Whenever rva has more than one gray day in a row, everyone starts talking about what days like these are good for: watching movies, staying in bed, reading, cuddling, cooking have all been mentioned this week. Frankly, I like rainy days, always have. They don't much change my plans; I still do my four-mile walk, only with an umbrella and carry on with the business of life, albeit with extra layers for warmth.
Today I checked out the new Books, Bikes and Beyond Thrift store run by Ward and Shelley from Books on Wheels. I'd seen Ward last night at Fresh Ink and he'd reminded me to go by and see what they had to offer. I'm the anti-mall person who buys all her clothes (except undies) at thrift stores, so I was all about a new place and went over there to see what was what. Score! Snagged a beautiful Ann Taylor velvet camisole with wide lace trim on it for only two bucks; now I have something fetching and new (to me) to wear to the show tonight.
Walking the beagle the other night, we both spied a snow white bunny in the alley behind my house; I had to rein in the dog. It has to be someone's pet; we just don't have wild rabbits in J-Ward. I forgot all about it until we were walking the other side of the block today and there the poor thing was in someone's front yard, wet and shivering. I'm not quite sure who let this bunny out, so I guess I need to knock on a few doors and get the word out so he can be returned to the cozy confines of his home.
A friend introduced me to the singer Meghan Coffee today and if you're a fan of a certain kind of female voice, I'd suggest checking her out. She's in hibernation at the moment, so new music isn't immediately forthcoming, but there are a couple of CDs to tide a listener over until she's back to playing small rooms and, my favorite, house shows. I think she needs to come to Richmond and play my house.
What's not to like about a good rainy day?
Friday, October 16, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Garnett's: The Anti-Ipanema
What's bright and high-ceilinged, offers meat sandwiches of every kind and already has a homey vibe like it's been around for years? That would be the new Garnett's at Meadow and Park, named after owner Kendra Feather's grandmother. They open at 7 a.m. as a coffee shop with scones, muffins and coffee cake, shift to lunch at 11 and stay open until 10 during the week and 11 on Fridays and Saturdays. As I sat at the bar tonight eating way more than I should have, the crowd was part familiar faces and part neighborhood types eager to check out their local spot now that the lights are finally on.
Here's the only problem: the menu offers 21 sandwiches (including peanut butter for vegans) and there are so many delicious-sounding choices, narrowing it down may take you a while. I finally gave up and just chose one, knowing I'd be back to try the other nineteen. Turns out the Croque Monsieur I ordered (Black Forest ham and Gruyere cheese on grilled Italian bread with Mornay sauce) was so amazing looking that a guy who came in after me took one look at it, closed the menu and said, "I'll have that." For my side, I chose the Black-eyed Pea salad, as did the copy-cat on the stool next to me. It was wonderful. A guy at the other end of the bar loved his side of French red potato salad (mayo-less with mustard vinaigrette) so much he ordered another round of it instead of dessert.
And speaking of desserts, they are just as awesome at Garnett's as at Ipanema; Kendra has always served the sweet-tooth crowd very well and, for that, she has my enduring gratitude. I had the chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and raspberry, so there was much for me to like on that plate. I came home with a slice of the chocolate pie for tomorrow, after watching a girl eat a piece of it and close her eyes in pleasure after each bite . My next visit will conclude with the Hummingbird cake, a favorite of mine that's hard to find anymore.
It'll be another week or two until they have their ABC license for beer and wine, so until then, you'll have your choice of homemade mint lemonade, iced tea or Boylan's sodas.
On a side note, I began my evening at the Visual Arts Center for the latest installment of the Fresh Ink literary series. Josh Harmon, a finalist in VCU's First Novelist competition, read from his book, "Quinnehtukqut." Harmon's sense of place and the fiction he creates around it made for a very satisfying listen, even for someone like me, who rarely reads anything but non-fiction.
You may have missed Harmon, but you've got plenty of time to check out Garnett's for a very satisfying experience. And so you know, you can admire the jars of pickles that line the bar wall, but they're just for show.
Here's the only problem: the menu offers 21 sandwiches (including peanut butter for vegans) and there are so many delicious-sounding choices, narrowing it down may take you a while. I finally gave up and just chose one, knowing I'd be back to try the other nineteen. Turns out the Croque Monsieur I ordered (Black Forest ham and Gruyere cheese on grilled Italian bread with Mornay sauce) was so amazing looking that a guy who came in after me took one look at it, closed the menu and said, "I'll have that." For my side, I chose the Black-eyed Pea salad, as did the copy-cat on the stool next to me. It was wonderful. A guy at the other end of the bar loved his side of French red potato salad (mayo-less with mustard vinaigrette) so much he ordered another round of it instead of dessert.
And speaking of desserts, they are just as awesome at Garnett's as at Ipanema; Kendra has always served the sweet-tooth crowd very well and, for that, she has my enduring gratitude. I had the chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and raspberry, so there was much for me to like on that plate. I came home with a slice of the chocolate pie for tomorrow, after watching a girl eat a piece of it and close her eyes in pleasure after each bite . My next visit will conclude with the Hummingbird cake, a favorite of mine that's hard to find anymore.
It'll be another week or two until they have their ABC license for beer and wine, so until then, you'll have your choice of homemade mint lemonade, iced tea or Boylan's sodas.
On a side note, I began my evening at the Visual Arts Center for the latest installment of the Fresh Ink literary series. Josh Harmon, a finalist in VCU's First Novelist competition, read from his book, "Quinnehtukqut." Harmon's sense of place and the fiction he creates around it made for a very satisfying listen, even for someone like me, who rarely reads anything but non-fiction.
You may have missed Harmon, but you've got plenty of time to check out Garnett's for a very satisfying experience. And so you know, you can admire the jars of pickles that line the bar wall, but they're just for show.
Mid-Afternoon English Lesson (of sorts)
You have to hit Can-Can at exactly the right time: too early and there's no one to talk about and too late and the din is unbearable. My favorite English teacher and I arrived at just the right time to snag a nearby window table (no sense being on complete display) and full enough to find plenty of people to discuss.
He'd been on the wagon for a bit, so he was bound to get loopy on a couple of Paulaners. I chose the Vin de Pays du Gard Syrah, but they were down to their last half glass, so I augmented it with the Chateau Vaugelas Courbieres, so as to have another shot at the [Carignan] grape of the week. Frites were also in order.
On the table were various hot topics including blogs, employers, bartending, photography, models and music. He's an observer, much like me, so we had great fun comparing notes on body parts, good and bad. He snapped some photographs because that's what he does. Before we knew it, time was up, real life responsibilities set in and we had to move on.
But not before wine god Bob Talcott had his say with us. He said farewell to English Teacher and then commented on my hot pink rain jacket and pink tights, "You'd be hard to miss at night in that." I reminded him that I hope to be hard to miss any night, to which he agreed, "I don't doubt for a minute that's true." Considering that Bob and I are running into each other at least twice a week lately, it shouldn't be long before he he knows for sure.
He'd been on the wagon for a bit, so he was bound to get loopy on a couple of Paulaners. I chose the Vin de Pays du Gard Syrah, but they were down to their last half glass, so I augmented it with the Chateau Vaugelas Courbieres, so as to have another shot at the [Carignan] grape of the week. Frites were also in order.
