Don't tell me what the poets are doing, especially now that the Tragically Hip have played their final show.
Don't go anywhere near campus unless you're prepared to experience the larva stage of the class of 2020 working their way out of the cocoon. These fresh recruits - un-tattooed, unable to navigate street crossings alone, un-pierced, unaware of how boldly they stand out - will burn your corneas.
Between Broad and Grove on Harrison this evening, I passed a woman in hip-hugger bell bottoms complete with studded leather belt, cropped jean jacket and cropped white shirt, a vast expanse of midriff reminiscent of the Britney Spears era glaring white in the late day sun.
Then there was the blond California girl type in cut-offs so short you could see the half moon crescents of her bottom airing out with each long-legged stride.
Mark my words: by the winter holidays, both of these girls will have moved beyond these ensembles to something more befitting Richmond's arty college city aesthetic. They will eventually look back in amazement at how they dressed early on.
Don't expect me to agree enthusiastically about how wonderful this weather is just because the humidity is way down and the high temperature was barely mid-80s. To people like me, this weather feels like Fall and I am not the slightest bit ready for Fall.
Not even a little.
Don't be surprised when you hear from your oldest and best friend after years of radio silence and you find that she's still the same yin to your yang she was when you first met in college. Just to be sure, I check her vitals.
And, yes, I still get wet when a souped-up Stingray or Mustang goes by. Love you.
That's my girl.
Don't take me to My Noodle & Bar and complain they we ordered too much food (no one ever says that about the wine, do they?). Two appetizers - pork dumplings and tempura shrimp and vegetables - and four entrees should be doable for four people.
And while I managed to lick the plate of my broccoli and chicken in brown sauce, not another entree was polished off, leaving me to accept who the hearty eater in this group is.
For that matter, don't tell someone who doesn't like staying on the oceanfront that he's invited to your oceanfront cottage next August, because he'll refuse you (I saw it happen). But ask me, an oceanfront devotee, and I'll give you my RSVP immediately.
Outdoor shower, enormous L-shaped deck facing the ocean? Oh, yes, I'll be there, for as long as you"ll have me.
Hilariously and unexpectedly, my acceptance changes everything. Even someone who prefers to reside a bit further back can't stand the thought that I might get yet another shot at beach time, causing him to decide he will come after all. Should be a great rotating party with guests coming and going all week.
Wow, by then I'll be agog again witnessing the incoming class of 2021. Tragic, perhaps. Hip? Unlikely.
Here's to a whole lot of poetry and ocean time before then.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Going to the Rec
Jackson Ward, the more I get to know you, the more crazy about you I am.
While today was officially my second visit to the new Black History Museum located in the former colored troops' armory, it was my first actually taking in the exhibits, although the upstairs galleries were closed because they're installing the next temporary exhibition right now.
A small group of people who'd arrived just before I did joined me to watch a 30-minute film about the neighborhood narrated by people who'd resided, gone to school and lived their full lives here.
Several of them recalled when the armory had been used as a rec center and enlargements of old black and white photos on the wall spoke to the nights it became a destination for mixers, socials and dances, with the women wearing stylish '40s and '50s strapless dresses with full skirts and tulle petticoats.
One woman recalled growing up on St. James Street, skating the block and playing outside all day with the dozens of other children who lived there, while mothers carried out their domestic duties indoors.
Another talked about what a big deal it had been to him when Armstrong High School had gotten a black principal. Oliver Hill, Jr. recalled seeing his mother walking a picket line to integrate Miller and Rhoads' tearoom.
But my favorite source was the man who ticked off where the businesses of life used to sit in J-Ward. He said there were two grocers, one at Clay and Prentice (a street I've never even heard of) and one at Brook and Clay.
Given what I know about Brook Road's legacy as a shopping route for farmers in the county, I wasn't at all surprised that Brook and Clay was also the site of Max's Drug Store (as opposed to Standard Drug at First and Broad), John D's Bar, Cameron's Service Station and Hall's Bar, the latter a tad further up on Brook.
This guy reminisced about taking dates to High's Ice Cream Shop at Second and Clay after church services. Several people mentioned Ebenezer Baptist and Sixth Mt. Zion as hubs of local activity.
Hill, who'd been part of the integration of Chandler Middle School, remembered being appalled at then-Virginia social studies textbooks, which portrayed slavery as a benign institution where everyone was just one big happy family.
Right, except some members of the family were bought and paid for.
Walking out of the auditorium after the film, one of the men looked up at the ceiling and said, "This used to be my old gym."
As I was soon to learn in the galleries, the armory had been converted to Monroe Elementary for colored kids in 1898, used as housing and a recreation center for black troops during WW II and used by various schools for its gym and facilities after that.
Many of the displays are touch screen, using old photographs, prints and drawings along with narrative to explain important eras: Emancipation, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, Massive Resistance and Civil Rights, although being of an age, I'd just as soon look at the objects framed on the wall as on a lighted screen,
Let's face it, few things resonate the same on a screen as the actual object does. Looking at a leather slave collar with metal rings and a lock is a far more visceral (and disturbing) experience and one I agreed was best seen in real life.
Lean in when it gets uncomfortable, that's the advice I took away from the race relations round table discussion I went to at this very building last month.
But photo choices were strong, too, like the one of a black man with his toddler on his shoulders holding a protest sign reading, "President Johnson, Go to Selma NOW!" which spoke volumes compared to the picture of white kids protesting busing on Franklin Street in 1970, looking like petulant racists-in-the-making.
One thing that stood out about the Civil Rights era scenes was how nicely dressed the protesters were. The male VUU students at the sit-in at Woolworth's lunch counter wore overcoats and hats. You don't even see that at the symphony or opera anymore.
In the word nerd category, I was delighted to discover that J-Ward once had a resident and business owner (a shoe store at 506 E. Broad) at the turn of the century named St. James Gilpin, whose name wound up both on a street and public housing.
I wasn't entirely surprised to learn that a mailman named Victor Green had written something called the "Green Book for Black Travelers," listing out by location beauty salons, night clubs, restaurants, service stations and lodging that welcomed (rather than embarrassed or refused service to) black customers.
That said, I was incredulous that the book was still being printed as late as 1966. Except I shouldn't have been because of a story I'd heard at a history lecture a while back.
When LBJ and Lady Bird moved into the White House, they needed someone to drive their beagles from Texas to Washington and the black staffer they asked to do it expressed concern about where along the route would be safe and willing to lodge a black man, much less a black man with beagles.
So 1966, yea, our ugly past really is as unfortunately recent as that.
But what the galleries at the beautifully renovated Black History Museum really demonstrate is what a rich neighborhood I live in and how important it is to acknowledge the people, buildings and businesses that helped shape the fabric of Richmond.
I may be nothing more than one tiny little thread in that, but hearing the stories and seeing the photographs seems like a most excellent way to begin the leaning-in process.
Jackson Ward for the win.
While today was officially my second visit to the new Black History Museum located in the former colored troops' armory, it was my first actually taking in the exhibits, although the upstairs galleries were closed because they're installing the next temporary exhibition right now.
A small group of people who'd arrived just before I did joined me to watch a 30-minute film about the neighborhood narrated by people who'd resided, gone to school and lived their full lives here.
Several of them recalled when the armory had been used as a rec center and enlargements of old black and white photos on the wall spoke to the nights it became a destination for mixers, socials and dances, with the women wearing stylish '40s and '50s strapless dresses with full skirts and tulle petticoats.
One woman recalled growing up on St. James Street, skating the block and playing outside all day with the dozens of other children who lived there, while mothers carried out their domestic duties indoors.
Another talked about what a big deal it had been to him when Armstrong High School had gotten a black principal. Oliver Hill, Jr. recalled seeing his mother walking a picket line to integrate Miller and Rhoads' tearoom.
But my favorite source was the man who ticked off where the businesses of life used to sit in J-Ward. He said there were two grocers, one at Clay and Prentice (a street I've never even heard of) and one at Brook and Clay.
Given what I know about Brook Road's legacy as a shopping route for farmers in the county, I wasn't at all surprised that Brook and Clay was also the site of Max's Drug Store (as opposed to Standard Drug at First and Broad), John D's Bar, Cameron's Service Station and Hall's Bar, the latter a tad further up on Brook.
This guy reminisced about taking dates to High's Ice Cream Shop at Second and Clay after church services. Several people mentioned Ebenezer Baptist and Sixth Mt. Zion as hubs of local activity.
Hill, who'd been part of the integration of Chandler Middle School, remembered being appalled at then-Virginia social studies textbooks, which portrayed slavery as a benign institution where everyone was just one big happy family.
Right, except some members of the family were bought and paid for.
Walking out of the auditorium after the film, one of the men looked up at the ceiling and said, "This used to be my old gym."
As I was soon to learn in the galleries, the armory had been converted to Monroe Elementary for colored kids in 1898, used as housing and a recreation center for black troops during WW II and used by various schools for its gym and facilities after that.
Many of the displays are touch screen, using old photographs, prints and drawings along with narrative to explain important eras: Emancipation, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, Massive Resistance and Civil Rights, although being of an age, I'd just as soon look at the objects framed on the wall as on a lighted screen,
Let's face it, few things resonate the same on a screen as the actual object does. Looking at a leather slave collar with metal rings and a lock is a far more visceral (and disturbing) experience and one I agreed was best seen in real life.
Lean in when it gets uncomfortable, that's the advice I took away from the race relations round table discussion I went to at this very building last month.
But photo choices were strong, too, like the one of a black man with his toddler on his shoulders holding a protest sign reading, "President Johnson, Go to Selma NOW!" which spoke volumes compared to the picture of white kids protesting busing on Franklin Street in 1970, looking like petulant racists-in-the-making.
One thing that stood out about the Civil Rights era scenes was how nicely dressed the protesters were. The male VUU students at the sit-in at Woolworth's lunch counter wore overcoats and hats. You don't even see that at the symphony or opera anymore.
In the word nerd category, I was delighted to discover that J-Ward once had a resident and business owner (a shoe store at 506 E. Broad) at the turn of the century named St. James Gilpin, whose name wound up both on a street and public housing.
I wasn't entirely surprised to learn that a mailman named Victor Green had written something called the "Green Book for Black Travelers," listing out by location beauty salons, night clubs, restaurants, service stations and lodging that welcomed (rather than embarrassed or refused service to) black customers.
That said, I was incredulous that the book was still being printed as late as 1966. Except I shouldn't have been because of a story I'd heard at a history lecture a while back.
When LBJ and Lady Bird moved into the White House, they needed someone to drive their beagles from Texas to Washington and the black staffer they asked to do it expressed concern about where along the route would be safe and willing to lodge a black man, much less a black man with beagles.
So 1966, yea, our ugly past really is as unfortunately recent as that.
But what the galleries at the beautifully renovated Black History Museum really demonstrate is what a rich neighborhood I live in and how important it is to acknowledge the people, buildings and businesses that helped shape the fabric of Richmond.
I may be nothing more than one tiny little thread in that, but hearing the stories and seeing the photographs seems like a most excellent way to begin the leaning-in process.
Jackson Ward for the win.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Moment of Truth
You know how it feels when you lose somebody you cared about deeply, someone you thought was the one?
Yea, well, Billy Christopher Maupin knows that feeling, too, only he's got a far better singing voice than you do and he's a whiz at mining soundtracks for musical gems to tell the highs and lows of trying to navigate the world once you've been smitten.
So quit yer whining.
The Camel was the setting for his cabaret, "This Fish Needs a Bicycle," an evening of history ("I was a virgin until I was 19"), self-reflection (resolving to be okay with being single) and observation ("I'm always hitting on straight guys"), accompanied by Tristan on guitar and Joshua on keyboards, punctuated by show tunes and obscure character-driven songs.
Occasionally a random dancer appeared to great effect, like when long-legged Emily began shimmying to "Sister Kate" right up the aisles between the tables to the stage.
As long as they were songs about missin' a feller, lovin' a man or muddlin' through heartache, he was all over it while nattily clad in a red blazer, black shirt and cuffed pants.
Barefoot, naturally.
From Oklahoma's "I Can't Say No" to a torch song such as "The Man I Love" to "Down With Love," with a Cher imitation (not just voice, but hair flipping as well) smack dab in the middle of a killer medley, it was pretty easy to see where this boy had channeled his feelings after his last big romance had ended.
Acknowledging his constant companion, stage fright, he promised to do one more song before the break, during which we were instructed to get a drink, order some dessert and avail ourselves of the bathroom, which he also planned to do.
Just as he was about to hop off the stage, he realized his error, sheepishly saying, "Oh, yea, the song."
Of course he'd told us about the romance that had spawned the evening earlier, because that's what lovesick people do after they call the whole thing off.
But their heart will go on, and in this case that meant the trio returned after a break (BC in a different blazer) only to start, stop and restart a song before realizing that their juju was off. "Okay, I'm just gonna go out and come in again," he said and once he did, all was well in the world of sung emotions.
BC brought up acoustic guitarist Psalm Swarr because at his request, she'd written a song about his breakup, telling him if he didn't want it, she'd sing it herself. Between Tristan's slide guitar and his harmonizing with Psalm and Emily, the heartbreaking song was rendered achingly.
There were songs about why people fall in love (can you say hormones? how about convenience?), future chances and endless optimism.
Things got a little emotional when he talked about getting really good at "hiding from life," but he also shared his attack plan: (F*ck that!" with enthusiasm), simultaneously citing Auntie Mame's advice abut life being a banquet while letting drop that Mame was one of his dream roles.
It never hurts to let people know what you want, said every kvetching mother ever.
When he came back for an encore, he asked the sell-out crowd, "One more?" and someone yelled out, "Ten more!" just before someone else laughing instructed, "Calm down there!"
Reaching in for a prime nugget with which to close the well-sung show, he pulled out Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Something Good" from "Sound of Music" and performed it like his life depended upon it.
Or at least his heart. The good news, he'd already sung, is that love is going around, heck, it's practically in the air.
Best to keep your resistance low.
Yea, well, Billy Christopher Maupin knows that feeling, too, only he's got a far better singing voice than you do and he's a whiz at mining soundtracks for musical gems to tell the highs and lows of trying to navigate the world once you've been smitten.
So quit yer whining.
The Camel was the setting for his cabaret, "This Fish Needs a Bicycle," an evening of history ("I was a virgin until I was 19"), self-reflection (resolving to be okay with being single) and observation ("I'm always hitting on straight guys"), accompanied by Tristan on guitar and Joshua on keyboards, punctuated by show tunes and obscure character-driven songs.
Occasionally a random dancer appeared to great effect, like when long-legged Emily began shimmying to "Sister Kate" right up the aisles between the tables to the stage.
As long as they were songs about missin' a feller, lovin' a man or muddlin' through heartache, he was all over it while nattily clad in a red blazer, black shirt and cuffed pants.
Barefoot, naturally.
From Oklahoma's "I Can't Say No" to a torch song such as "The Man I Love" to "Down With Love," with a Cher imitation (not just voice, but hair flipping as well) smack dab in the middle of a killer medley, it was pretty easy to see where this boy had channeled his feelings after his last big romance had ended.
Acknowledging his constant companion, stage fright, he promised to do one more song before the break, during which we were instructed to get a drink, order some dessert and avail ourselves of the bathroom, which he also planned to do.
Just as he was about to hop off the stage, he realized his error, sheepishly saying, "Oh, yea, the song."
Of course he'd told us about the romance that had spawned the evening earlier, because that's what lovesick people do after they call the whole thing off.
But their heart will go on, and in this case that meant the trio returned after a break (BC in a different blazer) only to start, stop and restart a song before realizing that their juju was off. "Okay, I'm just gonna go out and come in again," he said and once he did, all was well in the world of sung emotions.
BC brought up acoustic guitarist Psalm Swarr because at his request, she'd written a song about his breakup, telling him if he didn't want it, she'd sing it herself. Between Tristan's slide guitar and his harmonizing with Psalm and Emily, the heartbreaking song was rendered achingly.
There were songs about why people fall in love (can you say hormones? how about convenience?), future chances and endless optimism.
Things got a little emotional when he talked about getting really good at "hiding from life," but he also shared his attack plan: (F*ck that!" with enthusiasm), simultaneously citing Auntie Mame's advice abut life being a banquet while letting drop that Mame was one of his dream roles.
It never hurts to let people know what you want, said every kvetching mother ever.
When he came back for an encore, he asked the sell-out crowd, "One more?" and someone yelled out, "Ten more!" just before someone else laughing instructed, "Calm down there!"
Reaching in for a prime nugget with which to close the well-sung show, he pulled out Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Something Good" from "Sound of Music" and performed it like his life depended upon it.
Or at least his heart. The good news, he'd already sung, is that love is going around, heck, it's practically in the air.
Best to keep your resistance low.
Moaning and Needing
The young handsome friend put it best: "You had me at Loire."
Admitting that his top three wine regions are Loire, Rhone and Piemonte, he was one of six who said yes to joining me at Camden's for a Loire wine dinner with echoes of my summer vacation there just last month.
Man, a lot's happened since then.
Oysters Chenonceau - fried local oysters over corn cakes with housemade ham and sage aioli - kicked things off with Grenadiere Muuscadet 2014, but in my mind, I was back at Chenonceau looking out a castle window to see a stand-up paddleboarder working his way down the river toward me.
I was happy to hear Holmes let slip that while combing the stacks of his vinyl collection recently, "Valley of the Dolls" fell out of the stack. That's the kind of unexpected treasure he doesn't want us to know he has, but will no doubt launch our next record-listening party.
The prize for the freshest-tasting course went to Cherrier Menetou Salon paired with house-cured (not smoked) salmon with a killer gremolata that made the wine and fish sing and Gruyere crisps.
For entertainment value between courses and knowing full well I'd shock the table, I shared my day spent deep in the bowels of the West End at Bugstock, leading to a discussion of how un-developed the East End is despite its proximity to downtown.
Holmes knew why. "I tried living in Varina and there was absolutely nothing to do. Nothing," he informed us, although that was 1974, so surely it was even less desirable then. Still, I gave him points for trying to be a pioneer.
The next wine - Pierne Prieur Sancerre Rose - was deemed the holy grail, partially because two of my female friends had never had a Sancerre Rose (Beloved was actually moaning while the Lovely One summed it up with, "I need more Roses like this").
Don't we all?
We lapped it up happily with a charcuterie plate heavy with housemade country pate, local prosciutto, housemade pastrami and pork confit, leading to spirited conversation about mustard's place at the pinnacle of the condiment pyramid. I even overheard whispering about a mustard museum.
The chef instructed our table sotto voice not to eat all our food with the Rose because we were being treated to a bonus secret wine he had received in error from a trip to Chateau de Miniere.
Bulles de Miniere Rouge was a gloriously fruity dry, dark red sparkling wine that immediately enraptured the handsome one, especially with the confit, and turned off Pru who generally loves anything French. Go figure.
