A favorite compliment came in letter form and said I always seemed to add laughter to a room. Tonight I got thanked for that.
When a friend messaged me about my Friday night plans, I thought sure he'd want to join me once I shared that I was going to a benefit staged reading of the TV show M*A*S*H* at Richmond Triangle Players. But no.
"Nah, saw an ad for that a while back. It didn't really trip my trigger."
Well, it did mine. Even with a life-long disdain for TV, there were, in my youth, a few shows I regularly watched and M*A*S*H* was one of them.
And not prime time, but reruns and eventually - gasp! - on VHS and even when I knew the plots, I still laughed at the writing and delivery. Both appeared effortless, which of course means executed by terribly talented people.
Tonight I needed a good laugh. I'd had a late lunch with a friend, but we'd focused on heavy topics. Then afterward, during an interview discussing furniture, the interviewee managed to take a tangent from chairs to the unfairness of Hillary not being prosecuted for crimes against humanity, I kid you not.
Whoa, there, buckaroo, I didn't give up a cozy porch guest bed and come back from the river to listen to your political rantings.
So when I set out, just my trigger and me, I knew I'd spend the evening not just laughing, but doing good because the performance was a benefit for the Mighty Pen Project, which offers university level writing classes for veterans so their service memories can be archived.
This I can get behind.
The project was founded by local author David L. Robbins (who also directed tonight's readings) but it was the Mutt and Jeff team of Vietnam and writing class vets Glen and Richard who did the explaining about how much easier it is for vets to write their memories rather than speaking them.
They encouraged all of us to tell any vets we know about the project, because, as Richard said, "The writing class changed me." Translation: cool and worthwhile project, both historically and in humanitarian terms.
Tonight's production began with Dean McKnight as Radar playing guitar and singing the theme song, "Suicide is Painless" as the audience sang along, before he and the eleven others in the cast took us through the pilot episode, along with other first season gems such as "Love Story" and "Germ Warfare."
Great casting was the key to the pleasure of the reading with tightly-wound Dean Knight as Frank Burns, Harry Kollatz in fishing hat complete with lures as the oblivious Colonel Henry Blake and the blond and ever-indignant Wendy Carter as Hot Lips.
Like those standouts, the dream team of Landon Nagel (Hawkeye) and David Janosik (Trapper) seemed to have done their homework, ably imitating the cadence and offhand delivery of the original actors to great effect. A fair amount of staging added to the visual pleasure as "documents" were signed or a syringe was administered to the backside.
What I'd forgotten (or blocked out) was the political incorrectness of the '70s, what with the sole black character played by Thomas Nowlin called Spearchucker and the priest played by Chip Lauterbach, a former Marine and graduate of the Mighty Pen Project, nicknamed Dago Red.
Awkward. Not so much these days.
But, man, I laughed a lot. The constant commentary and patter of Hawkeye and Trapper is timeless and the repeated interactions between the prescient Radar and the ditsy Henry Blake ("Radar, will you stop saying what I'm thinking?" "Well, one of us has to, sir.") still hilarious after all these years.
When the narrators would describe vignettes between the talking scenes, I could almost see the TV episode playing in my head and it has to be (what?) 30-some years since I last saw an episode of M*A*S*H*.
Each 25-minute episode was over in a flash and after the last one, the cast took a bow. I was sorry to see the well-executed reading come to an end.
From behind me, the director unexpectedly leaned over and said, "Thanks for all your loud laughter" like he really meant it.
No problem. When my trigger is fully tripped, it's loud.
Friday, August 5, 2016
Be-Winched
Because yesterday was practically perfect start to finish, we had no choice but to try to outdo ourselves today.
Awaking on the screened-in porch of the guesthouse - incidentally, the most exquisite guest room ever conceived - only because my hostess came over to rouse me, I saw we had another day of glorious weather ahead of us.
There was a morning walk down a tiny road that took us to an old oyster shack and accompanying out buildings, tucked around the point with a view of the bridge. Even closer to home but decidedly less charming was a chained, snarling pit bull lunging at us, fortunately from across a yard with a Confederate flag planted firmly in it.
Our big plan had been to take the power boat through the bridge and to Merroir for lunch, but the choppiness of the river ruled that out.
Not a group easily bummed, Plan B had us taking the Mini to the riverside restaurant, but only after we stopped by Kilmarnock to admire the quaint country-style carnival complete with revolving teacups, Ferris wheel, carousel and shooting booths.
You could almost sense that someone would get their heart broken there tonight.
Happily, Merroir wasn't crowded. Situated under an umbrella with a view of six kayakers paddling out and clouds scuttling along the mouth of the Bay, we spent several pleasurable hours scarfing food and drink.
An oyster sampler with Tangiers in the middle position, angels on horseback with Edwards ham, spiced shrimp, crabcake and catfish tacos accompanied by Vinho Verde (me) and multiple Pacificos (them, along with an explanation of where they'd picked up the habit and why it was a superior summer brew) preceded grilled pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream and a Samoa doughnut.
By the time we were ready to leave, everyone who'd arrived after us was long gone. Such is this group's staying power, at least until we reached the car and my hostess announced how "relaxed" she was, foreshadowing that a rest period was in our future.
The trip home wound up being a treat because first we took a more scenic, less-traveled route (new to me, natch), then stopped by a marina in Kilmarnock to ogle pricey boats and finally because we decided to take a chance on the Ottoman Ferry to cross the river after seeing that the sign said it was operational today.
My friends were doubting Thomases despite the sign ("Yea, that's what it says,"), but, sure enough, VDOT surprised us and it was open during normal business hours.
The little ferry was already chugging across its cable when we arrived and in no time, we were on it, behind a truck, out of the car and inhaling watery breezes despite signs suggesting we stay in the car. Personally, I think there are too few ferry rides in life to relegate oneself to a car when enjoying one.
Naps of varying length and satisfaction level ensued, leaving us with the evening hours for our big adventure. Given our limited time, it seemed wisest to go out in the power boat, so the host went out to lower the boat into the water.
My friend and I kvetched about the choppiness of the river and decided that the sailboat was the only way to go tonight. Just then, my genial host returned, looking somewhat abashed. Clearly, he brought bad news.
"Sorry, but I think if we're going to go out, it would have to be in the sail..." he began, before we assured him that we'd already come to the same conclusion. We wanted to go sailing.
He appeared gob-smacked.
"Why are you looking at me like I have no brain?" his lovely wife inquired of him.
"Correction, I'm looking at you like you have two heads," he said, obviously amazed that we were up for a sailing adventure this late in the day So it was already 6:30, why shouldn't the two of us be more than willing to take the boat out, knowing we'd be out past sunset?
In record time, we gathered supplies, motored to the nearby marina and set off, passing Chief sucking on a cig and floating along on his pocket kayak. As we came abreast of him, I stood up and called down to tease him about finding him doing the exact thing he'd been doing yesterday about this time.
The look of pleasure on his face was apparent, although I couldn't say if it was due to seeing familiar faces or just satisfaction with his life.
It turned out to be an exhilarating sail because of the water's roughness, but also a gorgeous sunset cruise given the far-reaching pink and lavender sky that resulted from today's uncharacteristic August weather as well as the storm systems that moved all around us, but gave us only two minutes of mid-afternoon sprinkles before moving on.
Completely different than the marathon six-hour sunshine sail yesterday, tonight's was wetter, wilder and with far more subdued lighting, but no less exciting for the mental and physical work involved.
Luff, keel and lee entered my lexicon today, but only after detailed explanations. Trimming the sails, on the other hand, I grasped without explanation.
And while my position on board is far less valuable than the skipper and helms woman, I've found my niche already doing grunt work.
We arrived back at the marina just as the mosquitoes came out to eat, hastening our departure back to the house. Mid-cruise, the hostess had decided that BLTs with enormous, fat Hanover tomatoes and Cabernet Sauvignon would be the ideal post-sail meal and once home, made it so.
I've learned everything I know - admittedly not much yet - about sailing over the past two days, so I don't even know yet all the things I don't know, but one thing I'm very clear on is the pleasures of rehashing an outing on the water once you're sharing a post-sail meal or drinks.
Showering outside under a clear, starry sky afterwards, I'm considering my friends' invitation to come back sooner rather than later for more adventures in sailing and summer living. At their insistence, I've already stayed longer than I'd planned to.
But unless I have no brain, why would I not rush back for more of this?
Awaking on the screened-in porch of the guesthouse - incidentally, the most exquisite guest room ever conceived - only because my hostess came over to rouse me, I saw we had another day of glorious weather ahead of us.
There was a morning walk down a tiny road that took us to an old oyster shack and accompanying out buildings, tucked around the point with a view of the bridge. Even closer to home but decidedly less charming was a chained, snarling pit bull lunging at us, fortunately from across a yard with a Confederate flag planted firmly in it.
Our big plan had been to take the power boat through the bridge and to Merroir for lunch, but the choppiness of the river ruled that out.
Not a group easily bummed, Plan B had us taking the Mini to the riverside restaurant, but only after we stopped by Kilmarnock to admire the quaint country-style carnival complete with revolving teacups, Ferris wheel, carousel and shooting booths.
You could almost sense that someone would get their heart broken there tonight.
Happily, Merroir wasn't crowded. Situated under an umbrella with a view of six kayakers paddling out and clouds scuttling along the mouth of the Bay, we spent several pleasurable hours scarfing food and drink.
An oyster sampler with Tangiers in the middle position, angels on horseback with Edwards ham, spiced shrimp, crabcake and catfish tacos accompanied by Vinho Verde (me) and multiple Pacificos (them, along with an explanation of where they'd picked up the habit and why it was a superior summer brew) preceded grilled pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream and a Samoa doughnut.
By the time we were ready to leave, everyone who'd arrived after us was long gone. Such is this group's staying power, at least until we reached the car and my hostess announced how "relaxed" she was, foreshadowing that a rest period was in our future.
The trip home wound up being a treat because first we took a more scenic, less-traveled route (new to me, natch), then stopped by a marina in Kilmarnock to ogle pricey boats and finally because we decided to take a chance on the Ottoman Ferry to cross the river after seeing that the sign said it was operational today.
My friends were doubting Thomases despite the sign ("Yea, that's what it says,"), but, sure enough, VDOT surprised us and it was open during normal business hours.
The little ferry was already chugging across its cable when we arrived and in no time, we were on it, behind a truck, out of the car and inhaling watery breezes despite signs suggesting we stay in the car. Personally, I think there are too few ferry rides in life to relegate oneself to a car when enjoying one.
Naps of varying length and satisfaction level ensued, leaving us with the evening hours for our big adventure. Given our limited time, it seemed wisest to go out in the power boat, so the host went out to lower the boat into the water.
My friend and I kvetched about the choppiness of the river and decided that the sailboat was the only way to go tonight. Just then, my genial host returned, looking somewhat abashed. Clearly, he brought bad news.
"Sorry, but I think if we're going to go out, it would have to be in the sail..." he began, before we assured him that we'd already come to the same conclusion. We wanted to go sailing.
He appeared gob-smacked.
"Why are you looking at me like I have no brain?" his lovely wife inquired of him.
"Correction, I'm looking at you like you have two heads," he said, obviously amazed that we were up for a sailing adventure this late in the day So it was already 6:30, why shouldn't the two of us be more than willing to take the boat out, knowing we'd be out past sunset?
In record time, we gathered supplies, motored to the nearby marina and set off, passing Chief sucking on a cig and floating along on his pocket kayak. As we came abreast of him, I stood up and called down to tease him about finding him doing the exact thing he'd been doing yesterday about this time.
The look of pleasure on his face was apparent, although I couldn't say if it was due to seeing familiar faces or just satisfaction with his life.
It turned out to be an exhilarating sail because of the water's roughness, but also a gorgeous sunset cruise given the far-reaching pink and lavender sky that resulted from today's uncharacteristic August weather as well as the storm systems that moved all around us, but gave us only two minutes of mid-afternoon sprinkles before moving on.
Completely different than the marathon six-hour sunshine sail yesterday, tonight's was wetter, wilder and with far more subdued lighting, but no less exciting for the mental and physical work involved.
Luff, keel and lee entered my lexicon today, but only after detailed explanations. Trimming the sails, on the other hand, I grasped without explanation.
And while my position on board is far less valuable than the skipper and helms woman, I've found my niche already doing grunt work.
We arrived back at the marina just as the mosquitoes came out to eat, hastening our departure back to the house. Mid-cruise, the hostess had decided that BLTs with enormous, fat Hanover tomatoes and Cabernet Sauvignon would be the ideal post-sail meal and once home, made it so.
I've learned everything I know - admittedly not much yet - about sailing over the past two days, so I don't even know yet all the things I don't know, but one thing I'm very clear on is the pleasures of rehashing an outing on the water once you're sharing a post-sail meal or drinks.
Showering outside under a clear, starry sky afterwards, I'm considering my friends' invitation to come back sooner rather than later for more adventures in sailing and summer living. At their insistence, I've already stayed longer than I'd planned to.
But unless I have no brain, why would I not rush back for more of this?
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Adjusting My Sails
Of course my adventure began with a trip to the head before we even left the dock.
My first perch was primarily aft, although there was that deep conversation on the bow starboard side on the way back. The wheel is sensitive because the rudder is large and no, that's not a metaphor. We moved leeward and windward, tacking and jibing.
I had never been sailing before today, but two of my favorite people changed all that with a nearly six-hour sail that had to be one of the most unexpectedly pleasurable ways possible to spend a gloriously breezy day at the river.
Unloading the car at the marina, a wizened-looking man with his long white hair in two pigtails came over to greet us after my friend called out to him, "Hi, chief!"
Naturally, I had to question that "chief" business.
Of Native American ancestry, he was quick to explain to me that his name was Hal or Harold, depending on the situation, and that the "chief" moniker came from years spent working to rehab a sailboat, resulting in marina regulars dubbing him Chief Wanna Sail.
All of which was news to my friend who lives two miles away and docks his boat there. You never know unless you ask, I always say.
"He's never come over to talk to us before," my friend shared. "It's because you're here." That's what they all say.
After chatting with a man from Roanoke who docks his boat in Hampton but was currently standing next to our boat slip, we left the marina under engine power at high tide.
So far, nothing I hadn't experienced before.
But then the mainsail went up and before long the jib, so that the engine became a thing of the past. With steady breezes and occasional thrilling gusts, I watched in awe as the poetry of sailing unfolded around me.
That it was such a beautiful day may have partially accounted for my baptism by sailing being such a success, but even without the blue skies and picaresque clouds, there was the intoxicating scent of the water, the sometimes precarious angle of the boat and the constant change of speed as the wind determined our rate of movement.
When we weren't dodging crab pots, we were observing white caps. Ospreys glared at us from nests on channel markers. We ogled from afar the princely yachts moored at the Tides Inn.
A barge carrying grain to storage silos in Tappahannock shared passage under the highest arch of the Whitestone bridge with us, its massive rectangular front displacing a wake of sizable proportions for us to navigate,
My friends impressed me with the yin and yang of their sailing skills, working perfectly in tandem to wrangle this vessel to their whims, agreeing that sailing has brought them closer together.
Well, that and true love.
Passing other sailboats, especially those larger than the 30-footer we were on, I regarded them with a slightly more knowing eye now, looking to see how much of their jib was furled, how their mast size compared to ours.
When we sailed under the bridge, we all peered up, curious about how much clearance we had, although it was presumably not the best time to make that determination.
By the time we returned to the marina, it was evening and Chief was floating by in an inflatable yellow kayak, unlit cigarette in his mouth. He'd briefly considered going sailing today, he claimed, but decided it was too much work.
After dazzling us with the kayak's compactness - it folds to a 17" square four inches thick - he reckoned he'd resume his paddle and was gone in the blink of an eye.
Coming from the wonder of my first expedition harnessing nature to sail into, in front of and beside the wind, I could only marvel at Chief Wanna Sail settling for such docile time on the water. The skipper said today was the best day of sailing they've had since they got the boat.
Only the best of friends show you the seductive power of sailing and let you go first in the outdoor shower. Is it any wonder I'm hooked?
My first perch was primarily aft, although there was that deep conversation on the bow starboard side on the way back. The wheel is sensitive because the rudder is large and no, that's not a metaphor. We moved leeward and windward, tacking and jibing.
I had never been sailing before today, but two of my favorite people changed all that with a nearly six-hour sail that had to be one of the most unexpectedly pleasurable ways possible to spend a gloriously breezy day at the river.
Unloading the car at the marina, a wizened-looking man with his long white hair in two pigtails came over to greet us after my friend called out to him, "Hi, chief!"
Naturally, I had to question that "chief" business.
