon Supaman, the Indian hip-hop performer, in his full headdress and regalia, waiting to be picked up after his recent performance.
As I walked up the rest of the hill, the wind making me cold, the van with Supaman in it drove beside me. As it should be.I'm just the rabid fan, the groupie, if you will.
I'm all for the talent saving their strength to perform for people like us. I'll even testify to that.
A House is Not a Home
If you know me, you know I'm not the suburban type.
I get to say that because I tried it a long time ago in a county not all that far away and I was miserable with all of it: the distance to the city, the lack of sidewalks, the dead end streets, excuse me, cul de sacs, every bit of it.
So while I wasn't nearly as curious to see the Richmond Symphony Designer House all the way out in Hallsley as I'd been when it was in the city, the reliably generous Holmes offered me tickets so I grabbed a friend and went to the county.
Clearly, I went in biased because I'm not a fan of a) big, showy houses or b) suburban architecture or even c) overly designed rooms that don't seem livable.
Example: designers who put color-coordinated covers on books in the library or study so the books match the decor (actually happened at another designer house). Spare me.
All of this is a roundabout way of saying that much of the designer house was not to my taste. Not the pseudo-Hamptons architecture, not the retro '80s wallpaper styles, not the nouveau riche accouterments.
Even so, I can always find something to appreciate and today it was the porches and the graffiti.
The screened porch was unlike any I'd ever seen, with its arched screened walls and enormous center screen wall with no support pieces breaking up the view of the woods.
Oh-so politically correct, it had a faux wood floor, touted as easy to clean, but I tend to think that's a non-issue because rich people don't actually use screened porches, do they?
I also gave it points for its multiple uses given there was a sofa, two chairs, a chaise lounge and a table for eating, all with views.
The upstairs sleeping porch, just as huge, had only a single bed where I would have put a queen bed and used it every night of the summer. But that's just me.
A couple of women came in behind me, noted the whirring ceiling fan and immediately started asking where the vents for heat and air conditioning were. None were to be found.
Reminding them that it was a sleeping porch, I said that the idea was to have the many windows open to the night air. But wait, rich people don't want fresh air ever. What was I thinking?
The porch had a lot of charming elements including an unusual shape that gave it six walls of windows and a table with an old Candyland game set up on it.
One room I got a kick out of was a guest room designed by the U-Fab guys over on Robinson Street. What I loved about their very colorful room was that the inspiration had been all the street art on the old GRTC bus sheds which sit directly across from U-Fab.
Photographs on the walls were close-ups of the street art - including a scarred door on which was painted "just another day in paradise" - and the palette was just as colorful, all bright primary colors. The rug had been made out of bright t-shirts woven together making it very soft underfoot.
Maybe I liked it because it had such an un-suburban feel.
An unexpected bonus to my suburban field was walking into bedroom #4 to find a designer friend who had created the modern, masculine room. He proudly explained that the colorful, large, abstract photographs were close-ups of geodes he'd found as a kid. One sat on the dresser.
I gave him much credit for such a nerdy take on his design. Well done, my friend.
We hadn't seen each other in months, but part of that is how busy he's been since he took on the designer house project, a seven day a week proposition apparently. On the plus side, he said he'd given out hundreds of business cards, and hopefully that will translate into new customers, surely the goal of doing one of these extravaganzas.
I heard on the way out that the house has been sold to a young family who will take possession of it once all the designers' hard work is removed. One woman said she'd heard a rumor that the new owners had bought everything in the master bedroom because they liked it so much.
Meh. Not my style.
But then, neither is county living. I'm the type who prefers to actually sleep on porches. And I like to see my street art first hand.
That said, I'm glad I went. It's important to be reminded how good you have it. Simple, but so good.
I get to say that because I tried it a long time ago in a county not all that far away and I was miserable with all of it: the distance to the city, the lack of sidewalks, the dead end streets, excuse me, cul de sacs, every bit of it.
So while I wasn't nearly as curious to see the Richmond Symphony Designer House all the way out in Hallsley as I'd been when it was in the city, the reliably generous Holmes offered me tickets so I grabbed a friend and went to the county.
Clearly, I went in biased because I'm not a fan of a) big, showy houses or b) suburban architecture or even c) overly designed rooms that don't seem livable.
Example: designers who put color-coordinated covers on books in the library or study so the books match the decor (actually happened at another designer house). Spare me.
All of this is a roundabout way of saying that much of the designer house was not to my taste. Not the pseudo-Hamptons architecture, not the retro '80s wallpaper styles, not the nouveau riche accouterments.
Even so, I can always find something to appreciate and today it was the porches and the graffiti.
The screened porch was unlike any I'd ever seen, with its arched screened walls and enormous center screen wall with no support pieces breaking up the view of the woods.
Oh-so politically correct, it had a faux wood floor, touted as easy to clean, but I tend to think that's a non-issue because rich people don't actually use screened porches, do they?
I also gave it points for its multiple uses given there was a sofa, two chairs, a chaise lounge and a table for eating, all with views.
The upstairs sleeping porch, just as huge, had only a single bed where I would have put a queen bed and used it every night of the summer. But that's just me.
A couple of women came in behind me, noted the whirring ceiling fan and immediately started asking where the vents for heat and air conditioning were. None were to be found.
Reminding them that it was a sleeping porch, I said that the idea was to have the many windows open to the night air. But wait, rich people don't want fresh air ever. What was I thinking?
The porch had a lot of charming elements including an unusual shape that gave it six walls of windows and a table with an old Candyland game set up on it.
One room I got a kick out of was a guest room designed by the U-Fab guys over on Robinson Street. What I loved about their very colorful room was that the inspiration had been all the street art on the old GRTC bus sheds which sit directly across from U-Fab.
Photographs on the walls were close-ups of the street art - including a scarred door on which was painted "just another day in paradise" - and the palette was just as colorful, all bright primary colors. The rug had been made out of bright t-shirts woven together making it very soft underfoot.
Maybe I liked it because it had such an un-suburban feel.
An unexpected bonus to my suburban field was walking into bedroom #4 to find a designer friend who had created the modern, masculine room. He proudly explained that the colorful, large, abstract photographs were close-ups of geodes he'd found as a kid. One sat on the dresser.
I gave him much credit for such a nerdy take on his design. Well done, my friend.
We hadn't seen each other in months, but part of that is how busy he's been since he took on the designer house project, a seven day a week proposition apparently. On the plus side, he said he'd given out hundreds of business cards, and hopefully that will translate into new customers, surely the goal of doing one of these extravaganzas.
I heard on the way out that the house has been sold to a young family who will take possession of it once all the designers' hard work is removed. One woman said she'd heard a rumor that the new owners had bought everything in the master bedroom because they liked it so much.
Meh. Not my style.
But then, neither is county living. I'm the type who prefers to actually sleep on porches. And I like to see my street art first hand.
That said, I'm glad I went. It's important to be reminded how good you have it. Simple, but so good.
Honest, You Do
So it rained a bit. No one's going to melt.
Rarely do I miss opening night at the Folk Fest and my plans to go alone got a shot in the arm when one of my favorite couples agreed to let me and my umbella tag along.
We parked on Franklin Street, right in front of the Main Library and hoofed it down Second Street to the new amphitheater space.
My friends had yet to experience the fabulous new Brown's Island Way, also know as the connector road, and the view behind the Virginia War Memorial. I like it because standing at the top of it affords a panoramic view of the river grander and wider than any other.
It is steep, though. Because the route down Second Street leads to Belle Isle, it's a terrain I know well since it's one of my regular walks. My friends were less impressed with having to walk down it on a wet evening, something about a near 90-degree angle and wet sidewalks.
That was solved by stopping midway down and taking up roost on a gravel path that allowed a view of Mariachis los Camperos de Nato Cani that was matched only by the four year old in front of us, choreographing a dance to match the Mariachis' music and slyly glancing up to make sure someone was watching him every step of the way.
I obliged and smiled at his spontaneous performance. The kid had some serious moves for a toddler.
Dressed in regional costume, they did music for dancing (and a costumed couple came out and showed us how it was done) and music for romancing (with dramatic vocals guaranteed to win a woman), one after the other.
When they finished, we continued heading lower toward the food and merch tents until we found Sherry's crabcakes out of Charlottesville, done the way I like them: thick and sauteed golden brown. None of this deep-fried crab cake business for me. For god's sake, I grew up in Maryland.
When we each ordered one, the man behind the counter inquired if we all wanted sauce on them. No thanks, I told him, I prefer to taste just the crab. My friends were aghast that I'd go sauce-less, but I got back-up from behind the counter.
"Everybody should get what they want," he said with a smile to me and a raised eyebrow in their direction. So there.
P.S. My crabcake sandwich was delicious just as I ordered it. It was interesting, although there were eight large tables set up along these food tents, we were the only ones who sat down at one, facing a row of empty and wet white tables glowing under the lights.
As I was finishing up my sandwich, I could the hear the distinct sounds of soul music and immediately called it to the attention of my friends. We're going to need to go find that, I said.
When they finished eating, we took the stairs to reach the Community stage and hear William Bell, Stax Studio pioneer. I stood on the wall behind the Lincoln statue and had a terrific view of Bell and his crack band, but my friends decided to sit down inside the tent and I followed.
Immediately sorry I had missed even a moment of his show, I nonetheless was thrilled when the first thing he did was his mega-hit "I Forgot to Be Your Lover."
"Fellas," he said, "I'm doing something for you. Ladies, I want you to listen to me" and then began singing, "Never stop loving me."
Women swooned. To take it over the top, he segued into "You Send Me" and now everybody knew every word. Next came "New Lease on Life," the horn section killing it.
I'm going to start my life all over again
I got a new lease on life, I got a lover and a friend
Before long, a couple standing just outside the tent began slow-dancing under the ropes. It was very sweet.
Pulling out the first song he'd ever recorded at age 17, he let the crowd sing along with him to "You Don't Miss Your Water." During a dramatic pause during the song, he called out, "Somebody play a solo for me!" and the keyboard player obliged.
Introducing his song, "Every Day Will Be Like a Holiday When My Baby Comes Home," he said, "And by come home, I mean to William Bell's house."
Smooth move.
Saying that they'd sold a million and a half of the next song, they played "Tryin' To Love Two" about how that just wouldn't do (no sh*t, Sherlock) and then went seamlessly into "Stand By Me" and "Cupid, Draw Back Your Bow."
That was it, he thanked the crowd "because without you, there would be no me" and left the stage. Happily, the band stayed put and he soon returned for the slow burn of "Everybody Loves a Winner."
It felt like we had just seen a legend and we had. A serious soul legend who'd been making music since 1961 and still had what it takes. Damn impressive.
From there, we wandered back to the Altria stage, running into a sassy and smiling bartender friend, a telephone collector and far too many people with enormous baby strollers trying to navigate wet surfaces.
Once back on that most sloped of hills, we found Boban and Marko Markovic Orkestar, a large Balkan brass band dressed in matching red shirts except for the two soloists out front.
They got to wear faded and holey jeans, clearly a status symbol for a brass player.
You could hear so much in the music - gypsy, tavern, my friend even heard King Crimson - and the crowd went crazy when they recognized the music to "Hava Nagila."
Twice, fans from the audience climbed onstage to dance and show their appreciation for the band while out on the wet grass, the crowd clapped, danced and hollered with as much enthusiasm as the band was putting out.
And when they finished, we weren't left with that sense of loss like at a regular show. The festival will be back for the next two days, so I've got plenty more chances to hear amazing music, with or without friends.
Sure, it rained lightly a few times and umbrellas came out, but never hard and never long. The air temperature cooperated, hovering in the mid-60s, sweater or light jacket weather. The little white lights crisscrossing the riverfront gave the look of shiny necklaces strung across the Tredegar grounds.
The way I see it, it's just one weekend a year of endless folk music, so neither snow nor rain nor heat, much less gloom of night, is going to keep me from taking in everything I can.
And tonight that was whatever my friends wanted to see. They've got great taste.
Rarely do I miss opening night at the Folk Fest and my plans to go alone got a shot in the arm when one of my favorite couples agreed to let me and my umbella tag along.
We parked on Franklin Street, right in front of the Main Library and hoofed it down Second Street to the new amphitheater space.
My friends had yet to experience the fabulous new Brown's Island Way, also know as the connector road, and the view behind the Virginia War Memorial. I like it because standing at the top of it affords a panoramic view of the river grander and wider than any other.
It is steep, though. Because the route down Second Street leads to Belle Isle, it's a terrain I know well since it's one of my regular walks. My friends were less impressed with having to walk down it on a wet evening, something about a near 90-degree angle and wet sidewalks.
That was solved by stopping midway down and taking up roost on a gravel path that allowed a view of Mariachis los Camperos de Nato Cani that was matched only by the four year old in front of us, choreographing a dance to match the Mariachis' music and slyly glancing up to make sure someone was watching him every step of the way.
I obliged and smiled at his spontaneous performance. The kid had some serious moves for a toddler.
Dressed in regional costume, they did music for dancing (and a costumed couple came out and showed us how it was done) and music for romancing (with dramatic vocals guaranteed to win a woman), one after the other.
When they finished, we continued heading lower toward the food and merch tents until we found Sherry's crabcakes out of Charlottesville, done the way I like them: thick and sauteed golden brown. None of this deep-fried crab cake business for me. For god's sake, I grew up in Maryland.