On the table were various hot topics including blogs, employers, bartending, photography, models and music. He's an observer, much like me, so we had great fun comparing notes on body parts, good and bad. He snapped some photographs because that's what he does. Before we knew it, time was up, real life responsibilities set in and we had to move on.
But not before wine god Bob Talcott had his say with us. He said farewell to English Teacher and then commented on my hot pink rain jacket and pink tights, "You'd be hard to miss at night in that." I reminded him that I hope to be hard to miss any night, to which he agreed, "I don't doubt for a minute that's true." Considering that Bob and I are running into each other at least twice a week lately, it shouldn't be long before he he knows for sure.
For Love of the Grape
I may not look any different next time you see me, but just so you know, I m now an official member of the Wine Century Club. The process began last September at a Century Wine dinner at the European Market. The event was significant for several reasons; it introduced me to a talented woman with whom I've become very good friends and to Jason's superb and unbelievably affordable First Friday wine dinners ($25, four courses; you do the math) and it got me started keeping track of what grapes I was tasting.
We were given the application listing all the grapes that night as a starting point. Interestingly enough, only 3.5% of the people who get the application actually become members. Whether they lose interest, are too lazy to keep track or are overwhelmed at the concept, most people never follow through. My Wine Geek friend had told me as much back in June when I triumphantly mailed off my completed application; she assured me that I'd be the only person at that dinner to have bothered completing it.
Of course, the certificate of membership is nice, if relatively meaningless, but the effort put into acquiring it has led me to seek out grapes with which I'm not familiar to this day (Carignan just two days ago, for instance). And being the all-around geek that I am, I'm always interested in learning, so I'm patting myself on the back today for having moved to the head of the class.
Veni, Vino, Vici.
We were given the application listing all the grapes that night as a starting point. Interestingly enough, only 3.5% of the people who get the application actually become members. Whether they lose interest, are too lazy to keep track or are overwhelmed at the concept, most people never follow through. My Wine Geek friend had told me as much back in June when I triumphantly mailed off my completed application; she assured me that I'd be the only person at that dinner to have bothered completing it.
Of course, the certificate of membership is nice, if relatively meaningless, but the effort put into acquiring it has led me to seek out grapes with which I'm not familiar to this day (Carignan just two days ago, for instance). And being the all-around geek that I am, I'm always interested in learning, so I'm patting myself on the back today for having moved to the head of the class.
Veni, Vino, Vici.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Six Burner Follows Poetry
"For so long I wanted my past back," read David Wojahn from his poem "Fetish Value" at tonight's Poetic Principles reading at the Virginia Museum. Wojahn, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize and a local VCU treasure, regaled the audience with his emotional and relevant style of writing.
One poem, directed at the President of the NRA, invoked both robbery victim Tyler Binstead and Dante's Circles of Hell. Another ranged from placenta soup (exactly what it sounds) to bongs, LPs and spliffs. Several poems were tributes to other poets. "Mix Tape to be Brought to Her in Rehab" was introduced by explaining the mix tape concept to the younger members of the audience and Wojahn saying,"The lore of making a mix tape was so ritualized. It happened in real time." An outstanding reader, Wojahn could make a poetry lover out of the most adamant poetry hater, not that there were any of those present tonight.
All that poetry was making me hungry, so I stopped at Six Burner for a bite to eat and some conversation. Dave was quick to suggest the Vilarnau Cava upon my arrival and after Wojahn's references to cheap champagne, I already had bubbles on the brain anyway. To accompany it, I ordered a plate of the house-made charcuterie with homemade pickles. The enormous serving contained duck ham, mortadella and pancetta (the meats were a perfect blend of fat and lean), pickled cuke slices and onions and grilled bread. I finished what I could and shared the rest with Josh. By this time, Josh and I were already knee-deep in conversation about the Debashish Bhattacharya Folk Fest performance. I predict that in years to come, this Folk Fest will be legendary for those shows. No one (T also witnessed it) can get over how impressive it was or how lucky we were to witness it. More cava followed, for discussion purposes, of course.
Just another rainy night in River City, where we're lucky enough to have poets like David Wojahn reading and house made charcuterie for enjoying...in the present, not the past.
One poem, directed at the President of the NRA, invoked both robbery victim Tyler Binstead and Dante's Circles of Hell. Another ranged from placenta soup (exactly what it sounds) to bongs, LPs and spliffs. Several poems were tributes to other poets. "Mix Tape to be Brought to Her in Rehab" was introduced by explaining the mix tape concept to the younger members of the audience and Wojahn saying,"The lore of making a mix tape was so ritualized. It happened in real time." An outstanding reader, Wojahn could make a poetry lover out of the most adamant poetry hater, not that there were any of those present tonight.
All that poetry was making me hungry, so I stopped at Six Burner for a bite to eat and some conversation. Dave was quick to suggest the Vilarnau Cava upon my arrival and after Wojahn's references to cheap champagne, I already had bubbles on the brain anyway. To accompany it, I ordered a plate of the house-made charcuterie with homemade pickles. The enormous serving contained duck ham, mortadella and pancetta (the meats were a perfect blend of fat and lean), pickled cuke slices and onions and grilled bread. I finished what I could and shared the rest with Josh. By this time, Josh and I were already knee-deep in conversation about the Debashish Bhattacharya Folk Fest performance. I predict that in years to come, this Folk Fest will be legendary for those shows. No one (T also witnessed it) can get over how impressive it was or how lucky we were to witness it. More cava followed, for discussion purposes, of course.
Just another rainy night in River City, where we're lucky enough to have poets like David Wojahn reading and house made charcuterie for enjoying...in the present, not the past.
Guys Say the Darnedest Things
So this guy makes me dinner and we're sitting outside afterwards enjoying a bottle of wine.
He leans in close like he's going to kiss me and, instead, says, "You know you're not pretty; your nose is too big. But you're nice and you're sexy as hell."
Let's just say we didn't kiss.
Or have another date, but there were other reasons for that.
That happened to me back in 2002, but it's still one of my favorite stories to share because it's hysterical.
I have no idea why he chose that moment, only inches from my face, to share his opinion, but he was certainly entitled to it.
So I was sharing that anecdote with a friend (a guy, of course) just a few weeks ago and he was appalled at the ignorance/arrogance of what the first guy had said.
He laughed about the stupidity of a guy being so blunt at such a moment.
The next thing out of his mouth was, "Your nose isn't too big. It's too pointy."
Well, thank you for clearing that up.
Not long ago, I was out with a guy friend I think can be pretty amusing when he's not wallowing in distaste for the human race.
He's made flattering remarks on occasion, although I'm not sure I'd call this one a compliment.
"Is it (pointing to my body) as well-preserved naked as it is in clothes?"
I'll give him points for a left-handed compliment, but it's still a pretty unusual way to score points...or is it?
I'd be honestly bothered if someone said I was stupid or bad company or dull. Opinions about my outside are just that: opinions and everyone is entitled to one.
I once dated a guy who said he didn't compliment me because it would make my head swell.