Vacations were a big topic between courses, so we heard about an upcoming Las Vegas adventure (Penn & Teller and rock climbing), a Northern Neck getaway to replace one abruptly canceled (two meals already planned) and the trip that had me pea green with envy (not that I wouldn't have loved either of the others as well): four weeks in South Africa over the winter holidays.
Sigh.
Plates of roasted lamb lollipops atop fingerling sweet potatoes (a new obsession for me) with a salty tapenade to complete the sweet/salty dynamic accompanied by St. Nicolas de Bourgueil l'Elegante 2012 and my plate was notable because I had an extra pop to make up for being inadvertently shorted on the charcuterie.
And, really, can a girl ever have too many lamb lollipops?
The wine, made with 25-year old vines, got us reminiscing about how when Beau had joined our group, he'd been a California Cabernet Sauvignon kind of a drinker. "But I learned the error of my ways," he admitted bravely, but with a grin.
Holmes shocked everyone by pulling out his pocket antique collection, namely his flip phone, and sharing that it was a hand-me-down. "Why would anyone give you that phone?" Pru wanted to know, but some questions have no answers.
Others, such as, "Are you buying the Sancerre Rose?" were immediately answered with, "A lot!"
The final course - very French - was a cheese plate with herbed chevre, French 60% cream Brie, housemade farmer's cheese and the ideal sweet note, a housemade almond cookie, With those delights we sipped Domaine du Clos de L'Epinay Sparkling Vouvray, reminding me of several meals that began with these stellar Loire bubbles.
"Brie with wine and figs doesn't suck," the handsome one noted in the evening's funniest understatement.
As usual, some of the best lines of the night came courtesy of Holmes late in thewine drinking meal, as in, "Was Funky Joe ever even in a closet?" I'd like to say I recall the answer, but it may have been swallowed up by the table's laughter.
Which is exactly why I usually have my friends at "wine dinner." Loire was just icing on the cake.
Admitting that his top three wine regions are Loire, Rhone and Piemonte, he was one of six who said yes to joining me at Camden's for a Loire wine dinner with echoes of my summer vacation there just last month.
Man, a lot's happened since then.
Oysters Chenonceau - fried local oysters over corn cakes with housemade ham and sage aioli - kicked things off with Grenadiere Muuscadet 2014, but in my mind, I was back at Chenonceau looking out a castle window to see a stand-up paddleboarder working his way down the river toward me.
I was happy to hear Holmes let slip that while combing the stacks of his vinyl collection recently, "Valley of the Dolls" fell out of the stack. That's the kind of unexpected treasure he doesn't want us to know he has, but will no doubt launch our next record-listening party.
The prize for the freshest-tasting course went to Cherrier Menetou Salon paired with house-cured (not smoked) salmon with a killer gremolata that made the wine and fish sing and Gruyere crisps.
For entertainment value between courses and knowing full well I'd shock the table, I shared my day spent deep in the bowels of the West End at Bugstock, leading to a discussion of how un-developed the East End is despite its proximity to downtown.
Holmes knew why. "I tried living in Varina and there was absolutely nothing to do. Nothing," he informed us, although that was 1974, so surely it was even less desirable then. Still, I gave him points for trying to be a pioneer.
The next wine - Pierne Prieur Sancerre Rose - was deemed the holy grail, partially because two of my female friends had never had a Sancerre Rose (Beloved was actually moaning while the Lovely One summed it up with, "I need more Roses like this").
Don't we all?
We lapped it up happily with a charcuterie plate heavy with housemade country pate, local prosciutto, housemade pastrami and pork confit, leading to spirited conversation about mustard's place at the pinnacle of the condiment pyramid. I even overheard whispering about a mustard museum.
The chef instructed our table sotto voice not to eat all our food with the Rose because we were being treated to a bonus secret wine he had received in error from a trip to Chateau de Miniere.
Bulles de Miniere Rouge was a gloriously fruity dry, dark red sparkling wine that immediately enraptured the handsome one, especially with the confit, and turned off Pru who generally loves anything French. Go figure.
Vacations were a big topic between courses, so we heard about an upcoming Las Vegas adventure (Penn & Teller and rock climbing), a Northern Neck getaway to replace one abruptly canceled (two meals already planned) and the trip that had me pea green with envy (not that I wouldn't have loved either of the others as well): four weeks in South Africa over the winter holidays.
Sigh.
Plates of roasted lamb lollipops atop fingerling sweet potatoes (a new obsession for me) with a salty tapenade to complete the sweet/salty dynamic accompanied by St. Nicolas de Bourgueil l'Elegante 2012 and my plate was notable because I had an extra pop to make up for being inadvertently shorted on the charcuterie.
And, really, can a girl ever have too many lamb lollipops?
The wine, made with 25-year old vines, got us reminiscing about how when Beau had joined our group, he'd been a California Cabernet Sauvignon kind of a drinker. "But I learned the error of my ways," he admitted bravely, but with a grin.
Holmes shocked everyone by pulling out his pocket antique collection, namely his flip phone, and sharing that it was a hand-me-down. "Why would anyone give you that phone?" Pru wanted to know, but some questions have no answers.
Others, such as, "Are you buying the Sancerre Rose?" were immediately answered with, "A lot!"
The final course - very French - was a cheese plate with herbed chevre, French 60% cream Brie, housemade farmer's cheese and the ideal sweet note, a housemade almond cookie, With those delights we sipped Domaine du Clos de L'Epinay Sparkling Vouvray, reminding me of several meals that began with these stellar Loire bubbles.
"Brie with wine and figs doesn't suck," the handsome one noted in the evening's funniest understatement.
As usual, some of the best lines of the night came courtesy of Holmes late in the
Which is exactly why I usually have my friends at "wine dinner." Loire was just icing on the cake.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Now and Zen
Cue Todd Rundgren's "We Gotta Get You a Woman" to set the scene (which, incidentally, the DJ did play).
Now imagine a field full of vintage Volkswagens, mostly Beetles, but rounded out by dune buggies, campers, Rabbits and, amazingly enough, the front of two Cabriolets welded together so there were two separate front seats/dashboards/steering wheels/hoods, each facing the opposite direction.
Crazy, man.
As you might guess, I didn't find this land of the mellow anywhere near home, but somewhere out in Henrico County that took me deep into the land of endless planned communities, mega churches that gleamed with newness and high schools on steroids: Twin Hickory Park.
But I'll come clean here: I'd have driven in any direction for Bugstock 2: Deja Vu.
My youth was completely in bed with the German car makers, meaning I went in hopes of seeing Bugs of my past. And did I ever.
There was an eye shadow blue '70 Karmann Ghia, impossibly shiny and pristine, that reminded me of my first boyfriend's father's car. His Dad was a writer, a glamorous profession in my eyes, but he was also a populist, so it only seemed right that he drove a sporty car of the people, albeit a more sedate mustard yellow.
A VW Bus with louvered windows, a Humphrey/Muskie bumper sticker (1968, kids, look it up) and another that read, "!Just go around!" brought back that week after my car died and before I bought another, during which a friend loaned me his Bus. I loved the high perch, but always felt like I was going to topple on curves.
It was weird sticking my head into a mint green 1966 Beetle, only to get a noseful of new leather (pleather?) instead of the requisite vaguely moldy smell that every VW I ever owned (there were four) and every VW I ever rode in (too many to count) wafted from deep in its leaky recesses.
While Jefferson Airplane played, I admired a bright red '70 Beetle, the same color as my boyfriend's Bug, the car I learned to drive on. Or, more accurately, the car I learned to pop the clutch on coasting downhill.
Whatever works.
The Bug owners at Bugstock 2 were into it, with lots of vintage luggage (my favorite was three matched red leather suitcases atop a roof rack), lunch baskets - both wicker and red plaid - and thermoses (think Coleman, Vagabond and, yes, Thermos brand) inside and on top.
Tied for most surprising to me were a '68 VW Woody with a back window that looked like a ship's window (VW made Woodys? Where was I?) and a tan'57 Beetle sedan with a metal tube-like "thermador car cooler" attached to the passenger window. A fellow Bug fan informed me it was a primitive air conditioning device.
Most disjointed was seeing a 2016 Jetta, so far removed from my five-speed '84 Jetta as to be completely unrecognizable. One of the rarer cars was a '67 red convertible Cabriolet because VW had only made that particular model that year.
And, then, cue singing angels, like Venus rising from a clam shell, there she was. My car.
Well, not my car exactly, but a '66 blue Beetle identical to the one I'd bought for $600 (financed through my local Citizens Bank of Maryland), driven with abandon, with the same windshield where I'd discovered anonymous poetry and mash notes and then mourned when it was cruelly stolen from my apartment parking lot.
Except the one today was way shinier and better kept-up than mine had ever been.
I couldn't help but communicate my excitement to the owner, who completely understood because his first car had also been a blue '66 Bug, hence the purchase. When I commented about some of the new car smell VWs I'd been disappointed by, he chuckled and said, "If you're into moldy car smells, stick your nose in there."
Into? Well, not into, just...deep breath, ahhhh, yes, that's the ticket.
I told him that part of the reason for the damp smell in my VW had been the green metal window box full of plants I grew in the well behind the back seats, using the back window like a greenhouse. Pretty groovy, eh?
Let's just say he was impressed. "You don't look like you were from the Flower Child era," he said. We bought our Bugs a year apart, it turns out. I could drive this car blindfolded, I assured him. Know all the parts.
Kindred souls about the car that shaped us both, we just kept walking around it and discussing all the memories. Really, I was trying to walk away, but it was hard. Finally, I pulled out my digital camera and asked him to take a picture of me in front of my youth.
"Oh, wow, one of these!" he exclaimed as if I'd just pulled out a Brownie camera. He couldn't make it work, so instead he offered to use his phone. Feeling nervy, I asked if I could sit in the driver's seat for the photo.
Just as he's setting up the shot, a woman walks by and says, "That's going to be a great picture. It looks like a magazine cover the way her shirt matches her lipstick in that blue car!" My only regret was that my new cut-offs (the first I've worn since that era) were inside the car.
He took a couple while I got reacquainted with the angle of my arm and hand on the gearshift and the all too familiar dash board.
Sliding out with the muscle memory of youth, I thought it was finally time to introduce myself given his kindness, offer up my email so he could send me the pictures and thank him profusely for making my day.
His face lit up. "My wife had something else going on today, so I'm going to show her this and say, look what happens when you're not here," he joked. I hope she laughs and I hope he sends me the photos.
My parting shot was reminding him that my stolen blue Bug could have had a crazy life before ending up being restored and sold to him three years ago and wouldn't that be seriously poetic?
Kind of like time traveling to the '70s, going to a park in your cut-offs and rediscovering a relic of your youth.
You have no idea how much I can dig it.
Now imagine a field full of vintage Volkswagens, mostly Beetles, but rounded out by dune buggies, campers, Rabbits and, amazingly enough, the front of two Cabriolets welded together so there were two separate front seats/dashboards/steering wheels/hoods, each facing the opposite direction.
Crazy, man.
As you might guess, I didn't find this land of the mellow anywhere near home, but somewhere out in Henrico County that took me deep into the land of endless planned communities, mega churches that gleamed with newness and high schools on steroids: Twin Hickory Park.
But I'll come clean here: I'd have driven in any direction for Bugstock 2: Deja Vu.
My youth was completely in bed with the German car makers, meaning I went in hopes of seeing Bugs of my past. And did I ever.
There was an eye shadow blue '70 Karmann Ghia, impossibly shiny and pristine, that reminded me of my first boyfriend's father's car. His Dad was a writer, a glamorous profession in my eyes, but he was also a populist, so it only seemed right that he drove a sporty car of the people, albeit a more sedate mustard yellow.
A VW Bus with louvered windows, a Humphrey/Muskie bumper sticker (1968, kids, look it up) and another that read, "!Just go around!" brought back that week after my car died and before I bought another, during which a friend loaned me his Bus. I loved the high perch, but always felt like I was going to topple on curves.
It was weird sticking my head into a mint green 1966 Beetle, only to get a noseful of new leather (pleather?) instead of the requisite vaguely moldy smell that every VW I ever owned (there were four) and every VW I ever rode in (too many to count) wafted from deep in its leaky recesses.
While Jefferson Airplane played, I admired a bright red '70 Beetle, the same color as my boyfriend's Bug, the car I learned to drive on. Or, more accurately, the car I learned to pop the clutch on coasting downhill.
Whatever works.
The Bug owners at Bugstock 2 were into it, with lots of vintage luggage (my favorite was three matched red leather suitcases atop a roof rack), lunch baskets - both wicker and red plaid - and thermoses (think Coleman, Vagabond and, yes, Thermos brand) inside and on top.
Tied for most surprising to me were a '68 VW Woody with a back window that looked like a ship's window (VW made Woodys? Where was I?) and a tan'57 Beetle sedan with a metal tube-like "thermador car cooler" attached to the passenger window. A fellow Bug fan informed me it was a primitive air conditioning device.
Most disjointed was seeing a 2016 Jetta, so far removed from my five-speed '84 Jetta as to be completely unrecognizable. One of the rarer cars was a '67 red convertible Cabriolet because VW had only made that particular model that year.
And, then, cue singing angels, like Venus rising from a clam shell, there she was. My car.
Well, not my car exactly, but a '66 blue Beetle identical to the one I'd bought for $600 (financed through my local Citizens Bank of Maryland), driven with abandon, with the same windshield where I'd discovered anonymous poetry and mash notes and then mourned when it was cruelly stolen from my apartment parking lot.
Except the one today was way shinier and better kept-up than mine had ever been.
I couldn't help but communicate my excitement to the owner, who completely understood because his first car had also been a blue '66 Bug, hence the purchase. When I commented about some of the new car smell VWs I'd been disappointed by, he chuckled and said, "If you're into moldy car smells, stick your nose in there."
Into? Well, not into, just...deep breath, ahhhh, yes, that's the ticket.
I told him that part of the reason for the damp smell in my VW had been the green metal window box full of plants I grew in the well behind the back seats, using the back window like a greenhouse. Pretty groovy, eh?
Let's just say he was impressed. "You don't look like you were from the Flower Child era," he said. We bought our Bugs a year apart, it turns out. I could drive this car blindfolded, I assured him. Know all the parts.
Kindred souls about the car that shaped us both, we just kept walking around it and discussing all the memories. Really, I was trying to walk away, but it was hard. Finally, I pulled out my digital camera and asked him to take a picture of me in front of my youth.
"Oh, wow, one of these!" he exclaimed as if I'd just pulled out a Brownie camera. He couldn't make it work, so instead he offered to use his phone. Feeling nervy, I asked if I could sit in the driver's seat for the photo.
Just as he's setting up the shot, a woman walks by and says, "That's going to be a great picture. It looks like a magazine cover the way her shirt matches her lipstick in that blue car!" My only regret was that my new cut-offs (the first I've worn since that era) were inside the car.
He took a couple while I got reacquainted with the angle of my arm and hand on the gearshift and the all too familiar dash board.
Sliding out with the muscle memory of youth, I thought it was finally time to introduce myself given his kindness, offer up my email so he could send me the pictures and thank him profusely for making my day.
His face lit up. "My wife had something else going on today, so I'm going to show her this and say, look what happens when you're not here," he joked. I hope she laughs and I hope he sends me the photos.
My parting shot was reminding him that my stolen blue Bug could have had a crazy life before ending up being restored and sold to him three years ago and wouldn't that be seriously poetic?
Kind of like time traveling to the '70s, going to a park in your cut-offs and rediscovering a relic of your youth.
You have no idea how much I can dig it.
So Many Pleasant Memories
I have tonight & Friday night plans, but all other nights are wide open for drinks somewhere cool. That's the first date request. The second is a DC art date to see William Merritt Chase AND Romaine Brooks. PLEASE!
Can't wait to hear from you, sweetheart.
And I couldn't wait to say yes to a DC art date soon enough, so it was barely after 9 a.m. when my date collected me and we headed north.
Once inside the city limits of my birth place on a breezy, sunny day, good native vibrations found us a parking space a block away from the Smithsonian American Art Museum.
Waiting at a corner, an 89-year old woman got out of a car to join us in crossing the street, explaining that her husband dropped her off because he wouldn't enjoy the museum like she would. Given that she was an artist and a former docent at the museum, she was probably right.
Turns out he was her second husband anyway, the first having left her in the late '70s when that was the thing to do ("I had three friends whose husbands also just walked out"). She'd made the best of it, but it hadn't been easy and it had necessitated her compromising how much time she could devote to art.
She wished us a good visit and we took off for the third floor. Walking across a brilliantly colorful floor mosaic, a guard approached us asking where we were from. When we said Richmond, he inquired if we knew the state's three names. We didn't.
"Virginia, the Commonwealth and the white boys' state," he said unexpectedly. We were still processing that when he leaned in and said, "Now someone's coming up from Arkansas to rule us." Was this some kind of crazy Trump supporter?
"What just happened?" my date asked, as confused as I was as we scurried away. Why would a security guard be talking to us about such things? Had we crossed into the Twilight Zone and not known it?
All was right with the world the moment we stepped into "The Art of Romaine Brooks" exhibit, full of Whistler-indebted canvases in muted shades of black, white and gray portraying androgynous-looking women and well-dressed upper class lesbians of the early 20th century by an American ex-pat.
"White Azaleas" from 1910 showed a pale nude reclining on a huge couch, much like Manet's "Olympia," but bolder because it was done by a woman at a time when it was unheard of for women to assert non-traditional views of their role.
And these women depicted were completely non-traditional, I can assure you.
The show made a case for Brooks' fashionable and daring portraits of androgyny being associated with the so-called "new woman" during a time when sexually independent women projecting new and visible lesbian identities post-World War I was becoming more commonplace.
Drawings filled one gallery, all done for Brooks' unpublished memoir, to be called "No Pleasant Memories," surely the most miserable and accusatory memoir title ever, although the drawings were fascinating, often done in a single line.
There was so much estrogen in that show that you could almost feel it pulsating off the walls. We both loved it, although probably for different reasons.
Leaving the cocoon of the museum behind, we walked a few blocks to the colorful Bantam King - sibling to Daikaya - for lunch. Black and white Japanese comics on front walls, bright blue and green plastic trays on back wall and bathrooms that read, "WC: Kings, Queens, Errbody."
Best bathroom sign ever.
Our server was eager to share his spiel (and the fact that he's a finance major), disappointing us only when we learned that it was too early for fried chicken.
Not to worry, we dove into a killer starter, meatydumplings with chili oil, followed by bowls of chicken ramen. I chose miso broth loaded with dandelion greens, white onions, chili threads, soft-boiled egg and then added fresh corn while my date went with shoyu ramen, creamy with garlic and ginger.
All that was missing was a plate of fried chicken, but that's what future art dates are for, no?
From there, we motored to my old 'hood, Dupont Circle, and the William Merritt Chase retrospective at the Philips Collection in honor of the 100 year anniversary of the man's death.