Of Native American ancestry, he was quick to explain to me that his name was Hal or Harold, depending on the situation, and that the "chief" moniker came from years spent working to rehab a sailboat, resulting in marina regulars dubbing him Chief Wanna Sail.
All of which was news to my friend who lives two miles away and docks his boat there. You never know unless you ask, I always say.
"He's never come over to talk to us before," my friend shared. "It's because you're here." That's what they all say.
After chatting with a man from Roanoke who docks his boat in Hampton but was currently standing next to our boat slip, we left the marina under engine power at high tide.
So far, nothing I hadn't experienced before.
But then the mainsail went up and before long the jib, so that the engine became a thing of the past. With steady breezes and occasional thrilling gusts, I watched in awe as the poetry of sailing unfolded around me.
That it was such a beautiful day may have partially accounted for my baptism by sailing being such a success, but even without the blue skies and picaresque clouds, there was the intoxicating scent of the water, the sometimes precarious angle of the boat and the constant change of speed as the wind determined our rate of movement.
When we weren't dodging crab pots, we were observing white caps. Ospreys glared at us from nests on channel markers. We ogled from afar the princely yachts moored at the Tides Inn.
A barge carrying grain to storage silos in Tappahannock shared passage under the highest arch of the Whitestone bridge with us, its massive rectangular front displacing a wake of sizable proportions for us to navigate,
My friends impressed me with the yin and yang of their sailing skills, working perfectly in tandem to wrangle this vessel to their whims, agreeing that sailing has brought them closer together.
Well, that and true love.
Passing other sailboats, especially those larger than the 30-footer we were on, I regarded them with a slightly more knowing eye now, looking to see how much of their jib was furled, how their mast size compared to ours.
When we sailed under the bridge, we all peered up, curious about how much clearance we had, although it was presumably not the best time to make that determination.
By the time we returned to the marina, it was evening and Chief was floating by in an inflatable yellow kayak, unlit cigarette in his mouth. He'd briefly considered going sailing today, he claimed, but decided it was too much work.
After dazzling us with the kayak's compactness - it folds to a 17" square four inches thick - he reckoned he'd resume his paddle and was gone in the blink of an eye.
Coming from the wonder of my first expedition harnessing nature to sail into, in front of and beside the wind, I could only marvel at Chief Wanna Sail settling for such docile time on the water. The skipper said today was the best day of sailing they've had since they got the boat.
Only the best of friends show you the seductive power of sailing and let you go first in the outdoor shower. Is it any wonder I'm hooked?
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
If I Could Reach the Stars
I may officially be old. Today I joined the ranks of people who yell at policemen.
Walking on Leigh Street the past week and a half involves weaving in and out of scads of burgundy and gold-clad visitors hell bent on getting to Redskins Park, which is fine. I can cut around them and not break stride.
Except today a cop positioned on the southwest corner was not happy when I stepped off the corner before spotting traffic and retreating to the sidewalk. Instructions to stay were shouted at me.
But it was when I crossed without the light as far as the median strip that he started fuming, despite my clear sight line with not a single vehicle in the lane as far as Broad Street.
"Ma'am, I told you to stay on the corner!" he roared. Sir, I walk six miles every day, so I know when it's safe to cross the street, I yelled back.
"I could have you arrested for jay-walking! Wait for the crossing signal!" I did, but we had no further eye contact so I can't say how he reacted to my civil obedience. A look of superiority, perhaps?
As it turned out, today I also joined the ranks of people who know who Kristen Stewart is.
I managed to get all the way through Woody Allen's new film, "Cafe Society," with no clue who the actress playing the lead was. Not that it mattered, because I'd have had no greater appreciation for her minimal acting chops and vacant stare had I known she was part of the "Twilight" dysfunction.
In other disappointments, given the setting - Hollywood and New York City in the '30s - a person could be forgiven for expecting a reasonable facsimile of those two places to resemble old movies of that era, but a person would be sorely mistaken.
Yes, yes, I get it that Allen wanted every California scene bathed in a warm, glowing light to symbolize Hollywood's golden era, but, Woody, can we talk about those costumes? Those hairstyles? The wardrobe color palette? That make-up?
No woman in the '30s had Stewart's smoky eye make-up and au naturel lip color, much less that loose, unstructured hair style. Everywhere you looked, scene to scene, were women wearing the colors of the '70s (avocado green, burnt orange, harvest gold), hairstyles of the aughts and fabrics that did not exist for Depression-era women.
Hell, rayon wasn't even a thing until the '40s, Woody.
For anyone who's a student of fashion history, it was almost constantly jarring to see how few costumes actually recalled the '30s. Just as bad, the formidable undergarments that women of that time would have worn under everything were noticeably absent.
I can appreciate that as a filmmaker, the man always strives to come in on time and under budget, but don't do a period piece and have actresses wearing Brigitte Bardot up-sweeps and loose waves of hair like a Yardley model circa 1967.
On the other hand, the movie began with a jazz piece featuring clarinet and black and white titles, so from the first moments of the film, you entered Woody's world, a place I have willingly visited since the '70s. Many of the same old tropes remain steadfast - Jewish stereotypes, lots of talking about romance and relationships, a sense of place - while others get more grating with each new film.
Must he continue to cast pretty young things when they can't act or emote to save their lives?
Compensation for a so-so Woody Allen film came in the form of buttered popcorn and Milk Duds for dinner, and as Pru said about our choice to forgo the four main food groups for the snack group, "Is that bad?"
Daily, yes, occasionally, no.
Leaving the Criterion, she serenaded me with a surprisingly good imitation of Cher doing "If I Could Turn Back Time" and flipping her hair appropriately, something I couldn't have done in a million years.
Apparently it's only the missing six inches of height that keeps Pru from going into the Cher impersonator business and making a quick killing. When I suggest sawed-off stilts under an evening gown, she marvels, "Then my hair could be as long as me."
So tonight I was the Sonny to her Cher and we took the act to Quirk's rooftop bar, her first visit, conspiring with the elevator strategist who insisted on carding us before allowing us upstairs. Next time, he suggested sotto voice, come at the same time but on a night when the Diamond has fireworks.
"We've got a fantastic view!" he assured us.
This I already knew from my last visit - after all, who wouldn't want to admire Jackson Ward from above? - but it was Pru's first and it left her decidedly underwhelmed.
"I think it's cute that you like it so much," she teased after I pointed out the minarets of the Altria, the Belgian Friendship building from the World's Fair, the way it looked like Broad Street went right under the WTVR tower flashing barely two miles away.
Even though it was a repeat visit for me, I felt no more charmed by the scene than my first time, despite glasses of the lovely Raffault Chinon Rose.
Besides the unbearable heat around the bar, the crowd comes across as completely vapid and inane. A lot of straightened hair, a lot of gigantic purses. I overheard discussions of breathalyzers on two different levels of the lofty space.
We adjusted by taking a table facing West on the penthouse level to drink our Rose and dissect what will no doubt go down as a minor, late work of the master. An aging master.
I bet he's been yelling at policemen for years.
Walking on Leigh Street the past week and a half involves weaving in and out of scads of burgundy and gold-clad visitors hell bent on getting to Redskins Park, which is fine. I can cut around them and not break stride.
Except today a cop positioned on the southwest corner was not happy when I stepped off the corner before spotting traffic and retreating to the sidewalk. Instructions to stay were shouted at me.
But it was when I crossed without the light as far as the median strip that he started fuming, despite my clear sight line with not a single vehicle in the lane as far as Broad Street.
"Ma'am, I told you to stay on the corner!" he roared. Sir, I walk six miles every day, so I know when it's safe to cross the street, I yelled back.
"I could have you arrested for jay-walking! Wait for the crossing signal!" I did, but we had no further eye contact so I can't say how he reacted to my civil obedience. A look of superiority, perhaps?
As it turned out, today I also joined the ranks of people who know who Kristen Stewart is.
I managed to get all the way through Woody Allen's new film, "Cafe Society," with no clue who the actress playing the lead was. Not that it mattered, because I'd have had no greater appreciation for her minimal acting chops and vacant stare had I known she was part of the "Twilight" dysfunction.
In other disappointments, given the setting - Hollywood and New York City in the '30s - a person could be forgiven for expecting a reasonable facsimile of those two places to resemble old movies of that era, but a person would be sorely mistaken.
Yes, yes, I get it that Allen wanted every California scene bathed in a warm, glowing light to symbolize Hollywood's golden era, but, Woody, can we talk about those costumes? Those hairstyles? The wardrobe color palette? That make-up?
No woman in the '30s had Stewart's smoky eye make-up and au naturel lip color, much less that loose, unstructured hair style. Everywhere you looked, scene to scene, were women wearing the colors of the '70s (avocado green, burnt orange, harvest gold), hairstyles of the aughts and fabrics that did not exist for Depression-era women.
Hell, rayon wasn't even a thing until the '40s, Woody.
For anyone who's a student of fashion history, it was almost constantly jarring to see how few costumes actually recalled the '30s. Just as bad, the formidable undergarments that women of that time would have worn under everything were noticeably absent.
I can appreciate that as a filmmaker, the man always strives to come in on time and under budget, but don't do a period piece and have actresses wearing Brigitte Bardot up-sweeps and loose waves of hair like a Yardley model circa 1967.
On the other hand, the movie began with a jazz piece featuring clarinet and black and white titles, so from the first moments of the film, you entered Woody's world, a place I have willingly visited since the '70s. Many of the same old tropes remain steadfast - Jewish stereotypes, lots of talking about romance and relationships, a sense of place - while others get more grating with each new film.
Must he continue to cast pretty young things when they can't act or emote to save their lives?
Compensation for a so-so Woody Allen film came in the form of buttered popcorn and Milk Duds for dinner, and as Pru said about our choice to forgo the four main food groups for the snack group, "Is that bad?"
Daily, yes, occasionally, no.
Leaving the Criterion, she serenaded me with a surprisingly good imitation of Cher doing "If I Could Turn Back Time" and flipping her hair appropriately, something I couldn't have done in a million years.
Apparently it's only the missing six inches of height that keeps Pru from going into the Cher impersonator business and making a quick killing. When I suggest sawed-off stilts under an evening gown, she marvels, "Then my hair could be as long as me."
So tonight I was the Sonny to her Cher and we took the act to Quirk's rooftop bar, her first visit, conspiring with the elevator strategist who insisted on carding us before allowing us upstairs. Next time, he suggested sotto voice, come at the same time but on a night when the Diamond has fireworks.
"We've got a fantastic view!" he assured us.
This I already knew from my last visit - after all, who wouldn't want to admire Jackson Ward from above? - but it was Pru's first and it left her decidedly underwhelmed.
"I think it's cute that you like it so much," she teased after I pointed out the minarets of the Altria, the Belgian Friendship building from the World's Fair, the way it looked like Broad Street went right under the WTVR tower flashing barely two miles away.
Even though it was a repeat visit for me, I felt no more charmed by the scene than my first time, despite glasses of the lovely Raffault Chinon Rose.
Besides the unbearable heat around the bar, the crowd comes across as completely vapid and inane. A lot of straightened hair, a lot of gigantic purses. I overheard discussions of breathalyzers on two different levels of the lofty space.
We adjusted by taking a table facing West on the penthouse level to drink our Rose and dissect what will no doubt go down as a minor, late work of the master. An aging master.
I bet he's been yelling at policemen for years.
Monday, August 1, 2016
Better Still, Change It to Karen
I went from zero to cocky in the space of a doctor's appointment.
Since it had been a few years since I'd had blood work done, I was in for that and a prescription refill, but my doctor had come to praise: my blood pressure, my activity level, my weight, my water intake and especially my sleep sufficiency. Profusely.
So much so that he asked if he could use me as an example to other patients - of course, using only my first name and age, he assured me - of good habits paying off despite advancing age.
Use away, doc, but people will hate to hear it.
Just so you know, here's what a mature woman with good habits does when a nurse tells her she's lost five pounds and a doctor asks to make an example of her: immediately seeks out a way to celebrate with food. Duh.
Conveniently, the Jackdaw pop-up was setting up residence at Millie's tonight (its first outing since abandoning the brief go as Antler & Fin) and while Facebook nattered about whether to make reservations or not, I did the smart thing and just showed up shortly after they opened, claiming the least popular bar stool at Millie's (at least during summer).
Sitting diagonally across from the stove of an open kitchen while air conditioning runs is only a sacrifice for those accustomed to A/C.
Fact: my perch stove-side was not only cooler but less humid than my apartment.
After hearing my reply about what order I'd like my food to arrive (any), the server not only accepted me but complimented my dress for its summery turquoise color, then shared that it had been a no-brainer to work tonight's pop-up so she could taste one of everything.
I was not quite that ambitious.
An observation of mine led us off on a discussion about changing server/bartender roles since cell phones have become the new normal.
"When I see everyone at a table has taken out their cell phone, it's either because the food just arrived and they all need to take pictures or they're done eating and I can collect plates," she explains.
No slacker this one, she cited studies about the changes in restaurant ordering habits and how it now takes 17 minutes longer once people sit down to get food because of customer delays in ordering due to cell phone priority.
I know it's useless to rail, but will we ever, as a people, climb out of this uncivilized hole we've dug ourselves into since the advent of devices?
Starting with golden crispy eggrolls, er, lumpia of camerones al pastor with a sweet and sour sauce, I moved on to Border Springs tea-soaked lamb ribs with spicy potato salad (guy at bar: "best potato salad I ever had") and pickled peaches (I limited myself to two slices so my tongue wouldn't swell), but it was the nutty, salty soy, texture-rich fried farro with vegetables that hit the most pleasure points for me.
The couple nearby told me to help myself to a taste of anything they ordered that I didn't, but the sad truth was that I couldn't even finish all I'd ordered, not that I didn't break habit and get it boxed up to go.
Plain and simple, it'll be fine leftovers like any good Chinese food is.
Stop number two had been on my to-do list for some time now.
Given the often relative paucity of Monday night happenings, I'd been intending to get over to the Camel for Motown Mondays (Spinning all your favorite Motown classics, covers, close relatives and remixes) to see how Mad Skillz and DJ Lonnie B interpreted Motown to a 2016 crowd, as it turned out, with a 40-year age range.
Well, they did it by playing Barry White's "You're the First, My Last, My Everything" for a couple celebrating an anniversary, a white couple who got up and danced every note of the song (without completely embarrassing white people everywhere), matching each other step for step as they've undoubtedly been doing since disco-dating in the '70s.
The couple didn't request it, but the DJ followed that with "Let's Get It On," a selection that got cheers.
A young trio formed in front of the stage to watch the DJ spin and scratch, but they also danced in place and filmed not the dancers but the DJ.
One of the group looked like nothing so much as a character on an '80s sitcom (at least, a non-TV watcher's notion of an '80s sitcom character) with a fabulous high fade and big nerdy-looking glasses.
I listened through snippets of classic songs like "Ain't That Peculiar?" and "Eve of Destruction," impressed with both the music and the crowd it had attracted, both less typical than the usual Camel fare.
Yea, I could do this again.
Proximity made my next stop effortless. A few doors down, Firehouse Fringe was hosting Cabaret: A Night of Contemporary Musical Theater sung by some of the younger members of the Richmond theater community.
My interest was doubly piqued, partly for the exposure to newer music from plays I hadn't yet seen or heard and partly because I'd been so impressed with the young theater collective who'd recently staged "Seven Brides" there and blown my socks off with their youthful exuberance and creativity, that I was curious how much more of that energy and talent was out there.
It wasn't hard to get a glimpse of the musicals that have captured young millennial drama kids' hearts - "Waitress," "Edges," recent Tony winner "Funhome" - but just as engaging were their choices of some "older" material from "The Full Monty" (complete with pelvic thrusts and hip swiveling), the Disney-sounding "Finding Neverland" and perhaps most surprisingly, "Pippin," a veritable dinosaur to these kids
Songs choices were clearly based on youthful angst issues, meaning lots of tunes about first-time experiences, loving yourself before you can love others, the drawn-out pain of heartbreak, yada yada.
Charlemagne was even touched on, but probably my favorite was "Changing My Major to Joan" from "Funhome."
I'm changing my major to sex with Joan
With a minor in kissing Joan
Foreign studies to Joan's inner thighs
A seminar on Joan's ass in her Levis
Besides exposure to new material, there was lots of talent, too, including several people I recognized from Firehouse's current production of Green Day's "American Idiot," like Denver and Kelsey, but all of them satisfying their musical comedy jones by emoting madly through each of their songs.
"I love how comedy is making its way back into musical theater instead of just songs as patter," is how one actor put it.