Fortunately for me, there are plenty of guys out there to make sure that doesn't happen.
And it can be pretty amusing even while it's keeping me in check.
He leans in close like he's going to kiss me and, instead, says, "You know you're not pretty; your nose is too big. But you're nice and you're sexy as hell."
Let's just say we didn't kiss.
Or have another date, but there were other reasons for that.
That happened to me back in 2002, but it's still one of my favorite stories to share because it's hysterical.
I have no idea why he chose that moment, only inches from my face, to share his opinion, but he was certainly entitled to it.
So I was sharing that anecdote with a friend (a guy, of course) just a few weeks ago and he was appalled at the ignorance/arrogance of what the first guy had said.
He laughed about the stupidity of a guy being so blunt at such a moment.
The next thing out of his mouth was, "Your nose isn't too big. It's too pointy."
Well, thank you for clearing that up.
Not long ago, I was out with a guy friend I think can be pretty amusing when he's not wallowing in distaste for the human race.
He's made flattering remarks on occasion, although I'm not sure I'd call this one a compliment.
"Is it (pointing to my body) as well-preserved naked as it is in clothes?"
I'll give him points for a left-handed compliment, but it's still a pretty unusual way to score points...or is it?
I'd be honestly bothered if someone said I was stupid or bad company or dull. Opinions about my outside are just that: opinions and everyone is entitled to one.
I once dated a guy who said he didn't compliment me because it would make my head swell.
Fortunately for me, there are plenty of guys out there to make sure that doesn't happen.
And it can be pretty amusing even while it's keeping me in check.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Black Sheep Leads to Riot Grrls
I made tonight a walking night because today was the last warm day until at least Thursday so I wanted to take advantage of it, not being a fan of fall weather (unlike practically everyone else).
Seems like the last four or five times I'd been to the Black Sheep had been for lunch, so I sashayed over there for dinner and it turned out to be the perfect choice. Tes was waiting tables and Nate from Gull was eating with a visiting musician, so we got to discuss the Debashish Bhatacharya slide guitar performance we'd all three been mesmerized by Saturday at the Folk Fest; I was gratified to learn that they were both as awestruck as I'd been.
For dinner, I chose the General Tso's sweetbreads: quick fried sweetbreads in sweet sauce with spicy Sezchuan peppers, broccoli and white rice. For drinking: Les Heretiques 2008 Carignan, a bio-dynamic wine with an earthy taste and long finish (and yes, I know I should have gotten the Reisling given my dinner order, but I was curious about the grape and wanted to do the groovy bio-dynamic thing). For dessert: the chocolate creme brulee since I hadn't had it in ten whole days (no, really).
Stuffed and feeling pretty good about it, I headed over to Gallery 5 for the showing of "Don't Need You: The Herstory of Riot Grrrl" about the feminist movement of the early 90s that created a way for women to be part of the hardcore scene and not just "hangers" (girls who held the guys' jackets while they performed, moshed or just participated in punk shows). The documentary revealed how the mainstream media co-opted the term and misrepresented the movement in order to sell it to the public, causing the disenchantment and eventual dissolution of it.
The audience was much larger than typically comes to these monthly screenings and not completely female, either. The discussion afterwards showed that there is real curiosity among younger women about what they can do in today's climate to re-energize the movement. As well they should be; someone's got to move the banner forward. Bikini Kill, Bratmobile and Heavens to Betsy did their part. It seems likely we will form a collective to address some of these issues in rva; it'll be interesting to see what these young women do to further the cause of feminism.
Seems like the last four or five times I'd been to the Black Sheep had been for lunch, so I sashayed over there for dinner and it turned out to be the perfect choice. Tes was waiting tables and Nate from Gull was eating with a visiting musician, so we got to discuss the Debashish Bhatacharya slide guitar performance we'd all three been mesmerized by Saturday at the Folk Fest; I was gratified to learn that they were both as awestruck as I'd been.
For dinner, I chose the General Tso's sweetbreads: quick fried sweetbreads in sweet sauce with spicy Sezchuan peppers, broccoli and white rice. For drinking: Les Heretiques 2008 Carignan, a bio-dynamic wine with an earthy taste and long finish (and yes, I know I should have gotten the Reisling given my dinner order, but I was curious about the grape and wanted to do the groovy bio-dynamic thing). For dessert: the chocolate creme brulee since I hadn't had it in ten whole days (no, really).
Stuffed and feeling pretty good about it, I headed over to Gallery 5 for the showing of "Don't Need You: The Herstory of Riot Grrrl" about the feminist movement of the early 90s that created a way for women to be part of the hardcore scene and not just "hangers" (girls who held the guys' jackets while they performed, moshed or just participated in punk shows). The documentary revealed how the mainstream media co-opted the term and misrepresented the movement in order to sell it to the public, causing the disenchantment and eventual dissolution of it.
The audience was much larger than typically comes to these monthly screenings and not completely female, either. The discussion afterwards showed that there is real curiosity among younger women about what they can do in today's climate to re-energize the movement. As well they should be; someone's got to move the banner forward. Bikini Kill, Bratmobile and Heavens to Betsy did their part. It seems likely we will form a collective to address some of these issues in rva; it'll be interesting to see what these young women do to further the cause of feminism.
Monday, October 12, 2009
It's Just Singing
Imagine watching an effeminate 6'4" man with a paunch warble one of the most embarrassing, whiney-ass songs of the '70s: Anne Murray's "I Needed You."
It was a really bad song when she sang it then and it hasn't aged well three decades later sitting in the smoke-filled environs of Penny Lane for karaoke.
Oh, sure, I understand that a big part of the entertainment value of karaoke is the people who sing badly, but I have to say, it's more the pathetically embarrassing song choices (really, Journey? Again?).
Fortunately for me, the friend who took me there has a great voice and chose to sing songs that were post-grunge, so I could at least look forward to him taking the stage.
My vocally talented friend had extended an invitation to take me to dinner first, so I chose Stronghill Dinning Company since I'd not been there in months.
The timing was perfect, because they're in between their summer and fall menus, so there were menu choices representing both seasons on it. I went with the Wedge with gobs of both blue cheese and bacon, and the Stronghill Sushi, quite good with poached lobster at its center. My friend got his strength up with the Stronghill Sampler (stuffed Roma tomatoes, fried goat cheese and cashew fried shrimp) and followed that with the duck. He's not the type to rave about food ("It's just food," he claims) but he ate everything, is all I'm saying.
The karaoke crowd clearly contained a whole lot of regulars, many of whom had "their" songs; it was duly noted when someone had the audacity to sing someone else's song.
I don't sing, so me getting up there wasn't ever an option.
Which is not to say that I don't have a whole lot of respect for those who do...especially those who can actually sing well, like my musical friend.
Ah, talent; must be a lovely thing to possess.
It was a really bad song when she sang it then and it hasn't aged well three decades later sitting in the smoke-filled environs of Penny Lane for karaoke.
Oh, sure, I understand that a big part of the entertainment value of karaoke is the people who sing badly, but I have to say, it's more the pathetically embarrassing song choices (really, Journey? Again?).