Words aren't nearly good enough for the 40+ years of artistry we saw today, but I'll try.
First off, I learned that Chase and I are kindred souls on the subject of home decor. His philosophy was to think of walls as a canvas, with real life objects taking the place of color on them, something I've done for years.
With the darker palette of Frans Hals, Velazquez and Manet, Chase demonstrated his indebtedness to both Whistler and Singer Sargent in canvas after canvas as we swooned.
His portrait of Whistler as a fop had caused a rift in the men's friendship, but Edward Steichen's sumptuous sepia-toned photograph of Chase showed him to be just as big a one with a top hat, fur-trimmed overcoat, cigar and walking stick.
In a case were some of Chase's family albums, full of circa 1900s blue-tinged cynotypes of his children on the lawn and house details such as a staircase and candlelit outdoor dining table.
Behind me, a man spotted the albums and said, "These photo books look like my Mom's," and I knew before I turned around that he had to be an old duffer.
Hands down, my favorite was "The End of the Season," showing a lone woman sitting at a small wooden table on the beach near other tables, all with the chairs leaning in on the tables to signify that summer business had ceased. Down on the shore, a few people gathered.
You could almost feel her wistfulness about the change in season, a feeling I echo.
"Sunlight to Shadow" showed a well-dressed man staring into his teacup while nearby, a woman lounged in an elaborate hammock, looking away from him, the two clearly not speaking, supporting the notion that the canvas' original title had been "The Tiff."
Absolutely delightful was "Washing Day," a backyard scene of four lines covered in wet clothing with a laundry servant in a bonnet hanging more.
You could almost hear the sheets flapping in the breeze.
One of the most unique features of Chase's paintings were their unusual titles, such as "I Think I'm Ready Now," a portrait of a young woman from the back, facing a mirror. Left hip thrust out, hairbrush in hand, the train of her pink dress gathered behind her, it was obvious she rushed for no man.
Another, "May I Come In?" showed a woman in hat and muff entering from behind a door, the back of which was covered in paintings. He face reads as curious and sociable, so why wouldn't he let her come in?
Chase, we learned, was a devotee of still life paintings and considered unsurpassed in his portraits of fish, which he managed to make look believably shiny, wet and slick. The subject matter of "Just Onions" may have been lowly, but the rendering was so realistic you could almost smell them.
By the time we finished admiring and studying the 70+ works, we were both totally enthralled with what we'd seen. My only regret was that we didn't have enough time to look at it all again.
We compromised by stopping at Teaism for ginger lemonades (they'd just sold out so I tried iced mint tea while my date went with today's iced tisane, an African berry blend), along with the house specialty cookies, chunky chocolate pecan salty oat cookies, each weighing about a pound each.
"I'll never be able to finish the whole thing," my date insisted, but we sat there chatting and watching the street theater of R Street long enough that never became history.
I don't travel with those who can resist big flakes of sea salt on top of chocolate cookies.
Driving up M Street, my date pointed to 2400 and shared a story about a couple whose first apartment had been in that building. "All they had was a mattress on the floor, but the first night they were there, they laid on that mattress and watched a storm roll in through the big window."
I can see such an experience boding well for the future of the relationship.
Further down in front of the State Department, we passed Navy types - sailors in white bell bottoms and officers in tan summer uniforms - marching and chanting behind their leader up 23rd Street.
It was only once we got on 395 that we opened up the floor to new topics and my date shared a story of recently finding out that a friend and his wife had a decidedly poly-amorous bent.
The wife wanted to have an affair with a woman (who also had a wife, not to mention two other girlfriends), so husband agreed because he knew it would make her happy. That they sometimes had three ways didn't seem to bother him at all.
As you might imagine, opening a can of worms like poly-amorous relationships made for non-stop conversational fodder all the way down 95 and almost too soon, we were home, our art date a rousing success.
Now, about those drinks someplace cool...I have a few ideas.
Can't wait to hear from you, sweetheart.
And I couldn't wait to say yes to a DC art date soon enough, so it was barely after 9 a.m. when my date collected me and we headed north.
Once inside the city limits of my birth place on a breezy, sunny day, good native vibrations found us a parking space a block away from the Smithsonian American Art Museum.
Waiting at a corner, an 89-year old woman got out of a car to join us in crossing the street, explaining that her husband dropped her off because he wouldn't enjoy the museum like she would. Given that she was an artist and a former docent at the museum, she was probably right.
Turns out he was her second husband anyway, the first having left her in the late '70s when that was the thing to do ("I had three friends whose husbands also just walked out"). She'd made the best of it, but it hadn't been easy and it had necessitated her compromising how much time she could devote to art.
She wished us a good visit and we took off for the third floor. Walking across a brilliantly colorful floor mosaic, a guard approached us asking where we were from. When we said Richmond, he inquired if we knew the state's three names. We didn't.
"Virginia, the Commonwealth and the white boys' state," he said unexpectedly. We were still processing that when he leaned in and said, "Now someone's coming up from Arkansas to rule us." Was this some kind of crazy Trump supporter?
"What just happened?" my date asked, as confused as I was as we scurried away. Why would a security guard be talking to us about such things? Had we crossed into the Twilight Zone and not known it?
All was right with the world the moment we stepped into "The Art of Romaine Brooks" exhibit, full of Whistler-indebted canvases in muted shades of black, white and gray portraying androgynous-looking women and well-dressed upper class lesbians of the early 20th century by an American ex-pat.
"White Azaleas" from 1910 showed a pale nude reclining on a huge couch, much like Manet's "Olympia," but bolder because it was done by a woman at a time when it was unheard of for women to assert non-traditional views of their role.
And these women depicted were completely non-traditional, I can assure you.
The show made a case for Brooks' fashionable and daring portraits of androgyny being associated with the so-called "new woman" during a time when sexually independent women projecting new and visible lesbian identities post-World War I was becoming more commonplace.
Drawings filled one gallery, all done for Brooks' unpublished memoir, to be called "No Pleasant Memories," surely the most miserable and accusatory memoir title ever, although the drawings were fascinating, often done in a single line.
There was so much estrogen in that show that you could almost feel it pulsating off the walls. We both loved it, although probably for different reasons.
Leaving the cocoon of the museum behind, we walked a few blocks to the colorful Bantam King - sibling to Daikaya - for lunch. Black and white Japanese comics on front walls, bright blue and green plastic trays on back wall and bathrooms that read, "WC: Kings, Queens, Errbody."
Best bathroom sign ever.
Our server was eager to share his spiel (and the fact that he's a finance major), disappointing us only when we learned that it was too early for fried chicken.
Not to worry, we dove into a killer starter, meatydumplings with chili oil, followed by bowls of chicken ramen. I chose miso broth loaded with dandelion greens, white onions, chili threads, soft-boiled egg and then added fresh corn while my date went with shoyu ramen, creamy with garlic and ginger.
All that was missing was a plate of fried chicken, but that's what future art dates are for, no?
From there, we motored to my old 'hood, Dupont Circle, and the William Merritt Chase retrospective at the Philips Collection in honor of the 100 year anniversary of the man's death.
Words aren't nearly good enough for the 40+ years of artistry we saw today, but I'll try.
First off, I learned that Chase and I are kindred souls on the subject of home decor. His philosophy was to think of walls as a canvas, with real life objects taking the place of color on them, something I've done for years.
With the darker palette of Frans Hals, Velazquez and Manet, Chase demonstrated his indebtedness to both Whistler and Singer Sargent in canvas after canvas as we swooned.
His portrait of Whistler as a fop had caused a rift in the men's friendship, but Edward Steichen's sumptuous sepia-toned photograph of Chase showed him to be just as big a one with a top hat, fur-trimmed overcoat, cigar and walking stick.
In a case were some of Chase's family albums, full of circa 1900s blue-tinged cynotypes of his children on the lawn and house details such as a staircase and candlelit outdoor dining table.
Behind me, a man spotted the albums and said, "These photo books look like my Mom's," and I knew before I turned around that he had to be an old duffer.
Hands down, my favorite was "The End of the Season," showing a lone woman sitting at a small wooden table on the beach near other tables, all with the chairs leaning in on the tables to signify that summer business had ceased. Down on the shore, a few people gathered.
You could almost feel her wistfulness about the change in season, a feeling I echo.
"Sunlight to Shadow" showed a well-dressed man staring into his teacup while nearby, a woman lounged in an elaborate hammock, looking away from him, the two clearly not speaking, supporting the notion that the canvas' original title had been "The Tiff."
Absolutely delightful was "Washing Day," a backyard scene of four lines covered in wet clothing with a laundry servant in a bonnet hanging more.
You could almost hear the sheets flapping in the breeze.
One of the most unique features of Chase's paintings were their unusual titles, such as "I Think I'm Ready Now," a portrait of a young woman from the back, facing a mirror. Left hip thrust out, hairbrush in hand, the train of her pink dress gathered behind her, it was obvious she rushed for no man.
Another, "May I Come In?" showed a woman in hat and muff entering from behind a door, the back of which was covered in paintings. He face reads as curious and sociable, so why wouldn't he let her come in?
Chase, we learned, was a devotee of still life paintings and considered unsurpassed in his portraits of fish, which he managed to make look believably shiny, wet and slick. The subject matter of "Just Onions" may have been lowly, but the rendering was so realistic you could almost smell them.
By the time we finished admiring and studying the 70+ works, we were both totally enthralled with what we'd seen. My only regret was that we didn't have enough time to look at it all again.
We compromised by stopping at Teaism for ginger lemonades (they'd just sold out so I tried iced mint tea while my date went with today's iced tisane, an African berry blend), along with the house specialty cookies, chunky chocolate pecan salty oat cookies, each weighing about a pound each.
"I'll never be able to finish the whole thing," my date insisted, but we sat there chatting and watching the street theater of R Street long enough that never became history.
I don't travel with those who can resist big flakes of sea salt on top of chocolate cookies.
Driving up M Street, my date pointed to 2400 and shared a story about a couple whose first apartment had been in that building. "All they had was a mattress on the floor, but the first night they were there, they laid on that mattress and watched a storm roll in through the big window."
I can see such an experience boding well for the future of the relationship.
Further down in front of the State Department, we passed Navy types - sailors in white bell bottoms and officers in tan summer uniforms - marching and chanting behind their leader up 23rd Street.
It was only once we got on 395 that we opened up the floor to new topics and my date shared a story of recently finding out that a friend and his wife had a decidedly poly-amorous bent.
The wife wanted to have an affair with a woman (who also had a wife, not to mention two other girlfriends), so husband agreed because he knew it would make her happy. That they sometimes had three ways didn't seem to bother him at all.
As you might imagine, opening a can of worms like poly-amorous relationships made for non-stop conversational fodder all the way down 95 and almost too soon, we were home, our art date a rousing success.
Now, about those drinks someplace cool...I have a few ideas.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Here We Go Loop-de-Loo
They're baaaack!
Three of the female variety stood in front of me at Steady Sounds.
My favorite had long, curly red hair tied up in a black scrunchee, a black and white striped t-shirt over black shorts and low-top white Converse, but she won my heart with her violet cloth bag which was a copy of the original cover of Virginia Wolf's "A Room of One's Own" worn earnestly and un-ironically.
Three, or maybe it was four, of various sexes, all talking over top of each other like in a Robert Altman movie, spilled out of a house on Marshall Street as I walked home from the record store.
I heard one laughing voice asking, "Did you have fun today?" while another squealed, "Where are we going now?" and a third exclaimed, "I had so much fun today!"
Pure, unadulterated exuberance.
Three of the male persuasion of varying heights and one female with a skateboard awaited on the corner of Clay and Harrison.
Clearly new to city life, they were so hesitant as to be paralyzed about crossing the street, despite the red light that kept me from moving until they did, so I waved them across, garnering grins and thank yous. Their mothers would be so proud.
You guessed it, Richmond is suddenly lousy with incominggringos freshmen and you can barely swing a dead cat without hitting one so inevitably when I leave my apartment, there they are.
As opposed to my three-block walk, Philly quintet Honey Radar said it took seven hours to get to Steady Sounds, which seemed to be a surprise to them but is really just common sense to anyone who knows I-95 on a Friday (especially during the summer).
Walking in, the first friends I saw there were the living room show hosts, still recovering from the high of Wednesday evening's show and the requisite celebrating that followed. On the other hand, they were there.
The band's catchy sound was short, jangly (hello, three guitarists), lo-fi and, at least one friend heard Guided By Voices influences as we listened to older stuff and songs from their new album. Most songs didn't so much end as fall away, as if their attention was already on to something else.
Midway through their set, the store owner slid a couple of beers across his counter in the direction of the long-haired guitarist (as opposed to the other two with wholesome short hair) who, without taking his right hand off the guitar used his left to give his benefactor a thumbs up, open the beer one-handed and take a swig before returning to the song.
That's talent, folks.
Even so, the in-store performance at Steady Sounds was merely the appetizer for the show at Hardywood that became my next stop.
I found the photographer minus his cute wife at a picnic table outside, chowing down while inside, the crowd was summer-small, meaning I scored a table and chair with no effort at all.
Kenneka Cook had just begun playing when I arrived and while I'd forgotten her name, immediately I recalled first seeing her al fresco at the Valentine's music in the garden series. Using her rich voice, she layers it with beat boxing until there's a full-bodied soul song with harmonies coming out of one woman.
"This is one I wrote the words to but not the music," she teased. "You'll recognize it." The theme to "Mission Impossible" turned out to be not only familiar but also a fine music bed for her songwriting.
Extroverts are always happy when the break between music is full of company.
I was soon joined by a dapper friend and comedian, fiendishly attired in sunglasses, a seersucker jacket with a pin on the lapel and a harmonica in the pocket. Occasionally he'd withdraw a black handkerchief and dab dramatically at his forehead and neck like a true Southern gentleman despite his Indian heritage.
He wasted no time trying to make me laugh, explaining how refers to Hillary Clinton. "I call her Hi C, but I know that's not a good name because no one likes Hi-C," he deadpanned.
When I responded, "Well, they like it better than Tang," his eyes grew wide and he laughed because he though its was so hilarious.
Hilarious to the point that he later told the story to another friend, with attribution, of course (despite me telling him he could use it), assuring me, "I don't steal jokes, well, except for that once and that was from a magazine article."
We all understand situational rationalization, don't we?
A musician friend came over to say hello and ask how my summer is going, to which I said it's been fabulous.
Her surprised look was followed by admitting that she tends to focus on the lame parts rather than the great bits when asked about her summer. Wednesday I'd been asked the exact same question and had responded the same way, only to have that friend lament, "Maybe mine has been fabulous and I just don't say it."
Why the hell not?
When Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" began playing, my body took over but I also told Mr. Dapper that I was the only one in the room who not only knew the song title, but the artist.
Not content to believe me, he pulled out his phone and moved toward the speaker to Soundhound it, but I insisted on telling him what it was before he could tell me what his device said.
Just then I spotted a nearby woman dancing just as hard as I was to it.
Naturally, she was soon added to my circle, saying she'd forgotten Patrice's name despite dancing to it like it was 1982 again.
Originally a native Richmonder, she'd spent 20 years living in Miami Beach and when I asked what lured her back, she put it succinctly. "I'd gotten too old for clubs, I was too young for Century Village, so I came back because Richmond got hip while I was gone."
On that topic, the photographer and I discoursed long and hard after he told me about a couple of record compilations his record label is putting together along with photographs, show flyers and video archives that trace the arc of the rise of RVA's scene the past seven years.
Well, butter me up and call me a biscuit because there's a project I intend to get behind 100%.
A big reason I'd come tonight was to hear Nelly Kate do her looping magic with voice, keyboard and knobs, which she did despite technical difficulties that would have beaten a lesser artist.
The haunting songs, though produced similarly to Kenneka's, sounded like they were from another universe, but her set was too short considering the gap between shows now that she's living out of town for a while.
She called Dave Watkins up to join her for one song before ceding the stage to him and his dulcitar looping magic. Guitar geeks and guys in general made up the front row, all agog at Dave's mastery with his handmade instrument.
Once he was finished, I got a sweaty hug and a chance to chat with him about summer, which must be close to over because there are three parties on my block tonight which is a sure indication that they're back.
But ask me how my evening went and I'll tell you it was fabulous. Because it was.
Three of the female variety stood in front of me at Steady Sounds.
My favorite had long, curly red hair tied up in a black scrunchee, a black and white striped t-shirt over black shorts and low-top white Converse, but she won my heart with her violet cloth bag which was a copy of the original cover of Virginia Wolf's "A Room of One's Own" worn earnestly and un-ironically.
Three, or maybe it was four, of various sexes, all talking over top of each other like in a Robert Altman movie, spilled out of a house on Marshall Street as I walked home from the record store.
I heard one laughing voice asking, "Did you have fun today?" while another squealed, "Where are we going now?" and a third exclaimed, "I had so much fun today!"
Pure, unadulterated exuberance.
Three of the male persuasion of varying heights and one female with a skateboard awaited on the corner of Clay and Harrison.
Clearly new to city life, they were so hesitant as to be paralyzed about crossing the street, despite the red light that kept me from moving until they did, so I waved them across, garnering grins and thank yous. Their mothers would be so proud.
You guessed it, Richmond is suddenly lousy with incoming
As opposed to my three-block walk, Philly quintet Honey Radar said it took seven hours to get to Steady Sounds, which seemed to be a surprise to them but is really just common sense to anyone who knows I-95 on a Friday (especially during the summer).
Walking in, the first friends I saw there were the living room show hosts, still recovering from the high of Wednesday evening's show and the requisite celebrating that followed. On the other hand, they were there.
The band's catchy sound was short, jangly (hello, three guitarists), lo-fi and, at least one friend heard Guided By Voices influences as we listened to older stuff and songs from their new album. Most songs didn't so much end as fall away, as if their attention was already on to something else.
Midway through their set, the store owner slid a couple of beers across his counter in the direction of the long-haired guitarist (as opposed to the other two with wholesome short hair) who, without taking his right hand off the guitar used his left to give his benefactor a thumbs up, open the beer one-handed and take a swig before returning to the song.
That's talent, folks.
Even so, the in-store performance at Steady Sounds was merely the appetizer for the show at Hardywood that became my next stop.
I found the photographer minus his cute wife at a picnic table outside, chowing down while inside, the crowd was summer-small, meaning I scored a table and chair with no effort at all.
Kenneka Cook had just begun playing when I arrived and while I'd forgotten her name, immediately I recalled first seeing her al fresco at the Valentine's music in the garden series. Using her rich voice, she layers it with beat boxing until there's a full-bodied soul song with harmonies coming out of one woman.
"This is one I wrote the words to but not the music," she teased. "You'll recognize it." The theme to "Mission Impossible" turned out to be not only familiar but also a fine music bed for her songwriting.
Extroverts are always happy when the break between music is full of company.