When we each ordered one, the man behind the counter inquired if we all wanted sauce on them. No thanks, I told him, I prefer to taste just the crab. My friends were aghast that I'd go sauce-less, but I got back-up from behind the counter.
"Everybody should get what they want," he said with a smile to me and a raised eyebrow in their direction. So there.
P.S. My crabcake sandwich was delicious just as I ordered it. It was interesting, although there were eight large tables set up along these food tents, we were the only ones who sat down at one, facing a row of empty and wet white tables glowing under the lights.
As I was finishing up my sandwich, I could the hear the distinct sounds of soul music and immediately called it to the attention of my friends. We're going to need to go find that, I said.
When they finished eating, we took the stairs to reach the Community stage and hear William Bell, Stax Studio pioneer. I stood on the wall behind the Lincoln statue and had a terrific view of Bell and his crack band, but my friends decided to sit down inside the tent and I followed.
Immediately sorry I had missed even a moment of his show, I nonetheless was thrilled when the first thing he did was his mega-hit "I Forgot to Be Your Lover."
"Fellas," he said, "I'm doing something for you. Ladies, I want you to listen to me" and then began singing, "Never stop loving me."
Women swooned. To take it over the top, he segued into "You Send Me" and now everybody knew every word. Next came "New Lease on Life," the horn section killing it.
I'm going to start my life all over again
I got a new lease on life, I got a lover and a friend
Before long, a couple standing just outside the tent began slow-dancing under the ropes. It was very sweet.
Pulling out the first song he'd ever recorded at age 17, he let the crowd sing along with him to "You Don't Miss Your Water." During a dramatic pause during the song, he called out, "Somebody play a solo for me!" and the keyboard player obliged.
Introducing his song, "Every Day Will Be Like a Holiday When My Baby Comes Home," he said, "And by come home, I mean to William Bell's house."
Smooth move.
Saying that they'd sold a million and a half of the next song, they played "Tryin' To Love Two" about how that just wouldn't do (no sh*t, Sherlock) and then went seamlessly into "Stand By Me" and "Cupid, Draw Back Your Bow."
That was it, he thanked the crowd "because without you, there would be no me" and left the stage. Happily, the band stayed put and he soon returned for the slow burn of "Everybody Loves a Winner."
It felt like we had just seen a legend and we had. A serious soul legend who'd been making music since 1961 and still had what it takes. Damn impressive.
From there, we wandered back to the Altria stage, running into a sassy and smiling bartender friend, a telephone collector and far too many people with enormous baby strollers trying to navigate wet surfaces.
Once back on that most sloped of hills, we found Boban and Marko Markovic Orkestar, a large Balkan brass band dressed in matching red shirts except for the two soloists out front.
They got to wear faded and holey jeans, clearly a status symbol for a brass player.
You could hear so much in the music - gypsy, tavern, my friend even heard King Crimson - and the crowd went crazy when they recognized the music to "Hava Nagila."
Twice, fans from the audience climbed onstage to dance and show their appreciation for the band while out on the wet grass, the crowd clapped, danced and hollered with as much enthusiasm as the band was putting out.
And when they finished, we weren't left with that sense of loss like at a regular show. The festival will be back for the next two days, so I've got plenty more chances to hear amazing music, with or without friends.
Sure, it rained lightly a few times and umbrellas came out, but never hard and never long. The air temperature cooperated, hovering in the mid-60s, sweater or light jacket weather. The little white lights crisscrossing the riverfront gave the look of shiny necklaces strung across the Tredegar grounds.
The way I see it, it's just one weekend a year of endless folk music, so neither snow nor rain nor heat, much less gloom of night, is going to keep me from taking in everything I can.
And tonight that was whatever my friends wanted to see. They've got great taste.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Southern Hemisphere Win
When you get invited to an embassy, you go, mate.
That's how I found myself on the way to an event called "Come Wine with Us" at the Australian Embassy in D.C. yesterday.
Walking down the street, someone drove by and hollered, "Hey, RVA!" but we had no idea who and went on about our business.
After being cleared by the guard at the embassy, we made it in. I've been to a few wine tastings in my time, but never one with so many men in suits and sports coats.
On the back wall, a video of the splendors of Australia played while below people milled about from table to table tasting wines from Tasmania, South Australia and New Zealand.
It's hard not to love a tasting than begins with Jansz Premium Cuvee Rose, made in (and here's where their sense of humor comes in) the methode Tamanoise and moves on to 2005 Late Disgorged Cuvee, a pale gold sip of the stars.
Of course, because the wines were from the land down under, there were many stellar Shirazes- Langmeils Winery's 2012 Orphan Bank Shiraz and Jim Barry Wines' 2002 The Armagh Museum Release, to name just two.
After hobnobbing for a bit - I chatted with several wine buyers from Rehobeth Beach and a familiar French wine rep from Williamsburg - it was time for greener pastures.
Luckily for me, that meant Rural Society, a low-lit, sexy new restaurant with a focus on grilling and meat. Touches of light blue kept all the brown from looking too rec-room like and what middle-aged woman doesn't look fabulous when the dimmer is on?
The menu is bigger than a place mat so the wisest thing to do, we did. We ordered the chef's tasting menu with the wine pairings and sat back to let the kitchen seduce us.
Music was playing but rarely heard over the cacophony of suits talking, but there was plenty to look at on the walls in the form of black and white photographs of bullfighters, street scenes and cow ropers in the log-filled dining room.
As a card-carrying bread lover, I was thrilled when a bread basket chowed up stuffed with four (five?) kinds of bread and rolls and three different spreadables, one chimichurra-based, one red salsa variety and a swoon-worthy Malbec butter as purple as a pansy.
Blame it on my Richmond grandmother, but I am a sucker for good bread, although I have been accused of using it mainly as a vehicle for butter. I just never saw the problem with that.
One song I did manage to hear during a lull was Santana's "Oye Como Va" just as our server showed up with glasses of bubbly and Carpaccio de Pulpo, thin slices of braised octopus and tiny Malbec chips of wine-soaked potatoes. My favorite part of the next offering, baby arugula salad, was the fig emulsion, distinctively sweet and crunchy.
Next came a delightful white blend, Vinedo de los Vientos Estival 2012, a silky blend of Chardonnay, Gewurztrimer and Moscato Bianco, which accompanied empanadas of Swiss chard, Sardo cheese and roasted onions, oozing heat and melting cheese.
As the diners around us came and went, our tasting continued on in their absence. At one point, I was one of three women in the entire place with dozens of men surrounding me. Maybe it was a D.C. thing, maybe a meat thing or maybe a fluke.
I pity the women who miss out on Rural Society.
Meat was soon to arrive, so our genial server first brought glasses of Zuccardi Serie A Bonarda, smooth and tasting of red fruits, to signal a shift in direction and assess our readiness.
Glossy Chorizo Gaucho - a sausage of beef and pork - was followed by housemade ham and cheese ravioli in a Reggianito cream sauce and I began to realize that there was a lot more eating to be done and I was beginning to fill up.
Aside: I did not mention this to my date.
Shut up and eat, my brain told me and I did. It was a lot easier than I'm making it sound because everything about the experience was winning. Without knowing what might be arriving next, it was a constant surprise (in the best possible way), there was so much eye candy to look at and a top-notch conversationalist was the cherry on top of it all.
Vina Ventisquero "Grey," a single block Carmenere from Chile met its match in Uruguayan New York strip (I find that phrasing somewhat odd), each morsel a testament to happy, grass fed cows. As we were digging into that, stuffed heritage breed pork tenderloin from Iowa showed up, providing a multi-continent meat feast to go with garlic whipped potatoes with Mozzarella curd.
Veggies followed - wood-roasted carrots with cider glaze and fennel goat cheese and ember-roasted beets studded with coriander seeds in an orange-coriander vinaigrette - the kind that would get even the pickiest eater interested.
Regrets, I have a few and one was that I'd finally reached my capacity and couldn't do justice to as many carrots and beets as I would have liked to.
Our server had been terrific, pacing out our courses so we had room to breathe, digest and blather in between eating, but when he came back to talk dessert, he found us bettered.
No way was a sweet possible, so we ordered the cheese plate which arrived with glasses of Tannat but I never got beyond a few sips because, well, I was already dangerously close to exploding.
And this from someone who eats for a living.
By the evening's end, Rural Society had succeeded in seducing this urban duo. The only way to end a meal that fine was with a little dancing in the dark.
It was the only thing they couldn't provide.
That's how I found myself on the way to an event called "Come Wine with Us" at the Australian Embassy in D.C. yesterday.
Walking down the street, someone drove by and hollered, "Hey, RVA!" but we had no idea who and went on about our business.
After being cleared by the guard at the embassy, we made it in. I've been to a few wine tastings in my time, but never one with so many men in suits and sports coats.
On the back wall, a video of the splendors of Australia played while below people milled about from table to table tasting wines from Tasmania, South Australia and New Zealand.
It's hard not to love a tasting than begins with Jansz Premium Cuvee Rose, made in (and here's where their sense of humor comes in) the methode Tamanoise and moves on to 2005 Late Disgorged Cuvee, a pale gold sip of the stars.
Of course, because the wines were from the land down under, there were many stellar Shirazes- Langmeils Winery's 2012 Orphan Bank Shiraz and Jim Barry Wines' 2002 The Armagh Museum Release, to name just two.
After hobnobbing for a bit - I chatted with several wine buyers from Rehobeth Beach and a familiar French wine rep from Williamsburg - it was time for greener pastures.
Luckily for me, that meant Rural Society, a low-lit, sexy new restaurant with a focus on grilling and meat. Touches of light blue kept all the brown from looking too rec-room like and what middle-aged woman doesn't look fabulous when the dimmer is on?
The menu is bigger than a place mat so the wisest thing to do, we did. We ordered the chef's tasting menu with the wine pairings and sat back to let the kitchen seduce us.
Music was playing but rarely heard over the cacophony of suits talking, but there was plenty to look at on the walls in the form of black and white photographs of bullfighters, street scenes and cow ropers in the log-filled dining room.
As a card-carrying bread lover, I was thrilled when a bread basket chowed up stuffed with four (five?) kinds of bread and rolls and three different spreadables, one chimichurra-based, one red salsa variety and a swoon-worthy Malbec butter as purple as a pansy.
Blame it on my Richmond grandmother, but I am a sucker for good bread, although I have been accused of using it mainly as a vehicle for butter. I just never saw the problem with that.
One song I did manage to hear during a lull was Santana's "Oye Como Va" just as our server showed up with glasses of bubbly and Carpaccio de Pulpo, thin slices of braised octopus and tiny Malbec chips of wine-soaked potatoes. My favorite part of the next offering, baby arugula salad, was the fig emulsion, distinctively sweet and crunchy.
Next came a delightful white blend, Vinedo de los Vientos Estival 2012, a silky blend of Chardonnay, Gewurztrimer and Moscato Bianco, which accompanied empanadas of Swiss chard, Sardo cheese and roasted onions, oozing heat and melting cheese.
As the diners around us came and went, our tasting continued on in their absence. At one point, I was one of three women in the entire place with dozens of men surrounding me. Maybe it was a D.C. thing, maybe a meat thing or maybe a fluke.
I pity the women who miss out on Rural Society.
Meat was soon to arrive, so our genial server first brought glasses of Zuccardi Serie A Bonarda, smooth and tasting of red fruits, to signal a shift in direction and assess our readiness.
Glossy Chorizo Gaucho - a sausage of beef and pork - was followed by housemade ham and cheese ravioli in a Reggianito cream sauce and I began to realize that there was a lot more eating to be done and I was beginning to fill up.
Aside: I did not mention this to my date.
Shut up and eat, my brain told me and I did. It was a lot easier than I'm making it sound because everything about the experience was winning. Without knowing what might be arriving next, it was a constant surprise (in the best possible way), there was so much eye candy to look at and a top-notch conversationalist was the cherry on top of it all.
Vina Ventisquero "Grey," a single block Carmenere from Chile met its match in Uruguayan New York strip (I find that phrasing somewhat odd), each morsel a testament to happy, grass fed cows. As we were digging into that, stuffed heritage breed pork tenderloin from Iowa showed up, providing a multi-continent meat feast to go with garlic whipped potatoes with Mozzarella curd.
Veggies followed - wood-roasted carrots with cider glaze and fennel goat cheese and ember-roasted beets studded with coriander seeds in an orange-coriander vinaigrette - the kind that would get even the pickiest eater interested.
Regrets, I have a few and one was that I'd finally reached my capacity and couldn't do justice to as many carrots and beets as I would have liked to.
Our server had been terrific, pacing out our courses so we had room to breathe, digest and blather in between eating, but when he came back to talk dessert, he found us bettered.
No way was a sweet possible, so we ordered the cheese plate which arrived with glasses of Tannat but I never got beyond a few sips because, well, I was already dangerously close to exploding.
And this from someone who eats for a living.
By the evening's end, Rural Society had succeeded in seducing this urban duo. The only way to end a meal that fine was with a little dancing in the dark.
It was the only thing they couldn't provide.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Sing a Song or Line Hell
I can't say I wasn't warned.
When I heard that Earth, Wind and Fire were playing Innsbrook, my reaction was immediate. Must go.