I love how I can have no plans at 4:00 - Holmes turned me down after a "rough" weekend out of fear for his own weaknesses - yet manage to find a one-day only menu and two very different kinds of music by 5.
Now that's why I should be an example to other patients.
Since it had been a few years since I'd had blood work done, I was in for that and a prescription refill, but my doctor had come to praise: my blood pressure, my activity level, my weight, my water intake and especially my sleep sufficiency. Profusely.
So much so that he asked if he could use me as an example to other patients - of course, using only my first name and age, he assured me - of good habits paying off despite advancing age.
Use away, doc, but people will hate to hear it.
Just so you know, here's what a mature woman with good habits does when a nurse tells her she's lost five pounds and a doctor asks to make an example of her: immediately seeks out a way to celebrate with food. Duh.
Conveniently, the Jackdaw pop-up was setting up residence at Millie's tonight (its first outing since abandoning the brief go as Antler & Fin) and while Facebook nattered about whether to make reservations or not, I did the smart thing and just showed up shortly after they opened, claiming the least popular bar stool at Millie's (at least during summer).
Sitting diagonally across from the stove of an open kitchen while air conditioning runs is only a sacrifice for those accustomed to A/C.
Fact: my perch stove-side was not only cooler but less humid than my apartment.
After hearing my reply about what order I'd like my food to arrive (any), the server not only accepted me but complimented my dress for its summery turquoise color, then shared that it had been a no-brainer to work tonight's pop-up so she could taste one of everything.
I was not quite that ambitious.
An observation of mine led us off on a discussion about changing server/bartender roles since cell phones have become the new normal.
"When I see everyone at a table has taken out their cell phone, it's either because the food just arrived and they all need to take pictures or they're done eating and I can collect plates," she explains.
No slacker this one, she cited studies about the changes in restaurant ordering habits and how it now takes 17 minutes longer once people sit down to get food because of customer delays in ordering due to cell phone priority.
I know it's useless to rail, but will we ever, as a people, climb out of this uncivilized hole we've dug ourselves into since the advent of devices?
Starting with golden crispy eggrolls, er, lumpia of camerones al pastor with a sweet and sour sauce, I moved on to Border Springs tea-soaked lamb ribs with spicy potato salad (guy at bar: "best potato salad I ever had") and pickled peaches (I limited myself to two slices so my tongue wouldn't swell), but it was the nutty, salty soy, texture-rich fried farro with vegetables that hit the most pleasure points for me.
The couple nearby told me to help myself to a taste of anything they ordered that I didn't, but the sad truth was that I couldn't even finish all I'd ordered, not that I didn't break habit and get it boxed up to go.
Plain and simple, it'll be fine leftovers like any good Chinese food is.
Stop number two had been on my to-do list for some time now.
Given the often relative paucity of Monday night happenings, I'd been intending to get over to the Camel for Motown Mondays (Spinning all your favorite Motown classics, covers, close relatives and remixes) to see how Mad Skillz and DJ Lonnie B interpreted Motown to a 2016 crowd, as it turned out, with a 40-year age range.
Well, they did it by playing Barry White's "You're the First, My Last, My Everything" for a couple celebrating an anniversary, a white couple who got up and danced every note of the song (without completely embarrassing white people everywhere), matching each other step for step as they've undoubtedly been doing since disco-dating in the '70s.
The couple didn't request it, but the DJ followed that with "Let's Get It On," a selection that got cheers.
A young trio formed in front of the stage to watch the DJ spin and scratch, but they also danced in place and filmed not the dancers but the DJ.
One of the group looked like nothing so much as a character on an '80s sitcom (at least, a non-TV watcher's notion of an '80s sitcom character) with a fabulous high fade and big nerdy-looking glasses.
I listened through snippets of classic songs like "Ain't That Peculiar?" and "Eve of Destruction," impressed with both the music and the crowd it had attracted, both less typical than the usual Camel fare.
Yea, I could do this again.
Proximity made my next stop effortless. A few doors down, Firehouse Fringe was hosting Cabaret: A Night of Contemporary Musical Theater sung by some of the younger members of the Richmond theater community.
My interest was doubly piqued, partly for the exposure to newer music from plays I hadn't yet seen or heard and partly because I'd been so impressed with the young theater collective who'd recently staged "Seven Brides" there and blown my socks off with their youthful exuberance and creativity, that I was curious how much more of that energy and talent was out there.
It wasn't hard to get a glimpse of the musicals that have captured young millennial drama kids' hearts - "Waitress," "Edges," recent Tony winner "Funhome" - but just as engaging were their choices of some "older" material from "The Full Monty" (complete with pelvic thrusts and hip swiveling), the Disney-sounding "Finding Neverland" and perhaps most surprisingly, "Pippin," a veritable dinosaur to these kids
Songs choices were clearly based on youthful angst issues, meaning lots of tunes about first-time experiences, loving yourself before you can love others, the drawn-out pain of heartbreak, yada yada.
Charlemagne was even touched on, but probably my favorite was "Changing My Major to Joan" from "Funhome."
I'm changing my major to sex with Joan
With a minor in kissing Joan
Foreign studies to Joan's inner thighs
A seminar on Joan's ass in her Levis
Besides exposure to new material, there was lots of talent, too, including several people I recognized from Firehouse's current production of Green Day's "American Idiot," like Denver and Kelsey, but all of them satisfying their musical comedy jones by emoting madly through each of their songs.
"I love how comedy is making its way back into musical theater instead of just songs as patter," is how one actor put it.
I love how I can have no plans at 4:00 - Holmes turned me down after a "rough" weekend out of fear for his own weaknesses - yet manage to find a one-day only menu and two very different kinds of music by 5.
Now that's why I should be an example to other patients.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Someday We'll Be Together
Would anyone really want to read yet another sad saga about my attempt to see a play being thwarted by summer weather behaving badly?
That's what I thought.
Better instead I share my walk up a deserted - it was prime church time - Chamberlayne Avenue where the clerk at Walgreens told me he'd driven through heavy fog to get to work this morning. That fog had become pea soup and I'd sweated my way through it to get there.
Walking home, I crossed the bridge over the paddock where two mounted police horses were casually grazing in a mostly dirt field, the one gnawing on some higher branches out of necessity. I remember the first time I'd spotted the horses there and the feeling of amazement that horses lived a quarter of a mile from me.
When I passed Perly's a bit later, the line waiting for seats was almost to the corner. People who wouldn't consider eating outside were willing to stand out there indefinitely in hopes of some beef bacon.
No, you explain it to me.
The shank of the afternoon was spent on lunch and then the matinee of "Dreamgirls" at the November Theatre, which, it must be noted, was completely full and satisfyingly diverse.
I understand that blue hair lives matter, but it was nice to see a matinee crowd who didn't all qualify for Social Security for a change.
With the usual gaping holes in my pop cultural literacy, I'd never seen "Dreamgirls," not the play, not the movie. To my credit, I'm enough of a Supremes fan to have held on to half a dozen pieces of their vinyl all these years, and I've certainly read plenty about their backstory.
So I knew the essence of the play's plot before the razzle-dazzle production kicked off with a parade of '60s and '70s fashions, falls and wigs to designate the passage of time, songs that were well-executed but never truly grabbed me and a lot of choreography I very much enjoyed.
As I did conversation with the charming man who'd moved to Hampton in 1960 and his lovely "friend" ("My wife died 15 years ago," he explained after calling her "friend") next to him, both avid theater buffs who happily discussed venues there and restaurants here for post-theater dining.
To be helpful, I provided a list.
Because it felt like a two-musical day, the later plan was to meet a friend at Dogwood Dell for a performance of "Spamalot," except it was up to me to go and stake out territory until she got off work.
When I got there, the orchestra was chatting among themselves, rows were gradually filling up with a mixture of beach chairs, tall chairs, blankets and, among the young, grass-sitters. It was like being out of town because I didn't see a soul I knew.
Which was only slightly problematic since I was meeting a friend. Later, she calls to tell me she hung with strangers when she couldn't find me, ran into the restaurateur I recently introduced her to and then proceeds to give me the "man dish," at least right up until he calls.
An announcement was made from the stage that there was to be no ball or Frisbee throwing in the seating area, as if civilized people wouldn't presume this. The "no alcohol or glass" announcement was met with no reaction, undoubtedly due to the number of people imbibing.
A few drops of rain, a little heat lightening and the performance was delayed 20 minutes. Lightening got bolder and we were sent away.
Believe me, I know the drill.
Waiting in the bottleneck to leave the Dell, I saw a guy ask about the year on a shiny blue Mustang ('67, classic stuff) and a couple of guys tossing a Frisbee between trees in the parking lot. Making lemonade, folks, that's all they're doing.
Cruising home, listening to the radio sing, "I got a picture of you over the hazard light," and silently giving thanks that young men still write such things, I was caught unaware when, yet again, the Weather Service started warning that Richmond and a lot of nearby places were about to get slammed.
ETA in Jackson Ward: 9:10, which you know means I was determinedly driving east trying to take shelter before any bad weather hit. Why take them so seriously, you ask? Last time they provided a strong warning and time, devastation touched down within two minutes of their prediction.
Seems they are right on the money sometimes.
After deciding not to take out my contacts so as to avoid a near-sighted, impressionistic view of the storm, I took up a completely unsafe position on my balcony, watching as lightening lit up the sky. Never bolts, just enormous flashes and far-off thunder.
Then suddenly, the wind whipped up trees two stories taller than the houses beneath them in a way that said nothing good could come out of such fierceness and a steady rain began to fall.
Two minutes later, the frenetic trees are completely still and the air is palpable. I hate a damp cold, but I relish a damp pre-storm heat.
Before long, a gentle rain began blowing toward my legs and face as I sat sprawled in an Adirondack chair facing the alley. Rain caught on the tendrils of moonflowers twining through the balcony railing, dripping onto my legs.
Sure, I was getting wet, but not soggy wet like yesterday when I decided to walk three miles to drop off rent. I got almost two miles in - I was right in front of Redskin Park with all the weekend fans watching the teamgrunt practice - when rain started and didn't let up, so I slogged on to my landlord's house, at that point, mainly to borrow an umbrella.
He graciously gave me one and I got two blocks up the street toward home when the rain stopped and the muggy sun returned to start drying out my clothes as I walked home.
By the way, carrying a cumbersome walking umbrella all the way. Grateful/not grateful.
No, tonight's rain was less direct so more enjoyable, even as the lightening and thunder got more and more distant, the temperature seemed to drop and sirens began wailing from a couple different directions.
Inside, without the waning visuals, the storm amounts to no more than the steady patter of rain broken up by the sound of cars on wet pavement and the relentless drip of gutters. It stops as suddenly as it began, kind of like the man dishing.
I may aspire to eat ham and jam and Spam a lot, but clearly there's no double dipping on musicals in one day. Mother Nature says no.
That's what I thought.
Better instead I share my walk up a deserted - it was prime church time - Chamberlayne Avenue where the clerk at Walgreens told me he'd driven through heavy fog to get to work this morning. That fog had become pea soup and I'd sweated my way through it to get there.
Walking home, I crossed the bridge over the paddock where two mounted police horses were casually grazing in a mostly dirt field, the one gnawing on some higher branches out of necessity. I remember the first time I'd spotted the horses there and the feeling of amazement that horses lived a quarter of a mile from me.
When I passed Perly's a bit later, the line waiting for seats was almost to the corner. People who wouldn't consider eating outside were willing to stand out there indefinitely in hopes of some beef bacon.
No, you explain it to me.
The shank of the afternoon was spent on lunch and then the matinee of "Dreamgirls" at the November Theatre, which, it must be noted, was completely full and satisfyingly diverse.
I understand that blue hair lives matter, but it was nice to see a matinee crowd who didn't all qualify for Social Security for a change.
With the usual gaping holes in my pop cultural literacy, I'd never seen "Dreamgirls," not the play, not the movie. To my credit, I'm enough of a Supremes fan to have held on to half a dozen pieces of their vinyl all these years, and I've certainly read plenty about their backstory.
So I knew the essence of the play's plot before the razzle-dazzle production kicked off with a parade of '60s and '70s fashions, falls and wigs to designate the passage of time, songs that were well-executed but never truly grabbed me and a lot of choreography I very much enjoyed.
As I did conversation with the charming man who'd moved to Hampton in 1960 and his lovely "friend" ("My wife died 15 years ago," he explained after calling her "friend") next to him, both avid theater buffs who happily discussed venues there and restaurants here for post-theater dining.
To be helpful, I provided a list.
Because it felt like a two-musical day, the later plan was to meet a friend at Dogwood Dell for a performance of "Spamalot," except it was up to me to go and stake out territory until she got off work.
When I got there, the orchestra was chatting among themselves, rows were gradually filling up with a mixture of beach chairs, tall chairs, blankets and, among the young, grass-sitters. It was like being out of town because I didn't see a soul I knew.
Which was only slightly problematic since I was meeting a friend. Later, she calls to tell me she hung with strangers when she couldn't find me, ran into the restaurateur I recently introduced her to and then proceeds to give me the "man dish," at least right up until he calls.
An announcement was made from the stage that there was to be no ball or Frisbee throwing in the seating area, as if civilized people wouldn't presume this. The "no alcohol or glass" announcement was met with no reaction, undoubtedly due to the number of people imbibing.
A few drops of rain, a little heat lightening and the performance was delayed 20 minutes. Lightening got bolder and we were sent away.
Believe me, I know the drill.
Waiting in the bottleneck to leave the Dell, I saw a guy ask about the year on a shiny blue Mustang ('67, classic stuff) and a couple of guys tossing a Frisbee between trees in the parking lot. Making lemonade, folks, that's all they're doing.
Cruising home, listening to the radio sing, "I got a picture of you over the hazard light," and silently giving thanks that young men still write such things, I was caught unaware when, yet again, the Weather Service started warning that Richmond and a lot of nearby places were about to get slammed.
ETA in Jackson Ward: 9:10, which you know means I was determinedly driving east trying to take shelter before any bad weather hit. Why take them so seriously, you ask? Last time they provided a strong warning and time, devastation touched down within two minutes of their prediction.
Seems they are right on the money sometimes.
After deciding not to take out my contacts so as to avoid a near-sighted, impressionistic view of the storm, I took up a completely unsafe position on my balcony, watching as lightening lit up the sky. Never bolts, just enormous flashes and far-off thunder.
Then suddenly, the wind whipped up trees two stories taller than the houses beneath them in a way that said nothing good could come out of such fierceness and a steady rain began to fall.
Two minutes later, the frenetic trees are completely still and the air is palpable. I hate a damp cold, but I relish a damp pre-storm heat.
Before long, a gentle rain began blowing toward my legs and face as I sat sprawled in an Adirondack chair facing the alley. Rain caught on the tendrils of moonflowers twining through the balcony railing, dripping onto my legs.
Sure, I was getting wet, but not soggy wet like yesterday when I decided to walk three miles to drop off rent. I got almost two miles in - I was right in front of Redskin Park with all the weekend fans watching the team
He graciously gave me one and I got two blocks up the street toward home when the rain stopped and the muggy sun returned to start drying out my clothes as I walked home.
By the way, carrying a cumbersome walking umbrella all the way. Grateful/not grateful.
No, tonight's rain was less direct so more enjoyable, even as the lightening and thunder got more and more distant, the temperature seemed to drop and sirens began wailing from a couple different directions.
Inside, without the waning visuals, the storm amounts to no more than the steady patter of rain broken up by the sound of cars on wet pavement and the relentless drip of gutters. It stops as suddenly as it began, kind of like the man dishing.
I may aspire to eat ham and jam and Spam a lot, but clearly there's no double dipping on musicals in one day. Mother Nature says no.
Saturday, July 30, 2016
You Can't Fix Stupid but You Can Vote It Out
Hostesses need not worry about small talk at parties these days with such an historically significant election at hand.
Even when the guest list is all kinds of diverse, pulling from friends, family, work connections and associated tangents, you can bet the farm that once mingling begins, straight talk about our next President is going to come up.
I drove to Church Hill listening to a dire weather warning about impending torrential rain - complete with buzzing - to reach a friend's surprise birthday party. Some friends you'd drive through torrents for, in this case, for the kind of introverted person who became a friend practically from the first time we began a conversation six years ago.
Every time I met someone new tonight who asked about my connection to the birthday celebrant, I had an array of anecdotes about our relationship to share. My favorite, of course, is about how I helped him get the girl, the girl.
Despite my early sagacious advice, he's the one who's been thoughtful and romantic enough to keep her.
That the party had been planned as a potluck ensured obscene amounts of food, including what one friend had warned us would be "mediocre wings," when actually it was wings from Bonchon Chicken that made fans of nearly everyone.