I was soon joined by a dapper friend and comedian, fiendishly attired in sunglasses, a seersucker jacket with a pin on the lapel and a harmonica in the pocket. Occasionally he'd withdraw a black handkerchief and dab dramatically at his forehead and neck like a true Southern gentleman despite his Indian heritage.
He wasted no time trying to make me laugh, explaining how refers to Hillary Clinton. "I call her Hi C, but I know that's not a good name because no one likes Hi-C," he deadpanned.
When I responded, "Well, they like it better than Tang," his eyes grew wide and he laughed because he though its was so hilarious.
Hilarious to the point that he later told the story to another friend, with attribution, of course (despite me telling him he could use it), assuring me, "I don't steal jokes, well, except for that once and that was from a magazine article."
We all understand situational rationalization, don't we?
A musician friend came over to say hello and ask how my summer is going, to which I said it's been fabulous.
Her surprised look was followed by admitting that she tends to focus on the lame parts rather than the great bits when asked about her summer. Wednesday I'd been asked the exact same question and had responded the same way, only to have that friend lament, "Maybe mine has been fabulous and I just don't say it."
Why the hell not?
When Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" began playing, my body took over but I also told Mr. Dapper that I was the only one in the room who not only knew the song title, but the artist.
Not content to believe me, he pulled out his phone and moved toward the speaker to Soundhound it, but I insisted on telling him what it was before he could tell me what his device said.
Just then I spotted a nearby woman dancing just as hard as I was to it.
Naturally, she was soon added to my circle, saying she'd forgotten Patrice's name despite dancing to it like it was 1982 again.
Originally a native Richmonder, she'd spent 20 years living in Miami Beach and when I asked what lured her back, she put it succinctly. "I'd gotten too old for clubs, I was too young for Century Village, so I came back because Richmond got hip while I was gone."
On that topic, the photographer and I discoursed long and hard after he told me about a couple of record compilations his record label is putting together along with photographs, show flyers and video archives that trace the arc of the rise of RVA's scene the past seven years.
Well, butter me up and call me a biscuit because there's a project I intend to get behind 100%.
A big reason I'd come tonight was to hear Nelly Kate do her looping magic with voice, keyboard and knobs, which she did despite technical difficulties that would have beaten a lesser artist.
The haunting songs, though produced similarly to Kenneka's, sounded like they were from another universe, but her set was too short considering the gap between shows now that she's living out of town for a while.
She called Dave Watkins up to join her for one song before ceding the stage to him and his dulcitar looping magic. Guitar geeks and guys in general made up the front row, all agog at Dave's mastery with his handmade instrument.
Once he was finished, I got a sweaty hug and a chance to chat with him about summer, which must be close to over because there are three parties on my block tonight which is a sure indication that they're back.
But ask me how my evening went and I'll tell you it was fabulous. Because it was.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Choose Well
It figures that "The Odd Couple" was the only Neil Simon play I'd ever seen.
That finally got corrected at Hanover Tavern with a matinee of "Brighton Beach Memoirs," which, among other things, clued me in to the fact that Brighton Beach is an oceanside neighborhood in Brooklyn, a fact which was complete news to me.
And while the coming of age story of a Jewish boy navigating parents, older brother, aunt and two cousins all under the same roof was sweet and very much of an era (the '30s), one thing that struck me - besides the terrifically talented young Tyler Stevens as Eugene - was the nature of the relationship of young Eugene's parents, Kate and Jack.
In the story, there was a real bond between the parents, no matter how many difficult situations they were facing. Each was caring and solicitous of their partner, doing their best to look after and keep problems and annoyances from the other.
They were happily a unit.
Despite incredibly difficult financial times and mounting responsibilities, they plodded forward, never for a moment considering a future without the other.
My parents are like that, too, and the long-term success of their union feels like both a gift and a curse to someone who has yet to get an "A" in long-term relationships. But I recently got some unexpected clues from an unlikely source: a cast-off Time magazine.
Mom, being very much a product of the Depression, distributes her old magazines to others once she and my Dad finish reading them. The cleaning lady gets Good Housekeeping and Sports Illustrated goes to the barber shop, but Time and Vanity Fair she gives to me.
I admit, I don't always take all her cast-offs, preferring to flip through and choose based on cover stories. So when she handed me a stack on a recent visit and I spotted the June 13th issue of Time, I paused because of the topic: "How To Stay Married." Subhead: "Staying married is more challenging than ever. But new data says it's worth it."
Surely I could learn something from this article.
It seems Americans have elevated their expectations of marriage and while we actually are capable of achieving new heights, it's only with a lot of work. Without that effort, turns out we'll be more disappointed than previous generations because we'd been promised the moon (and believed it).
And what do we do when we get disappointed? We check out because we can.
Well, not all of us because people like my parents and Eugene's don't consider opting out an option. What's tantalizing to me is that a Cornell study of 700 elderly people revealed that every single one of them said the same two key things.
That a long marriage was the best thing in their lives but also that it was a difficult thing that required effort.
This surely ties in to statistics about older people in happy relationships being healthier and living longer. The article made it clear that sex played a bigger role than money in marital happiness.
All that made good sense to me. But where the article really got my attention was on the subject of soul mates, making the point that, "there are tens of thousands of people out there that anyone could be happily married to and each marriage would be different."
Well, that was certainly encouraging.
But it was the next two sentences, which someone (I'm assuming my Dad) had boldly underlined in red that spoke to real life experience.
And how do you make a soulmate? Practice, practice, practice.
Sitting in my apartment in Richmond, seeing those sentiments underscored felt like a direct message from my parents in the Northern Neck to me, although I seriously doubt that whoever did the underlining even considered that anyone besides their soulmate would see those emphatic red lines.
Or maybe they did, given how my mother has been telling me for years that she can't die because I'm not married. No, really.
Usually when the subject comes up, I remind her of one key factor she's ignoring and, as it happens, it's the same one that closes out the Time article.
Just pick out a good one and get lucky.
My parents were fortunate enough to do just that before they were even 25. Me, not so much.
On the bright side, I am willing to practice.
That finally got corrected at Hanover Tavern with a matinee of "Brighton Beach Memoirs," which, among other things, clued me in to the fact that Brighton Beach is an oceanside neighborhood in Brooklyn, a fact which was complete news to me.
And while the coming of age story of a Jewish boy navigating parents, older brother, aunt and two cousins all under the same roof was sweet and very much of an era (the '30s), one thing that struck me - besides the terrifically talented young Tyler Stevens as Eugene - was the nature of the relationship of young Eugene's parents, Kate and Jack.
In the story, there was a real bond between the parents, no matter how many difficult situations they were facing. Each was caring and solicitous of their partner, doing their best to look after and keep problems and annoyances from the other.
They were happily a unit.
Despite incredibly difficult financial times and mounting responsibilities, they plodded forward, never for a moment considering a future without the other.
My parents are like that, too, and the long-term success of their union feels like both a gift and a curse to someone who has yet to get an "A" in long-term relationships. But I recently got some unexpected clues from an unlikely source: a cast-off Time magazine.
Mom, being very much a product of the Depression, distributes her old magazines to others once she and my Dad finish reading them. The cleaning lady gets Good Housekeeping and Sports Illustrated goes to the barber shop, but Time and Vanity Fair she gives to me.
I admit, I don't always take all her cast-offs, preferring to flip through and choose based on cover stories. So when she handed me a stack on a recent visit and I spotted the June 13th issue of Time, I paused because of the topic: "How To Stay Married." Subhead: "Staying married is more challenging than ever. But new data says it's worth it."
Surely I could learn something from this article.
It seems Americans have elevated their expectations of marriage and while we actually are capable of achieving new heights, it's only with a lot of work. Without that effort, turns out we'll be more disappointed than previous generations because we'd been promised the moon (and believed it).
And what do we do when we get disappointed? We check out because we can.
Well, not all of us because people like my parents and Eugene's don't consider opting out an option. What's tantalizing to me is that a Cornell study of 700 elderly people revealed that every single one of them said the same two key things.
That a long marriage was the best thing in their lives but also that it was a difficult thing that required effort.
This surely ties in to statistics about older people in happy relationships being healthier and living longer. The article made it clear that sex played a bigger role than money in marital happiness.
All that made good sense to me. But where the article really got my attention was on the subject of soul mates, making the point that, "there are tens of thousands of people out there that anyone could be happily married to and each marriage would be different."
Well, that was certainly encouraging.
But it was the next two sentences, which someone (I'm assuming my Dad) had boldly underlined in red that spoke to real life experience.
And how do you make a soulmate? Practice, practice, practice.
Sitting in my apartment in Richmond, seeing those sentiments underscored felt like a direct message from my parents in the Northern Neck to me, although I seriously doubt that whoever did the underlining even considered that anyone besides their soulmate would see those emphatic red lines.
Or maybe they did, given how my mother has been telling me for years that she can't die because I'm not married. No, really.
Usually when the subject comes up, I remind her of one key factor she's ignoring and, as it happens, it's the same one that closes out the Time article.
Just pick out a good one and get lucky.
My parents were fortunate enough to do just that before they were even 25. Me, not so much.
On the bright side, I am willing to practice.
The Wednesday Crowd
Eric Bachmann played my friends' house during a summer storm. How was your night?
~PJ
Pretty much just as good since I'd become a ticket-holding guest for the show two months ago, knowing chances were slim that I'd ever get invited to see the lead singer of Crooked Fingers and Archers of Loaf play a living room show again anytime soon.
Or ever.
And not just any living room, but an open floor plan design in a mid-century modern house with some of the grooviest art and furniture you're likely to see in Richmond. It wasn't hard to understand why the tour organizers had quickly agreed to let them host a show in such a funky and stylish place.
I'd shown up, as directed by our delightful hostess, with libations to share and a (recently purchased at Diversity Thrift) folding chair, only to abandon the chair in the laundry room when I immediately ran into friends.
Lots of good ones, too: the music writer recently back from San Jose where she was underwhelmed, the recently single, looking-to-move DJ, the poet/novelist, the book store owner, the cute couple from Northside, the historian with great hair.
One guy, a stranger to me, had driven five hours from Pennsylvania for the show. I got that. After all, how many living room shows does a person get invited to?
A little later when the room was beginning to fill up with people's chairs, I went to collect mine and secure a place on the floor. In front of the dryer I found our hostess and a man sitting in my seat. I politely explained that I needed my chair in order to reserve a good spot for the performance.
"Karen, this is Eric," she said introducing me to the guest of honor, coincidentally the same man I'd just asked to vacate my chair. So, yes, that was me asking the person I'd come to see to please clear out so I could secure a fine spot from which to watch him sing and play guitar.
I'm not saying it was right, I'm just telling you what happened.
The incident, the chair, my nerve, they all became moot when the photographer insisted I take the chair next to his cute wife since he'd be moving about shooting throughout. I told him my chair was there for him if he needed it.
Eric was seated in a chair in front of a large, curved window with 44 panes, with the window seat covered in lighted candles with all kinds of plants there and on the floor in front of it. Twinkling lights were strung from the top of the window, and through the glass we could see distant lightening.
A banjo stood in its stand next to the guitar's stand, their cases arranged fetchingly between larger plants.
There's chaos in the violins
This tableaux is why PJ was taunting online friends with his casual post about how magical the evening felt. Another friend put it even more directly after the show. "I felt honored to witness that."
I don't know who wouldn't agree with her on that - his lived-in voice, life experience lyrics, between song humor - after an evening listening to songs off just about all of his albums.
He'd told us at the start that he was more than happy to take requests, but it wasn't really that simple.
People would yell out songs and he'd demur because he no longer knew it, or it was a piano song, or he needed more power (he used only an acoustic guitar and once, only once, his least favorite instrument, the harmonica) so he couldn't pull them off.
He did his Mom's favorite song, which happened to be about cheating ("I didn't ask," he said), admitted that one song was very difficult to make not sound like McCartney's "Silly Love Songs" ("We must have plagiarized it, but we didn't know it") and admitted to coveting the red-laced, black Converse hi-tops with white stars Paul was wearing directly in front of him.
The lion doesn't mind if the lamb takes its time
When he grabbed his banjo to play a few songs, he shared that he and his fellow Crooked Fingers banjo player had considered starting a Bon Jovi cover band called - wait for it - Banjo- Vi to play bad Bon Jovi covers.
"What pisses me off is that I know it would make us rich," Eric said with a grimace. Ain't life a bitch sometimes?
When the thunder outside got fiercer, he told us about his little dog in her crate in a back room. Since she's afraid of storms, he worried about whether he should bring her into the room for reassurance. What's her name, someone called out.
"Lupe. Like Guadeloupe without the Guada," Eric explained and the crowd called for Lupe to join us, which she did, in receiving line fashion, going person to person for a back scratch, tummy rub or ear petting.
How do you save a thing that's meaning to die?
The crowd was pretty interactive, but when someone called out, "Is that song autobiographical?" Eric shot back, "You don't ask that, man." Ooh, damn. Then he admitted that they're all autobiographical.
Toward the end of the evening, he said, "This is great, you yell out songs and I don't play them. There's a lot of power in that." When he announced he was closing with "White Trash Heroes," there was some excited applause and a guy near me inhaled, "Nice!"
When he finished, he looked at us and said, "I'm going to do two more. This is the encore. Pretend I left and came back."
He finished for real with a new song off this year's album, the one that everyone's raving about, bringing us back to why he was touring living rooms in the first place.
Afterward, it became a party as people mingled and discussed what a lovely thing we'd just experienced.
I kept going back to that moment when my raven-tressed friend had called out, asking if he'd cover Prince's "When You Were Mine" and while Eric continued strapping on his banjo, he'd also looked at her strangely and said, "I was just about to play that song."
Eric Bachmann just covered Prince at my friends' house during a summer storm. So how was your night anyway?
~PJ
Pretty much just as good since I'd become a ticket-holding guest for the show two months ago, knowing chances were slim that I'd ever get invited to see the lead singer of Crooked Fingers and Archers of Loaf play a living room show again anytime soon.
Or ever.
And not just any living room, but an open floor plan design in a mid-century modern house with some of the grooviest art and furniture you're likely to see in Richmond. It wasn't hard to understand why the tour organizers had quickly agreed to let them host a show in such a funky and stylish place.
I'd shown up, as directed by our delightful hostess, with libations to share and a (recently purchased at Diversity Thrift) folding chair, only to abandon the chair in the laundry room when I immediately ran into friends.
Lots of good ones, too: the music writer recently back from San Jose where she was underwhelmed, the recently single, looking-to-move DJ, the poet/novelist, the book store owner, the cute couple from Northside, the historian with great hair.
One guy, a stranger to me, had driven five hours from Pennsylvania for the show. I got that. After all, how many living room shows does a person get invited to?
A little later when the room was beginning to fill up with people's chairs, I went to collect mine and secure a place on the floor. In front of the dryer I found our hostess and a man sitting in my seat. I politely explained that I needed my chair in order to reserve a good spot for the performance.
"Karen, this is Eric," she said introducing me to the guest of honor, coincidentally the same man I'd just asked to vacate my chair. So, yes, that was me asking the person I'd come to see to please clear out so I could secure a fine spot from which to watch him sing and play guitar.
I'm not saying it was right, I'm just telling you what happened.
The incident, the chair, my nerve, they all became moot when the photographer insisted I take the chair next to his cute wife since he'd be moving about shooting throughout. I told him my chair was there for him if he needed it.
Eric was seated in a chair in front of a large, curved window with 44 panes, with the window seat covered in lighted candles with all kinds of plants there and on the floor in front of it. Twinkling lights were strung from the top of the window, and through the glass we could see distant lightening.
A banjo stood in its stand next to the guitar's stand, their cases arranged fetchingly between larger plants.
There's chaos in the violins
This tableaux is why PJ was taunting online friends with his casual post about how magical the evening felt. Another friend put it even more directly after the show. "I felt honored to witness that."
I don't know who wouldn't agree with her on that - his lived-in voice, life experience lyrics, between song humor - after an evening listening to songs off just about all of his albums.
He'd told us at the start that he was more than happy to take requests, but it wasn't really that simple.
People would yell out songs and he'd demur because he no longer knew it, or it was a piano song, or he needed more power (he used only an acoustic guitar and once, only once, his least favorite instrument, the harmonica) so he couldn't pull them off.
He did his Mom's favorite song, which happened to be about cheating ("I didn't ask," he said), admitted that one song was very difficult to make not sound like McCartney's "Silly Love Songs" ("We must have plagiarized it, but we didn't know it") and admitted to coveting the red-laced, black Converse hi-tops with white stars Paul was wearing directly in front of him.
The lion doesn't mind if the lamb takes its time
When he grabbed his banjo to play a few songs, he shared that he and his fellow Crooked Fingers banjo player had considered starting a Bon Jovi cover band called - wait for it - Banjo- Vi to play bad Bon Jovi covers.
"What pisses me off is that I know it would make us rich," Eric said with a grimace. Ain't life a bitch sometimes?
When the thunder outside got fiercer, he told us about his little dog in her crate in a back room. Since she's afraid of storms, he worried about whether he should bring her into the room for reassurance. What's her name, someone called out.
"Lupe. Like Guadeloupe without the Guada," Eric explained and the crowd called for Lupe to join us, which she did, in receiving line fashion, going person to person for a back scratch, tummy rub or ear petting.
How do you save a thing that's meaning to die?
The crowd was pretty interactive, but when someone called out, "Is that song autobiographical?" Eric shot back, "You don't ask that, man." Ooh, damn. Then he admitted that they're all autobiographical.
Toward the end of the evening, he said, "This is great, you yell out songs and I don't play them. There's a lot of power in that." When he announced he was closing with "White Trash Heroes," there was some excited applause and a guy near me inhaled, "Nice!"
When he finished, he looked at us and said, "I'm going to do two more. This is the encore. Pretend I left and came back."
He finished for real with a new song off this year's album, the one that everyone's raving about, bringing us back to why he was touring living rooms in the first place.
Afterward, it became a party as people mingled and discussed what a lovely thing we'd just experienced.
I kept going back to that moment when my raven-tressed friend had called out, asking if he'd cover Prince's "When You Were Mine" and while Eric continued strapping on his banjo, he'd also looked at her strangely and said, "I was just about to play that song."
Eric Bachmann just covered Prince at my friends' house during a summer storm. So how was your night anyway?
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Tell-All Tuesdays
Tinder Tuesdays aside, usually you have to go on a first date to get asked that many questions.
Instead, it was a solo night out.
Waiting at a stoplight en route, a gaggle of, yes, children (there really is no other word for them based on looks) crossed in front of me looking clueless and equal parts excited and terrified. Then I caught a glance at the back of one's t-shirt: VCU Class of 2020.
Well, now, that explains why they look like they need burp cloths.
My soundtrack for the drive over was "Best Kept Secret" by Case, Lang, Veirs, a harmony-fest as sunny and soul-soothing as the beautiful summer weather outside.