Even after I was warned of what a nightmare the whole experience is, I ignored it and bought a ticket. Worse, I invited one of my favorite people to join me.
Moira and I hadn't seen each other since our epic trip to Washington back in mid-August and tonight was the only night this week we could both make it. Besides, only another child of the '70s would appreciate standing in a field listening to old school funk and soul.
The problem was we were Innsbrook neophytes with no idea how long it would take us to get there on rush hour-clogged 64.
Or how long we'd sit in stopped traffic on Cox Road before finally making it into a parking lot.
We couldn't have known that the line just to buy tokens with which to purchase food and drink would stretch out of the tent. Or that we'd then have to join another line to have our IDs checked and get a wristband.
On some level, we probably knew that the line to get beer would be long but at least it moved quickly. Although I don't drink beer, I opted out of wine, not willing to risk another wait for god only knows what kind of swill.
But there was no way for us to be prepared for the food lines which stretched halfway across the field to the stage. Rejecting chains such as Papa John's and Sticks, we got in line for Halligan's, at least hoping to support the local.
The line was an exercise in patience, moving incrementally infrequently.
The only saving grace was the couple in front of us celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary and looking for conversation.
With endless time in front of us, I asked for the story of their romance, learning that they'd met at Bird in Hand and that he'd been on crutches (my question being, why would anyone on crutches go to a club?).
At the end of the night, he asked for her name and she'd told him (but hadn't spelled it) and walked away, sure he'd never figure out how to spell her obscure Italian name.
Needless to say, he called a friend or six until someone knew her and could give him the correct spelling to look her up in the phone book.
You see, kids, this is how people courted in the olden days before cell phones. It actually took some effort and ingenuity.
Moira and I made the most of our time chatting with strangers, making it all the way to third in line when Earth, Wind and Fire finally took the stage singing "Boogie Wonderland."
And while the two of us turned around, transfixed to finally be hearing the reason for our foray into this no-man's land, most of the people around us in line went right on talking and shouting at each other as if the main attraction hadn't begun.
Because there were a bazillion people at the show, they'd put up a giant screen so that people in the back (that would be those of us in line) could still see what we were hearing.
It was about the only well-thought out thing we experienced all night.
After "Sing a Song," lead singer Philip Bailey, resplendent in a black and white patterned blazer, said, "I don't know about y'all but I'm feeling pretty good up here."
Having just that moment finally scored our pork barbecue sandwiches with slaw and a side of spicy mac and cheese, we high-tailed it to the center of the field to fill our bellies while watching the band from a far better vantage point.
One thing I have to give EW&F, they'd attracted a diverse crowd: young, old, black and white, attired in everything from a wife beater from a yellow South Dakota Harley Davidson shop to a gold lame blouse and matching 4" heels.
The band has been together for 43 years but you'd never know it from the non-stop dancing and smiling faces of its members. Original bass player Verdine White got my vote for best ensemble: a white shirt with elaborate ruffles and patterned bellbottoms with fringe on the side.
The man looked fine, at least '70s style.
Moira and I were surrounded by middle-aged people who knew every world to every song, singing along to "Devotion" and "That's the Way of the World" while dancing in place.
"Some of you have been fans since the very beginning," Bailey called out. "And some of you were conceived to our music!" That was a point Moira and I had already noted.
They had a killer light show which changed with songs, sometimes cartoon-like, other times flashing the word "love." Luckily, tonight's full moon was bright enough to compete.
During the middle section of the evening, they did "songs not from the charts but from our hearts," including some Latin-influenced songs, but since they weren't all familiar, far too many people went back to chatting, even when Philip was playing the African thumb piano, an amazing instrument to hear.
Slow jams "After the Love Has Gone" and "Reasons" got the couples in the crowd slow-dancing, groping and whispering in each other's ears while Moira and I just swayed in place.
When Philip Bailey got to the sustained high note in "Reasons," he held it like it was 1975, afterwards standing there with a self-assured grin and his hands on his hips as if to say, "I still got it."
He sure does. Even though his son is now in the band, he still handles the high notes like a pro.
During their version of the Beatles' "Got to Get You Into My Life," we noticed people began leaving and it was barely after 9:00. Tragic.
Their loss because they missed "September," possibly the happiest sounding song ever written (and dubbed by NPR "the song that never ends" because it's just as popular now as it was when it came out in 1978) and cause enough for Moira and I to dance in the dirt.
They closed the show with "Let's Groove Tonight," which probably could have also been the show opener since that's exactly what we had spent the evening doing and loving every minute of it.
I guess you could say my friend's warning about Innsbrook had been dead on, at least for the first two and a half hours.
But, man, once Earth, Wind and Fire took the stage, it was magical. How the hell do guys who have been doing this for 43 years still dance and sing so well?
You will find peace of mind
If you look way down in your heart and soul
Don't hesitate cause the world seems cold
Stay young at heart, cause you're never, ever old at heart
If anything will keep you young at heart, it's dancing to classic soul music in a field of people.
I don't know about y'all, but Moira and I were feeling more than pretty good about seeing Earth, Wind and Fire live. Truth be told, I wouldn't have missed it.
And I will never, ever, return to Innsbrook for anyone. The warned becomes the warner. Just don't.
When I heard that Earth, Wind and Fire were playing Innsbrook, my reaction was immediate. Must go.
Even after I was warned of what a nightmare the whole experience is, I ignored it and bought a ticket. Worse, I invited one of my favorite people to join me.
Moira and I hadn't seen each other since our epic trip to Washington back in mid-August and tonight was the only night this week we could both make it. Besides, only another child of the '70s would appreciate standing in a field listening to old school funk and soul.
The problem was we were Innsbrook neophytes with no idea how long it would take us to get there on rush hour-clogged 64.
Or how long we'd sit in stopped traffic on Cox Road before finally making it into a parking lot.
We couldn't have known that the line just to buy tokens with which to purchase food and drink would stretch out of the tent. Or that we'd then have to join another line to have our IDs checked and get a wristband.
On some level, we probably knew that the line to get beer would be long but at least it moved quickly. Although I don't drink beer, I opted out of wine, not willing to risk another wait for god only knows what kind of swill.
But there was no way for us to be prepared for the food lines which stretched halfway across the field to the stage. Rejecting chains such as Papa John's and Sticks, we got in line for Halligan's, at least hoping to support the local.
The line was an exercise in patience, moving incrementally infrequently.
The only saving grace was the couple in front of us celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary and looking for conversation.
With endless time in front of us, I asked for the story of their romance, learning that they'd met at Bird in Hand and that he'd been on crutches (my question being, why would anyone on crutches go to a club?).
At the end of the night, he asked for her name and she'd told him (but hadn't spelled it) and walked away, sure he'd never figure out how to spell her obscure Italian name.
Needless to say, he called a friend or six until someone knew her and could give him the correct spelling to look her up in the phone book.
You see, kids, this is how people courted in the olden days before cell phones. It actually took some effort and ingenuity.
Moira and I made the most of our time chatting with strangers, making it all the way to third in line when Earth, Wind and Fire finally took the stage singing "Boogie Wonderland."
And while the two of us turned around, transfixed to finally be hearing the reason for our foray into this no-man's land, most of the people around us in line went right on talking and shouting at each other as if the main attraction hadn't begun.
Because there were a bazillion people at the show, they'd put up a giant screen so that people in the back (that would be those of us in line) could still see what we were hearing.
It was about the only well-thought out thing we experienced all night.
After "Sing a Song," lead singer Philip Bailey, resplendent in a black and white patterned blazer, said, "I don't know about y'all but I'm feeling pretty good up here."
Having just that moment finally scored our pork barbecue sandwiches with slaw and a side of spicy mac and cheese, we high-tailed it to the center of the field to fill our bellies while watching the band from a far better vantage point.
One thing I have to give EW&F, they'd attracted a diverse crowd: young, old, black and white, attired in everything from a wife beater from a yellow South Dakota Harley Davidson shop to a gold lame blouse and matching 4" heels.
The band has been together for 43 years but you'd never know it from the non-stop dancing and smiling faces of its members. Original bass player Verdine White got my vote for best ensemble: a white shirt with elaborate ruffles and patterned bellbottoms with fringe on the side.
The man looked fine, at least '70s style.
Moira and I were surrounded by middle-aged people who knew every world to every song, singing along to "Devotion" and "That's the Way of the World" while dancing in place.
"Some of you have been fans since the very beginning," Bailey called out. "And some of you were conceived to our music!" That was a point Moira and I had already noted.
They had a killer light show which changed with songs, sometimes cartoon-like, other times flashing the word "love." Luckily, tonight's full moon was bright enough to compete.
During the middle section of the evening, they did "songs not from the charts but from our hearts," including some Latin-influenced songs, but since they weren't all familiar, far too many people went back to chatting, even when Philip was playing the African thumb piano, an amazing instrument to hear.
Slow jams "After the Love Has Gone" and "Reasons" got the couples in the crowd slow-dancing, groping and whispering in each other's ears while Moira and I just swayed in place.
When Philip Bailey got to the sustained high note in "Reasons," he held it like it was 1975, afterwards standing there with a self-assured grin and his hands on his hips as if to say, "I still got it."
He sure does. Even though his son is now in the band, he still handles the high notes like a pro.
During their version of the Beatles' "Got to Get You Into My Life," we noticed people began leaving and it was barely after 9:00. Tragic.
Their loss because they missed "September," possibly the happiest sounding song ever written (and dubbed by NPR "the song that never ends" because it's just as popular now as it was when it came out in 1978) and cause enough for Moira and I to dance in the dirt.
They closed the show with "Let's Groove Tonight," which probably could have also been the show opener since that's exactly what we had spent the evening doing and loving every minute of it.
I guess you could say my friend's warning about Innsbrook had been dead on, at least for the first two and a half hours.
But, man, once Earth, Wind and Fire took the stage, it was magical. How the hell do guys who have been doing this for 43 years still dance and sing so well?
You will find peace of mind
If you look way down in your heart and soul
Don't hesitate cause the world seems cold
Stay young at heart, cause you're never, ever old at heart
If anything will keep you young at heart, it's dancing to classic soul music in a field of people.
I don't know about y'all, but Moira and I were feeling more than pretty good about seeing Earth, Wind and Fire live. Truth be told, I wouldn't have missed it.
And I will never, ever, return to Innsbrook for anyone. The warned becomes the warner. Just don't.
Daylight and Champagne
Virginia is no longer just for straight lovers, but for all lovers. And about damn time.
With gender issues blaring from the headlines this week as same sex marriage became legal here, it's kind of thrilling to step out of the shadow of so many embarrassing stories about Virginia and feel proud we are, if not ahead of the curve, at last riding the wave of progressive thought for a change.
What better reason to spend an evening further blurring gender lines using magnificent language and a ratio of 13 women to 4 men to tell a tale of cross-dressing, passionate love and drunkenness? What I mean is, I may not want to be a man, but I can dig watching women play men all night long.
That's just what I was going for when Pru and I made our way to the Speakeasy, right here in lovely downtown Jackson Ward, for a gender-reversed exploration of "Twelfth Night."
The latest in director BC Maupin's mission to produce Shakespeare's entire canon using women in men's roles, I've yet to miss a reading and, frankly, it's because of girl parts.
I love seeing that many women on stage. It doesn't matter what the play is - goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" produced a lot - because even a familiar play takes on a different shape and feel when women are playing the male roles.
We arrived in time to grab a good table and eat bowls of gumbo full of shrimp, chicken and sausage topped with a perfect ball of rice and cornbread buttons before the play began. I was asked to move my chair around a bit as I was apparently right in one of the paths the actors would be using to come and go.
The action began with several locations - on top of the upright piano, from upstairs in the balcony where part of the audience sat and from either side of the bar behind us.
It was clear we were in for a treat when Molly Hood and Melissa Johnston Price stumbled out from between the tables playing drunken cohorts Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch.
A plague o' these pickle herring!
While technically, these gender-reversed plays are readings because the cast is still holding their scripts, it's not the kind of reading where actors sit in chairs and just read. Instead, they're out there cutting a caper, one might say, especially these two drunken masters.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now.
Ditto Robert Throckmorton who was playing the fair Olivia, the object of the Duke of Orsino's affection, who after saying the line, "Give me my veil. Come, throw it over my face," proceeded to clip sunglasses shades over his regular glasses.
Our cross-dressing heroine Viola was played by Alexander Sapp with a scarf on his head and adoration in his eyes.
During the scene where the fake letter is left out for Malvolio to "accidentally" discover," the drunken trio of Toby, Andrew and Fabian (the always funny Jacqueline O'Connor) crouched behind a nearby bar table subbing for a hedge of bushes. Moving from there to beside our table, Toby and Fabian pulled out straws to mooch sips of people's drinks from them, including Toby taking a long pull on Pru's Pinot Noir.
The versatility award went to the energetic Rebecca Anne Muhleman playing Feste, the fool, singing like an angel and even playing piano when necessary.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The Speakeasy space was put to excellent use, given that it was crowded with tables full of Shakespeare fans, like when the excellent Becki Jones as the beleaguered Malvolio is in jail, with the railing of the balcony suggesting the bars on his cell.
Watching the tall Jay Millman play the servant wench and instigator Maria, a character I think of as short and curvy (busty even), I had to keep reminding myself he was a she.