Fortunately for me, the friend who took me there has a great voice and chose to sing songs that were post-grunge, so I could at least look forward to him taking the stage.
My vocally talented friend had extended an invitation to take me to dinner first, so I chose Stronghill Dinning Company since I'd not been there in months.
The timing was perfect, because they're in between their summer and fall menus, so there were menu choices representing both seasons on it. I went with the Wedge with gobs of both blue cheese and bacon, and the Stronghill Sushi, quite good with poached lobster at its center. My friend got his strength up with the Stronghill Sampler (stuffed Roma tomatoes, fried goat cheese and cashew fried shrimp) and followed that with the duck. He's not the type to rave about food ("It's just food," he claims) but he ate everything, is all I'm saying.
The karaoke crowd clearly contained a whole lot of regulars, many of whom had "their" songs; it was duly noted when someone had the audacity to sing someone else's song.
I don't sing, so me getting up there wasn't ever an option.
Which is not to say that I don't have a whole lot of respect for those who do...especially those who can actually sing well, like my musical friend.
Ah, talent; must be a lovely thing to possess.
Feed Me!
My favorite English teacher rescheduled our lunch date first thing this morning, which conveniently left me free to accept my neighbor's offer to make me lunch today.
He'd invited me last night as I was out walking the dog around 1130; I'd had to decline because of my pre-existing plans.
Serendipitously, now I was free, let him know that, and within minutes got an e-vite for "Monday Luncheon: Superb Viands of My Own Preparation. Noon."
How could I resist such an invitation?
His first question on arrival was if I liked bacon; I told him not to make me laugh.
The result was that we started with crackle-fried chicken skin, rendered until crispy and covered in salt.
Bliss.
Next up was a homemade minestrone stoup, thick and chunky with veggie goodness and ideal on the first day cool enough that I had to resort to wearing pants for my daily walk.
To balance all those healthy vegetables, he had also prepared some grilled meats: pig and cow, accompanied by mustards.
It was quite the delicious three-hour lunch and I still have plans with English teacher to look forward to later this week.
It's early in the week, but it's looking like my lunch luck is already rating an A+.
He'd invited me last night as I was out walking the dog around 1130; I'd had to decline because of my pre-existing plans.
Serendipitously, now I was free, let him know that, and within minutes got an e-vite for "Monday Luncheon: Superb Viands of My Own Preparation. Noon."
How could I resist such an invitation?
His first question on arrival was if I liked bacon; I told him not to make me laugh.
The result was that we started with crackle-fried chicken skin, rendered until crispy and covered in salt.
Bliss.
Next up was a homemade minestrone stoup, thick and chunky with veggie goodness and ideal on the first day cool enough that I had to resort to wearing pants for my daily walk.
To balance all those healthy vegetables, he had also prepared some grilled meats: pig and cow, accompanied by mustards.
It was quite the delicious three-hour lunch and I still have plans with English teacher to look forward to later this week.
It's early in the week, but it's looking like my lunch luck is already rating an A+.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Balliceaux for Film
A Sunday supper should be a group event and mine tonight was just that. My photographer/bartender friend invited me to join him and three filmmakers plus companions for dinner at Balliceaux, followed by the James River Filmmakers Forum. We started early, 5:30, to ensure plenty of time for feasting and talking beforehand.
We began this eating extravaganza with a cheese course (four Virginia cheeses and one Wisconsin) and an enormous platter of mussels in lemongrass/lime/chilies and grape tomato broth. Next up it got ridiculous: forest mushroom asparagus tart over ratatouille for two, roasted whole free-range chicken with corn pudding, roasted leg of lamb with pan jus and roasted potatoes for four and backyard seafood boil with clams, mussels, shrimp and grilled corn for two. If it sounds like an obscene amount of food for eight people, let me assure you that it was. I'm not even going to recite all the sides that we were foolish enough to order. Everything, and I do mean everything, was absolutely delicious.
Stuffed beyond belief and with enough leftovers for another full feast, the group moved to what was the old Bogart's Back Room. It was a very cool place for the screenings, with sort of a retro rec-room feel, but infinitely hipper: some painted brick walls, some wood-paneled walls, seating groups with 50s chairs and lamps on end tables, a bar tucked into the corner. Even the screen reminded me of the ones Dads used to set up to show home movies to bored relatives. The last Forum was held at the Carver Healing Arts Center, which didn't have nearly the ambiance of Balliceaux's back room...or a bar with a mixologist to meet your every libation need.
The Filmmakers Forum showed six features including a director's montage, a documentary, two animated pieces and an experimental video meditation piece. A directors' panel followed to take questions from the audience about their films and there was some lively discussion of technique, the creative process and inspirations.
My friend has been to my apartment before, and said nice things about it, but tonight's comment may be my all-time favorite, "I love the energy in this room, with all the flowers." It's not every day a guy compliments your flowers. And so I finished the easy-does-it slide through my day after a night with too little sleep. Good night now.
We began this eating extravaganza with a cheese course (four Virginia cheeses and one Wisconsin) and an enormous platter of mussels in lemongrass/lime/chilies and grape tomato broth. Next up it got ridiculous: forest mushroom asparagus tart over ratatouille for two, roasted whole free-range chicken with corn pudding, roasted leg of lamb with pan jus and roasted potatoes for four and backyard seafood boil with clams, mussels, shrimp and grilled corn for two. If it sounds like an obscene amount of food for eight people, let me assure you that it was. I'm not even going to recite all the sides that we were foolish enough to order. Everything, and I do mean everything, was absolutely delicious.
Stuffed beyond belief and with enough leftovers for another full feast, the group moved to what was the old Bogart's Back Room. It was a very cool place for the screenings, with sort of a retro rec-room feel, but infinitely hipper: some painted brick walls, some wood-paneled walls, seating groups with 50s chairs and lamps on end tables, a bar tucked into the corner. Even the screen reminded me of the ones Dads used to set up to show home movies to bored relatives. The last Forum was held at the Carver Healing Arts Center, which didn't have nearly the ambiance of Balliceaux's back room...or a bar with a mixologist to meet your every libation need.
The Filmmakers Forum showed six features including a director's montage, a documentary, two animated pieces and an experimental video meditation piece. A directors' panel followed to take questions from the audience about their films and there was some lively discussion of technique, the creative process and inspirations.
My friend has been to my apartment before, and said nice things about it, but tonight's comment may be my all-time favorite, "I love the energy in this room, with all the flowers." It's not every day a guy compliments your flowers. And so I finished the easy-does-it slide through my day after a night with too little sleep. Good night now.
Ending Every Sentence with a Proposition
When you get less than six hours sleep, you need to plan your day accordingly; no major intellectual or physical challenges; better to just slide through the day, even when it's a beautiful one like today.
Or at least that was how I justified starting my day with a romantic comedy. A film fan friend from northside rode over and we biked to the Bowtie Cinema to see that Doris Day/Rock Hudson classic, "Pillow Talk." 1959, holy crap, what a different world that was! Doris had matching gloves and hats and muffs for every ensemble. Rock romanced girls by taking them to dinner, then to a club for dancing and then for a drive; who puts that much effort into dating these days? Single girls in NYC had maids (the always hilarious character actor, Thelma Ritter) and some people had party lines because the city couldn't put in trunk lines fast enough to satisfy the demand for private telephone lines. My friend hadn't even heard of party lines, but then he's a few years younger and not as up on his cultural history.