It's times such as that that you realize that the music randomly playing really is nothing more than the soundtrack to your life (cue long shoot from above).
Walking to Balliceaux after parking the car safely out of the parking nazis' purview, I had the pleasure of hearing before I saw him, a guy on a bike pedaling into the sun, a smile on his face as he whistled a song, not just loudly, but really well.
Already it was a good night. With a plan to park once and party thrice, I had some basic goals: eat, celebrate National Rum Day with a cocktail and hopefully get some laughs with Back Room Comedy. Modest intentions, really.
I may have confused the bartender a tad by wanting my food - caramelized boneless chicken thigh atop a forest of pickled cabbage - before my drink, but she played along as if she understood.
Just as I was starting to eat, the couple next to me took an interest in me and began chatting.
In that way that friendly strangers do, we began by talking about generalities - why wasn't Kampot busier, the pleasures of being able to walk out your door and have multiple worthy restaurants nearby, how it sometimes feels like you're always the oldest people at a venue - and soon found commonalities.
They live on Floyd Avenue and I did the same for 13 years. They feel perfectly safe walking around at night, as do I. We agreed that porches make great neighbors but also ideal perches for watching street theater unfold (including middle-aged people stumbling drunkenly down the sidewalk).
Honestly, I got so engrossed in our conversation about all the stuff that goes on in Richmond and how I (or anyone) finds out about it that I almost forgot to order my drink and what kind of a way is that to celebrate National Rum Day?
I found my party in a glass with a Billie Holiday in Cambodia made of Plantation 5-year rum, tamarind, palm sugar and fish sauce (Mac, are you listening? It's everywhere!) with a kaffir leaf floating on top like a dead frog in a pool skimmer basket. Except tastier, much tastier.
He was a builder and they were both real estate agents (although she admitted it with downcast eyes and a side glance that was pretty funny) but her curiosity revolved around my work, leading to stories from my past covering legal sex harassment, how I found my spirit liquor at a job interview and why a future mayoral candidate would want me to tell people what to do.
Seriously, those are stories that usually get trotted out on first dates.
Not wanting to scare them off, I neglected to mention my biggest eccentricities, thus avoiding the whole "Karen is so odd" conversation while we're still in the honeymoon phase of our budding relationship.
Things got eerie twice, once when we were talking about same sex families (they had three boys and I grew up with five sisters) and I told a story using the name "Cindy," which, oddly enough, turned out to be her name.
Just as surprising to me was when, apropos of nothing, she asked me if I blogged and while that wasn't an unusual question circa 2009 or 10, I do find it odd now that Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat have replaced blogging in the hearts of device-carrying people, namely the entire first world except me.
Why, yes, thank you, I do blog, have blogged for close to nine years now, both for journaling purposes and as writing exercise.
Do I intend to write a book with so much material, she wondered. Why would I not might be a better question.
And like any good first date prospect, I answered all the queries about who I am, where I live, what I do and where I like to go. When pressed about my weekend plans, I shared Friday's, genuinely excited to entice new friends to see two favorite musicians playing a show together.
Especially new friends who like to talk.
Since my original intention had been to see stand-up and they were long since finished eating, we parted ways with all kinds of new information about former strangers. Cindy and I both speak very quickly and eschew clothing for sleeping, for instance. Her husband and I share a passion for tequila and hearing compromised by too many loud shows and no regrets about it.
By that estimation, the three of us are practically a match made in heaven.
Things almost got dicey when I let slip that I sleep nine hours a night and Cindy looked at me like I'd grown two heads. According to her husband, it's all that stressing out at 3 a.m. that keeps her from the same, a bad habit he long since left behind since there's no gain to it.
In the back room, I was solo again and had missed some of the comedians, but had no problem finding a good seat with a table and a view for the next one up, Winston.
Talking about adult children living with their parents, he immediately pulled me in by joking about his people, "The millennial plan is to live at home until you inherit it." Hilarious.
Having problems with a heckler seated with three young giggling women, he observed, "He doesn't need a $3 rail drink, he needs a $30 Uber back to his apartment. Alone." More tittering from the peanut gallery, who may or may not have been there because it was Tinder Tuesday.
John came next and jumped right into his foot fetish and sucking big toes, although a poll of the room proved that most men didn't share his attraction to feet. He was having trouble getting a stronghold with the audience.
"I like you guys," he told the room. "You have a very humbling response." Sometimes impassive faces and no laughter really do tell the whole story.
Cory was next, riffing on whatever his gaze landed upon. Balliceaux's name ("I thought it was "Ball o' cocks"), decor ("They got the theme for this place from, what, Noah's ark?") and ordinary signage ("That fire exit sign says no smoking or drinking in the alley, but the only things people do in alleys is smoke and drink. Occasionally kill people").
Instead of a heckler, he had a couple at the bar - although the guy came from the same Tinder table as the heckler - who were talking loudly non-stop through his set.
He tried calling them out but they didn't hear him for their conversation. Naturally he began mocking them and specifically, the guy's flip-flops and sleeveless shirt ensemble. It was funny stuff.
The show's last segment involved John and Cory facing off on topics called out by the audience, which is apparently what they do on their podcast. Pro wrestling! This killer heat! Chain saws! Sandwiches!
"Sandwiches need to be talked about," John announced, making a case for square cut sandwiches over diagonally cut ones. A poll of the room revealed a distinct preference for diagonal.
"I have taken sandwiches back to WaWa because they were cut diagonally," John said, causing Cory to roll his eyes and end the topic.
It got even funnier when John began talking about trying to buy a chainsaw to take down a bush in the backyard of his newly purchased house. When he couldn't decide on the proper chain saw, he decided to go with an ax, a terribly challenging endeavor he discovered.
"Now that's something that needs to be live-streamed on YouTube," Cory insisted, trying to hold back laughter. "A black man chopping down a bush with an ax. You know that would've gone viral!"
Before it was all over, I (and apparently more than a few others in the room) had learned that lingerie football is a thing and so are trampolines in the Olympics.
Looking as aghast as I felt, Cory responded to that bit of news with, "Then there's hope for everyone now."
Everyone? I'm still holding out for an Olympic talking event. It's my only chance at a gold.
Instead, it was a solo night out.
Waiting at a stoplight en route, a gaggle of, yes, children (there really is no other word for them based on looks) crossed in front of me looking clueless and equal parts excited and terrified. Then I caught a glance at the back of one's t-shirt: VCU Class of 2020.
Well, now, that explains why they look like they need burp cloths.
My soundtrack for the drive over was "Best Kept Secret" by Case, Lang, Veirs, a harmony-fest as sunny and soul-soothing as the beautiful summer weather outside.
It's times such as that that you realize that the music randomly playing really is nothing more than the soundtrack to your life (cue long shoot from above).
Walking to Balliceaux after parking the car safely out of the parking nazis' purview, I had the pleasure of hearing before I saw him, a guy on a bike pedaling into the sun, a smile on his face as he whistled a song, not just loudly, but really well.
Already it was a good night. With a plan to park once and party thrice, I had some basic goals: eat, celebrate National Rum Day with a cocktail and hopefully get some laughs with Back Room Comedy. Modest intentions, really.
I may have confused the bartender a tad by wanting my food - caramelized boneless chicken thigh atop a forest of pickled cabbage - before my drink, but she played along as if she understood.
Just as I was starting to eat, the couple next to me took an interest in me and began chatting.
In that way that friendly strangers do, we began by talking about generalities - why wasn't Kampot busier, the pleasures of being able to walk out your door and have multiple worthy restaurants nearby, how it sometimes feels like you're always the oldest people at a venue - and soon found commonalities.
They live on Floyd Avenue and I did the same for 13 years. They feel perfectly safe walking around at night, as do I. We agreed that porches make great neighbors but also ideal perches for watching street theater unfold (including middle-aged people stumbling drunkenly down the sidewalk).
Honestly, I got so engrossed in our conversation about all the stuff that goes on in Richmond and how I (or anyone) finds out about it that I almost forgot to order my drink and what kind of a way is that to celebrate National Rum Day?
I found my party in a glass with a Billie Holiday in Cambodia made of Plantation 5-year rum, tamarind, palm sugar and fish sauce (Mac, are you listening? It's everywhere!) with a kaffir leaf floating on top like a dead frog in a pool skimmer basket. Except tastier, much tastier.
He was a builder and they were both real estate agents (although she admitted it with downcast eyes and a side glance that was pretty funny) but her curiosity revolved around my work, leading to stories from my past covering legal sex harassment, how I found my spirit liquor at a job interview and why a future mayoral candidate would want me to tell people what to do.
Seriously, those are stories that usually get trotted out on first dates.
Not wanting to scare them off, I neglected to mention my biggest eccentricities, thus avoiding the whole "Karen is so odd" conversation while we're still in the honeymoon phase of our budding relationship.
Things got eerie twice, once when we were talking about same sex families (they had three boys and I grew up with five sisters) and I told a story using the name "Cindy," which, oddly enough, turned out to be her name.
Just as surprising to me was when, apropos of nothing, she asked me if I blogged and while that wasn't an unusual question circa 2009 or 10, I do find it odd now that Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat have replaced blogging in the hearts of device-carrying people, namely the entire first world except me.
Why, yes, thank you, I do blog, have blogged for close to nine years now, both for journaling purposes and as writing exercise.
Do I intend to write a book with so much material, she wondered. Why would I not might be a better question.
And like any good first date prospect, I answered all the queries about who I am, where I live, what I do and where I like to go. When pressed about my weekend plans, I shared Friday's, genuinely excited to entice new friends to see two favorite musicians playing a show together.
Especially new friends who like to talk.
Since my original intention had been to see stand-up and they were long since finished eating, we parted ways with all kinds of new information about former strangers. Cindy and I both speak very quickly and eschew clothing for sleeping, for instance. Her husband and I share a passion for tequila and hearing compromised by too many loud shows and no regrets about it.
By that estimation, the three of us are practically a match made in heaven.
Things almost got dicey when I let slip that I sleep nine hours a night and Cindy looked at me like I'd grown two heads. According to her husband, it's all that stressing out at 3 a.m. that keeps her from the same, a bad habit he long since left behind since there's no gain to it.
In the back room, I was solo again and had missed some of the comedians, but had no problem finding a good seat with a table and a view for the next one up, Winston.
Talking about adult children living with their parents, he immediately pulled me in by joking about his people, "The millennial plan is to live at home until you inherit it." Hilarious.
Having problems with a heckler seated with three young giggling women, he observed, "He doesn't need a $3 rail drink, he needs a $30 Uber back to his apartment. Alone." More tittering from the peanut gallery, who may or may not have been there because it was Tinder Tuesday.
John came next and jumped right into his foot fetish and sucking big toes, although a poll of the room proved that most men didn't share his attraction to feet. He was having trouble getting a stronghold with the audience.
"I like you guys," he told the room. "You have a very humbling response." Sometimes impassive faces and no laughter really do tell the whole story.
Cory was next, riffing on whatever his gaze landed upon. Balliceaux's name ("I thought it was "Ball o' cocks"), decor ("They got the theme for this place from, what, Noah's ark?") and ordinary signage ("That fire exit sign says no smoking or drinking in the alley, but the only things people do in alleys is smoke and drink. Occasionally kill people").
Instead of a heckler, he had a couple at the bar - although the guy came from the same Tinder table as the heckler - who were talking loudly non-stop through his set.
He tried calling them out but they didn't hear him for their conversation. Naturally he began mocking them and specifically, the guy's flip-flops and sleeveless shirt ensemble. It was funny stuff.
The show's last segment involved John and Cory facing off on topics called out by the audience, which is apparently what they do on their podcast. Pro wrestling! This killer heat! Chain saws! Sandwiches!
"Sandwiches need to be talked about," John announced, making a case for square cut sandwiches over diagonally cut ones. A poll of the room revealed a distinct preference for diagonal.
"I have taken sandwiches back to WaWa because they were cut diagonally," John said, causing Cory to roll his eyes and end the topic.
It got even funnier when John began talking about trying to buy a chainsaw to take down a bush in the backyard of his newly purchased house. When he couldn't decide on the proper chain saw, he decided to go with an ax, a terribly challenging endeavor he discovered.
"Now that's something that needs to be live-streamed on YouTube," Cory insisted, trying to hold back laughter. "A black man chopping down a bush with an ax. You know that would've gone viral!"
Before it was all over, I (and apparently more than a few others in the room) had learned that lingerie football is a thing and so are trampolines in the Olympics.
Looking as aghast as I felt, Cory responded to that bit of news with, "Then there's hope for everyone now."
Everyone? I'm still holding out for an Olympic talking event. It's my only chance at a gold.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Forever Young (The Wild Ones)
If Monday's choice was being in the city or being at the beach, it was no contest.
Yea, yea, I know all about people who prefer mountains to coast, but I'm not one of them. And as the summer eases towards shorter days and cooler temperatures - as a friend put it, "hi summer, bye, summer" - I find myself thrilled with every chance to be waterside.
Today it was a road trip to Sandbridge, listening to the Walkmen's "Bows and Arrows" and the Bo Deans' "Inside Looking Out" at top volume, windows down.
After acknowledging the parking lot attendant's admonishments to stay hydrated, there was the sprint across a wide swath of burning sand (no exaggeration, I could feel the sand searing my flimsy flip-flops and ultimately the soles of my feet) so my fellow beach-lover and I could set up camp not far from the ocean's edge.
An ocean, just so you know, that was ridiculously warm and almost placid, with languid waves too worn out by the heat to bother crashing.
When I feel like that, I usually take a heat nap.
We were just finishing lunch when the lifeguards began blowing their alarm whistles "Jaws"-style for everyone to clear out of the water. As if that wasn't bad enough, then we were all ordered off the beach because of distant thunder. Lifeguards stood at the access points to turn brazen types and newcomers away.
Fortunately for water devotees, the Bay never closes down, so we just relocated our chairs and cooler to a Bay beach to revel in the rest of the afternoon.
When my piece of watermelon tragically dropped in the sand, I didn't hesitate to rinse it off in the Bay, never suspecting that it would taste as salty afterward as if I'd used a salt shaker on it, something my mother does to this day.
A guy came walking by, net and bucket in hand, and pulled out his ear buds to ask how my day was going. When I explained that we'd just moved from the ocean to the Bay, he nodded and smiled knowingly.
"The Bay is always easier," he advised. Well, it was certainly less crowded, really just us and a young couple with two cleverly-named dogs: Boris and Tuna. The wind was just right to send eau de wet dog wafting our way on a regular basis.
Besides salty, the water was also quite warm, although the friendly guy submerged up to his neck in it shared that it was only warm at the top and down lower, it was much more refreshingly cool, a fact I was able to confirm while also lowering my body temperature.
Because, after all, that is why we go to the water on hot days.
A trio walked along the water's edge, pulling crabs out of the bay and depositing them in their mesh baskets. Come to think of it, I'm overdue for a summer crab feast and I know just the person who'd want in on a little man versus crab action with me.
We coastal lovers have to stick together.
Sweaty or not, barely clad and soothed by the constancy of the water's movement, salt life beats city life on a scorcher like today...and mountains any day of the week.
Hang on, Summer, I'm not done with you yet.
Yea, yea, I know all about people who prefer mountains to coast, but I'm not one of them. And as the summer eases towards shorter days and cooler temperatures - as a friend put it, "hi summer, bye, summer" - I find myself thrilled with every chance to be waterside.
Today it was a road trip to Sandbridge, listening to the Walkmen's "Bows and Arrows" and the Bo Deans' "Inside Looking Out" at top volume, windows down.
After acknowledging the parking lot attendant's admonishments to stay hydrated, there was the sprint across a wide swath of burning sand (no exaggeration, I could feel the sand searing my flimsy flip-flops and ultimately the soles of my feet) so my fellow beach-lover and I could set up camp not far from the ocean's edge.
An ocean, just so you know, that was ridiculously warm and almost placid, with languid waves too worn out by the heat to bother crashing.
When I feel like that, I usually take a heat nap.
We were just finishing lunch when the lifeguards began blowing their alarm whistles "Jaws"-style for everyone to clear out of the water. As if that wasn't bad enough, then we were all ordered off the beach because of distant thunder. Lifeguards stood at the access points to turn brazen types and newcomers away.
Fortunately for water devotees, the Bay never closes down, so we just relocated our chairs and cooler to a Bay beach to revel in the rest of the afternoon.
When my piece of watermelon tragically dropped in the sand, I didn't hesitate to rinse it off in the Bay, never suspecting that it would taste as salty afterward as if I'd used a salt shaker on it, something my mother does to this day.
A guy came walking by, net and bucket in hand, and pulled out his ear buds to ask how my day was going. When I explained that we'd just moved from the ocean to the Bay, he nodded and smiled knowingly.
"The Bay is always easier," he advised. Well, it was certainly less crowded, really just us and a young couple with two cleverly-named dogs: Boris and Tuna. The wind was just right to send eau de wet dog wafting our way on a regular basis.
Besides salty, the water was also quite warm, although the friendly guy submerged up to his neck in it shared that it was only warm at the top and down lower, it was much more refreshingly cool, a fact I was able to confirm while also lowering my body temperature.
Because, after all, that is why we go to the water on hot days.
A trio walked along the water's edge, pulling crabs out of the bay and depositing them in their mesh baskets. Come to think of it, I'm overdue for a summer crab feast and I know just the person who'd want in on a little man versus crab action with me.
We coastal lovers have to stick together.
Sweaty or not, barely clad and soothed by the constancy of the water's movement, salt life beats city life on a scorcher like today...and mountains any day of the week.
Hang on, Summer, I'm not done with you yet.
Always With Intention
Despite the door guy ribbing me, I'd have gone to Gallery 5 even if they didn't have air-conditioning.
That they do was merely further incentive to leave my 95-degree apartment and go see a show I already wanted to see, coincidentally, one with women represented in all three bands.
Like my history, I prefer my music with breasts.
Not so the two guys on either side of me. One had been bored so he'd randomly picked a show, apparently a habit of his. "I like to choose shows with no intention." He looked at nothing but his phone until the band moved toward the stage, always returning to it when they stopped.
Pass.
Behind Door #2 was a guy who'd been a musician on the side for years and had come because he wanted to hear music and had liked Wildhoney's - the Baltimore headliner - sound with, according to him, direct-sounding ties to bands such as Cocteau Twins and the Sundays.
So right there, he got points. Scads more came when he admitted he doesn't watch TV.
But where he blew the lid off his score was in having been at the Malian quartet's Balliceaux show last week when I was, leading to a chat about how much the scene has changed since he arrived in 1996 from Rochester.
A kindred soul indeed, even if he does live in Forest Hill.
To him I showed off my new knowledge - in Virginia, you must have an ID if you're in any place serving alcohol - which I'd gleaned courtesy of the door guy, who'd also given me the line that if I removed my ID bracelet before the show ended, it would explode.