No matter how well you know the play, it was inevitable that there'd be times when you were looking at the actors trying to remember who was who. As a guy at the next table asked, "So, that's a guy playing a girl who's a boy?" His date nailed the answer. "Okay."
To put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.
It was easier just to go with the flow and enjoy watching the sexes play each other. One thing I did notice was how much more believable women are at playing men than men playing women. Maybe it's just me, but it rings truer to see women showing strength than seeing men showing adoration and fawning.
Of course, an added bonus of "Twelfth Night" is that in addition to all that great comedy plus love stories, you get the touching scene at the end where siblings Viola and Sebastian realize the other isn't dead, a truly moving moment even after so many times.
Love sought is good but given unsought, better.
During the talkback with the actors afterwards, there was much discussion of whether it's harder playing the opposite sex in a comedy or drama.
Price/Sir Toby was adamant that doing comedy as a man was much more difficult and that she only relaxed after she'd gotten her first few big laughs from the crowd. "We knew you had a drunk man inside you," quipped Sapp.
Even if we didn't, it was a distinct pleasure to watch the actors relax into their roles, begging the question of what a full production with plenty of rehearsal time to work out playing against your sex might be like.
Good question. I'm still working out getting good at the one I was born with and it's taking a lot longer than I expected.
One thing I do know is Sir Toby, you're wrong. 'Tis never too late to go to bed. 'Tis only too early to get up.
With gender issues blaring from the headlines this week as same sex marriage became legal here, it's kind of thrilling to step out of the shadow of so many embarrassing stories about Virginia and feel proud we are, if not ahead of the curve, at last riding the wave of progressive thought for a change.
What better reason to spend an evening further blurring gender lines using magnificent language and a ratio of 13 women to 4 men to tell a tale of cross-dressing, passionate love and drunkenness? What I mean is, I may not want to be a man, but I can dig watching women play men all night long.
That's just what I was going for when Pru and I made our way to the Speakeasy, right here in lovely downtown Jackson Ward, for a gender-reversed exploration of "Twelfth Night."
The latest in director BC Maupin's mission to produce Shakespeare's entire canon using women in men's roles, I've yet to miss a reading and, frankly, it's because of girl parts.
I love seeing that many women on stage. It doesn't matter what the play is - goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" produced a lot - because even a familiar play takes on a different shape and feel when women are playing the male roles.
We arrived in time to grab a good table and eat bowls of gumbo full of shrimp, chicken and sausage topped with a perfect ball of rice and cornbread buttons before the play began. I was asked to move my chair around a bit as I was apparently right in one of the paths the actors would be using to come and go.
The action began with several locations - on top of the upright piano, from upstairs in the balcony where part of the audience sat and from either side of the bar behind us.
It was clear we were in for a treat when Molly Hood and Melissa Johnston Price stumbled out from between the tables playing drunken cohorts Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch.
A plague o' these pickle herring!
While technically, these gender-reversed plays are readings because the cast is still holding their scripts, it's not the kind of reading where actors sit in chairs and just read. Instead, they're out there cutting a caper, one might say, especially these two drunken masters.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now.
Ditto Robert Throckmorton who was playing the fair Olivia, the object of the Duke of Orsino's affection, who after saying the line, "Give me my veil. Come, throw it over my face," proceeded to clip sunglasses shades over his regular glasses.
Our cross-dressing heroine Viola was played by Alexander Sapp with a scarf on his head and adoration in his eyes.
During the scene where the fake letter is left out for Malvolio to "accidentally" discover," the drunken trio of Toby, Andrew and Fabian (the always funny Jacqueline O'Connor) crouched behind a nearby bar table subbing for a hedge of bushes. Moving from there to beside our table, Toby and Fabian pulled out straws to mooch sips of people's drinks from them, including Toby taking a long pull on Pru's Pinot Noir.
The versatility award went to the energetic Rebecca Anne Muhleman playing Feste, the fool, singing like an angel and even playing piano when necessary.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The Speakeasy space was put to excellent use, given that it was crowded with tables full of Shakespeare fans, like when the excellent Becki Jones as the beleaguered Malvolio is in jail, with the railing of the balcony suggesting the bars on his cell.
Watching the tall Jay Millman play the servant wench and instigator Maria, a character I think of as short and curvy (busty even), I had to keep reminding myself he was a she.
No matter how well you know the play, it was inevitable that there'd be times when you were looking at the actors trying to remember who was who. As a guy at the next table asked, "So, that's a guy playing a girl who's a boy?" His date nailed the answer. "Okay."
To put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.
It was easier just to go with the flow and enjoy watching the sexes play each other. One thing I did notice was how much more believable women are at playing men than men playing women. Maybe it's just me, but it rings truer to see women showing strength than seeing men showing adoration and fawning.
Of course, an added bonus of "Twelfth Night" is that in addition to all that great comedy plus love stories, you get the touching scene at the end where siblings Viola and Sebastian realize the other isn't dead, a truly moving moment even after so many times.
Love sought is good but given unsought, better.
During the talkback with the actors afterwards, there was much discussion of whether it's harder playing the opposite sex in a comedy or drama.
Price/Sir Toby was adamant that doing comedy as a man was much more difficult and that she only relaxed after she'd gotten her first few big laughs from the crowd. "We knew you had a drunk man inside you," quipped Sapp.
Even if we didn't, it was a distinct pleasure to watch the actors relax into their roles, begging the question of what a full production with plenty of rehearsal time to work out playing against your sex might be like.
Good question. I'm still working out getting good at the one I was born with and it's taking a lot longer than I expected.
One thing I do know is Sir Toby, you're wrong. 'Tis never too late to go to bed. 'Tis only too early to get up.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Westbound Number 9
I'm getting good at the quick getaway.
After Saturday night's killer dance extravaganza with Mr. Fine Wine, I didn't even get up until mid-day Sunday, so the quick trip got a late start.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Who knows when he'll be back in town again?
Necessities and the Sunday Washington Post were thrown in a bag, lunch of fried chicken from Lee's was procured and I was westward-bound not long after 1.
Not bad for someone whose feet didn't hit the floor until almost noon.
Stop one was Lickinghole Creek Brewery for Bluegrass Sunday. This week's band was the Creekside Pickers - mandolin, dobro, guitar, banjo and upright bass -singing with the fields of hops behind them. There were plenty of people there to hear their classic pickin'...or drink beer, I don't know which.
You know which reason had me there.
Two of the music-lovers chose to sit down at the table where I was sitting and, as it turned out, had gone to high school with the dobro player.
Even better, she just happened to have the proof: her 1968 Huguenot High yearbook.
After she showed it to her former schoolmate and they showed it to the dobro player, assuring him that he looked just the same, I asked to borrow it to take in the faces, clothing and ads of 1968. It was some kind of classic.
Most of the boys had bangs swept to the side. Most of the girls had carefully arranged flips and pageboys. There were clubs such as Future Farmers of America, Future Teachers of America and - surely on its way out in '68 - Future Homemakers of America.
There was a school pep rally and lecture warning of the dangers of hallucinogenic drugs. There were a lot of American muscle cars in the school parking lot. And the cheerleaders' skirts came down to their knees.
Some of the best reading was in the back where the class of '68 had sold ads to local businesses, many of them in the Westover Hills and Forest Hills area.
But I spotted one for a car dealership on Broad Street two blocks from where I live, where a Rite-Aid now sits. So I was learning new things about my neighborhood while looking at a civilization that no longer exists.
Let me tell you, I was some kind of sorry when the yearbook's owner decided to leave and take my entertainment away.
Dinner was old school at the Cumberland Diner, a place that has a separate dining room for smokers (and advertises it on their sign) where I had a double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake (made with the kind of milkshake maker my family had when I was young) and delivered in a metal cup with a long-handled spoon.
Probably a lot like they did in 1968 when those Huguenot High kids went on dates.
Monday dawned sunny and warmer, ideal for a drive to Lovingston to winery hop and procure apples from an orchard.
Arriving at Democracy Vineyards to find a handwritten note on the door saying everyone was harvesting in the fields, we turned around to go just as a voice called down from the vineyards that he was on his way.
The affable owner, clad in one-piece coveralls, drove his mule down from the Petit Manseng fields and welcomed us into the high-ceilinged tasting room decorated with original political posters from around the world and dating back to the 19th century.
My favorite was a WPA sign for a sewer project hanging in the loo.
He called himself and his wife "recovering lobbyists" and lamented the dangers of letting an architect friend design the soaring building complete with a colorful sign on the front.
"Cause nothing says 'farm winery' like an ostentatious back-lit, red, white and blue sign," he joked self-deprecatingly.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that they grow Pinotage, South Africa's signature grape, and one he'd fallen for while there, much as I had.
All the wines had patriotic names -Republic, Dawn's Light, Suffrage - and we tasted through them before taking glasses of Declaration 2013, a Chardonnay, Viognier and Petit Manseng blend, out to the porch overlooking the hills and fields to sip.
Then it was on to Drumheller's Orchard (established 1937) to get apples (Jonagolds) for cooking. My only regret was that it wasn't the weekend, so there were no hayrides and the apple sling shot wasn't in use.
Who wouldn't be curious about an apple slingshot?
A stop at Blue Ridge Pig for pig and beef barbecue sandwiches (in a rustic, log-style building with enough dusty brick-a-brack to outfit three restaurants) was better enjoyed outside on a sunny picnic table (near a stern sign warning "Absolutely NO alcohol!") next to a car wash where a man was sudsing his front end with his hands.
Cause, apparently, we don't need no stinkin' sponges in Lovingston.
Then it was time for the outbuildings tour. Headed down the gravel path to the bathroom, outside naturally, I came upon the smokehouse, a tiny wooden building with an enormous stone chimney that announced itself with the aroma of smoke as you approached it.
With that smell still on our hands, we wound through sunny back roads to King Family Winery to round out the trip.
A dozen other people were in the tasting room, more than I'd have expected late in the afternoon on a Monday. After tasting through the wines, we took a bottle of their sparkling (which they weren't even making last time I'd been there) out to a table overlooking the polo field to enjoy it as clouds rolled in over the mountains and the sky went from blue to dramatic.
After dinner at Tavern on the James in Scottsville - they were out of the appealingly-named clodhopper steak unfortunately - it was time to take it back to Saturday night.
That's right, sitting outside on the porch swing, the nearly full moon so bright that trees were casting dramatic shadows on the lawn, we tuned into Mr. Fine Wine so I could have another outstanding evening of his vintage soul music.
Just doesn't get much better than Downtown Soulville on a Monday night.
My quick trip had taken me full circle. Mercy!
After Saturday night's killer dance extravaganza with Mr. Fine Wine, I didn't even get up until mid-day Sunday, so the quick trip got a late start.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Who knows when he'll be back in town again?
Necessities and the Sunday Washington Post were thrown in a bag, lunch of fried chicken from Lee's was procured and I was westward-bound not long after 1.
Not bad for someone whose feet didn't hit the floor until almost noon.
Stop one was Lickinghole Creek Brewery for Bluegrass Sunday. This week's band was the Creekside Pickers - mandolin, dobro, guitar, banjo and upright bass -singing with the fields of hops behind them. There were plenty of people there to hear their classic pickin'...or drink beer, I don't know which.
You know which reason had me there.
Two of the music-lovers chose to sit down at the table where I was sitting and, as it turned out, had gone to high school with the dobro player.
Even better, she just happened to have the proof: her 1968 Huguenot High yearbook.
After she showed it to her former schoolmate and they showed it to the dobro player, assuring him that he looked just the same, I asked to borrow it to take in the faces, clothing and ads of 1968. It was some kind of classic.
Most of the boys had bangs swept to the side. Most of the girls had carefully arranged flips and pageboys. There were clubs such as Future Farmers of America, Future Teachers of America and - surely on its way out in '68 - Future Homemakers of America.
There was a school pep rally and lecture warning of the dangers of hallucinogenic drugs. There were a lot of American muscle cars in the school parking lot. And the cheerleaders' skirts came down to their knees.
Some of the best reading was in the back where the class of '68 had sold ads to local businesses, many of them in the Westover Hills and Forest Hills area.
But I spotted one for a car dealership on Broad Street two blocks from where I live, where a Rite-Aid now sits. So I was learning new things about my neighborhood while looking at a civilization that no longer exists.
Let me tell you, I was some kind of sorry when the yearbook's owner decided to leave and take my entertainment away.
Dinner was old school at the Cumberland Diner, a place that has a separate dining room for smokers (and advertises it on their sign) where I had a double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake (made with the kind of milkshake maker my family had when I was young) and delivered in a metal cup with a long-handled spoon.
Probably a lot like they did in 1968 when those Huguenot High kids went on dates.
Monday dawned sunny and warmer, ideal for a drive to Lovingston to winery hop and procure apples from an orchard.
Arriving at Democracy Vineyards to find a handwritten note on the door saying everyone was harvesting in the fields, we turned around to go just as a voice called down from the vineyards that he was on his way.
The affable owner, clad in one-piece coveralls, drove his mule down from the Petit Manseng fields and welcomed us into the high-ceilinged tasting room decorated with original political posters from around the world and dating back to the 19th century.
My favorite was a WPA sign for a sewer project hanging in the loo.