One of the best scenes comes in a diner where a couple of customers are supposed to "punch" Tony Randall's character as he sits consoling Doris. Apparently, the actor actually hit Randall, knocking him unconscious and the shot was so good the director used it. I hate to admit it, but it was pretty cool to see a person hit for real and pass out. A girl like me (or a guy like my friend)doesn't often see such a thing in one's own life(or necessarily care to).
But, who am I trying to kid here? I was there for the romance, not the fisticuffs. As the Thelma Ritter character put it, "If there's anything worse than a woman living alone, it's a woman saying she likes it."
Or at least that was how I justified starting my day with a romantic comedy. A film fan friend from northside rode over and we biked to the Bowtie Cinema to see that Doris Day/Rock Hudson classic, "Pillow Talk." 1959, holy crap, what a different world that was! Doris had matching gloves and hats and muffs for every ensemble. Rock romanced girls by taking them to dinner, then to a club for dancing and then for a drive; who puts that much effort into dating these days? Single girls in NYC had maids (the always hilarious character actor, Thelma Ritter) and some people had party lines because the city couldn't put in trunk lines fast enough to satisfy the demand for private telephone lines. My friend hadn't even heard of party lines, but then he's a few years younger and not as up on his cultural history.
One of the best scenes comes in a diner where a couple of customers are supposed to "punch" Tony Randall's character as he sits consoling Doris. Apparently, the actor actually hit Randall, knocking him unconscious and the shot was so good the director used it. I hate to admit it, but it was pretty cool to see a person hit for real and pass out. A girl like me (or a guy like my friend)doesn't often see such a thing in one's own life(or necessarily care to).
But, who am I trying to kid here? I was there for the romance, not the fisticuffs. As the Thelma Ritter character put it, "If there's anything worse than a woman living alone, it's a woman saying she likes it."
The View from the Cheap Seats
I made my first pilgrimage to Center Stage tonight for the Richmond Symphony's Hitchcock! A Symphonic Night at the Movies performance.
Okay, so I only paid $17 for my ticket and was in the top balcony; given the large screen and perfect acoustics, it was still an excellent center seat.
We were treated to clips from four films, all with pitch-perfect musical accompaniment: To Catch A Thief, Strangers on a Train, Dial M for Murder and North by Northwest as well as a trailer Hitch made for N x NW, full of home movie footage of himself and his family on various vacations.
That alone was worth the price of admission.
As I walked down Grace Street to Center Stage, a homeless woman sitting on a bench asked what all the activity downtown was tonight and I told her (Symphony, Citizen Cope, Folk Fest).
Moments later I was joined by Russell Wilson, pianist for the Symphony, who accompanied me down the street and into the venue; I hadn't seen Russell since I took his Jazz Appreciation class three years ago at VMFA. He asked about my post-show destination and I invited him to join me.
I had already planned to meet up with my charming friend Nicholas, bass clarinetist for the Symphony, afterwards at the Belvidere. He's gluten-intolerant, as I'd discovered when we'd eaten together in the past, and I wanted to surprise him with a local place that featured an unusually wide variety of gluten-free choices (I say local because he lives in Brooklyn now, but is down here for symphony performances regularly).
At the moment, I may be his favorite friend because of all the tasty possibilities he saw on that menu before choosing the Gouda burger on a GF roll.
Russell wasn't far behind in arriving (he had the turkey and white bean burger and pronounced it delicious; I haven't had it yet) and then we were joined by Leighton, she of the Historic Jackson Ward Association and Kim, our local school board member, and, like Nicholas and Russell, both passionate conversationalists.
Owner Julie was right there in the fray, sharing her thoughts about how to make a difference in the neighborhood and the city. As the only black members of the symphony, naturally the talk turned to diversity, gentrification and Richmond's reluctance to change.
Bets were made, conversation swirled in a dozen directions, far too many pictures were taken and before we knew it, it was closing time.
And at this moment, 2:40 a.m., a guy is walking up and down my street, drunk and confused, yelling, "FUCK!" at the top of his lungs because he can't remember where he left his car.
Don't you just love a nice low-key cultured night at the Symphony? I know I do.
Okay, so I only paid $17 for my ticket and was in the top balcony; given the large screen and perfect acoustics, it was still an excellent center seat.
We were treated to clips from four films, all with pitch-perfect musical accompaniment: To Catch A Thief, Strangers on a Train, Dial M for Murder and North by Northwest as well as a trailer Hitch made for N x NW, full of home movie footage of himself and his family on various vacations.
That alone was worth the price of admission.
As I walked down Grace Street to Center Stage, a homeless woman sitting on a bench asked what all the activity downtown was tonight and I told her (Symphony, Citizen Cope, Folk Fest).
Moments later I was joined by Russell Wilson, pianist for the Symphony, who accompanied me down the street and into the venue; I hadn't seen Russell since I took his Jazz Appreciation class three years ago at VMFA. He asked about my post-show destination and I invited him to join me.
I had already planned to meet up with my charming friend Nicholas, bass clarinetist for the Symphony, afterwards at the Belvidere. He's gluten-intolerant, as I'd discovered when we'd eaten together in the past, and I wanted to surprise him with a local place that featured an unusually wide variety of gluten-free choices (I say local because he lives in Brooklyn now, but is down here for symphony performances regularly).
At the moment, I may be his favorite friend because of all the tasty possibilities he saw on that menu before choosing the Gouda burger on a GF roll.
Russell wasn't far behind in arriving (he had the turkey and white bean burger and pronounced it delicious; I haven't had it yet) and then we were joined by Leighton, she of the Historic Jackson Ward Association and Kim, our local school board member, and, like Nicholas and Russell, both passionate conversationalists.
Owner Julie was right there in the fray, sharing her thoughts about how to make a difference in the neighborhood and the city. As the only black members of the symphony, naturally the talk turned to diversity, gentrification and Richmond's reluctance to change.
Bets were made, conversation swirled in a dozen directions, far too many pictures were taken and before we knew it, it was closing time.
And at this moment, 2:40 a.m., a guy is walking up and down my street, drunk and confused, yelling, "FUCK!" at the top of his lungs because he can't remember where he left his car.
Don't you just love a nice low-key cultured night at the Symphony? I know I do.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Found! A Man Who Thinks Like Me.
What's a good rva-ite to do on a dreary Saturday afternoon but head down to the Folk Fest?
The crowds were perhaps a bit smaller than in the past, but in all likelihood that was just because of the on and off rain.
As it should be, I ran into plenty of local musicians I knew, as well as assorted others I recognized from various places, since everyone in town seems to attend this event, Andrew excepted.
The Sophia Bilides Trio was playing Greek tavern music from the 30s and 40s; it wasn't tough to imagine being in a Greek bar sipping ouzo and listening to the songs of love and longing.
The Samba Mapangala & Orchestre Virunga enthusiastically played East African Rumba, engaging the crowd, despite the showers that began when they did.