But not for us any nibbling until we'd donned party hats (blue, worn at a jaunty angle), grabbed noisemakers (green, required I was told) and scared the birthday boy half to death when he unlocked the front door, expecting to walk into a romantic birthday dinner chez his main squeeze and instead finding the most eclectic group of people he knows ever assembled.
I can't attest to where the conversation went in other nooks and crannies of the house, but there was some fiery rhetoric going on in the narrowest part of the kitchen near the refrigerator where I found myself.
Not going to lie, it brings up many feelings to hear people talk about being part of the groundswell that wants to commit to each changing just one person's mind about voting for Trump. Didn't childhood literature teach us that slow and steady wins the race?
"If each of us convinced just one Trump-supporter to change his vote, it would make a difference in the election," said one of the two men who'd gotten the "wear peach shirt" memo. His passion was palpable, even if his clothing choice was matchy-matchy.
Truthfully, I can only mock so much because I was one of three women who wore a summer outfit with a cut-out back, so apparently there were different memos for each sex, fortunate for me since I look dreadful in peach.
More than one person admitted that they would begin at the source by trying to change their parents' minds about Trump.
"We need to start by asking these people what they like about him," a friend insisted. "We have to understand where they're coming from to address their misconceptions."
And sometimes, you can't even try. One guy shared that after trying to talk rationally with Trump types, he'd complained to a friend that people like that were hopeless causes. "Don't talk to me about Trump supporters," the friend told him. "I'm behind enemy lines."
He lives in Colonial Heights.
It's satisfying to see how engaged people are in this election cycle, comparing speeches, giving massive props to Biden's, trying to figure out how 2020-related Romney's was, praising Obama's (about whose speech my own Dad had written "[it] exceeded anything sine William Jennings Bryan"), allowing for the significance of Bloomburg's and most definitely still over the moon about Michelle's, all of us convinced that she'd clean up should she run in 2020.
People are scared at the possibility of a Trump presidency and a birthday party of familiar faces seems to be a good place to admit that you're already preparing yourself for the worst possible eventuality.
One woman said she'd recently been part of a bachelorette party that made a stop at Trump Winery, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Her mother insisted she keep her feelings to herself and all she could think about was, why throw hard-earned cash at the business of a man whose platform terrifies you?
I feel completely comfortable invoking MLK at this point: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." Ahem, the foreseeable future matters hugely, even to a well-aged vintage such as myself.
When the discussion veered to lighter topics, it was far funnier, as when a woman shared her experience visiting a European market that used a remarkable customer reward system.
She and her husband had ordered, and while she was hoovering hers, he was less impressed with his, basically pushing the food around on his plate.
The owner's wife took note, praising her and chiding him, and then delivering 3 or 4 desserts for her with explicit instructions not to share with him.
Odd as that sounds, it gets odder.
After setting down the desserts, the owner's wife moved behind her and - wait for it - began massaging the woman's shoulders while her husband nibbled on the verboten desserts. I'm not sure how it could have gotten much weirder unless they'd initiated a threesome right there on the table.
"I'm telling you about it so maybe you'll want to go check it out for yourself and write about it," she tells me at the conclusion of her story. Are you kidding? Who wouldn't want free desserts and a back rub from a stranger?
A service industry friend chimes in. "Gee, I wish I'd known to try that move before I left my last position."
I heard from another friend who's been training to be a yogi about the challenges of closing down her busy mind to meditate. "I didn't know how to turn off the 17 voices in my head and just be present in the moment," she explained about her first attempt at meditation.
Next thing you know, we're discussing science and why people react to the power of thunderstorms in the same manner they react to being near the ocean or running water: positive ions are released with all three and humans can't help but react to them.
But ultimately, the chatter always returned to the journey from now 'till November, with one young voter admitting that, "Part of me believes that we can really make change this time and the other half says, nah, they're just trying to pull one over on us again."
We can not risk being cynical, kids.
Another admitted he hadn't voted in the last couple of elections and while all I did was gasp in surprise, another friend extended his hand to democracy's non-participant, saying, "Nice knowing you."
Although he's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, his point was simply that when you don't vote, it's not rebellion, it's surrender.
It's good to know that I count as friends so many people who refuse to just roll over. Sometimes it takes a birthday party to remind you that we're as great as the people who participate.
Even when the guest list is all kinds of diverse, pulling from friends, family, work connections and associated tangents, you can bet the farm that once mingling begins, straight talk about our next President is going to come up.
I drove to Church Hill listening to a dire weather warning about impending torrential rain - complete with buzzing - to reach a friend's surprise birthday party. Some friends you'd drive through torrents for, in this case, for the kind of introverted person who became a friend practically from the first time we began a conversation six years ago.
Every time I met someone new tonight who asked about my connection to the birthday celebrant, I had an array of anecdotes about our relationship to share. My favorite, of course, is about how I helped him get the girl, the girl.
Despite my early sagacious advice, he's the one who's been thoughtful and romantic enough to keep her.
That the party had been planned as a potluck ensured obscene amounts of food, including what one friend had warned us would be "mediocre wings," when actually it was wings from Bonchon Chicken that made fans of nearly everyone.
But not for us any nibbling until we'd donned party hats (blue, worn at a jaunty angle), grabbed noisemakers (green, required I was told) and scared the birthday boy half to death when he unlocked the front door, expecting to walk into a romantic birthday dinner chez his main squeeze and instead finding the most eclectic group of people he knows ever assembled.
I can't attest to where the conversation went in other nooks and crannies of the house, but there was some fiery rhetoric going on in the narrowest part of the kitchen near the refrigerator where I found myself.
Not going to lie, it brings up many feelings to hear people talk about being part of the groundswell that wants to commit to each changing just one person's mind about voting for Trump. Didn't childhood literature teach us that slow and steady wins the race?
"If each of us convinced just one Trump-supporter to change his vote, it would make a difference in the election," said one of the two men who'd gotten the "wear peach shirt" memo. His passion was palpable, even if his clothing choice was matchy-matchy.
Truthfully, I can only mock so much because I was one of three women who wore a summer outfit with a cut-out back, so apparently there were different memos for each sex, fortunate for me since I look dreadful in peach.
More than one person admitted that they would begin at the source by trying to change their parents' minds about Trump.
"We need to start by asking these people what they like about him," a friend insisted. "We have to understand where they're coming from to address their misconceptions."
And sometimes, you can't even try. One guy shared that after trying to talk rationally with Trump types, he'd complained to a friend that people like that were hopeless causes. "Don't talk to me about Trump supporters," the friend told him. "I'm behind enemy lines."
He lives in Colonial Heights.
It's satisfying to see how engaged people are in this election cycle, comparing speeches, giving massive props to Biden's, trying to figure out how 2020-related Romney's was, praising Obama's (about whose speech my own Dad had written "[it] exceeded anything sine William Jennings Bryan"), allowing for the significance of Bloomburg's and most definitely still over the moon about Michelle's, all of us convinced that she'd clean up should she run in 2020.
People are scared at the possibility of a Trump presidency and a birthday party of familiar faces seems to be a good place to admit that you're already preparing yourself for the worst possible eventuality.
One woman said she'd recently been part of a bachelorette party that made a stop at Trump Winery, which made her exceedingly uncomfortable. Her mother insisted she keep her feelings to herself and all she could think about was, why throw hard-earned cash at the business of a man whose platform terrifies you?
I feel completely comfortable invoking MLK at this point: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter." Ahem, the foreseeable future matters hugely, even to a well-aged vintage such as myself.
When the discussion veered to lighter topics, it was far funnier, as when a woman shared her experience visiting a European market that used a remarkable customer reward system.
She and her husband had ordered, and while she was hoovering hers, he was less impressed with his, basically pushing the food around on his plate.
The owner's wife took note, praising her and chiding him, and then delivering 3 or 4 desserts for her with explicit instructions not to share with him.
Odd as that sounds, it gets odder.
After setting down the desserts, the owner's wife moved behind her and - wait for it - began massaging the woman's shoulders while her husband nibbled on the verboten desserts. I'm not sure how it could have gotten much weirder unless they'd initiated a threesome right there on the table.
"I'm telling you about it so maybe you'll want to go check it out for yourself and write about it," she tells me at the conclusion of her story. Are you kidding? Who wouldn't want free desserts and a back rub from a stranger?
A service industry friend chimes in. "Gee, I wish I'd known to try that move before I left my last position."
I heard from another friend who's been training to be a yogi about the challenges of closing down her busy mind to meditate. "I didn't know how to turn off the 17 voices in my head and just be present in the moment," she explained about her first attempt at meditation.
Next thing you know, we're discussing science and why people react to the power of thunderstorms in the same manner they react to being near the ocean or running water: positive ions are released with all three and humans can't help but react to them.
But ultimately, the chatter always returned to the journey from now 'till November, with one young voter admitting that, "Part of me believes that we can really make change this time and the other half says, nah, they're just trying to pull one over on us again."
We can not risk being cynical, kids.
Another admitted he hadn't voted in the last couple of elections and while all I did was gasp in surprise, another friend extended his hand to democracy's non-participant, saying, "Nice knowing you."
Although he's got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, his point was simply that when you don't vote, it's not rebellion, it's surrender.
It's good to know that I count as friends so many people who refuse to just roll over. Sometimes it takes a birthday party to remind you that we're as great as the people who participate.
Friday Night is Killing Me
Sometimes life is about choices. Of the random things that went on in my world today, let's see, I could write about...
~meeting a Georgetown University sports management major and talking about RFK Stadium
~the extended lunchtime discussion of race and politics at Croaker's Spot
~an unexpectedly teary at dinner
~a casual friend sharing that she was married for 42 days. "The first 30 were cool."
~the old rocker (his self-description when we met) greeting me by saying I smelled like I'd just showered
...it seems to me that the likeliest topic for my post should be semi-famous old rocker Tommy Stinson.
Approaching Gallery 5, my mind wandered to my life circa 1992, the year aforementioned semi-famous old rocker put out his first solo record post-Replacements breakup the year before.
His then-band name - Bash and Pop - said it all and I'd revisited it via my 24-year old CD as I drove around today, remembering how I'd used "Tiny Pieces" on several mix tapes I'd made for myself back in that other lifetime.
Why would I not come hear him live four blocks from home all these years later?
All the formerly young dudes were there, a fact which wouldn't have surprised me if I'd bothered to consider the thought. Women of a certain age showed in smaller numbers, like the suburban Mom (of a 19-year who only listens to Slipknot and Marilyn Manson...hmmm) standing next to me who admitted to being a Replacements fan, even once owning drummer Chris Mars' solo album.
P.S. She also left early looking bored. Pity.
Fittingly given what was to come, the opening band was "a less intimidating version of Long Arms," according to lead singer James when he introduced his fine band, meaning electrified acoustic guitars and less drumming.
The funny part is that sometimes James is just another history nerd I see at the noon lectures at the Virginia Historical Society and other times, like tonight, he's a rock god.
That is, when he's not grilling his band mates on the term for castrating chickens, which no one knew. Answer so you know for future Long Arms shows? Caponize. Put that in your crossword puzzle and finish it.
Not long after, James sighed dramatically. "We're going to singk about our feelings. Strap yourself in, kids," he warned, calling the band's sound tonight "castrated."
That's where James and I differed.
Of all the times I've seen and appreciated the talent of Long Arms, never have I enjoyed a performance so completely. Why? Because I could actually hear James' earnest and literate lyrics and comments referencing Kerouac, Country Joe and the Fish and, yes, his feelings. The band's energy, excellent guitar licks and dance-ability was still there, just not as ear-splitting (aka caponzing).
He didn't see it that way, yet this is a man who already knew what play Lincoln was watching at Ford's Theater and when I share that I saw most of it (until storming began), asks, "Before or after the line where he was shot?" Impressive, right?
"The next song is called "Party Girl" and it's for me," he said from the stage. No doubt.
Complete. Nerd. Slash. Rock. God.
No one wants their favorite Long Arms set to end on a Friday night, but sadly it did, freeing up James to mingle, wherein I could razz him about the show starting late. Would he want a history lecture to begin late? I think not.
The tardiness he casually explained away as due to the eating and drinking he, Tommy Stinson and cohorts had been doing at Comfort before the show, such an enjoyable exercise that the semi-famous old rocker had suggested moving his set time back to 10:15 to prolong it.
As you might imagine, no one was going to hold this man to a set starting time. Let's not forget "Never Aim to Please" was the first song on his first album.
When Tommy finally shambled up on stage alone with his guitar, it was with the same spiky blond hair and earring look he'd sported on that first Bash and Pop record. That it was just his acoustic and voice brought back the MTV Unplugged era in spades.
It wasn't the most organized set - "Hmm, what do I play now?" he mused more than once - but he's seasoned enough to effortlessly knock back a handful of new songs before telling a story about mistakenly leaving his Maker's Mark at the bar before coming onstage. The bartender had kindly brought it to him.
"If someone would be so kind as to order me another one, that'd be great," he announced to a roomful of fans. When it shortly arrived, he thanked the guy in the red shirt who'd delivered it and commented on how nice it would be to have a line of Maker Marks stretching to the speaker.
Even semi-famous old rockers can't drink all night without acquiring a little attitude, as evidenced when he sang, mid-song, "But I'll sing for all you mother-f*ckers here," and let out a rueful chuckle.
After the simplicity of the unplugged set, he invited his electric guitarist friend Chip Roberts, the other half of Cowboys in the Campfire (apparently the successor to Bash and Pop) to join him onstage for songs such as "On the Rocks" where Chip could show off his fantastic guitar chops.
It wasn't long before it became clear that these two have spent way too much time together on this tour with Tommy rolling his eyes when he noticed Chip still had his reading glasses stuck in his shirt and complaining, "Every f*cking day," likening their relationship to an uncle or a marriage (what?).
"No, no, I love him."
He should, considering all that Chip's pedal steel playing added to the song, "Match Made in Hell," a song he exhorted the crowd to join him on the chorus. "Match made in hell," yea, we got this.
This tour means Tommy's talking to lots of journalists and he's already tired of being asked "almost every day" about all the new books being written about Big Star, another band whose musical importance, like that of the Replacements, never translated to commercial success.
"I still listen to Big Star's music, but what's with all these books being written about them at the same time?" he grumbled before launching into a Big Star cover. Contrarian.
A set list was finally located but Tommy couldn't read it without glasses and he ignored Chip's offers of using his. The duo were clearly part Oscar and Felix.
Naturally, a semi-famous old rocker has to leave the stage so he can come back for an encore, thrilling the once young dudes and dudettes with the title song off that long-ago album, "Friday Night is Killing Me."
It hasn't so far, but I also just showered. Give it time.
~meeting a Georgetown University sports management major and talking about RFK Stadium
~the extended lunchtime discussion of race and politics at Croaker's Spot
~an unexpectedly teary at dinner
~a casual friend sharing that she was married for 42 days. "The first 30 were cool."
~the old rocker (his self-description when we met) greeting me by saying I smelled like I'd just showered
...it seems to me that the likeliest topic for my post should be semi-famous old rocker Tommy Stinson.
Approaching Gallery 5, my mind wandered to my life circa 1992, the year aforementioned semi-famous old rocker put out his first solo record post-Replacements breakup the year before.
His then-band name - Bash and Pop - said it all and I'd revisited it via my 24-year old CD as I drove around today, remembering how I'd used "Tiny Pieces" on several mix tapes I'd made for myself back in that other lifetime.
Why would I not come hear him live four blocks from home all these years later?
All the formerly young dudes were there, a fact which wouldn't have surprised me if I'd bothered to consider the thought. Women of a certain age showed in smaller numbers, like the suburban Mom (of a 19-year who only listens to Slipknot and Marilyn Manson...hmmm) standing next to me who admitted to being a Replacements fan, even once owning drummer Chris Mars' solo album.
P.S. She also left early looking bored. Pity.
Fittingly given what was to come, the opening band was "a less intimidating version of Long Arms," according to lead singer James when he introduced his fine band, meaning electrified acoustic guitars and less drumming.
The funny part is that sometimes James is just another history nerd I see at the noon lectures at the Virginia Historical Society and other times, like tonight, he's a rock god.
That is, when he's not grilling his band mates on the term for castrating chickens, which no one knew. Answer so you know for future Long Arms shows? Caponize. Put that in your crossword puzzle and finish it.
Not long after, James sighed dramatically. "We're going to singk about our feelings. Strap yourself in, kids," he warned, calling the band's sound tonight "castrated."
That's where James and I differed.