He called himself and his wife "recovering lobbyists" and lamented the dangers of letting an architect friend design the soaring building complete with a colorful sign on the front.
"Cause nothing says 'farm winery' like an ostentatious back-lit, red, white and blue sign," he joked self-deprecatingly.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that they grow Pinotage, South Africa's signature grape, and one he'd fallen for while there, much as I had.
All the wines had patriotic names -Republic, Dawn's Light, Suffrage - and we tasted through them before taking glasses of Declaration 2013, a Chardonnay, Viognier and Petit Manseng blend, out to the porch overlooking the hills and fields to sip.
Then it was on to Drumheller's Orchard (established 1937) to get apples (Jonagolds) for cooking. My only regret was that it wasn't the weekend, so there were no hayrides and the apple sling shot wasn't in use.
Who wouldn't be curious about an apple slingshot?
A stop at Blue Ridge Pig for pig and beef barbecue sandwiches (in a rustic, log-style building with enough dusty brick-a-brack to outfit three restaurants) was better enjoyed outside on a sunny picnic table (near a stern sign warning "Absolutely NO alcohol!") next to a car wash where a man was sudsing his front end with his hands.
Cause, apparently, we don't need no stinkin' sponges in Lovingston.
Then it was time for the outbuildings tour. Headed down the gravel path to the bathroom, outside naturally, I came upon the smokehouse, a tiny wooden building with an enormous stone chimney that announced itself with the aroma of smoke as you approached it.
With that smell still on our hands, we wound through sunny back roads to King Family Winery to round out the trip.
A dozen other people were in the tasting room, more than I'd have expected late in the afternoon on a Monday. After tasting through the wines, we took a bottle of their sparkling (which they weren't even making last time I'd been there) out to a table overlooking the polo field to enjoy it as clouds rolled in over the mountains and the sky went from blue to dramatic.
After dinner at Tavern on the James in Scottsville - they were out of the appealingly-named clodhopper steak unfortunately - it was time to take it back to Saturday night.
That's right, sitting outside on the porch swing, the nearly full moon so bright that trees were casting dramatic shadows on the lawn, we tuned into Mr. Fine Wine so I could have another outstanding evening of his vintage soul music.
Just doesn't get much better than Downtown Soulville on a Monday night.
My quick trip had taken me full circle. Mercy!
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Freak-a-Zoid
Tonight, there was no parking on the dance floor. And the good news is, I can still dance for three hours straight without a break.
The idiocy is that I waited until 1:45 to take off my shoes and dance barefoot.
Like every year, the headliner of the Second Street festival was assured of my presence and that meant Midnight Star could count on me to be one of the hundreds crowded into the parking lot at First and Marshall.
I'll admit, walking over I couldn't recall the name of a single Midnight Star song, but I spent far too much time in clubs in the '80s to think I wouldn't recognize them once I heard them.
I sure did.
Arriving just as the band took the stage, I couldn't have timed it better. It helps being alone at a shoulder to shoulder show because every time a hole opened up, I sidled up and filled it.
When a musician onstage is playing keytar, I have to get as close as I can. That and the guy in the front row wearing a red suit and matching fedora needed to be appreciated from a shorter distance.
Diving right into the '80s, they did "Headlines" and "Wet My Whistle," inciting the old guy in front of me to dance all the way to the ground getting jiggy with it while "Midas Touch" had a guy near me crooning in his woman's ear.
Giving the crowd what they wanted, the band danced in step as they played and sang. Singer Belinda got the women in the audience riled up when she started talking about not being married yet.
"You know you're lucky when you can find someone you want to spend your whole life with. I found someone and he treats me real good. But sometimes," dramatic pause here, "he can irritate a sister. You know what I'm talking about, ladies?"
We sure as hell did.
That took us into their mega-hit "Operator" and the crowd into a frenzy. "Y'all wanna do it like we did it in the '80s?" guitarist Bo hollered before they band broke into the synchronized dance moves from the original "Operator" video circa 1984, although minus the bad '80s hair and clothes.
Of course the crowd was dancing everywhere, including two women who'd come out the window of the second floor of the Jamaica restaurant to dance on the roof.
"I hope she don't fall off," a guy near me said to me. Talk about a mid-show buzz kill.
Lots of people sang along to "Night Rider" and way too many phones and cameras came out for "Curious," but what am I going to do about it? Ignore it.
Apparently Midnight Star wrote a lot of other people's hits, too, so we got to hear Klymaxx's "Meeting in the Ladies' Room," a song by Toni Braxton and the Whispers' "Rock Steady," which about brought the house down.
They cooled us off with a song we all knew (even me), "Slow Jam," and just about everyone who had a mate was slow dancing in the parking lot to that one.
But they couldn't leave us mooney, so they brought out all the stops for "No Parking on the Dance Floor" and people danced on chairs, with strangers (or was that just me?), with kids and by themselves until Midnight Star said goodnight.
Which was my signal to high tail it to dinner, namely Amour.
The restaurant was busy but there were only two people at the bar where I began with a new-to-me pink bubbly, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, a light-bodied floral beauty that I could get used to. Just to confuse things, I was also offered a taste of Willm Blanc de Blanc, the sort of bubbly I could drink morning, noon or night.
With the Django Reinhardt station playing, I ordered a meat and cheese plate, trying desperately to get my order in before the ten-top did.
The array that arrived on the slate was magnificent: Petit Basque, Fourme d'Ambert, Comte and Boucheron beside dried blueberries, figs and craisins plus speck, Tuscan sausage, Olli salume and prosciutto and fresh grapes, mustards and country pate.
While chatting with whomever was available - the photographer, the runner - I dug into the spread, very happy I didn't have to share it with anyone.
Because Amour excels at pairing wine with food, I also switched wines, savoring La Tour Chambert Cahors with my meat and cheese, an ideal complement to my meal.
One of the servers told me how great my hair looked. What a great thing to be told.
I briefly considered skipping dessert, but why would I? Instead I took my server's recommendation and had a mixed berry and apple crisp with whipped cream, an ideal summer to fall transition dessert. Clearly, it had been too long since I'd eaten at Amour.
By the time I left there, a DJ had set up across the street at Cary Court, blasting his BPM to anyone within a five-block radius.
But I had other music in mind.
A drive to Church Hill landed me at Metzger for an evening with Mr. Fine Wine, a DJ I'd fallen hard for at one of my previous Metzger visits. I'd been listening to his podcasts at home ever since, smitten with his old school soul.
They'd somehow coerced him to come down and play a three-hour set and I'd not hesitated in accepting my invitation to be part of it.
First stop: the bar for a glass of Anton Bauer Rose and some quick conversation with friends before joining the throng on the dance floor.
You have to understand, Mr. Fine Wine plays totally obscure, completely danceable soul music that never lets up. Each three-minute gem leads into the next so I could never find a reason to leave the dance floor.
Who did I dance with? The recently separated baker. The wine buyer. The bartender. The DJ and his wife. The singer. The wine bar servers. The ukulele player, but only for a moment. Myself and a whole lot of strangers.
A girl came up and told me she saw me all the time in Oregon Hill and introduced herself so now we'd know each other. Then we danced.
To my recollection, the only time I wasn't dancing was when I got another glass of wine and when I got more water.
Truly, it was only when I went to the bathroom that I realized how many familiar faces were there. Two chefs. One restaurant owner. A vintage store owner. Musicians from multiple bands I've heard.
Coming back from the loo, I ran into a friend and we conspired to open the windows to allow in cool, night air to the overheated restaurant full of people dancing crazily.
The music was so good and I can honestly say I recognized only one song, "I Got My Mind Set On You," and even then, I only knew the George Harrison cover, not the original I was hearing.
Didn't matter. It was totally danceable.
When I saw DJ Mr. Fine Wine walking by, I stopped him to tell him how enthralled I'd been with his music when I'd first heard it at Metzger, even going home to listen to it online.
"That's amazing! Thank you!" he said, grabbing me in a full-on hug. So, yes, I've been hugged by Mr. Fine Wine.
Best of all, it was one of those nights where our dance moves spanned decades: the frug, the pony, the swim, the monkey and just about every variation you can imagine (or make up). After a while, I just danced and didn't care.
A group of restaurant people formed two lines, a la Soul Train, and I somehow got pulled in to dance down the middle. Why not?
At one point, I leaned over to a woman and whispered, "We're the only ones who were born when this came out." She laughed and danced with me in acknowledgement.
After two last calls, the final song played and the dancing ended. It was a heartbreaking moment as people spilled out on the sidewalk.
How was it 2 a.m. already? How had three hours passed so quickly?
Don't know, don't care. I feel certain Midnight Star would approve. I hadn't parked for so much as a second.
The idiocy is that I waited until 1:45 to take off my shoes and dance barefoot.
Like every year, the headliner of the Second Street festival was assured of my presence and that meant Midnight Star could count on me to be one of the hundreds crowded into the parking lot at First and Marshall.
I'll admit, walking over I couldn't recall the name of a single Midnight Star song, but I spent far too much time in clubs in the '80s to think I wouldn't recognize them once I heard them.
I sure did.
Arriving just as the band took the stage, I couldn't have timed it better. It helps being alone at a shoulder to shoulder show because every time a hole opened up, I sidled up and filled it.
When a musician onstage is playing keytar, I have to get as close as I can. That and the guy in the front row wearing a red suit and matching fedora needed to be appreciated from a shorter distance.
Diving right into the '80s, they did "Headlines" and "Wet My Whistle," inciting the old guy in front of me to dance all the way to the ground getting jiggy with it while "Midas Touch" had a guy near me crooning in his woman's ear.
Giving the crowd what they wanted, the band danced in step as they played and sang. Singer Belinda got the women in the audience riled up when she started talking about not being married yet.
"You know you're lucky when you can find someone you want to spend your whole life with. I found someone and he treats me real good. But sometimes," dramatic pause here, "he can irritate a sister. You know what I'm talking about, ladies?"
We sure as hell did.
That took us into their mega-hit "Operator" and the crowd into a frenzy. "Y'all wanna do it like we did it in the '80s?" guitarist Bo hollered before they band broke into the synchronized dance moves from the original "Operator" video circa 1984, although minus the bad '80s hair and clothes.
Of course the crowd was dancing everywhere, including two women who'd come out the window of the second floor of the Jamaica restaurant to dance on the roof.
"I hope she don't fall off," a guy near me said to me. Talk about a mid-show buzz kill.
Lots of people sang along to "Night Rider" and way too many phones and cameras came out for "Curious," but what am I going to do about it? Ignore it.
Apparently Midnight Star wrote a lot of other people's hits, too, so we got to hear Klymaxx's "Meeting in the Ladies' Room," a song by Toni Braxton and the Whispers' "Rock Steady," which about brought the house down.
They cooled us off with a song we all knew (even me), "Slow Jam," and just about everyone who had a mate was slow dancing in the parking lot to that one.
But they couldn't leave us mooney, so they brought out all the stops for "No Parking on the Dance Floor" and people danced on chairs, with strangers (or was that just me?), with kids and by themselves until Midnight Star said goodnight.
Which was my signal to high tail it to dinner, namely Amour.
The restaurant was busy but there were only two people at the bar where I began with a new-to-me pink bubbly, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, a light-bodied floral beauty that I could get used to. Just to confuse things, I was also offered a taste of Willm Blanc de Blanc, the sort of bubbly I could drink morning, noon or night.
With the Django Reinhardt station playing, I ordered a meat and cheese plate, trying desperately to get my order in before the ten-top did.
The array that arrived on the slate was magnificent: Petit Basque, Fourme d'Ambert, Comte and Boucheron beside dried blueberries, figs and craisins plus speck, Tuscan sausage, Olli salume and prosciutto and fresh grapes, mustards and country pate.
While chatting with whomever was available - the photographer, the runner - I dug into the spread, very happy I didn't have to share it with anyone.
Because Amour excels at pairing wine with food, I also switched wines, savoring La Tour Chambert Cahors with my meat and cheese, an ideal complement to my meal.
One of the servers told me how great my hair looked. What a great thing to be told.
I briefly considered skipping dessert, but why would I? Instead I took my server's recommendation and had a mixed berry and apple crisp with whipped cream, an ideal summer to fall transition dessert. Clearly, it had been too long since I'd eaten at Amour.
By the time I left there, a DJ had set up across the street at Cary Court, blasting his BPM to anyone within a five-block radius.
But I had other music in mind.
A drive to Church Hill landed me at Metzger for an evening with Mr. Fine Wine, a DJ I'd fallen hard for at one of my previous Metzger visits. I'd been listening to his podcasts at home ever since, smitten with his old school soul.
They'd somehow coerced him to come down and play a three-hour set and I'd not hesitated in accepting my invitation to be part of it.
First stop: the bar for a glass of Anton Bauer Rose and some quick conversation with friends before joining the throng on the dance floor.
You have to understand, Mr. Fine Wine plays totally obscure, completely danceable soul music that never lets up. Each three-minute gem leads into the next so I could never find a reason to leave the dance floor.
Who did I dance with? The recently separated baker. The wine buyer. The bartender. The DJ and his wife. The singer. The wine bar servers. The ukulele player, but only for a moment. Myself and a whole lot of strangers.
A girl came up and told me she saw me all the time in Oregon Hill and introduced herself so now we'd know each other. Then we danced.