The absolute highlight was Debashish Bhattacharya and his younger brother Subhasis and the large crowd was well aware of the amazing performance we were witnessing.
Debashish, on the chaturangui, a 22-string guitar he created and his brother, a master tabla player, blew the crowd away with their passion and speed.
Their timing was so spot on, stopping and starting on a dime simultaneously, that the crowd couldn't help but burst into spontaneous applause throughout the show.
They finished with Debashish on the slide ukulele and it brought the house down. I wouldn't have missed that performance for anything, nor, I'm sure, would most in the crowd.
An unusually high percentage of musicians and music geeks were sitting under that canopy to witness such major talent.
I was already in complete fan adoration, but Debashish sealed the deal when, late in the performance, he told the crowd, "Music is a better religious activity than doing anything else."
Amen.
The crowds were perhaps a bit smaller than in the past, but in all likelihood that was just because of the on and off rain.
As it should be, I ran into plenty of local musicians I knew, as well as assorted others I recognized from various places, since everyone in town seems to attend this event, Andrew excepted.
The Sophia Bilides Trio was playing Greek tavern music from the 30s and 40s; it wasn't tough to imagine being in a Greek bar sipping ouzo and listening to the songs of love and longing.
The Samba Mapangala & Orchestre Virunga enthusiastically played East African Rumba, engaging the crowd, despite the showers that began when they did.
The absolute highlight was Debashish Bhattacharya and his younger brother Subhasis and the large crowd was well aware of the amazing performance we were witnessing.
Debashish, on the chaturangui, a 22-string guitar he created and his brother, a master tabla player, blew the crowd away with their passion and speed.
Their timing was so spot on, stopping and starting on a dime simultaneously, that the crowd couldn't help but burst into spontaneous applause throughout the show.
They finished with Debashish on the slide ukulele and it brought the house down. I wouldn't have missed that performance for anything, nor, I'm sure, would most in the crowd.
An unusually high percentage of musicians and music geeks were sitting under that canopy to witness such major talent.
I was already in complete fan adoration, but Debashish sealed the deal when, late in the performance, he told the crowd, "Music is a better religious activity than doing anything else."
Amen.
Friday, October 9, 2009
The Mother of All Cocktail Parties
It begins at 5:00 sharp. There are fifty "interesting" women invited to the house on Floyd Avenue. Wine and cheese are provided by Julia of River City Cellars, who is pouring a selection of five wines and wisecracking as she serves. The dining room table and sideboard are groaning under all the food and desserts.
The occasion is the 13th annual Thesmophoria, based on the Greek festival where women only gathered for three days to encourage fertility and celebrate their private customs. Men who tried to spy on the women's gathering were punished. The distinctive feature of the original celebration was the sacrifice of pigs. We did not do that tonight.
Instead, we spent hours toasting each other, drinking a great deal of excellent wine and gorging on cheeses and assorted delicacies prepared by the guests. There was even some card reading going on, for those brave enough to look into their past, present and future (the cards said I am quite content with my life; now there's a surprise). The goal was to socialize, perhaps even network, but mostly enjoy the company of nothing but our own fair sex And we're talking about women from 25 to 65 and every size and shape in between. Some of Richmond's most creative female types were there: actors, directors, artists, teachers, business owners, painters, writers, you name it.
For me, as only a second-year attendee, it was the perfect opportunity to share my single status with women who may know an interesting man they could introduce me to. I like to think that counts as networking.
The occasion is the 13th annual Thesmophoria, based on the Greek festival where women only gathered for three days to encourage fertility and celebrate their private customs. Men who tried to spy on the women's gathering were punished. The distinctive feature of the original celebration was the sacrifice of pigs. We did not do that tonight.
Instead, we spent hours toasting each other, drinking a great deal of excellent wine and gorging on cheeses and assorted delicacies prepared by the guests. There was even some card reading going on, for those brave enough to look into their past, present and future (the cards said I am quite content with my life; now there's a surprise). The goal was to socialize, perhaps even network, but mostly enjoy the company of nothing but our own fair sex And we're talking about women from 25 to 65 and every size and shape in between. Some of Richmond's most creative female types were there: actors, directors, artists, teachers, business owners, painters, writers, you name it.
For me, as only a second-year attendee, it was the perfect opportunity to share my single status with women who may know an interesting man they could introduce me to. I like to think that counts as networking.
Music Lovers' Discography
I had known Andrew superficially for quite some time before that fateful drive to Ashland where I finally tried to find some common ground; of course my first attempt was music. I don't know who was more surprised, me or him, to discover we were both huge Pete Yorn fans (though I'd seen him live more frequently). I started spouting off some of my favorite artists and he became more and more dumbfounded, but the one that pushed him over the edge was Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah. From that moment on, Andrew and I were friends in music.
Since that day several years ago, we have talked music literally every single time we see each other, which is frequently, and been to many, many shows together. No one but Andrew could have shared my excitement at seeing Plushgun at Alley Katz or Ted Leo at Gallery 5 and that's not even going into the countless shows we've seen together at the Camel, the National, the Canal Club, Capital Alehouse and Commercial Taphouse. It's great to have a music loving friend to share with.
Part of our sharing policy is the CD exchange, which we did today over lunch at one of our favorite places to meet, Bistro 27 (although I insisted he order something other than what he got last time , cause this guy can get into a food rut. Grilled Gouda; just saying.). Andrew is a music blogger (concretecircles.blogspot.com) so he gets a lot of sampler CDs which are a great way for us to discover up and coming artists. Today I traded four of my current favorites for five of his; we'll meet up next week to rate what we heard or question the musical sense of the other. After that, we've got another show to go to at the National (just watch us judge the crowd).
And to think we once thought we had nothing in common.
Since that day several years ago, we have talked music literally every single time we see each other, which is frequently, and been to many, many shows together. No one but Andrew could have shared my excitement at seeing Plushgun at Alley Katz or Ted Leo at Gallery 5 and that's not even going into the countless shows we've seen together at the Camel, the National, the Canal Club, Capital Alehouse and Commercial Taphouse. It's great to have a music loving friend to share with.
Part of our sharing policy is the CD exchange, which we did today over lunch at one of our favorite places to meet, Bistro 27 (although I insisted he order something other than what he got last time , cause this guy can get into a food rut. Grilled Gouda; just saying.). Andrew is a music blogger (concretecircles.blogspot.com) so he gets a lot of sampler CDs which are a great way for us to discover up and coming artists. Today I traded four of my current favorites for five of his; we'll meet up next week to rate what we heard or question the musical sense of the other. After that, we've got another show to go to at the National (just watch us judge the crowd).
And to think we once thought we had nothing in common.
You Can Quote Me On That
My friend Slash Coleman interviewed me about the local artistic scene for a book he's writing about developing creative ambition, but I was still pleasantly surprised when I showed up in his blog, "Twenty One Hours," along with GWAR's Dave Brockie. That's just the kind of company I want to be keeping.
Check it out, if you're curious:
http://twentyonehour.blogspot.com/2009/10/artist-myth-2-you-have-to-live-in-la-or.html
Slash is a great resource for artists unsure how to market themselves and turn talent into a living, having succeeded at both himself.