Of all the times I've seen and appreciated the talent of Long Arms, never have I enjoyed a performance so completely. Why? Because I could actually hear James' earnest and literate lyrics and comments referencing Kerouac, Country Joe and the Fish and, yes, his feelings. The band's energy, excellent guitar licks and dance-ability was still there, just not as ear-splitting (aka caponzing).
He didn't see it that way, yet this is a man who already knew what play Lincoln was watching at Ford's Theater and when I share that I saw most of it (until storming began), asks, "Before or after the line where he was shot?" Impressive, right?
"The next song is called "Party Girl" and it's for me," he said from the stage. No doubt.
Complete. Nerd. Slash. Rock. God.
No one wants their favorite Long Arms set to end on a Friday night, but sadly it did, freeing up James to mingle, wherein I could razz him about the show starting late. Would he want a history lecture to begin late? I think not.
The tardiness he casually explained away as due to the eating and drinking he, Tommy Stinson and cohorts had been doing at Comfort before the show, such an enjoyable exercise that the semi-famous old rocker had suggested moving his set time back to 10:15 to prolong it.
As you might imagine, no one was going to hold this man to a set starting time. Let's not forget "Never Aim to Please" was the first song on his first album.
When Tommy finally shambled up on stage alone with his guitar, it was with the same spiky blond hair and earring look he'd sported on that first Bash and Pop record. That it was just his acoustic and voice brought back the MTV Unplugged era in spades.
It wasn't the most organized set - "Hmm, what do I play now?" he mused more than once - but he's seasoned enough to effortlessly knock back a handful of new songs before telling a story about mistakenly leaving his Maker's Mark at the bar before coming onstage. The bartender had kindly brought it to him.
"If someone would be so kind as to order me another one, that'd be great," he announced to a roomful of fans. When it shortly arrived, he thanked the guy in the red shirt who'd delivered it and commented on how nice it would be to have a line of Maker Marks stretching to the speaker.
Even semi-famous old rockers can't drink all night without acquiring a little attitude, as evidenced when he sang, mid-song, "But I'll sing for all you mother-f*ckers here," and let out a rueful chuckle.
After the simplicity of the unplugged set, he invited his electric guitarist friend Chip Roberts, the other half of Cowboys in the Campfire (apparently the successor to Bash and Pop) to join him onstage for songs such as "On the Rocks" where Chip could show off his fantastic guitar chops.
It wasn't long before it became clear that these two have spent way too much time together on this tour with Tommy rolling his eyes when he noticed Chip still had his reading glasses stuck in his shirt and complaining, "Every f*cking day," likening their relationship to an uncle or a marriage (what?).
"No, no, I love him."
He should, considering all that Chip's pedal steel playing added to the song, "Match Made in Hell," a song he exhorted the crowd to join him on the chorus. "Match made in hell," yea, we got this.
This tour means Tommy's talking to lots of journalists and he's already tired of being asked "almost every day" about all the new books being written about Big Star, another band whose musical importance, like that of the Replacements, never translated to commercial success.
"I still listen to Big Star's music, but what's with all these books being written about them at the same time?" he grumbled before launching into a Big Star cover. Contrarian.
A set list was finally located but Tommy couldn't read it without glasses and he ignored Chip's offers of using his. The duo were clearly part Oscar and Felix.
Naturally, a semi-famous old rocker has to leave the stage so he can come back for an encore, thrilling the once young dudes and dudettes with the title song off that long-ago album, "Friday Night is Killing Me."
It hasn't so far, but I also just showered. Give it time.
Friday, July 29, 2016
All That Glitters is Not Gold, It's Heat
You know what the problem with tonight was? No eunuchs.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Same As It Ever Was
You think you know a place, and you realize you don't even how it was named.
Next month, it'll be a decade since I abandoned the staid Museum District for the wide open frontiers of Jackson Ward, almost immediately falling in love with the far more historic and quirky nature of a neighborhood "in transition," whatever that means.
Yet it took a visit to the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design today to see the new exhibit "Drawing on History: Infill Design Competition" with a favorite photographer to finally learn how my beloved 'hood got its name.
Short answer: a saloon!
No kidding, it was James Jackson's beer garden at Second and Leigh that Jackson Ward was named after, a fact that gives me no end of delight to discover. I was almost as tickled to read that it's also the least altered residential neighborhood in all of Richmond.
And if you really want me to brag, let's get as hyper-local as my own street. Clay Street specifically is considered to have one of the finest collections of architectural cast iron in the entire U.S.
Shucks, this old ironwork? Why do you think I had the bushes taken down and planted a complementary garden using it as a fanciful backdrop?
After a fabulous lunch, I suggested a visit to the Branch, knowing that, despite my friend's current Southside address, his years in Church Hill and J-Ward would make him curious about an exhibit showing the possibilities of infill building.
For icing on the cake, I told him I'd walked by the Branch yesterday only to discover that block of Davis Street closed because three enormous old trees had come down, completely altering the look of the block and didn't he want to see that?
Arriving to find the trees now removed, his attention went at once to one of the remaining cars that had born the brunt of a fallen tree and he made a beeline for it.
"Ooh, destruction!" he said with glee. Only a guy would want to inspect a car with its roof crushed to the console, full of shattered glass, branches and debris, with rain and broken glass in the cup holders.
Inside, discussing the new look of Davis Street, one of the staffers said his Mazda had also been crushed, but he also looked pretty happy at the prospect of a brand-new car.
Moving on to the gallery, we got an eyeful looking at the design submissions for the many empty lots in two neighborhoods that deserve attention: Union Hill and Jackson Ward.
It wasn't hard to see why the grand prize winner had been chosen. The three-story house design for Union Hill had it all: the same proportions as the surrounding houses and exactly the same feel. And unlike so many more modern house designs, it had eleven (eleven!) windows on the sides of the house and that counts as one window those that were actually three-part windows.
This is a really big deal to me (and should be to more people) because of the past 50 years of building houses with no thought to cross-ventilation, which is completely unlike the houses around it built in the 19th century, pre-A/C.
But the winning design also had an appropriate front porch and two levels of back porch, an essential design element for the neighborhood, even if the reason for back porches - for the "help" to do chores on out of sight of people on the street - speaks to our entitled past.
Let's never lose sight of the first rule of community-building, kids: good porches make good neighbors. That may be an old chestnut, but I find it impossible to get behind houses in 19th century neighborhoods that don't have front porches for sitting and visiting on.
What I could get behind was suggestions by architects for the proposed designs to use re-purposed materials from nearby dilapidated residential buildings in the construction of the new. Brilliant.
Not all the entries were houses and some of the commercial buildings we saw offered fresh ideas on how to integrate innovative spaces into older neighborhoods.
One three-story building had a ground level space for an herbarium, shop or market, with a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor, a rooftop garden and a three-level public greenhouse behind it. How cool an addition to Union Hill would that be?
Another design had an artists' loft that put artists in full view of passersby, with the goal being creating spaces for artists in gentrifying neighborhoods.
Leaving the exhibit, FotoBoy and I marveled at the variety of ways these architects and architectural students had envisioned houses and buildings that not only transformed vacant lots, but would also become part of the fabric of the area.
Lunch and an exhibition, a practically perfect way to wile away a hot July mid-day. Someone needed more, though, once again ogling the smooshed car. What, again?
An appetite for destruction is apparently written on the Y chromosome. Happily, his X is also strong.
Next month, it'll be a decade since I abandoned the staid Museum District for the wide open frontiers of Jackson Ward, almost immediately falling in love with the far more historic and quirky nature of a neighborhood "in transition," whatever that means.
Yet it took a visit to the Branch Museum of Architecture and Design today to see the new exhibit "Drawing on History: Infill Design Competition" with a favorite photographer to finally learn how my beloved 'hood got its name.
Short answer: a saloon!
No kidding, it was James Jackson's beer garden at Second and Leigh that Jackson Ward was named after, a fact that gives me no end of delight to discover. I was almost as tickled to read that it's also the least altered residential neighborhood in all of Richmond.
And if you really want me to brag, let's get as hyper-local as my own street. Clay Street specifically is considered to have one of the finest collections of architectural cast iron in the entire U.S.
Shucks, this old ironwork? Why do you think I had the bushes taken down and planted a complementary garden using it as a fanciful backdrop?
After a fabulous lunch, I suggested a visit to the Branch, knowing that, despite my friend's current Southside address, his years in Church Hill and J-Ward would make him curious about an exhibit showing the possibilities of infill building.
For icing on the cake, I told him I'd walked by the Branch yesterday only to discover that block of Davis Street closed because three enormous old trees had come down, completely altering the look of the block and didn't he want to see that?
Arriving to find the trees now removed, his attention went at once to one of the remaining cars that had born the brunt of a fallen tree and he made a beeline for it.
"Ooh, destruction!" he said with glee. Only a guy would want to inspect a car with its roof crushed to the console, full of shattered glass, branches and debris, with rain and broken glass in the cup holders.
Inside, discussing the new look of Davis Street, one of the staffers said his Mazda had also been crushed, but he also looked pretty happy at the prospect of a brand-new car.
Moving on to the gallery, we got an eyeful looking at the design submissions for the many empty lots in two neighborhoods that deserve attention: Union Hill and Jackson Ward.
It wasn't hard to see why the grand prize winner had been chosen. The three-story house design for Union Hill had it all: the same proportions as the surrounding houses and exactly the same feel. And unlike so many more modern house designs, it had eleven (eleven!) windows on the sides of the house and that counts as one window those that were actually three-part windows.
This is a really big deal to me (and should be to more people) because of the past 50 years of building houses with no thought to cross-ventilation, which is completely unlike the houses around it built in the 19th century, pre-A/C.
But the winning design also had an appropriate front porch and two levels of back porch, an essential design element for the neighborhood, even if the reason for back porches - for the "help" to do chores on out of sight of people on the street - speaks to our entitled past.
Let's never lose sight of the first rule of community-building, kids: good porches make good neighbors. That may be an old chestnut, but I find it impossible to get behind houses in 19th century neighborhoods that don't have front porches for sitting and visiting on.
What I could get behind was suggestions by architects for the proposed designs to use re-purposed materials from nearby dilapidated residential buildings in the construction of the new. Brilliant.
Not all the entries were houses and some of the commercial buildings we saw offered fresh ideas on how to integrate innovative spaces into older neighborhoods.
One three-story building had a ground level space for an herbarium, shop or market, with a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor, a rooftop garden and a three-level public greenhouse behind it. How cool an addition to Union Hill would that be?
Another design had an artists' loft that put artists in full view of passersby, with the goal being creating spaces for artists in gentrifying neighborhoods.
Leaving the exhibit, FotoBoy and I marveled at the variety of ways these architects and architectural students had envisioned houses and buildings that not only transformed vacant lots, but would also become part of the fabric of the area.
Lunch and an exhibition, a practically perfect way to wile away a hot July mid-day. Someone needed more, though, once again ogling the smooshed car. What, again?
An appetite for destruction is apparently written on the Y chromosome. Happily, his X is also strong.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
As Happy as Clams at High Water
You might not know it to look at me, but I have something major in common with Lincoln.
Neither of us saw the end of "Our American Cousin," although his reason was far more tragic than mine.
The funny part is, when Quill Theater's production first ran last season as part of the historical staged reading series, the performance was stopped at the moment when Booth shot Lincoln. Brilliant, right?
Tonight's reprise performance at Maymont was going to be the entire play, so Mac and I showed up an hour in advance to find a suitable spot on the Carriage House lawn, only for it to start raining gently moments later.
We took refuge under cover with another woman and fell into a discussion about a news item I'd read today saying that after years of schools moving away from teaching cursive handwriting, many schools have gone back to teaching it.
Nuns everywhere are probably celebrating.
"But like Madonna and newspapers, cursive has displayed a gritty staying power, refusing to have its loop de loops and curlicues swept to the dustbin of handwriting history."
I told my friend that it was a Louisiana senator who'd heard from a surveyor that young people couldn't read the handwriting on old documents and been shocked enough to introduce legislation requiring cursive be taught in schools again.
The woman sitting near us then apologized for eavesdropping and joined the conversation. Seems she works at the Library of Virginia where they have an ongoing volunteer project where people can sign up to transcribe old letters in the collection.
And, yep, most of the people who do it are older because they can actually read cursive. So what happens next century, I wonder, when someone happens on a cache of old correspondence and there are no cursive readers left to translate?
But I digress.
Eventually, the rain tapered off, stage hands attempted to sweep the water off the stage and the popular 1858 play could commence, albeit without lights or amplification due to the weather.
The scant audience- we were among the few brave souls who'd come out despite the forecast - obliged by moving our chairs and blankets closer to the stage. Some of us kept our umbrella within easy reach.
Aside from the clear and present danger of seeing multiple actors slipping and sliding on the wet stage, the play was great fun and it became clear within a few minutes that it had to have been written by an Englishman. Naturally, the titular cousin was loud, coarse and vulgar, unaccustomed to bathing and a prodigious consumer of victuals and drink ("I'm as dry as a sap tree in August").
A country bumpkin, in other words, used to life in Brattleboro, Vermont, not the refined drawing room of Trenchard Manor, but an honest and decent man, if nothing else. And so American.
Liz Blake White was the ideal aristocratic daughter, Florence, entitled and dismissive of those she deemed beneath her, quick with asides and eye-rolling to the audience. Even the servants are surprised when she decides to be more than decorative and pleasant to advance the family cause.
You? Grave business? Why, I thought you never had any graver business than being very pretty, very amiable and very ready to be amused.
Nice work if you can get it.
Mac and I were feeling the pain of the women in the cast having to wear heavy hoop skirt dresses - anything for art, right? - while we sat there in our minimal sundresses, gasping for oxygen like guppies flipped out of their bowls.
Just when things were getting good - what American could resist a sweet dairymaid making cheese and butter, a woman who should have been an heiress? - artistic director Jan Powell arrived in her rain slicker in front of the stage andkilled the fun announced that more rain was on the way so the show was over.
Sure, it beats a bullet to the back of the head, but it was still disappointing.
As usual, I was so very ready to continue being amused.
Neither of us saw the end of "Our American Cousin," although his reason was far more tragic than mine.
The funny part is, when Quill Theater's production first ran last season as part of the historical staged reading series, the performance was stopped at the moment when Booth shot Lincoln. Brilliant, right?
Tonight's reprise performance at Maymont was going to be the entire play, so Mac and I showed up an hour in advance to find a suitable spot on the Carriage House lawn, only for it to start raining gently moments later.
We took refuge under cover with another woman and fell into a discussion about a news item I'd read today saying that after years of schools moving away from teaching cursive handwriting, many schools have gone back to teaching it.
Nuns everywhere are probably celebrating.
"But like Madonna and newspapers, cursive has displayed a gritty staying power, refusing to have its loop de loops and curlicues swept to the dustbin of handwriting history."
I told my friend that it was a Louisiana senator who'd heard from a surveyor that young people couldn't read the handwriting on old documents and been shocked enough to introduce legislation requiring cursive be taught in schools again.
The woman sitting near us then apologized for eavesdropping and joined the conversation. Seems she works at the Library of Virginia where they have an ongoing volunteer project where people can sign up to transcribe old letters in the collection.
And, yep, most of the people who do it are older because they can actually read cursive. So what happens next century, I wonder, when someone happens on a cache of old correspondence and there are no cursive readers left to translate?
But I digress.
Eventually, the rain tapered off, stage hands attempted to sweep the water off the stage and the popular 1858 play could commence, albeit without lights or amplification due to the weather.
The scant audience- we were among the few brave souls who'd come out despite the forecast - obliged by moving our chairs and blankets closer to the stage. Some of us kept our umbrella within easy reach.
Aside from the clear and present danger of seeing multiple actors slipping and sliding on the wet stage, the play was great fun and it became clear within a few minutes that it had to have been written by an Englishman. Naturally, the titular cousin was loud, coarse and vulgar, unaccustomed to bathing and a prodigious consumer of victuals and drink ("I'm as dry as a sap tree in August").
A country bumpkin, in other words, used to life in Brattleboro, Vermont, not the refined drawing room of Trenchard Manor, but an honest and decent man, if nothing else. And so American.
Liz Blake White was the ideal aristocratic daughter, Florence, entitled and dismissive of those she deemed beneath her, quick with asides and eye-rolling to the audience. Even the servants are surprised when she decides to be more than decorative and pleasant to advance the family cause.
You? Grave business? Why, I thought you never had any graver business than being very pretty, very amiable and very ready to be amused.
Nice work if you can get it.
Mac and I were feeling the pain of the women in the cast having to wear heavy hoop skirt dresses - anything for art, right? - while we sat there in our minimal sundresses, gasping for oxygen like guppies flipped out of their bowls.