To my recollection, the only time I wasn't dancing was when I got another glass of wine and when I got more water.
Truly, it was only when I went to the bathroom that I realized how many familiar faces were there. Two chefs. One restaurant owner. A vintage store owner. Musicians from multiple bands I've heard.
Coming back from the loo, I ran into a friend and we conspired to open the windows to allow in cool, night air to the overheated restaurant full of people dancing crazily.
The music was so good and I can honestly say I recognized only one song, "I Got My Mind Set On You," and even then, I only knew the George Harrison cover, not the original I was hearing.
Didn't matter. It was totally danceable.
When I saw DJ Mr. Fine Wine walking by, I stopped him to tell him how enthralled I'd been with his music when I'd first heard it at Metzger, even going home to listen to it online.
"That's amazing! Thank you!" he said, grabbing me in a full-on hug. So, yes, I've been hugged by Mr. Fine Wine.
Best of all, it was one of those nights where our dance moves spanned decades: the frug, the pony, the swim, the monkey and just about every variation you can imagine (or make up). After a while, I just danced and didn't care.
A group of restaurant people formed two lines, a la Soul Train, and I somehow got pulled in to dance down the middle. Why not?
At one point, I leaned over to a woman and whispered, "We're the only ones who were born when this came out." She laughed and danced with me in acknowledgement.
After two last calls, the final song played and the dancing ended. It was a heartbreaking moment as people spilled out on the sidewalk.
How was it 2 a.m. already? How had three hours passed so quickly?
Don't know, don't care. I feel certain Midnight Star would approve. I hadn't parked for so much as a second.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
It's My Thing
You know how they say a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse?
Well, Tobacco Company is as good as Hardywood to a music-loving non-beer drinker.
Which means that after my hired mouth and posse finished dinner and a friend was too tired for fun, I found myself alone at Tobacco Company to see the Hi Steps on a Friday night.
Taking a seat on the far side of the bar, a tequila discussion ensued with the white-shirted bartender before Don Julio landed in front of me. A couple at the end of the bar asked of him what kind of music the band would be playing and his best guess was jazz, based on their instruments.
Unwilling to let him put misinformation out there, I corrected him. Vintage R & B, I shared. Motown even. Smiles abounded.
Not long after, a guy sat down next to me wanting more information about the band. I supplied it, sharing how good they were, and he decided to stay.
"I used to live in Detroit," he said, smiling. "I've got Motown in my veins." Well, my friend, then you're going to have a good time.
Visiting from Ann Arbor, Michigan, he turned out to be a music-loving radiologist in town to teach a class. Already, he'd had lunch at Bistro Bobette, dinner at Magpie (where he'd been forewarned about the 'hood and I un-warned him) and to the Country Club of Virginia.
I've gone on record as being no fan of the Tobacco Company or its clientele (the kind who order "three Fireballs and a Budweiser"), but I do so enjoy the Hi Steps, so I ignored my aversion for a chance to kick off my soul-filled weekend appropriately.
It only took the first few strains of "Let's Stay Together" for my new friend to thank me profusely for the recommendation. A huge Stevie Wonder fan, he totally dug hearing "Superstition" and raved about the musicianship on "Ain't Too Proud to Beg."
Between songs we chatted, during which time I learned that his first concert was 38 Special opening up for Journey in 1980. Nice. Hold on loosely, baby.
I think he decided he was going to talk to me when I pointed out that singer Butterfly's mic wasn't high enough in the mix and he pegged me for a music lover.
As the Hi Steps began winning over the drunken, shouting crowd with gems such as "Chain, Chain, Chain" and "It's Your Thing," a highly perfumed, overly made-up blond asked if the stool next to me was taken and sat down.
Explaining that she was in town from Minneapolis to visit her hospitalized brother, she was at T.C. with her sister who'd been part of a rehearsal dinner upstairs on the third floor.
Given that this woman was no spring chicken, I inquired about the wedding party's age. Uh-huh. The groom is 50-something and the bride-to be is 25. "They have a pre-nup," she informed me. Good thing.
"I give it six months," Blondie said, promising to point them out when they came downstairs to the bar.
Rather than discuss the obvious, I asked about her first show only to learn that she'd grown up in Richmond and her inaugural concert had been Foreigner at the Coliseum in 1984.
When I replied, "Wow, Foreigner," she seemed to take it as an insult, quickly sharing that she'd been to plenty of shows since.
"I saw Bon Jovi there, too," she said eagerly. "And Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. And Roger Waters doing "The Wall." And Barbra Streisand. And Bob Seger." I told her that was plenty of proof that she was a true-blue music lover.
All of a sudden, there were shrieks and the crowd behind us against the big front windows began making noise. Turning, I saw that many of them had their phones out and trained on the sidewalk outside the window.
A fight had broken out in front of TC and it wasn't even midnight yet. Give me strength. Even worse was the knee jerk reaction of the crowd to immediately begin filming it.
Meanwhile, a guy comes over and orders a double Amaretto as the bartender is lining up ten Jager Bombs for another wedding party. Kids, it's going to be a looong wedding day if you keep drinking that stuff tonight.
By now, the Hi Steps had a full crowd dancing in front of them while they played Stevie Wonder's "I Wish" and "Try a Little Tenderness." The bartender sashayed over and gave me a thumbs up, saying, "You were right!" about the band. Duh.
I noticed a shy, quiet looking man across the bar eating a sandwich and fries and after a bit, he had a bartender put some of his fries on a separate plate and send them over to a couple of older women at the end of the bar. After delivering them, the bartender pointed out the man to the women and he saluted them with a smile.
Honestly, I might prefer that a man sent me fries rather than buy me a drink at that point in the evening.
And speaking of such, after Blondie and her sister left for the club downstairs (thankfully taking her noxious cloud of perfume with her), a guy took her stool to order drinks and pay for them.
But when the check arrived, he squinted at it and handed it to me. "Can I use your eyes?" he asked. $34.68, I told him, but why in the world are you asking a woman of my advanced age, sharing it to prove my point.
"God, I'm ten years younger than you," he said, leaning in closer and staring. "You look beautiful! Is that your husband next to you?" Nope. "Can I buy you a drink?" Nope.
When I spotted a white van pull up in front of TC and a gaggle of drunk girls spill out of it, I commented to the bartender that that was the last thing they needed given the already large, loud and drunken crowd.
He agreed, acknowledging that the music was the only redeeming part of the evening. It was true, throughout the night, all three of the bartenders had been dancing behind the bar as they poured and served to the irresistible sounds of the band.
During the band's break, Mr. Ann Arbor pointed to a screen where a referee had been trampled and was laying motionless on the field face down. Watching the replay, he diagnosed what had happened to the man's leg when two large players had collided over him.
That led to discussion of sports and his teams: Lions, Tigers and Wolverines, apparently. Sounds one step removed from the "Wizard of Oz" to me.
When I explained that I grew up in a Redskins family, he first made a joke ("I hear the Redskins are thinking of changing their name. They're dropping the 'Washington' part" Ba-dum-bum) and then told me we were lucky to have Kirk Cousins quarterbacking because he'd played at Michigan State, clearly a good thing in his opinion.
But mostly we talked music while the band played songs like "Movin' On Up" and he raved about the keyboard player's prowess or the guitar player's effortless licks. Seems he'd also been at TC last night and seen a lackluster duo so he was hugely impressed with what he saw tonight.
Yea, the Hi Steps will do that to a music lover.
Realizing the late hour (and the fact that he had to be up at 6 a.m. to teach), he finally said, "Okay, I'm going to have a Fireball to remember Richmond by and then go." Since he'd already said he'd never even heard of a Fireball, I was a tad surprised.
He should have known by the bartender's face (a grimace) when he asked about it, but he bravely took a sip and turned to me. "Don't bother getting a Fireball." Don't worry.
After a killer rendition of "Take Another Little Piece of My Heart," I walked up to the stage and gave bandleader Jason a salute and a thanks for the terrific night of music.
The cobblestone streets were freshly wet from rain and the booty-short crowd was out en masse headed to clubs.
Don't drink beer, don't care for the crowd at Hardywood, but I've been to all kinds of shows there because the music appealed.
Crowd-wise, TC is far worse with golf shirts and Rumpilminz drinkers, but they at least carry tequila, so there was no reason to miss the Hi Steps.
I may not have lived in Detroit, but I got a little Motown in my veins, too. And while I'm at it, as a public service I'm willing to share my eyes with a blind horse.
Or man, as the case may be.
Well, Tobacco Company is as good as Hardywood to a music-loving non-beer drinker.
Which means that after my hired mouth and posse finished dinner and a friend was too tired for fun, I found myself alone at Tobacco Company to see the Hi Steps on a Friday night.
Taking a seat on the far side of the bar, a tequila discussion ensued with the white-shirted bartender before Don Julio landed in front of me. A couple at the end of the bar asked of him what kind of music the band would be playing and his best guess was jazz, based on their instruments.
Unwilling to let him put misinformation out there, I corrected him. Vintage R & B, I shared. Motown even. Smiles abounded.
Not long after, a guy sat down next to me wanting more information about the band. I supplied it, sharing how good they were, and he decided to stay.
"I used to live in Detroit," he said, smiling. "I've got Motown in my veins." Well, my friend, then you're going to have a good time.
Visiting from Ann Arbor, Michigan, he turned out to be a music-loving radiologist in town to teach a class. Already, he'd had lunch at Bistro Bobette, dinner at Magpie (where he'd been forewarned about the 'hood and I un-warned him) and to the Country Club of Virginia.
I've gone on record as being no fan of the Tobacco Company or its clientele (the kind who order "three Fireballs and a Budweiser"), but I do so enjoy the Hi Steps, so I ignored my aversion for a chance to kick off my soul-filled weekend appropriately.
It only took the first few strains of "Let's Stay Together" for my new friend to thank me profusely for the recommendation. A huge Stevie Wonder fan, he totally dug hearing "Superstition" and raved about the musicianship on "Ain't Too Proud to Beg."
Between songs we chatted, during which time I learned that his first concert was 38 Special opening up for Journey in 1980. Nice. Hold on loosely, baby.
I think he decided he was going to talk to me when I pointed out that singer Butterfly's mic wasn't high enough in the mix and he pegged me for a music lover.
As the Hi Steps began winning over the drunken, shouting crowd with gems such as "Chain, Chain, Chain" and "It's Your Thing," a highly perfumed, overly made-up blond asked if the stool next to me was taken and sat down.
Explaining that she was in town from Minneapolis to visit her hospitalized brother, she was at T.C. with her sister who'd been part of a rehearsal dinner upstairs on the third floor.
Given that this woman was no spring chicken, I inquired about the wedding party's age. Uh-huh. The groom is 50-something and the bride-to be is 25. "They have a pre-nup," she informed me. Good thing.
"I give it six months," Blondie said, promising to point them out when they came downstairs to the bar.
Rather than discuss the obvious, I asked about her first show only to learn that she'd grown up in Richmond and her inaugural concert had been Foreigner at the Coliseum in 1984.
When I replied, "Wow, Foreigner," she seemed to take it as an insult, quickly sharing that she'd been to plenty of shows since.
"I saw Bon Jovi there, too," she said eagerly. "And Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. And Roger Waters doing "The Wall." And Barbra Streisand. And Bob Seger." I told her that was plenty of proof that she was a true-blue music lover.
All of a sudden, there were shrieks and the crowd behind us against the big front windows began making noise. Turning, I saw that many of them had their phones out and trained on the sidewalk outside the window.
A fight had broken out in front of TC and it wasn't even midnight yet. Give me strength. Even worse was the knee jerk reaction of the crowd to immediately begin filming it.
Meanwhile, a guy comes over and orders a double Amaretto as the bartender is lining up ten Jager Bombs for another wedding party. Kids, it's going to be a looong wedding day if you keep drinking that stuff tonight.
By now, the Hi Steps had a full crowd dancing in front of them while they played Stevie Wonder's "I Wish" and "Try a Little Tenderness." The bartender sashayed over and gave me a thumbs up, saying, "You were right!" about the band. Duh.
I noticed a shy, quiet looking man across the bar eating a sandwich and fries and after a bit, he had a bartender put some of his fries on a separate plate and send them over to a couple of older women at the end of the bar. After delivering them, the bartender pointed out the man to the women and he saluted them with a smile.
Honestly, I might prefer that a man sent me fries rather than buy me a drink at that point in the evening.
And speaking of such, after Blondie and her sister left for the club downstairs (thankfully taking her noxious cloud of perfume with her), a guy took her stool to order drinks and pay for them.
But when the check arrived, he squinted at it and handed it to me. "Can I use your eyes?" he asked. $34.68, I told him, but why in the world are you asking a woman of my advanced age, sharing it to prove my point.
"God, I'm ten years younger than you," he said, leaning in closer and staring. "You look beautiful! Is that your husband next to you?" Nope. "Can I buy you a drink?" Nope.
When I spotted a white van pull up in front of TC and a gaggle of drunk girls spill out of it, I commented to the bartender that that was the last thing they needed given the already large, loud and drunken crowd.
He agreed, acknowledging that the music was the only redeeming part of the evening. It was true, throughout the night, all three of the bartenders had been dancing behind the bar as they poured and served to the irresistible sounds of the band.