Please wait until you're outside, he's jokingly pleaded.
Twee trio Big Baby was up first and I immediately fell for their male and female vocals/harmonies combined with two guitars (channeling the Sundays and the Cure) and energetic drumming, although they're still working on their between-song banter, a skill set that takes time.
Announcing they were going to play "Dumb Guys," several women in the audience cheered and hooted.
"Christi is next and they're amazing," singer Ali announced, sounding for all the world like a fan girl. After a look from her band mate, she amended that. "After that is Wildhoney. They're amazing, too." It didn't resonate quite the same.
I knew she was right at least about the former because I've seen Christi's seamless pastiche of girl group sound and hardcore before watching them set up onstage tonight.
Whatever tonight's challenges were as the set progressed, vocalist/bassist/fanny pack-wearer Maggie had a philosophy: "We're just going to do our best," whether it was skipping a song, experiencing feedback or not being able to hear themselves in the monitors.
Announcing that they were going to play a really new song, she turned to vocalist/guitarist Emily and asked, "What's it called?" Climate Change, she told her.
"Okay, we're going to do our best!" she enthused, and they did, not that I've ever seen them not impress.
Forest and I resumed our conversation during the break, with me thanking him for putting in ear plugs at the start of Christi's set. Despite always having a pair or three in my bag, I almost always forget to put them in, except when the person I'm talking to does so.
Maybe I need more good role models.
Turns out that because he's a musician, he had a special pair made that really fit his ears and don't eliminate all the high end like the cheap ones do. We discovered a mutual acknowledgement of hearing loss due to years of show-going but agreed with a handshake that we wouldn't take it back.
Such are the pleasures of meeting fellow music-lovers at shows.
After sound checking, Wildhoney's singer Lauren, wearing her hair in an Audrey Hepburn up-do, a little black dress, gold brooch and combat-like boots, peered into the lights asking the sound guy, "Are we good?''
I think we were about to find that out, weren't we?
Atmospheric female vocals, check; swirling guitars, check; dream pop songs, check. It was my very favorite kind of sound - music from a cave - full of hooks, completely dance-y and made even better by an appropriately groovy light show.
Hello, Sunday night. Yes, they are good.
The fill-in bass player - also wearing a killer LBD with a criss-cross strap feature that replaced jewelry in front - was introduced and praised for having learned all the bass parts in a short time.
Because I liked their music so much, I found the set far too short, but the brevity may also have been tied to what Lauren said toward the end. "Thanks Big Baby, Christi and Gallery 5 and for that delicious beer that got me drunk with just one."
Some evenings are full of surprises like that. Life will teach you to make the most of what you get handed.
That they do was merely further incentive to leave my 95-degree apartment and go see a show I already wanted to see, coincidentally, one with women represented in all three bands.
Like my history, I prefer my music with breasts.
Not so the two guys on either side of me. One had been bored so he'd randomly picked a show, apparently a habit of his. "I like to choose shows with no intention." He looked at nothing but his phone until the band moved toward the stage, always returning to it when they stopped.
Pass.
Behind Door #2 was a guy who'd been a musician on the side for years and had come because he wanted to hear music and had liked Wildhoney's - the Baltimore headliner - sound with, according to him, direct-sounding ties to bands such as Cocteau Twins and the Sundays.
So right there, he got points. Scads more came when he admitted he doesn't watch TV.
But where he blew the lid off his score was in having been at the Malian quartet's Balliceaux show last week when I was, leading to a chat about how much the scene has changed since he arrived in 1996 from Rochester.
A kindred soul indeed, even if he does live in Forest Hill.
To him I showed off my new knowledge - in Virginia, you must have an ID if you're in any place serving alcohol - which I'd gleaned courtesy of the door guy, who'd also given me the line that if I removed my ID bracelet before the show ended, it would explode.
Please wait until you're outside, he's jokingly pleaded.
Twee trio Big Baby was up first and I immediately fell for their male and female vocals/harmonies combined with two guitars (channeling the Sundays and the Cure) and energetic drumming, although they're still working on their between-song banter, a skill set that takes time.
Announcing they were going to play "Dumb Guys," several women in the audience cheered and hooted.
"Christi is next and they're amazing," singer Ali announced, sounding for all the world like a fan girl. After a look from her band mate, she amended that. "After that is Wildhoney. They're amazing, too." It didn't resonate quite the same.
I knew she was right at least about the former because I've seen Christi's seamless pastiche of girl group sound and hardcore before watching them set up onstage tonight.
Whatever tonight's challenges were as the set progressed, vocalist/bassist/fanny pack-wearer Maggie had a philosophy: "We're just going to do our best," whether it was skipping a song, experiencing feedback or not being able to hear themselves in the monitors.
Announcing that they were going to play a really new song, she turned to vocalist/guitarist Emily and asked, "What's it called?" Climate Change, she told her.
"Okay, we're going to do our best!" she enthused, and they did, not that I've ever seen them not impress.
Forest and I resumed our conversation during the break, with me thanking him for putting in ear plugs at the start of Christi's set. Despite always having a pair or three in my bag, I almost always forget to put them in, except when the person I'm talking to does so.
Maybe I need more good role models.
Turns out that because he's a musician, he had a special pair made that really fit his ears and don't eliminate all the high end like the cheap ones do. We discovered a mutual acknowledgement of hearing loss due to years of show-going but agreed with a handshake that we wouldn't take it back.
Such are the pleasures of meeting fellow music-lovers at shows.
After sound checking, Wildhoney's singer Lauren, wearing her hair in an Audrey Hepburn up-do, a little black dress, gold brooch and combat-like boots, peered into the lights asking the sound guy, "Are we good?''
I think we were about to find that out, weren't we?
Atmospheric female vocals, check; swirling guitars, check; dream pop songs, check. It was my very favorite kind of sound - music from a cave - full of hooks, completely dance-y and made even better by an appropriately groovy light show.
Hello, Sunday night. Yes, they are good.
The fill-in bass player - also wearing a killer LBD with a criss-cross strap feature that replaced jewelry in front - was introduced and praised for having learned all the bass parts in a short time.
Because I liked their music so much, I found the set far too short, but the brevity may also have been tied to what Lauren said toward the end. "Thanks Big Baby, Christi and Gallery 5 and for that delicious beer that got me drunk with just one."
Some evenings are full of surprises like that. Life will teach you to make the most of what you get handed.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Who? This Guy, That's Who
Hope you're in the middle of a grand weekend!
Yes, I'm at the river today and very much enjoying the view.
BTW, I'm very jealous about that river thing.
The river thing is most excellent, I won't lie, but I'm heading back shortly for a friend's party, so your jealousy can be short-lived.
Well, from the river to a party - still not registering high on the sympathy scale with me!
The man had a point.
But tonight's Cocktails and Cards party was non-negotiable, so I took a leisurely outdoor shower before leaving and then stopped home just long enough to put on a summery-looking dress and head to Church Hill to socialize with eight other people.
Driving up the hill to my destination, I spotted a guy standing against a yellow brick wall on 28th or 29th Street, staring West into the brutal pre-sunset glare motionless. He and the entire block seemed suffused with sunshine.
I knew it would be the last lightness I saw before entering the dark world of Cards Against Humanity.
Food covered two tables in two rooms, guests came and went throughout the night, providing changing odds and varying dynamics between the cerebral and corny humor aficionados and it was the usual tough crowd, so everyone brought their "A" game.
Best-written card I never found a use for: Riding the struggle bus
Favorite quip from the man to my left: I already won in my own head
Prank worth trying: Telling people that the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary (Even better, the wife's comment that followed: "Both she and I fell for that.")
Favorite answer to the question, "Who's really to blame?": The person Mr. Rogers thought I could be.
Most surprising comment about appendages: Lady hands on a man make me want to throw up
Best reaction to an innocuous card about "taking it to the kitchen": Uh-oh, do we need to Urban Dictionary that?
Funniest comment about going on a job interview: You know you're going to have to buy pants first
Quickest assumption to "blue waffle" as the answer to the question "What exactly is up my ass?": That's got to be something sexual
Phrase worth remembering for future use: Heteroflexible
The cards, we all agreed, were written by guys smoking weed who then sent them though quality control with 13-year old boys. To wit: felching.
When word nerds drink, they can't resist researching. "I don't need to know," said the wise one, shaking her head.
Oh, but I do. Can we ratchet up the sympathy scale for that?
Yes, I'm at the river today and very much enjoying the view.
BTW, I'm very jealous about that river thing.
The river thing is most excellent, I won't lie, but I'm heading back shortly for a friend's party, so your jealousy can be short-lived.
Well, from the river to a party - still not registering high on the sympathy scale with me!
The man had a point.
But tonight's Cocktails and Cards party was non-negotiable, so I took a leisurely outdoor shower before leaving and then stopped home just long enough to put on a summery-looking dress and head to Church Hill to socialize with eight other people.
Driving up the hill to my destination, I spotted a guy standing against a yellow brick wall on 28th or 29th Street, staring West into the brutal pre-sunset glare motionless. He and the entire block seemed suffused with sunshine.
I knew it would be the last lightness I saw before entering the dark world of Cards Against Humanity.
Food covered two tables in two rooms, guests came and went throughout the night, providing changing odds and varying dynamics between the cerebral and corny humor aficionados and it was the usual tough crowd, so everyone brought their "A" game.
Best-written card I never found a use for: Riding the struggle bus
Favorite quip from the man to my left: I already won in my own head
Prank worth trying: Telling people that the word "gullible" is not in the dictionary (Even better, the wife's comment that followed: "Both she and I fell for that.")
Favorite answer to the question, "Who's really to blame?": The person Mr. Rogers thought I could be.
Most surprising comment about appendages: Lady hands on a man make me want to throw up
Best reaction to an innocuous card about "taking it to the kitchen": Uh-oh, do we need to Urban Dictionary that?
Funniest comment about going on a job interview: You know you're going to have to buy pants first
Quickest assumption to "blue waffle" as the answer to the question "What exactly is up my ass?": That's got to be something sexual
Phrase worth remembering for future use: Heteroflexible
The cards, we all agreed, were written by guys smoking weed who then sent them though quality control with 13-year old boys. To wit: felching.
When word nerds drink, they can't resist researching. "I don't need to know," said the wise one, shaking her head.
Oh, but I do. Can we ratchet up the sympathy scale for that?
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Waiting for a Star to Fall
Jake and I are spending the night alone together for the first time tonight.
Since I arrived, we've taken walks down to the marina, lounged on the deck (I read, he napped) and shared food. There's so much to like about his temperament - alert, energetic, fast, powerful, steady and stubborn - and personality, which is happy, loving, intelligent, cheerful and affectionate.
And don't get me started on how lean and in shape he is for a male his age.
Granted, these are also the characteristics of a Weimaraner, which Jake happens to be, but coincidentally, they're the same qualities of Jake's Dad, who is most definitely human.
And lest it sound like I'm lusting after Jake's Dad, I should make it clear that I first fell in love with Jake's Mom on a boat two summers ago.
Since then, I've become friends and devoted fans of both Jake's parents, resulting in visits to their river cottage, multiple trips to eat on the deck of the Crazy Crab and my first, second and third adventures in sailing.
Jake's Dad recently told me he finds me "easy to have around," a wonderful compliment considering I'm really just a fifth wheel to their two-part love story.
And a truly magnificent love story at that.
This is a couple who dated for years, then went their separate ways (a period he refers to as "the terrible awful") only to reunite three and a half years later, marry and live happily ever after.
No exaggeration.
I learned the basics of how they got from point A to point B early on in our friendship, mostly from the kind of deep conversations women have when they spend hours together at the water, but with occasional input from him when we were all three hanging out.
But it was only recently that I got to read it in his own words from an old email his wife brought up in conversation. I was blown away by his candor and reflection after reading it.
In a missive to a friend seeking marital advice, Jake's Dad laid bare his journey to winning back the woman he loved.
If you have any chance of being the love of her life, you will need to change. That can't happen in a few days. It takes time and a lot of soul searching. I went through something very similar with C. I didn't think we would ever get back together. We gave each other space and time. We dated other people. We stayed friends. Most of all, I grew to understand that I wasn't the guy that she needed.
Just from that much, I think Jake's Dad deserves some sort of man medal for self-awareness, but he took it even further.
My dog died. My mother died. My father developed Alzheimer's. Somehow, and I can't quite explain it, maybe I was humbled by life's experiences, but I came out of all that ready to love and adore C. in the ways that she needs. I'm that guy now.
Here's where he brings it all home with a fatal dose of humor and experience.
I hope your dog doesn't die. I hope you don't lose your Mom. I hope S. stays healthy. BUT, I hope you hear the beautiful, righteous sound that I heard that changed me forever.
That sound was the loud POP when my head came out of my ass. Good luck.
I ask you, does Jake have a brilliant and hilarious Dad or what? So when the happy couple headed out of town and needed a companion for Jake, I was more than happy to roost at the river with him.
Despite the return of this crazy heat everyone's whining about today, having a bright blue river off the back porch makes it completely tolerable. Better still, it hasn't stopped Jake from running or me from walking.
Dinner was eaten at the end of the dock, my legs hanging over water as smooth as glass and completely unlike the choppy whitecaps of our most recent sail. I sat there with the sun on my back and a half moon already visible in the sky while Jake investigated our environs and asked for bites.
Afterwards, we walked to Lover's Lane together, with Jake taking the lead, being the male that he is. Neighbors spotted us and pulled over in their truck to investigate the strange woman walking with the familiar dog. I assured Gail and Freddie that I was just a temporary substitute for Mom and Dad.
Besides Jake's abundant charms, part of the appeal of being down here, far from the city and its attendant light pollution, is the Perseid meteor showers, so I used the early part of the night to read on the porch before dousing the lights and setting up camp outside in hopes of seeing cosmic debris.
Because, where better?
So far, Jake seems content to keep me company out here under the stars for as long as it takes. It's almost like he knows what I want and he's giving it to me.
Around here, that usually occurs after a loud, righteous POP.
Since I arrived, we've taken walks down to the marina, lounged on the deck (I read, he napped) and shared food. There's so much to like about his temperament - alert, energetic, fast, powerful, steady and stubborn - and personality, which is happy, loving, intelligent, cheerful and affectionate.
And don't get me started on how lean and in shape he is for a male his age.
Granted, these are also the characteristics of a Weimaraner, which Jake happens to be, but coincidentally, they're the same qualities of Jake's Dad, who is most definitely human.
And lest it sound like I'm lusting after Jake's Dad, I should make it clear that I first fell in love with Jake's Mom on a boat two summers ago.
Since then, I've become friends and devoted fans of both Jake's parents, resulting in visits to their river cottage, multiple trips to eat on the deck of the Crazy Crab and my first, second and third adventures in sailing.
Jake's Dad recently told me he finds me "easy to have around," a wonderful compliment considering I'm really just a fifth wheel to their two-part love story.
And a truly magnificent love story at that.
This is a couple who dated for years, then went their separate ways (a period he refers to as "the terrible awful") only to reunite three and a half years later, marry and live happily ever after.
No exaggeration.
I learned the basics of how they got from point A to point B early on in our friendship, mostly from the kind of deep conversations women have when they spend hours together at the water, but with occasional input from him when we were all three hanging out.
But it was only recently that I got to read it in his own words from an old email his wife brought up in conversation. I was blown away by his candor and reflection after reading it.
In a missive to a friend seeking marital advice, Jake's Dad laid bare his journey to winning back the woman he loved.
If you have any chance of being the love of her life, you will need to change. That can't happen in a few days. It takes time and a lot of soul searching. I went through something very similar with C. I didn't think we would ever get back together. We gave each other space and time. We dated other people. We stayed friends. Most of all, I grew to understand that I wasn't the guy that she needed.
Just from that much, I think Jake's Dad deserves some sort of man medal for self-awareness, but he took it even further.
My dog died. My mother died. My father developed Alzheimer's. Somehow, and I can't quite explain it, maybe I was humbled by life's experiences, but I came out of all that ready to love and adore C. in the ways that she needs. I'm that guy now.
Here's where he brings it all home with a fatal dose of humor and experience.
I hope your dog doesn't die. I hope you don't lose your Mom. I hope S. stays healthy. BUT, I hope you hear the beautiful, righteous sound that I heard that changed me forever.
That sound was the loud POP when my head came out of my ass. Good luck.
I ask you, does Jake have a brilliant and hilarious Dad or what? So when the happy couple headed out of town and needed a companion for Jake, I was more than happy to roost at the river with him.
Despite the return of this crazy heat everyone's whining about today, having a bright blue river off the back porch makes it completely tolerable. Better still, it hasn't stopped Jake from running or me from walking.
Dinner was eaten at the end of the dock, my legs hanging over water as smooth as glass and completely unlike the choppy whitecaps of our most recent sail. I sat there with the sun on my back and a half moon already visible in the sky while Jake investigated our environs and asked for bites.
Afterwards, we walked to Lover's Lane together, with Jake taking the lead, being the male that he is. Neighbors spotted us and pulled over in their truck to investigate the strange woman walking with the familiar dog. I assured Gail and Freddie that I was just a temporary substitute for Mom and Dad.
Besides Jake's abundant charms, part of the appeal of being down here, far from the city and its attendant light pollution, is the Perseid meteor showers, so I used the early part of the night to read on the porch before dousing the lights and setting up camp outside in hopes of seeing cosmic debris.
Because, where better?
So far, Jake seems content to keep me company out here under the stars for as long as it takes. It's almost like he knows what I want and he's giving it to me.
Around here, that usually occurs after a loud, righteous POP.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Explosions in the Sky
Some people know how to use their down time better than others.
My partner in crime was off today and I'd cleared the decks so we could do whatever we wanted right up until bedtime. So I sent off my morning ping - Hey, I'm up and about - and 35 minutes later we're heading off on an epic walk.
Before we even got to the Empire Theater, we'd run into both the tall, handsome one with the aged beagle and strangers at a table in front of Lift with a young beagle with enormous feet sprawled on the pavement.
An auspicious start to any day, if ever there was one.
We hoofed it down to 13th Street to pick up the empty pipeline walkway, where we were greeted by an unusually brown and muddy river but also a view of short kayakers (meaning those with mad kayak skills) attempting to navigate rapids that repeatedly sent them in alternate directions.
From Brown's Island, we headed to Belle Isle to reward ourselves for traipsing through such heat and humidity right after breakfast, roosting on a rock next to an oblivious couple busy looking at their phones while I submerged my bottom half in the river.
There are far worse things (and few better ways to stay cool on the way home) than walking a couple miles home in wet shorts.
Back at home, we changed clothes and went to lunch at the kind of place where ladies lunch (they were, in fact, at the table next to us) and I froze to death due to the excessively chilly temperatures suburbanites seem to require.
Translation: not particularly my kind of place.