Just when things were getting good - what American could resist a sweet dairymaid making cheese and butter, a woman who should have been an heiress? - artistic director Jan Powell arrived in her rain slicker in front of the stage and
Sure, it beats a bullet to the back of the head, but it was still disappointing.
As usual, I was so very ready to continue being amused.
Stupid Girl, Only Happy When it Rains
When someone writes, "It was cool hanging out with you," couldn't they be saying you make them forget about the heat?
I'm fascinated to read today that the Washington Post labels people like me "heat deniers," a term that makes us sound more like morons but actually just addresses our rational acceptance of hot weather in summer.
Important to note: it's not that we deny that it's hot, just that it's unbearable. Buck up, weather wimps.
My solution to dealing with triple digit temperatures involves several pro moves, the only one of which I'll admit to publicly is wading out to waist-high depths in two different rivers over the course of two days.
Despite waiting out the sky's ominous threats in a breezy gazebo with friends and strangers, tonight's outdoor party got rained out, but not before some of us gathered for a fine dinner and lots of conversation about theater, hypocrisy and gifts of jewelry.
Because now, finally, I understand why women love being given a bijou or bauble.
To compensate for ankle-deep puddles, a wet dress and missed opportunities, I accept a friend's invitation to Amour for Le Petit Rouviere Rose and the accompanying thrill of seeing a sweetbread virgin's cherry popped after an octopus salad.
We finish with Cremant d'Alsace Rose and sorbet samplers, sharing cantaloupe pastis, blueberry, lychee rose, strawberry, coconut milk and pineapple, along with the heaviest of topics: why some people choose to take care of themselves while others slide into decay with abandon.
For that matter, the more things change, they more they stay just as unsatisfactory as they were.
Proof of just that abounded at the VMFA's fabulous new photography show, "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott," a collection of mid-century photographs, many of them chronicling just how little progress we've made in this, our so-called post-racial world.
Witness: An image of a man behind a newspaper with the screaming headline, "Seven Unarmed Negroes Shot in Cold Blood by L.A. Police" and another capturing five black men in suits and hats picketing with protest signs, including one reading, "Police Brutality Must Go."
A closer inspection of Parks' images of black life in the '50s and '60s tells stories so much bigger than a first glance offers up and surely must have been revelatory to Life Magazine's mostly white readership. The exhibit could not be more timely.
As for changing with the times, I thought that Old Saltes were the love of my life, but after years of devotion, I find that my head can be turned by a Pickering Pass.
Permanently? We shall see.
I'm fascinated to read today that the Washington Post labels people like me "heat deniers," a term that makes us sound more like morons but actually just addresses our rational acceptance of hot weather in summer.
Important to note: it's not that we deny that it's hot, just that it's unbearable. Buck up, weather wimps.
My solution to dealing with triple digit temperatures involves several pro moves, the only one of which I'll admit to publicly is wading out to waist-high depths in two different rivers over the course of two days.
Despite waiting out the sky's ominous threats in a breezy gazebo with friends and strangers, tonight's outdoor party got rained out, but not before some of us gathered for a fine dinner and lots of conversation about theater, hypocrisy and gifts of jewelry.
Because now, finally, I understand why women love being given a bijou or bauble.
To compensate for ankle-deep puddles, a wet dress and missed opportunities, I accept a friend's invitation to Amour for Le Petit Rouviere Rose and the accompanying thrill of seeing a sweetbread virgin's cherry popped after an octopus salad.
We finish with Cremant d'Alsace Rose and sorbet samplers, sharing cantaloupe pastis, blueberry, lychee rose, strawberry, coconut milk and pineapple, along with the heaviest of topics: why some people choose to take care of themselves while others slide into decay with abandon.
For that matter, the more things change, they more they stay just as unsatisfactory as they were.
Proof of just that abounded at the VMFA's fabulous new photography show, "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott," a collection of mid-century photographs, many of them chronicling just how little progress we've made in this, our so-called post-racial world.
Witness: An image of a man behind a newspaper with the screaming headline, "Seven Unarmed Negroes Shot in Cold Blood by L.A. Police" and another capturing five black men in suits and hats picketing with protest signs, including one reading, "Police Brutality Must Go."
A closer inspection of Parks' images of black life in the '50s and '60s tells stories so much bigger than a first glance offers up and surely must have been revelatory to Life Magazine's mostly white readership. The exhibit could not be more timely.
As for changing with the times, I thought that Old Saltes were the love of my life, but after years of devotion, I find that my head can be turned by a Pickering Pass.
Permanently? We shall see.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Heatwave in My Brain, Smolder in My Soul
The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea. ~Isak Dinesan
My first choice would be the sea and my last resort, tears. So I sweat, while the rest of Richmond seemingly takes a different tack: retreat.
It could be when you're walking down the street and, block after block, there are no other people to be seen walking, much less the usual lounging on porches.
It's going four blocks to the ice cream shop and seeing that they're sold out of over half the flavors. Seems the neighborhood has been mainlining gelato the past few days.
It's most certainly when your friends - modern-day hippies and activists when it comes to environmental concerns - praise the benefits of releasing toxins through sweat, then admit that they're going to buy a window A/C unit tomorrow to install in the "community" room of their collective's house.
It's meeting a friend I haven't seen in months for brunch at Amuse (housemade ginger limeade, chilled one-note strawberry soup, Cheddar Bay biscuits du jour, yum, and a fresh take on tres leches cake with chocolate sauce), which is mobbed, but seeing people choose to leave rather than sit on the balcony.
Or it might be when I'm standing outside in my fourth change of clothes for the day, watering my garden and filling the birdbath at 10:30 at night.
I get it, it's next level hot. Call it "soup," call it oppressive, while I take cold showers and baths and train three fans on me while I do nothing more than read in bed or sleep.
Once I got up this morning, my apartment was already 93 degrees and it wasn't much past 9:30.
Arriving home from the Silent Music revival seeing Dharma Bombs play a soundtrack to Buster Keaton's madcap chase caper, "The Goat," it's a refreshing 96 degrees in here, down from 98 when I'd come home from a feisty three hour meeting discussing the past year's theatrical season and who's award-worthy.
While I'm at home, I pretty much live in a tank top and underwear with my hair up. A constant sheen is my new normal. There can't be a toxin left in my body.
No season suits me better than Summer in the South.
Baby, I was born to sweat.
My first choice would be the sea and my last resort, tears. So I sweat, while the rest of Richmond seemingly takes a different tack: retreat.
It could be when you're walking down the street and, block after block, there are no other people to be seen walking, much less the usual lounging on porches.
It's going four blocks to the ice cream shop and seeing that they're sold out of over half the flavors. Seems the neighborhood has been mainlining gelato the past few days.
It's most certainly when your friends - modern-day hippies and activists when it comes to environmental concerns - praise the benefits of releasing toxins through sweat, then admit that they're going to buy a window A/C unit tomorrow to install in the "community" room of their collective's house.
It's meeting a friend I haven't seen in months for brunch at Amuse (housemade ginger limeade, chilled one-note strawberry soup, Cheddar Bay biscuits du jour, yum, and a fresh take on tres leches cake with chocolate sauce), which is mobbed, but seeing people choose to leave rather than sit on the balcony.
Or it might be when I'm standing outside in my fourth change of clothes for the day, watering my garden and filling the birdbath at 10:30 at night.
I get it, it's next level hot. Call it "soup," call it oppressive, while I take cold showers and baths and train three fans on me while I do nothing more than read in bed or sleep.
Once I got up this morning, my apartment was already 93 degrees and it wasn't much past 9:30.
Arriving home from the Silent Music revival seeing Dharma Bombs play a soundtrack to Buster Keaton's madcap chase caper, "The Goat," it's a refreshing 96 degrees in here, down from 98 when I'd come home from a feisty three hour meeting discussing the past year's theatrical season and who's award-worthy.
While I'm at home, I pretty much live in a tank top and underwear with my hair up. A constant sheen is my new normal. There can't be a toxin left in my body.
No season suits me better than Summer in the South.
Baby, I was born to sweat.
Hello, Heat Wave, My Old Friend.
It was too hot today for me to do much more than read, eventually giving that up to take a heat nap.
Ostensibly, it was for similar reasons that TheatreLAB lowered the thermostat in the Basement to frigid for tonight's performance of "Mr. Burns: A Post-Electric Play," but now that I've seen it, I'm more inclined to think they lowered the temperature so our brains wouldn't melt from seeing such a complicated and brilliant production.
Beginning with a group of survivors huddled around a campfire with tree branches overhead to simulate the forest that has become their home, the play's cast easily deserves a best ensemble award for making their interaction throughout the play feel as natural and spontaneous as the bonfire parties my next door millennial neighbors often host on Friday nights.
Except they're not dealing with nuclear meltdown.
There are three things you may want to know about the post-apocalyptic world portrayed in "Mr. Burns:"
First, people are not competent and, second, gay men drink more Diet Coke than straight men. No big news there, right?
Last, and perhaps most importantly, when required to start from scratch, civilization will turn to the "The Simpsons" for a cultural touchstone, specifically, to the "Cape Fear" episode, in and of itself a fascinating choice. Even the Simpsons theme wove its way through the entire production in one form or another.
Wait, now that I think about it, there's a fourth. This is a play so full of ideas, its scope so wide, that you'll leave the theater craving a second viewing just to clarify everything further in your head. My companion likened it to Charlie Kauffman's "Synecdoche, New York" for how meta it was.
But it's also the time travel aspect - the play covers 80+ years of post-global disaster life - that had our heads spinning at both intermissions. Yes, two breaks, both to allow the entire room to be reconfigured so the audience would experience each act from a different perspective.
But it had better be a smart audience, I tell you what, because this is a play that expects you to not only have a passing knowledge of "The Simpsons" and the DeNiro remake of "Cape Fear," but also Gilbert and Sullivan, Top 40 hits (yes, that was a Britney song we heard), the darkest reaches of capitalism, ole bedroom eyes himself, Robert Mitchum, life post-grid and Greek choruses.
I got them all, yet both our brains were in overdrive by the time we walked out of the ice-cold Basement, wowed beyond belief, deep in discussion about what we'd just seen and already planning to see it again.
Good thinking, TheatreLAB, cooling our brains down before electrifying them. It's what Bart would have done.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Don't Tell Dad
Everybody has their own beach rules.
You can spring from the same set of loins, but it doesn't mean you "do" the beach the same way as your kin, a fact of which I'm reminded every time I share someone's beach time with them. The past few days have been at a cottage called "Flip Flops" with a couple of my sisters and various members of their clans.
We couldn't be more different beach-wise, at least in most ways.
Oceanfront is a must for me, while she's okay with oceanside, which is still considerably better than the sister who rents in the woods on the Sound side. I want to hear and see the ocean every minute of every day I'm there.
I wouldn't think of using air conditioning ever (hell, my cottage didn't even have window units until two years ago), but especially when I'm surrounded by salt air and breezes, while my sister cools her beach house to meat locker temperatures. Walking in, hot from the beach or wet from a shower, is unpleasantly cold.
Every cottage needs a screened-in porch in my opinion, yet my sister only requires a covered porch, although I will say that this year's did at least have a view of the ocean. I said nothing when she began the day by slathering anti-itch cream on all the bites on her ankles from last night's porch session.
They like to be off the beach by 4:00 while my favorite beach time is just beginning then. Maybe it's the art historian in me, but I can think of no richer, more saturated colors in summertime than the last few hours before about 7:00, after which the evening can officially begin.
And what folly is this? My father instilled in the six of us the absolute need for binoculars at the beach, yet they don't bring them. So all the strange ships far out in the water, the dark schools of bluefish just under the surface and playful pods of dolphins have to be scrutinized from afar. What can a person learn from that distance?
Where we agree is that time spent at the beach means time spent in the ocean.
Knowing today was my last day there and breaking every mother's rule about eating and going in the water, I finished my lunch, wiped the crumbs on my legs and headed directly into the ocean just behind Sister #4's family.
Nephew #1 eventually joined once the left and it was just us when three dolphins surfed the waves directly in front of us. As many times as I've seen them, I'd never been closer. Yet he headed back once he realized his beer was getting warm onshore.
Left alone in the brilliant green water by myself became almost a meditation.
Up to my neck, with no one around to talk to, it occurred to me that this was why doctors used to send recovering patients to the seashore: the gentle exercise of staying above the waves, the warm yet still refreshing water, the briny air all combined to make me feel utterly relaxed but also strangely invincible.
After a while, Sister #2 joined me in the ocean, saying I'd looked pitiful out there by myself. Beer gone, Nephew #1 returned, only to crack us up with his Nature Channel impersonation as a pale, young woman who'd been floating on a paddleboard nearby attempted to awkwardly stand.
In the muted voice of a golf announcer, he intoned, "Yes, and now she's presenting her albino thighs and cheeks to capture the male's attention and find a use for her child-bearing hips...." before she took a nosedive.
So much for my meditative state.
By the time I finally climbed out of the water, fingers as wrinkled as raisins, it had been nearly two hours since I'd given over the rest of my day at the beach to the ocean and it was time for a quick outdoor shower to get the salt crust out of my ears before heading home.
Home, past signs saying "Blue Lives Matter," behind an 18-wheeler spewing dirt like smoke with projectiles (illegal, right?) which, given my open car windows, felt a lot like traveling in Pigpen's wake and uncomfortably close to a group of trucks with Confederate flags parked on the side of Route 460.
None of which, I'm happy to report, affected my ocean-induced state of relaxation.
I made it home in time to catch Afrikana Film Fest's outdoor screening of the 1988 cult classic "Coming to America" being shown up on the hill at Tredegar under the stars.
Guests were encouraged to recite lines, sing songs and act out and they did. Dogtown Dance even performed live when the palace dancers did their big number in the movie.
Honestly, I hadn't seen it since I saw it in the theater when it came out when we were all in Eddie Murphy's thrall and swooning to hear him say things like, "I want a woman that will arouse my intellect as well as my loins."
It also didn't hurt to have - flashback! - Arsenio Hall say stuff such as, "Girl, you look so good, someone ought to put you on a plate and sop you up with a biscuit."
It's a compliment I know I'd be happy to hear, although it might taste a little gritty. I've still got sand in my hair.
You can spring from the same set of loins, but it doesn't mean you "do" the beach the same way as your kin, a fact of which I'm reminded every time I share someone's beach time with them. The past few days have been at a cottage called "Flip Flops" with a couple of my sisters and various members of their clans.
We couldn't be more different beach-wise, at least in most ways.
Oceanfront is a must for me, while she's okay with oceanside, which is still considerably better than the sister who rents in the woods on the Sound side. I want to hear and see the ocean every minute of every day I'm there.
I wouldn't think of using air conditioning ever (hell, my cottage didn't even have window units until two years ago), but especially when I'm surrounded by salt air and breezes, while my sister cools her beach house to meat locker temperatures. Walking in, hot from the beach or wet from a shower, is unpleasantly cold.
Every cottage needs a screened-in porch in my opinion, yet my sister only requires a covered porch, although I will say that this year's did at least have a view of the ocean. I said nothing when she began the day by slathering anti-itch cream on all the bites on her ankles from last night's porch session.
They like to be off the beach by 4:00 while my favorite beach time is just beginning then. Maybe it's the art historian in me, but I can think of no richer, more saturated colors in summertime than the last few hours before about 7:00, after which the evening can officially begin.
And what folly is this? My father instilled in the six of us the absolute need for binoculars at the beach, yet they don't bring them. So all the strange ships far out in the water, the dark schools of bluefish just under the surface and playful pods of dolphins have to be scrutinized from afar. What can a person learn from that distance?
Where we agree is that time spent at the beach means time spent in the ocean.
Knowing today was my last day there and breaking every mother's rule about eating and going in the water, I finished my lunch, wiped the crumbs on my legs and headed directly into the ocean just behind Sister #4's family.
Nephew #1 eventually joined once the left and it was just us when three dolphins surfed the waves directly in front of us. As many times as I've seen them, I'd never been closer. Yet he headed back once he realized his beer was getting warm onshore.
Left alone in the brilliant green water by myself became almost a meditation.
Up to my neck, with no one around to talk to, it occurred to me that this was why doctors used to send recovering patients to the seashore: the gentle exercise of staying above the waves, the warm yet still refreshing water, the briny air all combined to make me feel utterly relaxed but also strangely invincible.
After a while, Sister #2 joined me in the ocean, saying I'd looked pitiful out there by myself. Beer gone, Nephew #1 returned, only to crack us up with his Nature Channel impersonation as a pale, young woman who'd been floating on a paddleboard nearby attempted to awkwardly stand.