During the band's break, Mr. Ann Arbor pointed to a screen where a referee had been trampled and was laying motionless on the field face down. Watching the replay, he diagnosed what had happened to the man's leg when two large players had collided over him.
That led to discussion of sports and his teams: Lions, Tigers and Wolverines, apparently. Sounds one step removed from the "Wizard of Oz" to me.
When I explained that I grew up in a Redskins family, he first made a joke ("I hear the Redskins are thinking of changing their name. They're dropping the 'Washington' part" Ba-dum-bum) and then told me we were lucky to have Kirk Cousins quarterbacking because he'd played at Michigan State, clearly a good thing in his opinion.
But mostly we talked music while the band played songs like "Movin' On Up" and he raved about the keyboard player's prowess or the guitar player's effortless licks. Seems he'd also been at TC last night and seen a lackluster duo so he was hugely impressed with what he saw tonight.
Yea, the Hi Steps will do that to a music lover.
Realizing the late hour (and the fact that he had to be up at 6 a.m. to teach), he finally said, "Okay, I'm going to have a Fireball to remember Richmond by and then go." Since he'd already said he'd never even heard of a Fireball, I was a tad surprised.
He should have known by the bartender's face (a grimace) when he asked about it, but he bravely took a sip and turned to me. "Don't bother getting a Fireball." Don't worry.
After a killer rendition of "Take Another Little Piece of My Heart," I walked up to the stage and gave bandleader Jason a salute and a thanks for the terrific night of music.
The cobblestone streets were freshly wet from rain and the booty-short crowd was out en masse headed to clubs.
Don't drink beer, don't care for the crowd at Hardywood, but I've been to all kinds of shows there because the music appealed.
Crowd-wise, TC is far worse with golf shirts and Rumpilminz drinkers, but they at least carry tequila, so there was no reason to miss the Hi Steps.
I may not have lived in Detroit, but I got a little Motown in my veins, too. And while I'm at it, as a public service I'm willing to share my eyes with a blind horse.
Or man, as the case may be.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Up for an Undertaking
When you live in Jackson Ward, the world is your oyster and it's all within four blocks.
Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.
I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.
Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.
It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.
I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.
The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.
Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.
On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.
When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.
"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.
My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.
Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.
"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."
Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.
Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.
The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.
When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.
I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.
The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.
Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."
Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.
The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.
By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.
Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.
My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?
My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.
Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.
That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.
Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.
He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.
They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).
But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.
While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.
When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."
He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"
Yea, pretty funny stuff.
Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.
He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.
Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.
One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.
Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule
With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."
She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."
After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."
Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.
Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.
Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."
Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."
Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.
To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.
"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."
Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.
My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.
Behind Nick's Deli, I see a friend conducting a photo shoot of good-looking Richmond guys (read: bearded) for Ledbury Shirts in the exquisite early evening light.
I'm on my way to 1708 Gallery for the opening of "Exquisite Corpse," an exhibition based on the Surrealist parlor game where each person draws a part of the whole without seeing the other contributions first.
Some of the pieces are fluid and seamless, a marvel since no one knew what the other was doing, while some are disjointed and abrupt but come together only because they're part of a greater whole. Every single one is fascinating in some way, often many ways.
It doesn't take long for me to recognize artists' names and styles: Heide Trepanier, Kevin Orlosky, Diego Sanchez, Michael Lease, Noah Scalin, Sally Bowring all catch my eye.
I am most intrigued by seeing several by Travis Robertson because I purchased one of his pieces back in 2008 and I've never met him to tell him how much I still love seeing that piece every day.
The 27 pieces in the show demonstrate such creativity. One has a sound component, another has a collaged section. Some are black and white while others glow with fields of color. Sequins and fake jewels are part of some.
Admiring one, a woman approaches me and I learn she's one of the artists who has done a section on one of the pieces. As we admire it, she asks if I'm an artist. When I explain I merely write, she insists I am an artist, too.
On the back wall, an artist has begun an enormous exquisite corpse piece, to be covered up and continued tomorrow night during the artwalk. The scale is huge and the orientation horizontal rather than vertical, but it's fascinating to watch as animals and details emerge from his brush.
When I go to leave, I run into a gallerist I know and he tells me he recently spotted me on my walk near Second Street. After driving around for an hour, he was on the downtown expressway when he caught sight of me overhead, crossing 195 on an overpass.
"She's still walking!" he recalled thinking. And mighty easy to spot in those bright pink shorts, I might add.
My next stop was Quirk Gallery for Brad Birchett's show, "Return," a collection of mostly monochromatic shades of gray, black and white with occasional lines of color - pink, coral -and images receding in and out of the painterly surface, occasionally etched into the paint, with sound recordings he'd made playing in the back of the gallery.
Making my way around, I ran into my favorite Quirk staffer (and very talented set designer) and asked what he'd been up to.
"I'm doing a lot of work on hotel stuff," he said, referring to the upcoming Quirk boutique hotel that's coming to the neighborhood. "There'll be a rooftop bar there for you."
Don't I know it. You can be sure I plan to be a habitue of that rooftop bar three blocks from my house.
Walking out, I ran into the man about town, telling him it's always nice to see him. "Nice to be seen by you," he acknowledged, doffing his hat and bowing as I swept out the door.
I was pleasantly surprised to find ADA Gallery open (turns out it's the first time they're participating in the Thursday preview night) for a new sculpture show, "Heroic Measures," by VCU alum Shannon Wright.
The larger piece was called "Folly" and was modeled on the Coliseum in Rome, assuming it had been built by the Parks and Rec Department out of bike rack parts. Almost circular, with rows on top of rows of arches, it looked both monumental yet gently mocking of public art. I'd love to see it find a home in Richmond.
When I got to Ghostprint Gallery, I found a lively crowd for Josh George's new show, "Attroupement," including the well organized gardener drinking a beer and giving me a hard time as soon as I arrived.
I've watched Josh's progress as a painter over his past four shows since he came to Richmond and I continue to be impressed by the development of his talent and vision in wonderfully vibrant and colorful works exuding the passion and energy of life.
The room was full of familiar faces and I kept stopping to chat as I ran into a poet, a tattoo artist and a former writer as I worked my way around the room.
Standing back to admire "Kissy Bat," a large scale work of a lovely woman with long hair and full lips in front of strips of floral wallpaper and a flock of bats, a man approached me and said, "I was told that you posed for this painting."
Someone was lying to him and I corrected him, but a writer friend standing nearby leaned over and said, "He obviously has money. You should have said it was you." Right.
The Corbieres series in the back, a group of small landscape pieces done after Josh's trip to France, were stunningly evocative of the French countryside with the look of work painted a century ago.
By contrast, there were several large works of urban streetscapes with skyscrapers reaching heavenward that were firmly grounded in the here and now. "Up for an Undertaking" was my favorite, with rows of buildings on either side of the streets receding into the unknown, luring a visitor to spend time exploring.
Josh's love of wine and sense of humor came to the fore in "Devil says, 'Roast it in the oven!' Angel says, 'Deep fry it!" A couple sits with wine on the table in front of them as the man prepares to cut up a bird for dinner.
My vote for most charming goes to "The Things Needed," a mixed media piece of a girl on a bike with a basket full of flowers, wine and a baguette. I didn't spot it, but presumably there was cheese in there, too.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and the gardener was there to say goodnight, kissing me on the cheek but complaining when I did the same to him. "Don't leave lipstick on my cheek! I'll get in trouble when I get home!" Where's the trust, my friend?
My last stop was at Gallery 5 for "An evening among whores: a spoken word event," whatever that meant. It was being curated by the inimitable Herschel Stratego, so anything was possible.
Already the poet had made it over from Ghostprint before me and not long after, I saw the arts activist who's given up drinking (looking newly slim and fit), heard my name called by the not so classic movie lover I'd met at the weekly B movie series over the summer, chatted with the author who lived in my apartment before I did, and been joined by the sound techie who'd just returned from two weeks touring south of the border.
That got us off on a tangent about traveling alone and we compared adventures; I'd done four days alone in Italy and he'd done time in Mexico City and we agreed that there's a unique dynamic to being alone in a country where you don't know the language and you have no companion to fall back on for navigation and companionship.
Next thing we knew, Herschel was taking the stage to tell us the saga of his friendship with the recently deceased Dave Brockie of GWAR.
He wanted to begin with the story of how he'd made out with Dave, eager to share it "for bragging purposes only." Actually, they'd only kissed once (and even then, it was a fish lips kind of a kiss, not a good French kiss) and only because they'd challenged a woman to kiss one of them if they kissed each other.
They did, she didn't, at least not in front of the one who lost (Herschel).
But that was far from the end of his storytelling, as he went on share that they'd both peed together in the same toilet ("Although Dave Brockie peed a little longer"), that he wasn't going to get sentimental and that he recalled Dave singing along to "Only the Good Die Young" at a Superbowl party.
While I claim to go on and on, Herschel has me beat by a mile.
When he finally ceded the stage, it was for comedy from Dave Marie-Garland who said things such as, "What's the difference between a guy with a ponytail and a girl with a flat top? Nothing, they're both human beings."
He got the most laughs saying he'd had a dream where he had sex with a girl but when he asked if she'd loved him, she said no. "I woke up crying because sex without love is just sad. Am I right, guys?"
Yea, pretty funny stuff.
Musician and DJ Shannon Cleary did a rumination on aging, pets and parenthood with its roots in him having turned 30 last year.
He recalled being in speech class and being asked to speak on procreation, the problem being at that point he had no idea what the word meant. "My friends tried to show me with hand gestures, pelvic thrusts and "cab hands," he deadpanned as only Shannon can do.
Reading from her phone, Angie Huckstep shared a poem called "Remember That You Like to Read" (with the line "Finish that book like you know you want to") and "Spit Spot" ("Like Mary Poppins says," she explained. "You know, get your shit together!") about being in the shower with someone.
One of the best parts of the evening was the music played between performers, like Liz Phair's "Rock Me" before Melanie Rasnic came up.
Oh, baby, you're young but that's okay
What's give or take nine years anyway?
You think I'm a genius, think I'm cool
I'm starting to think that young guys rule
With a comedienne's timing and a past meant for mocking, she told of making the Shockoe Bottom walk of shame the morning after in heels (no small accomplishment) before explaining how a whore is formed. "By the way, my Mom is not a whore, so apparently it skips a generation."
She lamented being raised a Jehovah's Witness, trying to convert people on their porches by the time she was eight and denying her "all the things that made childhood bearable."
After that, Herschel returned to the stage long enough to tell us, "By the way, I have had sex before," tell some more off-color stories and announce, "This is my blue set."
Author Andrew Blossom took the stage to a song by Groucho Marx in honor of Groucho's birthday today (Andrew also works at Video Fan) and introduced his story, "In the Not Too Distant Future" about a guy named Joel who is middle aged, divorced and loses his job. He finds salvation in endless TV watching and a space show with a character named Joel.
Hey, when you're middle aged, you find your redemption anywhere you can.
Musician and poet Ryan Kent closed out the evening, loudly reading his poetry from an e-tablet, poems with titles such as "Nobody's Bitch" and lines like, "Ashtrays as truthful as your bank account" from "Long in the Tooth."
Top honors go to this line: "She was someone I left my fingerprints on, like cement and murder."
Naturally, Herschel had to come back up to close out the evening with more Dave Brockie stories, stopping just short of sharing sexual peccadilloes and reminiscing about when Dave had suggested he open for GWAR.
To prove his worth, Herschel had sung Dave a song and he wanted to sing it for us tonight.
"I forgot to being my instrument but I don't know the chords anyway, so I'll just sing it." It turned out to be Randy Newman's song about Karl Marx, "The World Isn't Fair."
Truthfully, Herschel's a capella rendition was just about perfect, an absurdist ending to a wild ride of a night.
My walk home was only four blocks...with no shame (or heels) involved.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
War and Work
Productive, yes; social enough, not even close.
My brain woke me up at 5:15 so that I could have an hour-long conversation in my head with myself about something that's apparently been bothering me. Let's hope we worked that out so it doesn't happen again.
When I finally awoke, it was to a message from my favorite ex-cop inviting me to the river for crabs and a lesson on the sail-yak ("I'm pretty sure I could teach you in 30 minutes or less!") but, alas, my inbox also informed me I had all kinds of obligations rearing their heads, so I reluctantly declined.
My walk to the river brought me up Cherry Street, a route I hadn't walked before. A shame since it yielded a charming house hidden behind an overgrown archway with a fat cat sunning on the brick walkway, a profusely flowering rose garden oddly placed between the sidewalk and street and a gaggle of teen-aged girls who were lost and needed my guidance to Mama Zu.
Coming back through Monroe Park, my eye was caught by an installation, "Eyes Wide Open Virginia" coordinated byQuakers Richmond Friends Meeting.
Consisting of pairs of army boots, each labeled with the name and Virginia birthplace of a fallen soldier in Afghanistan or Iraq (some with small flags, pictures or flowers) and regular shoes representing slain civilians (the children's shoes a heartbreaking reminder of the cost of war), it was a moving tribute to victims of this endless-seeming war effort.
After lunch, an interview in Church Hill had me talking with two writers about the solitary life of a writer and how frequently this profession is made up of introverts, although clearly I am the exception to that rule. By the time I finish a solitary day, I want nothing so much as company, be it familiar or strangers.