Check it out, if you're curious:
http://twentyonehour.blogspot.com/2009/10/artist-myth-2-you-have-to-live-in-la-or.html
Slash is a great resource for artists unsure how to market themselves and turn talent into a living, having succeeded at both himself.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Reviewing the Belvidere on Broad Review
Since the Bevidere at Broad got reviewed by the RTD today, of course I had to head up there tonight to enjoy my neighborhood haunt before it's inundated by the masses.
I'd read the review but had just a few bones to pick with it.
My primary issue was the timing of the review; as anyone in the business knows, a reviewer waits three months to review a new place.
The Belvidere opened July 29th and the reviewer was in the restaurant on September 25th; by even the most rudimentary calculations, that means the place had been open 8 weeks when she descended upon it.
Restaurant critic Tom Sietsema of the Washington Post not only insists upon a three-month window to allow a new restaurant to get its footing, but also requires three visits before a review is published.
Granted, this isn't a major market, but it still seems a tad unfair to review a restaurant so early on in its life.
My other gripe would be the crab cake comment, "could have used a touch more seasoning."
I grew up in Maryland and have been eating crab since I could hold a mallet; I am of the opinion that a crab cake should taste like crab, not like seasoning.
The Belvidere's crab cakes are, as the reviewer acknowledged, pure jumbo lump crab meat.
And for any true crab lover, that's what they should be; overt seasoning is for inferior crab meat.
Also, perhaps the reviewer was not aware of Chef Chris Hassen and his crack kitchen staff's intent with the Trio Appetizer, either.
It's intended to be eaten beginning with the mildest flavor (the crab cake), followed by the bruschetta's medium and fresh flavors paired with the strongest (the superb smoked salmon), much the way wine tastings go from lightest to heaviest bodied.
My dinner tonight at the Belvidere offered an opportunity to discuss the review with the kitchen and wait staff and other regular customers, all of whom are lamenting losing our neighborhood treasure to the soon-to-arrive hordes of the curious.
The consensus seemed to be that the review read better than a mere three stars, but at least it will introduce the unaware (like the reviewer whose foodie friends had not mentioned the place to her...what kind of foodies are these?) to a really fine addition to the downtown eating scene.
And that is most definitely a good thing.
And should you be looking for a scene, I left just as the Rumours soul dance party was beginning; the play list was a retro dream.
Yet another reason to check out the B @ B.
Just don't take my bar stool.
I'd read the review but had just a few bones to pick with it.
My primary issue was the timing of the review; as anyone in the business knows, a reviewer waits three months to review a new place.
The Belvidere opened July 29th and the reviewer was in the restaurant on September 25th; by even the most rudimentary calculations, that means the place had been open 8 weeks when she descended upon it.
Restaurant critic Tom Sietsema of the Washington Post not only insists upon a three-month window to allow a new restaurant to get its footing, but also requires three visits before a review is published.
Granted, this isn't a major market, but it still seems a tad unfair to review a restaurant so early on in its life.
My other gripe would be the crab cake comment, "could have used a touch more seasoning."
I grew up in Maryland and have been eating crab since I could hold a mallet; I am of the opinion that a crab cake should taste like crab, not like seasoning.
The Belvidere's crab cakes are, as the reviewer acknowledged, pure jumbo lump crab meat.
And for any true crab lover, that's what they should be; overt seasoning is for inferior crab meat.
Also, perhaps the reviewer was not aware of Chef Chris Hassen and his crack kitchen staff's intent with the Trio Appetizer, either.
It's intended to be eaten beginning with the mildest flavor (the crab cake), followed by the bruschetta's medium and fresh flavors paired with the strongest (the superb smoked salmon), much the way wine tastings go from lightest to heaviest bodied.
My dinner tonight at the Belvidere offered an opportunity to discuss the review with the kitchen and wait staff and other regular customers, all of whom are lamenting losing our neighborhood treasure to the soon-to-arrive hordes of the curious.
The consensus seemed to be that the review read better than a mere three stars, but at least it will introduce the unaware (like the reviewer whose foodie friends had not mentioned the place to her...what kind of foodies are these?) to a really fine addition to the downtown eating scene.
And that is most definitely a good thing.
And should you be looking for a scene, I left just as the Rumours soul dance party was beginning; the play list was a retro dream.
Yet another reason to check out the B @ B.
Just don't take my bar stool.
The Words Came Just Like a Hard Rain
The week had begun with a whirlwind of activity, so I purposely under-scheduled last evening so I could have a respite before everything that I have going on this weekend.
Naturally, it turned out completely differently than expected, which is always great fun.
Theater Goddess friend and I began at Six Burner; this is the week they've devoted to introducing new chef Phillip Denny and new manager David Martin to the public.
Since I've already enjoyed drinks and conversation with both, it wasn't so much meeting them as once again enjoying the fruits of their labor.
Actually, it was Boys' Night at 6B, with Dave, T and Josh working the place and each offers a different kind of conversational pleasure.
I hadn't talked to Josh since he'd seen "It Might Get Loud" and been to the U2 show, so that had to be addressed immediately.
Dave told me they'd been talking about me just the night before (my absence, no doubt).
T recommended an excellent wine and we drank at least our fair share.
Theater Goddess had never tasted pork belly and I couldn't let that unfortunate situation go on for another minute.
The irony was that she had to be home at a reasonable hour because her loving boyfriend was making her Beanie Weenies for dinner.
You read right; not many people start with pork belly and move on to beanie weenies...now that's eating from all over the pig.
I'd planned to attend the opening of Matthew Damien Ritchie's show at Cafe Guttenburg, so I stopped by the house to walk the dog, not sure how late I'd be out.
Neighbor was porch sitting, so I waved hello, we started chatting and since the temperature was dropping, we moved the conversation into my apartment.
Hours later, the opening was over and I'd missed it completely.
On the plus side, I had company when I finally got around to walking the dog much, much later.
Now I just need to get down there and see the Ritchie show I missed.
I'll let you know how it is.
Naturally, it turned out completely differently than expected, which is always great fun.
Theater Goddess friend and I began at Six Burner; this is the week they've devoted to introducing new chef Phillip Denny and new manager David Martin to the public.
Since I've already enjoyed drinks and conversation with both, it wasn't so much meeting them as once again enjoying the fruits of their labor.
Actually, it was Boys' Night at 6B, with Dave, T and Josh working the place and each offers a different kind of conversational pleasure.
I hadn't talked to Josh since he'd seen "It Might Get Loud" and been to the U2 show, so that had to be addressed immediately.
Dave told me they'd been talking about me just the night before (my absence, no doubt).
T recommended an excellent wine and we drank at least our fair share.
Theater Goddess had never tasted pork belly and I couldn't let that unfortunate situation go on for another minute.
The irony was that she had to be home at a reasonable hour because her loving boyfriend was making her Beanie Weenies for dinner.
You read right; not many people start with pork belly and move on to beanie weenies...now that's eating from all over the pig.
I'd planned to attend the opening of Matthew Damien Ritchie's show at Cafe Guttenburg, so I stopped by the house to walk the dog, not sure how late I'd be out.