In the muted voice of a golf announcer, he intoned, "Yes, and now she's presenting her albino thighs and cheeks to capture the male's attention and find a use for her child-bearing hips...." before she took a nosedive.
So much for my meditative state.
By the time I finally climbed out of the water, fingers as wrinkled as raisins, it had been nearly two hours since I'd given over the rest of my day at the beach to the ocean and it was time for a quick outdoor shower to get the salt crust out of my ears before heading home.
Home, past signs saying "Blue Lives Matter," behind an 18-wheeler spewing dirt like smoke with projectiles (illegal, right?) which, given my open car windows, felt a lot like traveling in Pigpen's wake and uncomfortably close to a group of trucks with Confederate flags parked on the side of Route 460.
None of which, I'm happy to report, affected my ocean-induced state of relaxation.
I made it home in time to catch Afrikana Film Fest's outdoor screening of the 1988 cult classic "Coming to America" being shown up on the hill at Tredegar under the stars.
Guests were encouraged to recite lines, sing songs and act out and they did. Dogtown Dance even performed live when the palace dancers did their big number in the movie.
Honestly, I hadn't seen it since I saw it in the theater when it came out when we were all in Eddie Murphy's thrall and swooning to hear him say things like, "I want a woman that will arouse my intellect as well as my loins."
It also didn't hurt to have - flashback! - Arsenio Hall say stuff such as, "Girl, you look so good, someone ought to put you on a plate and sop you up with a biscuit."
It's a compliment I know I'd be happy to hear, although it might taste a little gritty. I've still got sand in my hair.
Friday, July 22, 2016
Summer's Here and the Time is Right
They are commandments, not suggestions ~ god
Puh-leeze. Only heading South would I see such nonsense painted on the side of a truck.
Whoa, big fella, separation of church and commerce, remember?
Once I'd moved on to the easterly portion of the drive, I pulled over at Adam's Country Store for ham sandwiches and a discussion of who does what around the store. The old gent opening my soda tells me Dad used to spend a lot of time when he was supposed to be working sitting on the stool behind the counter, even napping on occasion.
"We said we were going to put a seatbelt on that stool so he wouldn't fall off!" he jokes for what surely must be the hundredth time. Nice work if you can get it, I crack. He pauses, looks at me to let it sink in and laughs out loud, as if I hadn't just said the first thing that came to mind.
"It sure is!" he says with a big grin. All this appreciation for my wit and an RC Cola, too.
So I'm back in Kitty Hawk, four tenths of a mile from my usual house on what is easily the narrowest and therefore most fragile stretch of beach on the Outer Banks.
At high tide, the waves are rolling up under a half dozen houses. When you pull into one nearby house's driveway, all you can see at the end of the carport is ocean. A few years ago, I walked this stretch at high tide one morning after a bad storm and sunk into the sand to my knees. It was terrifying.
But it's enough that I'm at the beach, so I'm certainly not complaining about the width of this particular stretch.
Especially because the ocean looks like the Caribbean, striped uncharacteristically brilliant green and deep blue as far as the eye can see, a line of cumulus clouds stacked along the horizon.
Even better, it's completely clear so when you're in it, you can see crabs and shells on the bottom. Yesterday's water temperature was 74 and today it was 75.
I know these numbers solely from the lifeguard station board, which also informs me of the hormone-driven millennials charged with protecting us from a watery death.
Yesterday's ace team was Cat (complete with a feline face drawing) and Hunter (he of the side ponytail and nose covered in white zinc), while today we got another dose of Hunter, but this time paired with - wait for it - Linsea.
Wow, Lin-sea, really?
If her parents did that to her, they should be charged, but, who knows, maybe her distinctive name set her on a path to make the beach a safer place and who can argue with destiny?
Today's board also carried warnings about "strong shore breaks," which meant that an especially high percentage of people in the water were being knocked down close in, right where the waves were breaking.
I'm not saying it was entertaining, but for those who appreciate physical humor, we did have front row seats to the action.
A nearby man - whether just gawky or frail, it was tough to tell - got clobbered so many times that eventually he became one with the sand and required assistance to pick himself up out of the water.
Because there are seven in our motley crew, when we're not on the beach seven hours a day, we tend to congregate on the L-shaped deck that faces the beach road with a view of the ocean behind it because it's a sprawling space with room for everybody.
We've played Scattegories out there, eaten breakfast out there, spotted the moon on the rise from out there, eventually following it down to the beach to see its shimmering reflection. It was from the porch that we hear Harleys rumbling by and someone doing cannonballs into the pool next door at midnight.
Every morning, from the deep bush-covered backyards around here come the songs of small birds hiding in the shrubbery, an ecosystem completely different from the shoreline one just across the beach road. At night, it's crickets we hear.
There's a rustic outdoor shower and a fish-cleaning table under the house. I've just about finished my first book and I finally evened up the shorts tan I have from months of sunny day walking.
I am in my element and in high goof-off mode. At the beach, there are no commandments, only suggestions.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Burning Photographs
Of course he didn't. He's Ryan Adams.
Play a single song from "Rock and Roll"? Of course not despite its near pop perfection. Okay, surely play something from his complete cover of T Swift's "1989," his most recent album? Hell, no.
The stage at the Charlottesville pavilion was set with two massive pretend Fender amps, a Dr. Pepper machine, a couple of early game machines and a flag with a peace sign for stars. The juju appeared to be good.
Around us were, presumably, Ryan Adams fans from a five year old with a Queen patch on his little denim jacket to a guy with a souvenir t-shirt from the recent Guns 'n Roses show in D.C. The crowd looked pretty diverse age-wise, with the largest concentration - no surprise - in the decades before and after Ryan's 41 years.
Except none of them looked like someone Mandy Moore would have married, if you know what I'm saying.
It was a warm night for an outdoor show, though it didn't compare to the epic swelter of the Arcade Fire show in June 2011 when people were passing out and everyone's clothing was soaked, and Blenheim Rose gets credit for helping with that.
Given my vertical brevity, of course a 6'6" man and his wife had to sit down in front of us, but the guilt in doing so was killing them. The giant insisted on measuring my height against his to determine how far he'd have to bend over if he sat in front of me. Meanwhile, his wife asked if I could be bought, offering me a warm cinnamon doughnut from the brown bag in her lap.
I can be bought. Tall people get in front of me at shows all the time, but rarely am I compensated for the inconvenience.
Ryan Adams looked about as curmudgeonly contrarian as he'd appeared when I first saw him in 2007 at the Norva, balancing that out with his off-beat humor, telling the crowd good-night after almost every song.
After playing the closest thing to a crowd-pleaser, "I Still Love You, New York," he cracked, "I just made that up. Thank you and good night." He sang happy birthday to the lighting guy.
Or, "Okay, I'm going to do the mellowest version of a song ever and later do something with sock puppets," before playing "Let It Ride."
Despite having driven through driving rain and hail to get to Charlottesville, I'm here to tell you there were no sock puppets.
Which was okay only because there was a fabulous dinner at Alley Light first, a make-up date since I'd been under the weather when we'd gone last Fall.
Fortunately, there are do-overs for some things.
Tonight's goal: a fuller experience, meaning we stuffed ourselves silly with a special of earthy French lentils with bacon and sausage, light and bright potted shrimp with garlic mayo and pickled carrots, ricotta with beet cubes and pistachio pesto that we slathered thickly over crusty bread, the thinnest of tuna tartare with shaved Parmesan and a massive vegetable board (that looked like one of those late Renaissance elaborate fruit and vegetable still life portraits) over a Provencal aioli, accompanied by a Maison Shaps Cremant de Bourgogne.
We ate all the things, drank all the bubbles and listened to Ryan Adams outside on a warm, summer night. It was glorious and I have the tie-dyed t-shirt to prove it.
But what I wouldn't have given to hear "Anybody Wanna Take Me Home?" live. Anybody? Thank you and good night.
Play a single song from "Rock and Roll"? Of course not despite its near pop perfection. Okay, surely play something from his complete cover of T Swift's "1989," his most recent album? Hell, no.
The stage at the Charlottesville pavilion was set with two massive pretend Fender amps, a Dr. Pepper machine, a couple of early game machines and a flag with a peace sign for stars. The juju appeared to be good.
Around us were, presumably, Ryan Adams fans from a five year old with a Queen patch on his little denim jacket to a guy with a souvenir t-shirt from the recent Guns 'n Roses show in D.C. The crowd looked pretty diverse age-wise, with the largest concentration - no surprise - in the decades before and after Ryan's 41 years.
Except none of them looked like someone Mandy Moore would have married, if you know what I'm saying.
It was a warm night for an outdoor show, though it didn't compare to the epic swelter of the Arcade Fire show in June 2011 when people were passing out and everyone's clothing was soaked, and Blenheim Rose gets credit for helping with that.
Given my vertical brevity, of course a 6'6" man and his wife had to sit down in front of us, but the guilt in doing so was killing them. The giant insisted on measuring my height against his to determine how far he'd have to bend over if he sat in front of me. Meanwhile, his wife asked if I could be bought, offering me a warm cinnamon doughnut from the brown bag in her lap.
I can be bought. Tall people get in front of me at shows all the time, but rarely am I compensated for the inconvenience.
Ryan Adams looked about as curmudgeonly contrarian as he'd appeared when I first saw him in 2007 at the Norva, balancing that out with his off-beat humor, telling the crowd good-night after almost every song.
After playing the closest thing to a crowd-pleaser, "I Still Love You, New York," he cracked, "I just made that up. Thank you and good night." He sang happy birthday to the lighting guy.
Or, "Okay, I'm going to do the mellowest version of a song ever and later do something with sock puppets," before playing "Let It Ride."
Despite having driven through driving rain and hail to get to Charlottesville, I'm here to tell you there were no sock puppets.
Which was okay only because there was a fabulous dinner at Alley Light first, a make-up date since I'd been under the weather when we'd gone last Fall.
Fortunately, there are do-overs for some things.
Tonight's goal: a fuller experience, meaning we stuffed ourselves silly with a special of earthy French lentils with bacon and sausage, light and bright potted shrimp with garlic mayo and pickled carrots, ricotta with beet cubes and pistachio pesto that we slathered thickly over crusty bread, the thinnest of tuna tartare with shaved Parmesan and a massive vegetable board (that looked like one of those late Renaissance elaborate fruit and vegetable still life portraits) over a Provencal aioli, accompanied by a Maison Shaps Cremant de Bourgogne.
We ate all the things, drank all the bubbles and listened to Ryan Adams outside on a warm, summer night. It was glorious and I have the tie-dyed t-shirt to prove it.
But what I wouldn't have given to hear "Anybody Wanna Take Me Home?" live. Anybody? Thank you and good night.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Dressed to Kill
No parasol shame.
If that isn't already a thing, I'm calling it right here. There are so many reasons - the strength of the late afternoon summer sun, my experienced skin, hello, common sense - to carry an umbrella when I choose to walk outside and don't care to wear a hat.
The last few days, it's become a new habit to bring my own shade, like I did tonight for nearly a mile to meet Pru and Beau for dinner at Lucca Enoteca. The occasion was cashing in one of my birthday presents, namely a ticket for tonight's Eddie Izzard show across the street at CenterStage.
I'd nudged Beau about dinner reservations last week, knowing that half the show's attendees wouldn't think that far ahead. Not only did they not, some were foolish enough to walk into the packed restaurant as late as 7:00 and think they were going to be seated.
Fools.
We, on the other hand, were tucked in a corner table in the front window, away from the fray and with a fine view of the growing mob of Izzard fans directly in our sight lines. Color us surprised that people began lining up to get in two hours before the performance even began.
Not us. We devoted 99% of those hours to eating and drinking, aided and abetted by the affable bartender subbing as our server because of the full house, while being honest enough to share that despite the kitchen staff being well-coordinated and running up to speed, the front of the house was green and struggling a tad.
A large tad.
It didn't affect us as I introduced them to Lucca's sublime octopus and potato salad, or as we munched through a meat and cheese tray and an exquisitely flavorful salad of beets, golden raisins and pistachios before polishing off one crostada, hazelnut, and two panna cottas under macerated fruit.
Passing through the harried-looking staff replete, we made it across the street with time to spare.
Now it's confession time. When Beau had gifted me with a ticket for this show for my birthday back in May, I had zero idea who Eddie Izzard was. It's not like I wasn't grateful for the gift, just clueless about what it was.
My benefactors were amazed at my ignorance.
"Well, did you at least look him up on YouTube to get an idea what to expect?" Pru asked logically. Of course I didn't. Would I look at a trailer before going to see an unknown film? Not on your life.
When the usher who seated us admitted that she had no idea who he was (but that the show had sold out), I confided to her that I didn't know either, that I was just there because of a birthday present.
"Ooh, happy birthday!" she squealed.
With no idea of what to expect, I was delighted by it all. The light show, the backdrop of a large target with a man's form on it (so Bond!), Eddie coming out with a bowler hat and cane before tossing them away, all of it.
"He's dead sexy," Pru had warned me, as if ten seconds of watching him wouldn't have told me so.
But that initial excitement was trumped many times over once he began sharing his thoughts, riffing on everything and letting loose a stream of simply yet brilliantly-stated opinions about gods, politics and transvestites, among which he counts himself.
Did I mention there was even Virginia humor?
He blasted the three holdouts to the metric system: Liberia, Myanmar and that other third world country, the U.S. He reminded us that Britain had a civil war first. He insisted that he gave Richmond its first German comedy sketch. "Lord of the Rings" was dissected with a chicken deciding to keep the ring.
How many comedians are able to work in Charles I, "It's A Wonderful Life" and the Magna Carta into their act? I love my comedy with a side of European history ("What do you mean you lost France?").
Within minutes, I was worshiping at the feet of this intellectual liberal with even more opinions than me, plus a penchant for make-up that began at age four. Thank heavens I had on fabulous Berry Seductive lip stain so I could hold up my head in front of this wondrous specimen.
His was just such a wickedly smart humor.
"Humanity can go backwards," he began. "As shown by a recent referendum vote in my country. So now you know how to vote in your election." Weighted pause. "I'm not telling you what to do, but do not vote for Donald Trump."
Cheers and applause.
There was an entire bit on the use of the term "et voila" and its practical application, a recurring joke throughout the night. He discoursed on how the English language developed so oddly that four seemingly similar words - cough, bough, dough and through - could each be pronounced differently.
When non-English speakers question how we understand the differences in pronunciation given nearly identical spellings, he nailed the English/American response. "We just know."
Pru and I about lost it when he explained himself as an "action transvestite," someone who digs both action movies and make-up commercials. "Yippee-ki-yay, motherf*cker," he purred.
Particularly hilarious were his rants about gods, which detoured into human sacrifice, god's absence at every major crisis in the world and the problems of being a transvestite in biblical times.
"What did transvestites do in those days? Say I wanna wear Mary Magdalene's outfit!" (Response: "You already are!")
The Kracken made several appearances including one where it came out and started stamping on things willy-nilly. "Basically, right wing foreign policy," he joked to prolonged clapping.
I saw an usher tell a guy to quit filming the show and not long after, Eddie called out a guy in the third row, saying, "Is someone taking photos? Please turn that thing off so you stop bothering your neighbors and stop doing it every few seconds or it's a video!"
How refreshing to expect the audience to stay in the moment.
An extended segment on the folly of dressage - he called it "like riding into a cabinet and parking" - showed his command of physical humor while saying it made the horses look sneaky like burglars demonstrated his offbeat wit.
"There's no burglary in dressage," he deadpanned. Nor is there any shame in coming late in the game to the Eddie Izzard fan club.
How do you know if a smart man with razor sharp humor is worth walking miles for under your parasol? You just know.
If that isn't already a thing, I'm calling it right here. There are so many reasons - the strength of the late afternoon summer sun, my experienced skin, hello, common sense - to carry an umbrella when I choose to walk outside and don't care to wear a hat.
The last few days, it's become a new habit to bring my own shade, like I did tonight for nearly a mile to meet Pru and Beau for dinner at Lucca Enoteca. The occasion was cashing in one of my birthday presents, namely a ticket for tonight's Eddie Izzard show across the street at CenterStage.
I'd nudged Beau about dinner reservations last week, knowing that half the show's attendees wouldn't think that far ahead. Not only did they not, some were foolish enough to walk into the packed restaurant as late as 7:00 and think they were going to be seated.
Fools.
We, on the other hand, were tucked in a corner table in the front window, away from the fray and with a fine view of the growing mob of Izzard fans directly in our sight lines. Color us surprised that people began lining up to get in two hours before the performance even began.