Despite sunshine and 77 degrees outside, my afternoon was spent indoors gathering words from my head and shaping them into a coherent form on the monitor screen. I am a woman who understands a deadline.
Instead of my usual dinner plans, I turned the tables and played server for a dinner board meeting, trying to parlay the unobtrusive service skills that have been used on me so often on unsuspecting diners. No one seemed to recognize me for the inexperienced fake I was. But I consider myself a success because the one thing I know for certain is that they never lacked for water or wine .
Nor did I, afterwards enjoying a glass of Ixsir Altitudes Rose (from Lebanon, no less), with a lovely mess of mesclun under crabcakes, payback perhaps for the crabs I didn't get to crack at the river today. Not to mention that my sail-yaking skills are still non-existent.
Not long before my meal, a history nerd friend had told me about a real-time tour (5:45 a.m. Monday morning!) he'd taken at Fort Harrison, regaling me with details of what he'd learned as the group retraced the route of the Union soldiers who took the fort, beginning before daylight.
Intriguing as it sounded to this extroverted history geek, I know myself well enough to know that's one tour I'd never have agreed to attend.
My subconscious may be able to get me up at that ungodly hour, but that's about the only thing that could.
My brain woke me up at 5:15 so that I could have an hour-long conversation in my head with myself about something that's apparently been bothering me. Let's hope we worked that out so it doesn't happen again.
When I finally awoke, it was to a message from my favorite ex-cop inviting me to the river for crabs and a lesson on the sail-yak ("I'm pretty sure I could teach you in 30 minutes or less!") but, alas, my inbox also informed me I had all kinds of obligations rearing their heads, so I reluctantly declined.
My walk to the river brought me up Cherry Street, a route I hadn't walked before. A shame since it yielded a charming house hidden behind an overgrown archway with a fat cat sunning on the brick walkway, a profusely flowering rose garden oddly placed between the sidewalk and street and a gaggle of teen-aged girls who were lost and needed my guidance to Mama Zu.
Coming back through Monroe Park, my eye was caught by an installation, "Eyes Wide Open Virginia" coordinated by
Consisting of pairs of army boots, each labeled with the name and Virginia birthplace of a fallen soldier in Afghanistan or Iraq (some with small flags, pictures or flowers) and regular shoes representing slain civilians (the children's shoes a heartbreaking reminder of the cost of war), it was a moving tribute to victims of this endless-seeming war effort.
After lunch, an interview in Church Hill had me talking with two writers about the solitary life of a writer and how frequently this profession is made up of introverts, although clearly I am the exception to that rule. By the time I finish a solitary day, I want nothing so much as company, be it familiar or strangers.
Despite sunshine and 77 degrees outside, my afternoon was spent indoors gathering words from my head and shaping them into a coherent form on the monitor screen. I am a woman who understands a deadline.
Instead of my usual dinner plans, I turned the tables and played server for a dinner board meeting, trying to parlay the unobtrusive service skills that have been used on me so often on unsuspecting diners. No one seemed to recognize me for the inexperienced fake I was. But I consider myself a success because the one thing I know for certain is that they never lacked for water or wine .
Nor did I, afterwards enjoying a glass of Ixsir Altitudes Rose (from Lebanon, no less), with a lovely mess of mesclun under crabcakes, payback perhaps for the crabs I didn't get to crack at the river today. Not to mention that my sail-yaking skills are still non-existent.
Not long before my meal, a history nerd friend had told me about a real-time tour (5:45 a.m. Monday morning!) he'd taken at Fort Harrison, regaling me with details of what he'd learned as the group retraced the route of the Union soldiers who took the fort, beginning before daylight.
Intriguing as it sounded to this extroverted history geek, I know myself well enough to know that's one tour I'd never have agreed to attend.
My subconscious may be able to get me up at that ungodly hour, but that's about the only thing that could.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Booty Fries and Whisker Biscuits
Our state fair is a great state fair
Don't miss it, don't even be late
Our state fair is great
It's dollars to doughnuts at our state fair
It's the best state fair in the state
Er, make that the Commonwealth.
After a short drive up Route 301, we waited for friends at the gate next to Mount Olympus' pumpkin display ("Please photograph our pumpkins, but do not sit on our pumpkins") under a bodacious blue sky.
Just as they showed up, I felt a hand on my arm and turned to see a Richmond restaurant owner smiling and saying, "I almost didn't recognize you with your sunglasses on."
How is it I go all the way to Doswell and still see people I know?
Moving through the entry gates, our friend began singing the song from "State Fair," a 1962 musical I've never even seen. Even so, we hadn't missed it and we weren't late.
A big part of the reason these friends had even been willing to come to the state fair was because they'd read about the abundance of Virginia craft breweries ("Beer IS agriculture") representing, so we immediately set out in search of some.
Actually, my friend was also hoping he could find a t-shirt saying "Beer is agriculture," but it was not to be.
Instead, he found a guy he'd grown up with and another he'd worked with for years. I put my money on him running into at least one, if not two more, people he knew (one, so I won that non-existent bet).
The problem with our state fair is that the map they give you is worthless for locating craft beer stands.
At the Secretariat booth, we finally found directions to the craft beer, but only after half our group had settled for Budweiser.
In a lucky stroke, next to the array of Virginia-brewed suds was an award-winning food stand where we scored butt fries, affectionately referred to as "booty fries' by the proprietor, ribs, cole slaw and beans.
In case your curiosity is screaming to know what booty fries are, let me tell you: fries covered in shredded pork butt, cheese sauce, sour ream and chopped scallions.
As my girlfriend put it, "No one needs to eat this, but it's so good." Honestly, I liked the ribs better, but that's just me.
I was perfectly happy with Prosecco on tap, but the beer drinkers satisfied their need for hops with Midnight Brewery's Virginia Midway, an American wheat ale designated the official beer of the fair, and Lickinghole Creek Magic Beaver, a Belgian-style pale ale.
Hardly surprisingly, all that talk of magic beavers led to discussion of magical whisker biscuits, a phrase new to me but laugh out loud worthy at the same time.
It's always nice to have some language humor when you're in the middle of a state fair crowd.
Looking at the fair schedule, we were bummed to see that we'd missed last night's coon mule jumping, in which mules jump from a standstill when raccoon hunting.
Because only at our state fair could I learn that coons and mules spent any time together.
Finishing our meal, my friend looked at her beloved and announced, "I'm going to need something sweet," echoing my exact thoughts after a salty meal.
My choice was a mixed vanilla and chocolate dipped cone, while she got a hot fudge sundae and we made our way to the festival stage to hear the funky Latin grooves of Brooklyn-based band Jose Conde y Ola Fresca.
Sprawling out on the grassy hillside in front of the stage, the Prosecco stand conveniently located right behind us, we were appalled to see no more than a dozen people taking in the rhythmic sounds of the band (keys, congas, drums, guitar, three horns and Juan singing and playing percussion).
It was mostly original material, both the band's and Juan's, with songs about the drummer's hands (the same texture as the skins on the drums), a sinuous cha cha cha, a song called "Flavor" and an abbreviated cover of "Let's Groove Tonight," to prove Juan was old enough to remember that classic.
The Afro-Cuban band was terrific and deserving of a far bigger audience than they had, and certainly of more people dancing down in front of the stage. Juan himself was an ideal instigator, moving his fluid hips non-stop as he sang.
Although he wore a hat to cover his bald head, he didn't hesitate to point out the conga player's magnificent Afro and admit some envy that he couldn't grow the same.
Tonight's beautiful weather made for a pretty terrific evening to be in a field moving to stellar Latin grooves, the neon lights of the midway and screams of the children off in the distance.
Once the music ended, we wound our way back, following the scent of frying oil to find that most traditional of fair foods, a funnel cake, sharing it four ways before ending up at the pig raceway tent.
Because what's a State Fair experience without seeing the racing pigs?
The little, pink pigs were cute and fast, the older pigs focused and faster but the Asian pot-bellied pigs with their enormous bellies dragging on the straw-covered raceway, were hilarious, lumbering along and not terribly interested in crossing the finish line, especially Lindsey Lo-Ham, who practically laid down and took a nap mid-race ("She's having flashbacks!" the swine-master said).
Only then, after a heaping helping of proper fried food and racing pigs could we exit the fairgrounds alongside kids carrying plastic bags of goldfish they'd won, feeling fully satisfied with our experience.
I'd vehemently passed on the Texas rattlesnake show and we'd never found the masters of the chainsaw, but all in all, I'd have to say it was the best state fair in the state tonight.
Where else could we have learned that beer is agriculture?
Dollars to doughnuts says only coons and mules could have made it any better.
Don't miss it, don't even be late
Our state fair is great
It's dollars to doughnuts at our state fair
It's the best state fair in the state
Er, make that the Commonwealth.
After a short drive up Route 301, we waited for friends at the gate next to Mount Olympus' pumpkin display ("Please photograph our pumpkins, but do not sit on our pumpkins") under a bodacious blue sky.
Just as they showed up, I felt a hand on my arm and turned to see a Richmond restaurant owner smiling and saying, "I almost didn't recognize you with your sunglasses on."
How is it I go all the way to Doswell and still see people I know?
Moving through the entry gates, our friend began singing the song from "State Fair," a 1962 musical I've never even seen. Even so, we hadn't missed it and we weren't late.
A big part of the reason these friends had even been willing to come to the state fair was because they'd read about the abundance of Virginia craft breweries ("Beer IS agriculture") representing, so we immediately set out in search of some.
Actually, my friend was also hoping he could find a t-shirt saying "Beer is agriculture," but it was not to be.
Instead, he found a guy he'd grown up with and another he'd worked with for years. I put my money on him running into at least one, if not two more, people he knew (one, so I won that non-existent bet).
The problem with our state fair is that the map they give you is worthless for locating craft beer stands.
At the Secretariat booth, we finally found directions to the craft beer, but only after half our group had settled for Budweiser.
In a lucky stroke, next to the array of Virginia-brewed suds was an award-winning food stand where we scored butt fries, affectionately referred to as "booty fries' by the proprietor, ribs, cole slaw and beans.
In case your curiosity is screaming to know what booty fries are, let me tell you: fries covered in shredded pork butt, cheese sauce, sour ream and chopped scallions.
As my girlfriend put it, "No one needs to eat this, but it's so good." Honestly, I liked the ribs better, but that's just me.
I was perfectly happy with Prosecco on tap, but the beer drinkers satisfied their need for hops with Midnight Brewery's Virginia Midway, an American wheat ale designated the official beer of the fair, and Lickinghole Creek Magic Beaver, a Belgian-style pale ale.
Hardly surprisingly, all that talk of magic beavers led to discussion of magical whisker biscuits, a phrase new to me but laugh out loud worthy at the same time.
It's always nice to have some language humor when you're in the middle of a state fair crowd.
Looking at the fair schedule, we were bummed to see that we'd missed last night's coon mule jumping, in which mules jump from a standstill when raccoon hunting.
Because only at our state fair could I learn that coons and mules spent any time together.
Finishing our meal, my friend looked at her beloved and announced, "I'm going to need something sweet," echoing my exact thoughts after a salty meal.
My choice was a mixed vanilla and chocolate dipped cone, while she got a hot fudge sundae and we made our way to the festival stage to hear the funky Latin grooves of Brooklyn-based band Jose Conde y Ola Fresca.
Sprawling out on the grassy hillside in front of the stage, the Prosecco stand conveniently located right behind us, we were appalled to see no more than a dozen people taking in the rhythmic sounds of the band (keys, congas, drums, guitar, three horns and Juan singing and playing percussion).
It was mostly original material, both the band's and Juan's, with songs about the drummer's hands (the same texture as the skins on the drums), a sinuous cha cha cha, a song called "Flavor" and an abbreviated cover of "Let's Groove Tonight," to prove Juan was old enough to remember that classic.
The Afro-Cuban band was terrific and deserving of a far bigger audience than they had, and certainly of more people dancing down in front of the stage. Juan himself was an ideal instigator, moving his fluid hips non-stop as he sang.
Although he wore a hat to cover his bald head, he didn't hesitate to point out the conga player's magnificent Afro and admit some envy that he couldn't grow the same.
Tonight's beautiful weather made for a pretty terrific evening to be in a field moving to stellar Latin grooves, the neon lights of the midway and screams of the children off in the distance.
Once the music ended, we wound our way back, following the scent of frying oil to find that most traditional of fair foods, a funnel cake, sharing it four ways before ending up at the pig raceway tent.
Because what's a State Fair experience without seeing the racing pigs?
The little, pink pigs were cute and fast, the older pigs focused and faster but the Asian pot-bellied pigs with their enormous bellies dragging on the straw-covered raceway, were hilarious, lumbering along and not terribly interested in crossing the finish line, especially Lindsey Lo-Ham, who practically laid down and took a nap mid-race ("She's having flashbacks!" the swine-master said).
Only then, after a heaping helping of proper fried food and racing pigs could we exit the fairgrounds alongside kids carrying plastic bags of goldfish they'd won, feeling fully satisfied with our experience.
I'd vehemently passed on the Texas rattlesnake show and we'd never found the masters of the chainsaw, but all in all, I'd have to say it was the best state fair in the state tonight.
Where else could we have learned that beer is agriculture?
Dollars to doughnuts says only coons and mules could have made it any better.
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