Going our separate ways temporarily after lunch, I used the next few hours to scratch things off my to-do list: editing, grocery-shopping, laundry and something so uncharacteristic I dare not speak its name.
Productive, yes. Thrilling? Hardly.
So imagine my surprise when we reconvene later at Amour for tonight's Languedoc-Roussillon wine tasting with small plates, an evening intended to be both informative and delicious. My favorite outdoor shower owner/wine rep greeted me, I kissed the birthday boy on both cheeks and turned to my friend.
I should've been suspicious when I arrived to find her already there - wait, I'm the punctual one - but it wasn't until I saw the grin, no, the smug look on her face, that I found out why.
Afternoon delight, pure and simple.
I can't say a word since I'm the one who talked her into dipping a toe back into the online dating pool, which has already yielded a wildly complimentary admirer who has commented favorably on her backside, the constellation-like grouping of freckles on her back and her in general.
But envious? Yea, I can be that without reservation. And was.
Fortunately, I had the wine tasting to get my mind out of the gutter and back into France. Owner Paul was his usual playful self, pouring two wines to sample for each course without sharing what they were. It was our job to figure that out based on the spiels offered by both him and he who showers under the stars.
We began with two Roses, one from Languedoc and the other from Provence - La Galope and Le Petit Rouviere - and a rumination about the difficulty years ago in convincing American drinkers that true Rose bore no resemblance to the white Zinfandel of the '80s.
No news there for true pink fans.
Paired with the two Roses was a bowl of summer flavors, namely ratatouille that tasted like it had still been in the garden this morning.
"The color of Rose is a fashion thing," Paul shared about the process that determines color, spurring one guest to suggest using red food color instead.
"Not in France!" Paul responded with disdain.
The next course was a surprise one, so not listed in our wine workbooks, contrasting two Chardonnays that paired oh-so nicely with local mushrooms and garlic and spurred a discussion of Chardonnay's rise and fall with the American public.
Recalling a 25-year old bumper sticker, the wine rep shared its message: "Let's take the oak out of the wine and put the fruit back in," it read. No doubt directed at California, not France.
When quizzed about which Chard was from Languedoc and which from Burgundy, all the attendees called it correctly, netting praise from the owner. I couldn't help pointing out that the more we drank, the smarter we were becoming.
"Can I get that on a t-shirt?" the guy at the end of the bar wondered. Rumor has it he also tried to shoot a deer out his sliding glass door in Bon Air, but I can't verify that one way or another.
Seated near us at the bar was a woman who'd come alone but who'd quickly joined our conversation, explaining her job at an IT firm as "herding cats." A former Museum District resident, she now lived in the West End, yet still sought more land around her.
Leaning over, my friend whispered, "It's a shame, she seems like a nice girl and yet she moved out of the city." We just can't figure out come people.
Our handsome wine rep got many laughs explaining the next set of wines - "Paul is such a great guy, but he's French" - notable because another guest observed, "Now we're in "real" wines," meaning, of course, red wine.
Both Languedoc's Laurent Miquel and Bergerac's Chateau Michel de Montaigne got high points from the group, especially when paired with duck rillettes and duck cracklins.
What was strange was that the woman next to us wasn't eating her food (nor drinking all her wine, not that there's anything wrong with that), making me think she was there more to de-stress than anything else. She had, after all, told us several times how stressful her job was.
She could have benefited from a little afternoon delight herself, although she seemed a bit tightly wound to realize that.
How can someone whose first concert was Jethro Tull and AC/DC at age 10 in Texas be so uptight?
Like us, though, she was thoroughly impressed with both the final Syrahs - Chateau Camplazens and the "nose wine," La Chapelle Saint Arnoux - paired with steak and shallot relish (also not eaten by our seatmate).
By the end of the evening, some of us were smarter about Languedoc's offerings, we'd sung Happy Birthday to Paul and watched him blow out a candle and discussed why dresses are superior to pants on women.
All in all, not a bad night's work.
But not content to finish the night out there, we stopped at the Hofheimer Building because who can resist an invitation reading, "Come be beautiful and feel the breeze while watching fireworks"?
Not me, apparently, but then I missed the usual Independence Day display because of being in France (I know, boo-hoo) but I also welcome opportunities to attempt beautiful, wherever they arise.
On the loft level, we took advantage of Tidewater Oysters' table, spending five bones a piece to scarf four York oysters each and marveling at how briny they were, surprisingly not far off the salinity of Old Saltes.
Ergo, absolutely delicious.
Crowds were entrenched on the roof, but we had no problem moving around the socializing and flirtation so my constant companion could get her first Hof rooftop views, which, incidentally, do not surpass Quirk's tree-covered bird's -eye view of Jackson Ward.
Listening to MJ's "Rock with You" and ogling the lights of RVA, we agreed that the breezes were fantastic up there.
As if on cue, the fireworks display at the Diamond began and we found places near the edge with fabulous views.
I'll admit, I was a bit surprised how many people ignored the fireworks entirely (or were oblivious to them), but part of the blame goes to the sheer noise level of conversation and music, which rendered moot the satisfying booms and pops of the fireworks.
In that regard, it was a bit unsatisfying.
Sort of like hearing how your friend used her down time while you were off being boring.
My partner in crime was off today and I'd cleared the decks so we could do whatever we wanted right up until bedtime. So I sent off my morning ping - Hey, I'm up and about - and 35 minutes later we're heading off on an epic walk.
Before we even got to the Empire Theater, we'd run into both the tall, handsome one with the aged beagle and strangers at a table in front of Lift with a young beagle with enormous feet sprawled on the pavement.
An auspicious start to any day, if ever there was one.
We hoofed it down to 13th Street to pick up the empty pipeline walkway, where we were greeted by an unusually brown and muddy river but also a view of short kayakers (meaning those with mad kayak skills) attempting to navigate rapids that repeatedly sent them in alternate directions.
From Brown's Island, we headed to Belle Isle to reward ourselves for traipsing through such heat and humidity right after breakfast, roosting on a rock next to an oblivious couple busy looking at their phones while I submerged my bottom half in the river.
There are far worse things (and few better ways to stay cool on the way home) than walking a couple miles home in wet shorts.
Back at home, we changed clothes and went to lunch at the kind of place where ladies lunch (they were, in fact, at the table next to us) and I froze to death due to the excessively chilly temperatures suburbanites seem to require.
Translation: not particularly my kind of place.
Going our separate ways temporarily after lunch, I used the next few hours to scratch things off my to-do list: editing, grocery-shopping, laundry and something so uncharacteristic I dare not speak its name.
Productive, yes. Thrilling? Hardly.
So imagine my surprise when we reconvene later at Amour for tonight's Languedoc-Roussillon wine tasting with small plates, an evening intended to be both informative and delicious. My favorite outdoor shower owner/wine rep greeted me, I kissed the birthday boy on both cheeks and turned to my friend.
I should've been suspicious when I arrived to find her already there - wait, I'm the punctual one - but it wasn't until I saw the grin, no, the smug look on her face, that I found out why.
Afternoon delight, pure and simple.
I can't say a word since I'm the one who talked her into dipping a toe back into the online dating pool, which has already yielded a wildly complimentary admirer who has commented favorably on her backside, the constellation-like grouping of freckles on her back and her in general.
But envious? Yea, I can be that without reservation. And was.
Fortunately, I had the wine tasting to get my mind out of the gutter and back into France. Owner Paul was his usual playful self, pouring two wines to sample for each course without sharing what they were. It was our job to figure that out based on the spiels offered by both him and he who showers under the stars.
We began with two Roses, one from Languedoc and the other from Provence - La Galope and Le Petit Rouviere - and a rumination about the difficulty years ago in convincing American drinkers that true Rose bore no resemblance to the white Zinfandel of the '80s.
No news there for true pink fans.
Paired with the two Roses was a bowl of summer flavors, namely ratatouille that tasted like it had still been in the garden this morning.
"The color of Rose is a fashion thing," Paul shared about the process that determines color, spurring one guest to suggest using red food color instead.
"Not in France!" Paul responded with disdain.
The next course was a surprise one, so not listed in our wine workbooks, contrasting two Chardonnays that paired oh-so nicely with local mushrooms and garlic and spurred a discussion of Chardonnay's rise and fall with the American public.
Recalling a 25-year old bumper sticker, the wine rep shared its message: "Let's take the oak out of the wine and put the fruit back in," it read. No doubt directed at California, not France.
When quizzed about which Chard was from Languedoc and which from Burgundy, all the attendees called it correctly, netting praise from the owner. I couldn't help pointing out that the more we drank, the smarter we were becoming.
"Can I get that on a t-shirt?" the guy at the end of the bar wondered. Rumor has it he also tried to shoot a deer out his sliding glass door in Bon Air, but I can't verify that one way or another.
Seated near us at the bar was a woman who'd come alone but who'd quickly joined our conversation, explaining her job at an IT firm as "herding cats." A former Museum District resident, she now lived in the West End, yet still sought more land around her.
Leaning over, my friend whispered, "It's a shame, she seems like a nice girl and yet she moved out of the city." We just can't figure out come people.
Our handsome wine rep got many laughs explaining the next set of wines - "Paul is such a great guy, but he's French" - notable because another guest observed, "Now we're in "real" wines," meaning, of course, red wine.
Both Languedoc's Laurent Miquel and Bergerac's Chateau Michel de Montaigne got high points from the group, especially when paired with duck rillettes and duck cracklins.
What was strange was that the woman next to us wasn't eating her food (nor drinking all her wine, not that there's anything wrong with that), making me think she was there more to de-stress than anything else. She had, after all, told us several times how stressful her job was.
She could have benefited from a little afternoon delight herself, although she seemed a bit tightly wound to realize that.
How can someone whose first concert was Jethro Tull and AC/DC at age 10 in Texas be so uptight?
Like us, though, she was thoroughly impressed with both the final Syrahs - Chateau Camplazens and the "nose wine," La Chapelle Saint Arnoux - paired with steak and shallot relish (also not eaten by our seatmate).
By the end of the evening, some of us were smarter about Languedoc's offerings, we'd sung Happy Birthday to Paul and watched him blow out a candle and discussed why dresses are superior to pants on women.
All in all, not a bad night's work.
But not content to finish the night out there, we stopped at the Hofheimer Building because who can resist an invitation reading, "Come be beautiful and feel the breeze while watching fireworks"?
Not me, apparently, but then I missed the usual Independence Day display because of being in France (I know, boo-hoo) but I also welcome opportunities to attempt beautiful, wherever they arise.
On the loft level, we took advantage of Tidewater Oysters' table, spending five bones a piece to scarf four York oysters each and marveling at how briny they were, surprisingly not far off the salinity of Old Saltes.
Ergo, absolutely delicious.
Crowds were entrenched on the roof, but we had no problem moving around the socializing and flirtation so my constant companion could get her first Hof rooftop views, which, incidentally, do not surpass Quirk's tree-covered bird's -eye view of Jackson Ward.
Listening to MJ's "Rock with You" and ogling the lights of RVA, we agreed that the breezes were fantastic up there.
As if on cue, the fireworks display at the Diamond began and we found places near the edge with fabulous views.
I'll admit, I was a bit surprised how many people ignored the fireworks entirely (or were oblivious to them), but part of the blame goes to the sheer noise level of conversation and music, which rendered moot the satisfying booms and pops of the fireworks.
In that regard, it was a bit unsatisfying.
Sort of like hearing how your friend used her down time while you were off being boring.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
Buttermilk and Biscotti
You never know what you'll learn in the shade.
Rounding the corner on to Meyer from Leigh Street, I know I can rely on a shady stretch to cool down briefly, but not necessarily one offering local history and cultural commentary.
It was my response - "Hot" - when a man taking a break from weed-eating asked how I was that set us off.
"This ain't hot," he responds. "I don't even use air conditioning in my truck." Clearly he had no idea who he was talking to. I don't use it in my car or apartment, I informed him. Haven't since '93.
Checkmate.
Instead of looking gobsmacked, we jumped right into the decline of Western civilization due to over-use of air conditioning, lackadaisical parenting and general laziness.
We were soul mates, I tell you.
Like me, he was a come-here (albeit in 1963), who'd married here (1971) so, unlike me, had all kinds of memories of the city in the '70s. Cary near Harrison Streets was a hotbed of eating pleasures, he assured me, mentioning Johnson's Burger Bar, a barbecue joint and a diner where he could get all-you-can-eat string beans, mashed potatoes and chopped hamburger steak.
For sixty cents.
Discussing summer weather and the need for hydration, he slid into the conversation that he only drank two things: water and buttermilk. I happen to know that my Richmond grandmother drank only water, buttermilk and (unsweetened) iced tea, so apparently there was a time when this was a thing.
"Buttermilk's good for you," he said in that same tone my grandmother used to. Look, if you have to convince yourself, maybe it's time to reconsider what you're drinking.
Although I bet it makes a helluva fine milk mustache.
But he also said with some pride that he'd never been in a club - "You don't mix people with guns and drinking" - and if you don't do that and only drink water and buttermilk, where exactly are you getting your pleasure?
No, seriously, I'm asking.
We talked for a good 15 minutes before I resumed walking so he could get back to work. He did not approve of the men he's seen sitting near Lowe's, as he put it, "drinking right out in public instead of working."
I bet my grandmother would have felt the same way. Shiftless, I can just hear her saying it now.
Curious about these restaurants and that area, I had no choice but to consult my native Richmond authorities when we met up for dinner.
Holmes immediately flashed back to first hearing about the ultra-fab JB cheeseburger at Johnson's from a friend's letter while he and his family were vacationing in London. Not to question his recall or anything, but who remembers their first mention of a new burger joint?
Anyone?
Our drive to Nota Bene took us right by the long-gone eateries. conjuring up for the natives other restaurant and club ghosts of their youth where now looms VCU's Life Sciences building.
The restaurant was nearly full except for the bar, which was empty, and while the diners were making a racket, the music at the bar - Holmes dismissed it as "whiny white boy music" and said the bands sounded like Dylan-wannabes, but it was right up my "music from a cave" alley - soared right along side it, providing us a musical soundtrack undoubtedly absent where the table-dwellers sat.
An unusually large party of wine people had already depleted the specials board, but we nabbed the last of the crusty potato and leek focaccia alongside ricotta and blistered grape tomatoes, a dish almost as memorable visually as on the tongue.
Unable to resist the siren song of the roasted cauliflower or the sugar toads, the historians duplicated our order last visit, but then, some things are just too good to pass up, even if I did have to remind Holmes the easiest way to eat toads.
The peppery assertiveness of the arugula in my salad was ably met with chickpeas, pickled onion and oil-packed tuna all dressed in lemon and olive oil, a simple and satisfying summer supper for someone like me.
And someone like me, according to Holmes anyway, is someone who all but requires chocolate at the end of a meal - not true, but who can stop the slander? - a fact he shared with the owner, who recommended the latest addition to the dessert menu.
What's not to like about housemade chocolate almond biscotti drizzled with vermouth ("Because of who we are," she admitted with a shrug) served with a little Mason jar of sweetened ricotta made obscene with orange and lemon zest, almonds and bits of chocolate?
Not terribly sweet, with contrasting textures and supremely complementary flavors, the dessert opened with the kick of vermouth and finished with a breath of orange while laying on the charm of the cheese and chocolate.
I need not require something to take great pleasure in it. I'm beginning to think it's better if I don't.
Rounding the corner on to Meyer from Leigh Street, I know I can rely on a shady stretch to cool down briefly, but not necessarily one offering local history and cultural commentary.
It was my response - "Hot" - when a man taking a break from weed-eating asked how I was that set us off.
"This ain't hot," he responds. "I don't even use air conditioning in my truck." Clearly he had no idea who he was talking to. I don't use it in my car or apartment, I informed him. Haven't since '93.
Checkmate.
Instead of looking gobsmacked, we jumped right into the decline of Western civilization due to over-use of air conditioning, lackadaisical parenting and general laziness.
We were soul mates, I tell you.
Like me, he was a come-here (albeit in 1963), who'd married here (1971) so, unlike me, had all kinds of memories of the city in the '70s. Cary near Harrison Streets was a hotbed of eating pleasures, he assured me, mentioning Johnson's Burger Bar, a barbecue joint and a diner where he could get all-you-can-eat string beans, mashed potatoes and chopped hamburger steak.
For sixty cents.
Discussing summer weather and the need for hydration, he slid into the conversation that he only drank two things: water and buttermilk. I happen to know that my Richmond grandmother drank only water, buttermilk and (unsweetened) iced tea, so apparently there was a time when this was a thing.
"Buttermilk's good for you," he said in that same tone my grandmother used to. Look, if you have to convince yourself, maybe it's time to reconsider what you're drinking.
Although I bet it makes a helluva fine milk mustache.
But he also said with some pride that he'd never been in a club - "You don't mix people with guns and drinking" - and if you don't do that and only drink water and buttermilk, where exactly are you getting your pleasure?
No, seriously, I'm asking.
We talked for a good 15 minutes before I resumed walking so he could get back to work. He did not approve of the men he's seen sitting near Lowe's, as he put it, "drinking right out in public instead of working."
I bet my grandmother would have felt the same way. Shiftless, I can just hear her saying it now.
Curious about these restaurants and that area, I had no choice but to consult my native Richmond authorities when we met up for dinner.
Holmes immediately flashed back to first hearing about the ultra-fab JB cheeseburger at Johnson's from a friend's letter while he and his family were vacationing in London. Not to question his recall or anything, but who remembers their first mention of a new burger joint?
Anyone?
Our drive to Nota Bene took us right by the long-gone eateries. conjuring up for the natives other restaurant and club ghosts of their youth where now looms VCU's Life Sciences building.
The restaurant was nearly full except for the bar, which was empty, and while the diners were making a racket, the music at the bar - Holmes dismissed it as "whiny white boy music" and said the bands sounded like Dylan-wannabes, but it was right up my "music from a cave" alley - soared right along side it, providing us a musical soundtrack undoubtedly absent where the table-dwellers sat.
An unusually large party of wine people had already depleted the specials board, but we nabbed the last of the crusty potato and leek focaccia alongside ricotta and blistered grape tomatoes, a dish almost as memorable visually as on the tongue.
Unable to resist the siren song of the roasted cauliflower or the sugar toads, the historians duplicated our order last visit, but then, some things are just too good to pass up, even if I did have to remind Holmes the easiest way to eat toads.
The peppery assertiveness of the arugula in my salad was ably met with chickpeas, pickled onion and oil-packed tuna all dressed in lemon and olive oil, a simple and satisfying summer supper for someone like me.
And someone like me, according to Holmes anyway, is someone who all but requires chocolate at the end of a meal - not true, but who can stop the slander? - a fact he shared with the owner, who recommended the latest addition to the dessert menu.
What's not to like about housemade chocolate almond biscotti drizzled with vermouth ("Because of who we are," she admitted with a shrug) served with a little Mason jar of sweetened ricotta made obscene with orange and lemon zest, almonds and bits of chocolate?