Not us. We devoted 99% of those hours to eating and drinking, aided and abetted by the affable bartender subbing as our server because of the full house, while being honest enough to share that despite the kitchen staff being well-coordinated and running up to speed, the front of the house was green and struggling a tad.
A large tad.
It didn't affect us as I introduced them to Lucca's sublime octopus and potato salad, or as we munched through a meat and cheese tray and an exquisitely flavorful salad of beets, golden raisins and pistachios before polishing off one crostada, hazelnut, and two panna cottas under macerated fruit.
Passing through the harried-looking staff replete, we made it across the street with time to spare.
Now it's confession time. When Beau had gifted me with a ticket for this show for my birthday back in May, I had zero idea who Eddie Izzard was. It's not like I wasn't grateful for the gift, just clueless about what it was.
My benefactors were amazed at my ignorance.
"Well, did you at least look him up on YouTube to get an idea what to expect?" Pru asked logically. Of course I didn't. Would I look at a trailer before going to see an unknown film? Not on your life.
When the usher who seated us admitted that she had no idea who he was (but that the show had sold out), I confided to her that I didn't know either, that I was just there because of a birthday present.
"Ooh, happy birthday!" she squealed.
With no idea of what to expect, I was delighted by it all. The light show, the backdrop of a large target with a man's form on it (so Bond!), Eddie coming out with a bowler hat and cane before tossing them away, all of it.
"He's dead sexy," Pru had warned me, as if ten seconds of watching him wouldn't have told me so.
But that initial excitement was trumped many times over once he began sharing his thoughts, riffing on everything and letting loose a stream of simply yet brilliantly-stated opinions about gods, politics and transvestites, among which he counts himself.
Did I mention there was even Virginia humor?
He blasted the three holdouts to the metric system: Liberia, Myanmar and that other third world country, the U.S. He reminded us that Britain had a civil war first. He insisted that he gave Richmond its first German comedy sketch. "Lord of the Rings" was dissected with a chicken deciding to keep the ring.
How many comedians are able to work in Charles I, "It's A Wonderful Life" and the Magna Carta into their act? I love my comedy with a side of European history ("What do you mean you lost France?").
Within minutes, I was worshiping at the feet of this intellectual liberal with even more opinions than me, plus a penchant for make-up that began at age four. Thank heavens I had on fabulous Berry Seductive lip stain so I could hold up my head in front of this wondrous specimen.
His was just such a wickedly smart humor.
"Humanity can go backwards," he began. "As shown by a recent referendum vote in my country. So now you know how to vote in your election." Weighted pause. "I'm not telling you what to do, but do not vote for Donald Trump."
Cheers and applause.
There was an entire bit on the use of the term "et voila" and its practical application, a recurring joke throughout the night. He discoursed on how the English language developed so oddly that four seemingly similar words - cough, bough, dough and through - could each be pronounced differently.
When non-English speakers question how we understand the differences in pronunciation given nearly identical spellings, he nailed the English/American response. "We just know."
Pru and I about lost it when he explained himself as an "action transvestite," someone who digs both action movies and make-up commercials. "Yippee-ki-yay, motherf*cker," he purred.
Particularly hilarious were his rants about gods, which detoured into human sacrifice, god's absence at every major crisis in the world and the problems of being a transvestite in biblical times.
"What did transvestites do in those days? Say I wanna wear Mary Magdalene's outfit!" (Response: "You already are!")
The Kracken made several appearances including one where it came out and started stamping on things willy-nilly. "Basically, right wing foreign policy," he joked to prolonged clapping.
I saw an usher tell a guy to quit filming the show and not long after, Eddie called out a guy in the third row, saying, "Is someone taking photos? Please turn that thing off so you stop bothering your neighbors and stop doing it every few seconds or it's a video!"
How refreshing to expect the audience to stay in the moment.
An extended segment on the folly of dressage - he called it "like riding into a cabinet and parking" - showed his command of physical humor while saying it made the horses look sneaky like burglars demonstrated his offbeat wit.
"There's no burglary in dressage," he deadpanned. Nor is there any shame in coming late in the game to the Eddie Izzard fan club.
How do you know if a smart man with razor sharp humor is worth walking miles for under your parasol? You just know.
Monday, July 18, 2016
I Feel Like a $3 Shirt
I have a crush on a new theater collective and I'm being really obvious about it.
How obvious? Four days after I saw Nu Puppis' deconstruction of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," I wanted to see it all over again, to see if my response had been solely a first time thing or if I'd still be laughing (or grimacing) throughout.
Bingo.
Because my delight in this production is so great, I had to bring a like-minded friend along, hopefully to experience the same jambalya of reactions I'd had. We met at my house and walked to Saison for fried chicken night first.
You don't approach this kind of ritualistic millennial mocking without a full belly.
Even though it had been months since I'd made it there on a Sunday night and despite a full reservation list, we were lucky enough to slide into the bar with no problem. My thirst after a busy day was quenched with a rosy combination of grapefruit juice, passionfruit juice and Cheerwine and arrived in a funky 60s-looking glass with palm trees adorning it.
Today's sides were redskin potato salad and squash casserole with still-recognizable squash in it, so neither cooked to death nor buried under too much cheese, but as I told our server, it didn't matter what the sides had been, my order wasn't changing.
Quarter chicken dark meat, washed down with my fruity libation. If only all Sunday suppers were so satisfying.
The plan was to arrive early enough at Firehouse to ensure getting tickets, a smart move given how quickly the room filled. Unlike with "American Idiot" when we were instructed to use our phones, tonight we were told to turn them off because there was no such thing in the '50s when it was first written, nor even during the 80s when it became a play.
So it just wouldn't be right. "We don't want to open up some weird wormhole," artistic director Bassin informed us. No, we don't.
Next thing you know, Max Erlich was belting out "Bless Your Beautiful Hide" and I was thrown back into the Oregon Territory circa Hollywood 1954. It was glorious.
Everything I'd been smitten with last week was just as (choose one or many) funny, irreverent, off-color, snarky, hysterical, smart-assed, well-rehearsed, culturally referenced, corny, stirring and memorably performed as the first night.
You haven't lived in the theater until you've watched a gaggle of 20-somethings show off their stage fighting skills or stuff their faces with microwave pancakes.
Seeing it a second time showed me where the ad-libs were and how different they were from night to night. The twenty actors were just as nimble and their voices harmonized even more beautifully from tonight's better seats. The actors' posturing and asides were every bit as side-splittingly funny.
Best of all, my friend reacted precisely as I'd hoped, doubled over laughing, grimacing at the sound of fist fights and gasping in amazement at some of the stuff that came out of their mouths, the sly side looks and creepy innuendo. In awe of young bodies springing, jumping and arching, oblivious to concrete and metal.
Bottom line: the kids are putting on a show capable of bursting every musical theater notion you might have in your pretty little head.
Get over it. If this is the direction Richmond theater is taking, it's a wonderful, wonderful day.
How obvious? Four days after I saw Nu Puppis' deconstruction of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers," I wanted to see it all over again, to see if my response had been solely a first time thing or if I'd still be laughing (or grimacing) throughout.
Bingo.
Because my delight in this production is so great, I had to bring a like-minded friend along, hopefully to experience the same jambalya of reactions I'd had. We met at my house and walked to Saison for fried chicken night first.
You don't approach this kind of ritualistic millennial mocking without a full belly.
Even though it had been months since I'd made it there on a Sunday night and despite a full reservation list, we were lucky enough to slide into the bar with no problem. My thirst after a busy day was quenched with a rosy combination of grapefruit juice, passionfruit juice and Cheerwine and arrived in a funky 60s-looking glass with palm trees adorning it.
Today's sides were redskin potato salad and squash casserole with still-recognizable squash in it, so neither cooked to death nor buried under too much cheese, but as I told our server, it didn't matter what the sides had been, my order wasn't changing.
Quarter chicken dark meat, washed down with my fruity libation. If only all Sunday suppers were so satisfying.
The plan was to arrive early enough at Firehouse to ensure getting tickets, a smart move given how quickly the room filled. Unlike with "American Idiot" when we were instructed to use our phones, tonight we were told to turn them off because there was no such thing in the '50s when it was first written, nor even during the 80s when it became a play.
So it just wouldn't be right. "We don't want to open up some weird wormhole," artistic director Bassin informed us. No, we don't.
Next thing you know, Max Erlich was belting out "Bless Your Beautiful Hide" and I was thrown back into the Oregon Territory circa Hollywood 1954. It was glorious.
Everything I'd been smitten with last week was just as (choose one or many) funny, irreverent, off-color, snarky, hysterical, smart-assed, well-rehearsed, culturally referenced, corny, stirring and memorably performed as the first night.
You haven't lived in the theater until you've watched a gaggle of 20-somethings show off their stage fighting skills or stuff their faces with microwave pancakes.
Seeing it a second time showed me where the ad-libs were and how different they were from night to night. The twenty actors were just as nimble and their voices harmonized even more beautifully from tonight's better seats. The actors' posturing and asides were every bit as side-splittingly funny.
Best of all, my friend reacted precisely as I'd hoped, doubled over laughing, grimacing at the sound of fist fights and gasping in amazement at some of the stuff that came out of their mouths, the sly side looks and creepy innuendo. In awe of young bodies springing, jumping and arching, oblivious to concrete and metal.
Bottom line: the kids are putting on a show capable of bursting every musical theater notion you might have in your pretty little head.
Get over it. If this is the direction Richmond theater is taking, it's a wonderful, wonderful day.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Lean In to Discomfort
When the world around you seems to be falling apart, you do your part to start knitting it back together.
By the time I got the notification about the RVA Roundtable on Race, it was full. I felt lame until reading that it filled up in less than an hour. My name went on the waiting list, along with enough others that a second session was scheduled.
My fist thought was to invite Mac to join me since we'd just been discussing this subject a few nights ago. What are inherently privileged white women going to do to make things better? Both of us were willing to join a roomful of strangers to find out.
We set out from my house, she with a fetching straw hat and me with an umbrella, intent on joining Stoplight Gelato for today's grand opening celebration. This long-time J-Ward resident has had to schlep to Carytown for ten years for her ice cream fix.
No more. Love you, Bev's, but sometimes a girl only wants to walk three blocks for frozen dairy product.
The place was bustling, the case full of appealingly rich-looking gelato and within no time, a tiny woman came over to thank us for stopping by. I reversed the thanks, happy to have a source in the 'hood. And unlike some places, portions are sized right, prices are just as fitting and the place oozes charm.
I got a cup of mint chip with chocolate bourbon sauce and Mac went with a sugar cone of coconut to enjoy as we sauntered over to the Black History Museum and Cultural Center for the roundtable, passing by the usual Sunday neighborhood characters in place, some under the shade of large Crepe Myrtle trees with coolers and a radio blaring a soul station, others sweating it out playing basketball in the bright afternoon sun.
Once inside the new museum, we joined participants, taking chairs in one of the small circles already occupied with a black man and woman. A younger white woman soon joined us and we were complete.
Like many facilitated discussions I've attended at the Valentine, the idea was to get us talking, first in our small groups, then together as a larger whole. A few rules- let one person speak at a time, use "I" not "you," but most importantly, "lean into discomfort."
About damn time.
The first questions involved our names and their significance, a subject that provided more fodder for discussion than you might thing.
When asked how many people have had their name mispronounced in their life, probanly close to 90% of the room raised their hand. My name is too basic for that, so I was one of the holdouts.
A woman in the back raised her hand and talked about frequent garbling of her names. "We took phonics out of learning years ago and it messed up the whole world!" she said. Preach it, sister.
Another woman said she'd married a Bobbit, with all the baggage that brought, and a round of laughter erupted. I looked at the young woman in my group and leaned over to ask her if she knew the reference. She didn't.
He was the first man most people read about whose wife had lopped off his member, I explained as her eyes grew wide. We elders have to pass on our knowledge to the young.
Moving through questions and discussions, it was startling to hear some of the stories. One man recalled confusion as a child about the races. "But, Daddy, that man ain't white, he's Jewish!" One woman told of her father having to pay a poll tax to vote. A SW Virginia resident said the KKK is still very active near where she lives today.
And it wasn't just native Richmonders, either. There were people who came up in the Bronx, Queens, Bed-Stuy and the southside of Chicago, all with interesting experiences when it came to race. One woman spoke of a brother who consistently broke the law, disrespected policemen and never got in any real trouble. Because he was white.
"White privilege means getting second chances," one white woman succinctly said.
After brainstorming how to move forward collectively, we cleared the room, so session number two could convene. It's a start and that's something.
The only logical thing to do was to march our privileged white butts over to the Basement to participate in their "Haikus for Change: Poetry to your legislators" event. I'd already scribbled out a first effort and I talked Mac through creating her own as we walked over to Third.
I was inspired by the scene- some people were being filmed reading their haikus, others quietly writing on the carpet or at high-top tables. All purposeful. I wrote my haiku on a sheet of paper and then wrote another. Name and address of registered voter. Boom. Done.
Seventeen simple syllables each about things that matter to me. They're graciously taking care of the enveloping and mailing to our lawmakers.
We, the people, right? Emphasis on "We."
By the time I got the notification about the RVA Roundtable on Race, it was full. I felt lame until reading that it filled up in less than an hour. My name went on the waiting list, along with enough others that a second session was scheduled.
My fist thought was to invite Mac to join me since we'd just been discussing this subject a few nights ago. What are inherently privileged white women going to do to make things better? Both of us were willing to join a roomful of strangers to find out.
We set out from my house, she with a fetching straw hat and me with an umbrella, intent on joining Stoplight Gelato for today's grand opening celebration. This long-time J-Ward resident has had to schlep to Carytown for ten years for her ice cream fix.
No more. Love you, Bev's, but sometimes a girl only wants to walk three blocks for frozen dairy product.
The place was bustling, the case full of appealingly rich-looking gelato and within no time, a tiny woman came over to thank us for stopping by. I reversed the thanks, happy to have a source in the 'hood. And unlike some places, portions are sized right, prices are just as fitting and the place oozes charm.
I got a cup of mint chip with chocolate bourbon sauce and Mac went with a sugar cone of coconut to enjoy as we sauntered over to the Black History Museum and Cultural Center for the roundtable, passing by the usual Sunday neighborhood characters in place, some under the shade of large Crepe Myrtle trees with coolers and a radio blaring a soul station, others sweating it out playing basketball in the bright afternoon sun.
Once inside the new museum, we joined participants, taking chairs in one of the small circles already occupied with a black man and woman. A younger white woman soon joined us and we were complete.
Like many facilitated discussions I've attended at the Valentine, the idea was to get us talking, first in our small groups, then together as a larger whole. A few rules- let one person speak at a time, use "I" not "you," but most importantly, "lean into discomfort."
About damn time.
The first questions involved our names and their significance, a subject that provided more fodder for discussion than you might thing.
When asked how many people have had their name mispronounced in their life, probanly close to 90% of the room raised their hand. My name is too basic for that, so I was one of the holdouts.
A woman in the back raised her hand and talked about frequent garbling of her names. "We took phonics out of learning years ago and it messed up the whole world!" she said. Preach it, sister.
Another woman said she'd married a Bobbit, with all the baggage that brought, and a round of laughter erupted. I looked at the young woman in my group and leaned over to ask her if she knew the reference. She didn't.
He was the first man most people read about whose wife had lopped off his member, I explained as her eyes grew wide. We elders have to pass on our knowledge to the young.
Moving through questions and discussions, it was startling to hear some of the stories. One man recalled confusion as a child about the races. "But, Daddy, that man ain't white, he's Jewish!" One woman told of her father having to pay a poll tax to vote. A SW Virginia resident said the KKK is still very active near where she lives today.
And it wasn't just native Richmonders, either. There were people who came up in the Bronx, Queens, Bed-Stuy and the southside of Chicago, all with interesting experiences when it came to race. One woman spoke of a brother who consistently broke the law, disrespected policemen and never got in any real trouble. Because he was white.
"White privilege means getting second chances," one white woman succinctly said.
After brainstorming how to move forward collectively, we cleared the room, so session number two could convene. It's a start and that's something.
The only logical thing to do was to march our privileged white butts over to the Basement to participate in their "Haikus for Change: Poetry to your legislators" event. I'd already scribbled out a first effort and I talked Mac through creating her own as we walked over to Third.
I was inspired by the scene- some people were being filmed reading their haikus, others quietly writing on the carpet or at high-top tables. All purposeful. I wrote my haiku on a sheet of paper and then wrote another. Name and address of registered voter. Boom. Done.
Seventeen simple syllables each about things that matter to me. They're graciously taking care of the enveloping and mailing to our lawmakers.
We, the people, right? Emphasis on "We."
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