Neighbor was porch sitting, so I waved hello, we started chatting and since the temperature was dropping, we moved the conversation into my apartment.
Hours later, the opening was over and I'd missed it completely.
On the plus side, I had company when I finally got around to walking the dog much, much later.
Now I just need to get down there and see the Ritchie show I missed.
I'll let you know how it is.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
It's Not Me. It's You.
For better or for worse, I'm a pretty satisfied person.
Ask any of my friends and you'd be hard pressed to find even one who could recall me being in an angry or upset mood.
In fact, one of the most frequent things people have told me about my blog is that they like how I put such a positive spin on everything.
Which is not to say that I don't get annoyed sometimes, so for anyone wondering what peeves me, I dedicate this blog post to you.
And given all the flak I took last year for my restaurant peeves post, I'm keeping this one to more generic topics.
Talkers at concerts.
Why waste the money on a ticket if you're just going to talk loudly to your friends throughout the show? Some even have their back to the stage to talk and drink. Why not just stay home and listen to the CD instead of annoying those of us who actually want to hear the music? Losers.
Bikers going the wrong way on a one-way street.
Hey, I bike too, but the goal is to share the road with motorists, not flaunt the law. If we want cars to treat us respectfully, and we do, we have to play by the rules. Common goals, people.
Drivers who think warning signs don't apply to them.
On my way to Norfolk, I passed a sign warning of a vehicle on fire ahead and a right lane closure. Accordingly, I moved into the left lane. Five miles later, an identical warning sign. Still, people continued to drive the right lane, knowing full well that we were almost upon a right lane closure. The result of these drivers ignoring the sign was an enormous bottleneck that didn't have to happen. Warning signs apply to everyone, not just the drivers who choose to pay attention to them. I'm talking to you.
See, I can whine with the best of them.
Ask any of my friends and you'd be hard pressed to find even one who could recall me being in an angry or upset mood.
In fact, one of the most frequent things people have told me about my blog is that they like how I put such a positive spin on everything.
Which is not to say that I don't get annoyed sometimes, so for anyone wondering what peeves me, I dedicate this blog post to you.
And given all the flak I took last year for my restaurant peeves post, I'm keeping this one to more generic topics.
Talkers at concerts.
Why waste the money on a ticket if you're just going to talk loudly to your friends throughout the show? Some even have their back to the stage to talk and drink. Why not just stay home and listen to the CD instead of annoying those of us who actually want to hear the music? Losers.
Bikers going the wrong way on a one-way street.
Hey, I bike too, but the goal is to share the road with motorists, not flaunt the law. If we want cars to treat us respectfully, and we do, we have to play by the rules. Common goals, people.
Drivers who think warning signs don't apply to them.
On my way to Norfolk, I passed a sign warning of a vehicle on fire ahead and a right lane closure. Accordingly, I moved into the left lane. Five miles later, an identical warning sign. Still, people continued to drive the right lane, knowing full well that we were almost upon a right lane closure. The result of these drivers ignoring the sign was an enormous bottleneck that didn't have to happen. Warning signs apply to everyone, not just the drivers who choose to pay attention to them. I'm talking to you.
See, I can whine with the best of them.
Grizzly Bear at the Norva
After several sold out nights at the Austin City Limits Festival, Grizzly Bear played the Norva tonight, letting the audience know that it was their first show in Norfolk since they played the record store there almost three years ago. And what a show it was! How many bands can you name where all four members sing (thus allowing those beautiful Beach Boys-like harmonies)? Or where the bass player also plays the flute, clarinet and saxophone (looped and pitched down so low that you had to look to see what instrument he was playing)? It was all very cool.
The expected band t-shirts were represented: Modest Mouse, Dead Weather, the Shins. RVA was also represented; I talked to Zac Hyrciak (of ZR and the Jungle Beat) and a couple of girls standing in front of me, all who had driven down to see a show that we agreed should have played the National.
Openers Beach House, from Baltimore, had a good-sized crowd for their set, including some loud and fanatical fans of theirs just in front of me. They disappeared before Grizzly Bear took the stage, though. BH members Victoria and Alex played along with GB on a couple of songs, including the crowd-pleasing "Two Weeks;" her vocals and his keyboards augmented the song terrifically.
And speaking of "Two Weeks," when the song began, a guy suddenly appeared right next to me, singing along and taking non-stop pictures with his phone. I had secured a prime spot for myself: in front of a column where I couldn't be jostled (believe me, it's easy to get knocked into at a show when you're only 5'5"), off to the side, but near enough the front for an excellent view.
This guy leans over after the song ends to chat me up:
Him: What's your favorite song?
Me: I wouldn't want to pick just one.
Him: Oh, come on. Mine is "Two Weeks."
Me: Okay.
Another song starts and he begins to sway, his body hitting mine on every move. After a minute of this, he starts to slip his arm around my waist.
Me: (pushing his arm away) Stop that!
Him: Oh, sorry I'm sorry. Really, sorry.
Me: (scowl)
Him: How old are you?
Me: Older than you.
Him: I don't care.
Me: I want to hear the band, okay?
He stayed next to me for two more excruciating songs and every time he "accidentally" bumped into me, he apologized. I just refused to make eye contact and he finally gave up and left.
That nonsense aside, it was a really excellent show of beautiful voices and stellar musicianship. It was well worth the monotonous drive to Norfolk and back and that's saying something.
The expected band t-shirts were represented: Modest Mouse, Dead Weather, the Shins. RVA was also represented; I talked to Zac Hyrciak (of ZR and the Jungle Beat) and a couple of girls standing in front of me, all who had driven down to see a show that we agreed should have played the National.
Openers Beach House, from Baltimore, had a good-sized crowd for their set, including some loud and fanatical fans of theirs just in front of me. They disappeared before Grizzly Bear took the stage, though. BH members Victoria and Alex played along with GB on a couple of songs, including the crowd-pleasing "Two Weeks;" her vocals and his keyboards augmented the song terrifically.
And speaking of "Two Weeks," when the song began, a guy suddenly appeared right next to me, singing along and taking non-stop pictures with his phone. I had secured a prime spot for myself: in front of a column where I couldn't be jostled (believe me, it's easy to get knocked into at a show when you're only 5'5"), off to the side, but near enough the front for an excellent view.
This guy leans over after the song ends to chat me up:
Him: What's your favorite song?
Me: I wouldn't want to pick just one.
Him: Oh, come on. Mine is "Two Weeks."
Me: Okay.
Another song starts and he begins to sway, his body hitting mine on every move. After a minute of this, he starts to slip his arm around my waist.
Me: (pushing his arm away) Stop that!
Him: Oh, sorry I'm sorry. Really, sorry.
Me: (scowl)
Him: How old are you?
Me: Older than you.
Him: I don't care.
Me: I want to hear the band, okay?
He stayed next to me for two more excruciating songs and every time he "accidentally" bumped into me, he apologized. I just refused to make eye contact and he finally gave up and left.
That nonsense aside, it was a really excellent show of beautiful voices and stellar musicianship. It was well worth the monotonous drive to Norfolk and back and that's saying something.
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