Not terribly sweet, with contrasting textures and supremely complementary flavors, the dessert opened with the kick of vermouth and finished with a breath of orange while laying on the charm of the cheese and chocolate.
I need not require something to take great pleasure in it. I'm beginning to think it's better if I don't.
Monday, August 8, 2016
The Hard Part
I'm going to call it like I see it. Gordon trumps Kehinde, hands down.
Friends were in from out of town, so we met up to see VMFA's summer blockbuster, "Kehinde Wiley: A New Republic," joining an unusually diverse crowd doing the same on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.
And by diverse, I mean a trio of black women eagerly looking for more information in the exhibition catalog as they discussed several pieces and a couple of white women who blandly observed, "I love the background of these things."
Don't get me wrong, I completely appreciate what Wiley is going for by inserting people of color - all gorgeous individuals with not a blemish among them - into compositions from traditional European (read: white) paintings and adding densely patterned overlays and backgrounds to them.
Not to mention the frames which were as much works of art as the paintings.
Without a doubt, the bronze busts were my favorite part of the show, particularly the one of a man in a dashiki with a pick in his hair, a monumental sculpture of black power and beauty.
Like a dutiful museum guest, I read about Wiley's process and was intrigued. He recruited everyday people off the street to model, then asked them to choose a painting from an art history book for him to recreate using their face and modern day clothes.
The randomly-chosen models made fascinating choices in some cases, choosing to be depicted as religious men, as part of biblical scenes, even as a white slave. One of the most interesting facets was the gender play throughout, men depicted as women and vice versa.
But there was also a soul-less quality to the work, a fact undoubtedly due to Wiley's large workshop crews who help bring the paintings to fruition. The figures had a photo-realistic quality that may have been the result of Wiley working from photographs of his models, but also made them feel more like copies than originals.
Where were the brushstrokes, the painterly qualities that give dimension to a painting? Granted, black skin tones were beautifully represented in shades from purple-hued to golden brown, but the overall effect came across like a highly decorative airbrushed picture.
The art historian in the group was disappointed that the information cards next to the paintings revealed little more than the title, year and painting's owner. Why was there no contextualization, explanation, inside scoop about the subject, source or method?
Shallow and disappointingly vapid, that's how the whole thing felt, like a Twitter feed trying to replace an actual book when what you seek is meaningful information.
Give me Gordon Parks' iconic black and white (occasionally color) photographs documenting his high school class revisited and there's some meat to chew on. The exhibition's information cards provide a satisfying backstory and update for every Fort Scott face looking out at you.
Since VMFA re-opened, they've been reminding us regularly that it's our art, a technicality which I embrace whole-heartedly.
But like anything I consider mine - books, clothes, music, friends - there are some that give me more pleasure than others. Those I choose to revisit repeatedly.
Life's too short to waste on the rest.
Friends were in from out of town, so we met up to see VMFA's summer blockbuster, "Kehinde Wiley: A New Republic," joining an unusually diverse crowd doing the same on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.
And by diverse, I mean a trio of black women eagerly looking for more information in the exhibition catalog as they discussed several pieces and a couple of white women who blandly observed, "I love the background of these things."
Don't get me wrong, I completely appreciate what Wiley is going for by inserting people of color - all gorgeous individuals with not a blemish among them - into compositions from traditional European (read: white) paintings and adding densely patterned overlays and backgrounds to them.
Not to mention the frames which were as much works of art as the paintings.
Without a doubt, the bronze busts were my favorite part of the show, particularly the one of a man in a dashiki with a pick in his hair, a monumental sculpture of black power and beauty.
Like a dutiful museum guest, I read about Wiley's process and was intrigued. He recruited everyday people off the street to model, then asked them to choose a painting from an art history book for him to recreate using their face and modern day clothes.
The randomly-chosen models made fascinating choices in some cases, choosing to be depicted as religious men, as part of biblical scenes, even as a white slave. One of the most interesting facets was the gender play throughout, men depicted as women and vice versa.
But there was also a soul-less quality to the work, a fact undoubtedly due to Wiley's large workshop crews who help bring the paintings to fruition. The figures had a photo-realistic quality that may have been the result of Wiley working from photographs of his models, but also made them feel more like copies than originals.
Where were the brushstrokes, the painterly qualities that give dimension to a painting? Granted, black skin tones were beautifully represented in shades from purple-hued to golden brown, but the overall effect came across like a highly decorative airbrushed picture.
The art historian in the group was disappointed that the information cards next to the paintings revealed little more than the title, year and painting's owner. Why was there no contextualization, explanation, inside scoop about the subject, source or method?
Shallow and disappointingly vapid, that's how the whole thing felt, like a Twitter feed trying to replace an actual book when what you seek is meaningful information.
Give me Gordon Parks' iconic black and white (occasionally color) photographs documenting his high school class revisited and there's some meat to chew on. The exhibition's information cards provide a satisfying backstory and update for every Fort Scott face looking out at you.
Since VMFA re-opened, they've been reminding us regularly that it's our art, a technicality which I embrace whole-heartedly.
But like anything I consider mine - books, clothes, music, friends - there are some that give me more pleasure than others. Those I choose to revisit repeatedly.
Life's too short to waste on the rest.
Sunday, August 7, 2016
So Happy
By the second primal-sounding song, just about everyone in the room was moving, if not dancing.
The Malian Blues Quartet, dressed in traditional, bright-colored garb, attracted a crowd that ranged from old hippies to jazz musicians and fans to a young guy dancing enthusiastically in a presumably ironic black t-shirt with big white letters that read "Hall and Oates."
Familiar faces and conversation came from the jazz critic (who shared a hilarious story about Hitler), the DJ, the sax and clarinet player, the woman who works on film costuming/make-up, the banjo player. A guy with a white buzz cut did the Mr. Roboto dance non-stop.
By the fourth song, the room had gone from cool to warm with no signs of changing direction.
Although the band spoke almost entirely in French, after most songs, the band's leader would smile broadly and say, "Thank you very much. So happy!" He didn't appear to be making that up.
By the time we got to the shank of the show, the band would start playing another song with unusual and shifting time signatures and the crowd would struggle to find a beat to dance to while the group's singer played guitar and gazed out at us with a beatific smile that seemed to say, "Don't sweat it. Let your body go anywhere it wants to."
Kudos to the band for taking what has to be the shortest break on record before returning us to our trance-like dancing to Malian music.
During intermission, while others danced to a DJ playing "Groove is in the Heart," a world music fan and Balliceaux regular I'd met a few years back found me to discuss the set.
"It's the first time I've heard the sound of Celtic music come through in African music," he said. "If you listen, that guitar could be a fiddle and it would be Celtic!"
Of course, once he pointed that out, I could hear nothing but how much of Celtic music had a direct link to the music we were hearing.
It was after intermission that late arrivals - like the guy in a deep blue v-neck t-shirt with a gold chain worn without irony or the guy in the Richmond football jersey almost to his knees - began showing up, making just another post-midnight stop on their Saturday night rounds.
More than a few of that type walked in, made a loop and decided a closed-eye crowd trance dancing was apparently not their thing. It was ours.
By 1 a.m., the four members of the Malian super-group were dancing off the stage one by one to end the show to wild applause.
Walking up Lombardy, the world music lover caught up to talk about how excellent the show had been, how they'd played a lot of songs by a noted African composer. "You should look him up," he tells me. "You should know about him."
I shared that after his intermission observation, I'd been unable to listen without hearing what Celtic music had pulled from what we were hearing tonight. We paused at the street corner to go different ways.
"When you come down to it, all music is African music," he reminded me before smiling, waving farewell and walking off.
When you come down to it, all summer nights spent dancing, much less to Malian music, are excellent nights.
The Malian Blues Quartet, dressed in traditional, bright-colored garb, attracted a crowd that ranged from old hippies to jazz musicians and fans to a young guy dancing enthusiastically in a presumably ironic black t-shirt with big white letters that read "Hall and Oates."
Familiar faces and conversation came from the jazz critic (who shared a hilarious story about Hitler), the DJ, the sax and clarinet player, the woman who works on film costuming/make-up, the banjo player. A guy with a white buzz cut did the Mr. Roboto dance non-stop.
By the fourth song, the room had gone from cool to warm with no signs of changing direction.
Although the band spoke almost entirely in French, after most songs, the band's leader would smile broadly and say, "Thank you very much. So happy!" He didn't appear to be making that up.
By the time we got to the shank of the show, the band would start playing another song with unusual and shifting time signatures and the crowd would struggle to find a beat to dance to while the group's singer played guitar and gazed out at us with a beatific smile that seemed to say, "Don't sweat it. Let your body go anywhere it wants to."
Kudos to the band for taking what has to be the shortest break on record before returning us to our trance-like dancing to Malian music.
During intermission, while others danced to a DJ playing "Groove is in the Heart," a world music fan and Balliceaux regular I'd met a few years back found me to discuss the set.
"It's the first time I've heard the sound of Celtic music come through in African music," he said. "If you listen, that guitar could be a fiddle and it would be Celtic!"
Of course, once he pointed that out, I could hear nothing but how much of Celtic music had a direct link to the music we were hearing.
It was after intermission that late arrivals - like the guy in a deep blue v-neck t-shirt with a gold chain worn without irony or the guy in the Richmond football jersey almost to his knees - began showing up, making just another post-midnight stop on their Saturday night rounds.
More than a few of that type walked in, made a loop and decided a closed-eye crowd trance dancing was apparently not their thing. It was ours.
By 1 a.m., the four members of the Malian super-group were dancing off the stage one by one to end the show to wild applause.
Walking up Lombardy, the world music lover caught up to talk about how excellent the show had been, how they'd played a lot of songs by a noted African composer. "You should look him up," he tells me. "You should know about him."
I shared that after his intermission observation, I'd been unable to listen without hearing what Celtic music had pulled from what we were hearing tonight. We paused at the street corner to go different ways.
"When you come down to it, all music is African music," he reminded me before smiling, waving farewell and walking off.
When you come down to it, all summer nights spent dancing, much less to Malian music, are excellent nights.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Unsafe at Any Speed
If I have to be trapped in a room with 14 millennials for 8 hours, I want to pick the millennials.
It's not like I have a categorical disdain for that generation, because I have plenty of friends who fall into the age group. If you look at some of the best music, books and art ever created, it was done by people in their 20s, so I'd never make a gross generalization about an entire generation.
Never, except after spending an entire day at traffic school with only three other adults and the rest of the participants millennials.
As my father would put it: ye gods!
My heart began to sink when I walked in the classroom at the Hampton Inn to find not one, but two screens on to entertain the room through registration and waiting for the tardy until class began. One was showing the testosterone-fueled '80s gem "Top Gun" and the other the Olympics.
Arriving when I did was young Emily whose Mom dropped her off with an over-protective look and wave, as if she were abandoning her baby at a lion's den.
So imagine my surprise when we had to go around the room and share why we were there and young Em admitted that she'd been caught in New Hampshire driving 103 miles an hour. Her excuse? She was driving a friend's "really old Cadillac and the speedometer was broken so I didn't know how fast I was going."
Which was all well and even pitiable until the instructor, an overly tolerant former New Yorker, informed us that the main problem with new cars is that, unlike older vehicles, they're so quiet and smooth that you get no real sense of what speed you're going without looking.
Sorry, Em, but you probably did know you were speeding. Teacher's response? "You've got a lawyer, right?"
The class was primarily made up of speeders - 72 in a 35, 58 in a 40 - all of whom claimed that they'd had no idea they were going so fast when they were stopped and apparently none of whom had the sense to look at the speedometer to find out at any point.
Teacher said the record, at least for the classes he's taught, was a group of five motorcyclists caught doing 160 mph on Route 288. In a show of solidarity, all five came to class together.
Needless to say, much of the eight hours was devoted to the hazards of distracted driving, no doubt because people like young Melissa (69 in a 50 in Botetourt County) said things like, "I forget to pay attention when I'm driving. I just get so distracted!"
There was a great deal of commiseration going on among the millennials, mainly about being caught and inconvenienced by having to waste a Saturday at school. Unbelievably, three of them had two tickets in less than a month.
To no avail, I'm sure, Teacher spent a huge amount of time on the dangers of cell phone usage, whether talking or texting, suggesting that people put their phones in the glove box or trunk before getting behind the wheel.
Yea, as if.
The class voted to take only a 20-minute lunch so that we could hopefully finish earlier than scheduled, a plan I was fine with.
As I left the overly-cold meeting room to seek warmth outside while eating my lunch, young Em pulled out a Ziplock bag of Cheerios, much like a Mom might bring along for a toddler. I didn't ask because it's better if I don't know why she's eating dry cereal for lunch.
Odd eating habits and obliviousness aside, what drove me craziest was the traffic school behavior of the under 30 set.
The two guys in the back row talked to each other almost constantly, whether we were watching an instructional video or the teacher was going over salient points. I was grateful when he told them to keep it down and downright amazed when a woman later said the same thing less politely.
But they were far from the only talkers. A group of about seven of them made comments, shared personal anecdotes, cracked jokes and generally just did not stop talking the entire day. Even when we were doing a group exercise - a quiz, sort of - involving watching a screen showing traffic incidents so we could then identify the mistakes, they blathered on.
Everything is a group discussion for these people.
Ignoring them as much as I could, I did learn all kinds of new things today. Like how side mirrors are supposed to be positioned, which is nothing like what I was taught back in the dark ages. That American horns beep in the key of "F." That drivers kill more deer than hunters.
But easily the most depressing fact shared today is one that seemed to register not at all with the class. The average American spends 8 hours and 20 minutes a day on their cell phone. That's also, by the way, more time than the average American sleeps.
So, at zero cell phone time and nine hours sleep daily, I can't help but qualify for the odd American out.
The good news is, we finished class an hour early (Teacher and his wife were having an engagement party for their son tonight so he was highly motivated), were awarded the certificates that will expunge our driving records and I could escape confinement with the clueless.
Aware of my old lady driving habits, when I told friends I'd gotten a traffic ticket, two of them had the identical incredulous response. "Surely not for speeding?"
Surely not. I haven't had a ticket of any kind in at least three decades.
No, it was all because a VCU cop had nothing better to do on a rainy Thursday night at an empty intersection than ticket me when the yellow light turned to red as I passed under it. There's a reason people mock VCU cops.
My debt to society paid with the cruelest of sentences - an excruciating confinement with millennials - I can go forward again with an unsullied record, my head held high and only one lingering question.
How the hell can you not know you're going 103?
It's not like I have a categorical disdain for that generation, because I have plenty of friends who fall into the age group. If you look at some of the best music, books and art ever created, it was done by people in their 20s, so I'd never make a gross generalization about an entire generation.
Never, except after spending an entire day at traffic school with only three other adults and the rest of the participants millennials.
As my father would put it: ye gods!
My heart began to sink when I walked in the classroom at the Hampton Inn to find not one, but two screens on to entertain the room through registration and waiting for the tardy until class began. One was showing the testosterone-fueled '80s gem "Top Gun" and the other the Olympics.
Arriving when I did was young Emily whose Mom dropped her off with an over-protective look and wave, as if she were abandoning her baby at a lion's den.
So imagine my surprise when we had to go around the room and share why we were there and young Em admitted that she'd been caught in New Hampshire driving 103 miles an hour. Her excuse? She was driving a friend's "really old Cadillac and the speedometer was broken so I didn't know how fast I was going."
Which was all well and even pitiable until the instructor, an overly tolerant former New Yorker, informed us that the main problem with new cars is that, unlike older vehicles, they're so quiet and smooth that you get no real sense of what speed you're going without looking.
Sorry, Em, but you probably did know you were speeding. Teacher's response? "You've got a lawyer, right?"
The class was primarily made up of speeders - 72 in a 35, 58 in a 40 - all of whom claimed that they'd had no idea they were going so fast when they were stopped and apparently none of whom had the sense to look at the speedometer to find out at any point.
Teacher said the record, at least for the classes he's taught, was a group of five motorcyclists caught doing 160 mph on Route 288. In a show of solidarity, all five came to class together.
Needless to say, much of the eight hours was devoted to the hazards of distracted driving, no doubt because people like young Melissa (69 in a 50 in Botetourt County) said things like, "I forget to pay attention when I'm driving. I just get so distracted!"
There was a great deal of commiseration going on among the millennials, mainly about being caught and inconvenienced by having to waste a Saturday at school. Unbelievably, three of them had two tickets in less than a month.
To no avail, I'm sure, Teacher spent a huge amount of time on the dangers of cell phone usage, whether talking or texting, suggesting that people put their phones in the glove box or trunk before getting behind the wheel.
Yea, as if.
The class voted to take only a 20-minute lunch so that we could hopefully finish earlier than scheduled, a plan I was fine with.
As I left the overly-cold meeting room to seek warmth outside while eating my lunch, young Em pulled out a Ziplock bag of Cheerios, much like a Mom might bring along for a toddler. I didn't ask because it's better if I don't know why she's eating dry cereal for lunch.
Odd eating habits and obliviousness aside, what drove me craziest was the traffic school behavior of the under 30 set.
The two guys in the back row talked to each other almost constantly, whether we were watching an instructional video or the teacher was going over salient points. I was grateful when he told them to keep it down and downright amazed when a woman later said the same thing less politely.
But they were far from the only talkers. A group of about seven of them made comments, shared personal anecdotes, cracked jokes and generally just did not stop talking the entire day. Even when we were doing a group exercise - a quiz, sort of - involving watching a screen showing traffic incidents so we could then identify the mistakes, they blathered on.
Everything is a group discussion for these people.
Ignoring them as much as I could, I did learn all kinds of new things today. Like how side mirrors are supposed to be positioned, which is nothing like what I was taught back in the dark ages. That American horns beep in the key of "F." That drivers kill more deer than hunters.
But easily the most depressing fact shared today is one that seemed to register not at all with the class. The average American spends 8 hours and 20 minutes a day on their cell phone. That's also, by the way, more time than the average American sleeps.
So, at zero cell phone time and nine hours sleep daily, I can't help but qualify for the odd American out.
The good news is, we finished class an hour early (Teacher and his wife were having an engagement party for their son tonight so he was highly motivated), were awarded the certificates that will expunge our driving records and I could escape confinement with the clueless.
Aware of my old lady driving habits, when I told friends I'd gotten a traffic ticket, two of them had the identical incredulous response. "Surely not for speeding?"
Surely not. I haven't had a ticket of any kind in at least three decades.
No, it was all because a VCU cop had nothing better to do on a rainy Thursday night at an empty intersection than ticket me when the yellow light turned to red as I passed under it. There's a reason people mock VCU cops.
My debt to society paid with the cruelest of sentences - an excruciating confinement with millennials - I can go forward again with an unsullied record, my head held high and only one lingering question.
How the hell can you not know you're going 103?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
