Is it a tangent of Murphy's Law that says that just when something's in reach, something else intervenes?
This week is the pre-vacation sprint to accomplish All the Things and not just all the beach preparations, but all the assignments that will come due while I'm gone (this hired mouth has eaten a dozen meals for the cause this month), all the arrangements for going away, all the little things that need to be picked up pre-departure and so on.
I awoke this morning knowing I could handily knock out the last of a review before starting and finishing one of the arts pieces today. Once I polished off my last assignment tomorrow, I'd be able to move onto less cerebral things.
Greeting me in my inbox four hours later was a 6:35 a.m. email from an editor asking for a multi-interview piece due smack in the middle of vacation. Compelling subject matter aside, of course, I want the assignment.
Fast forward to the end of a crazy busy, non stop day (I had so much to write that taking a break to hem a dress or go to the grocery store felt like skipping class) and I'm getting ready to meet a friend for a movie.
Out of the radio comes Michelle Shocked's "Come a Long Way," an upbeat classic '90s gem I haven't heard in forever that, at that moment, felt like a celebration of finishing as much as I did, so I'm not entirely certain if the dancing that ensued was the song itself or the satisfaction of a productive day.
Always up for an occasion, Pru showed up with a Bon Voyage card inscribed, "Wear It!" and the gift of a red "Kiss Me, You Fool" lipstick, part of her ongoing campaign to make a real woman out of me. Before she'd arrived, I'd fashioned a necklace to impress her for the very same reason.
There was also a bag of Tootsie Rolls, which spoke to our more immediate plans.
My second viewing of "Love & Friendship" at the Criterion allowed me the opportunity to pay less attention to Jane Austen's comedy of manners and more to sets (sumptuous), costumes (wildly colorful) and nuances of performance.
Even better, I was able to catch a few choice bon mots I'd missed when I'd first seen it alone.
The row of 20-something women behind us squawked in displeasure when Sir James (the unintended) explained that it's understandable that men may stray because of their biology, but that it's inconceivable that a woman might do the same, preposterous, even.
As if this attitude didn't still perpetuate itself today in some ways.
Fabulous as the film was again, by far the best part of the night was afterward, ensconced on my balcony for the breezes, Isaac Hayes and Marvin Gaye playing on my archaic blue boombox and the two of us looking marvelous by the glow of candlelight as we sipped, dissected and reassessed to the sounds of J-Ward by night.
I have come a long way, but if I manage to finish all this work before vacation, it'll be a miracle and I'll be the fool wearing the red lipstick trying to do it.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Dancin', Shaggin' on the Bouelvard
I offer now both a cultural history lesson and a tribute to Steve "Mr. Beach" Leonard.
But first, let me qualify this by saying that when I moved to Richmond, I had never heard of shag dancing or beach music.
In fact, I managed to live here for five years before bearing witness to a suburban subculture devoted not just to a particular kind of dance music (100-130 bpm) but to a local who made listening to it a party.
And the only reason I was exposed then was because I took a job at the bottom of the ladder to get my foot in the door.
And now I give you a my introduction to the legend (and not just in his own mind, although it definitely started there) circa 1992.
~
During my first week as an over-qualified receptionist at a local radio station, I was sorting mail into staff mailboxes, my back to the door.
A guy breezes in and as I turn, he says, "Oh, you must be the new girl!" Yes, I'm Karen. "Hi, I'm Steve Leonard. I do the beach show." He couldn't be more innocuous looking, so I say hello and return to sorting mail.
Thwack! His hand lands firmly on my backside. "Nice ass," then more quietly, "You wearing a girdle?"
What was this, the 1950s?
Without hesitating - and I know this is where plenty of people will question my choice - I answered him. With confusion, incredulity and a little more distance.
No. No.
"Wow, then that's a great ass!" he said all but beaming at me before walking away.
~
In Hollywood parlance, that is to say that Mr. Beach and I "met cute" and went on to share pizza and a few drinks.
In terms of being a woman, it's a reminder how recently ass-grabbing was still part of the acceptable culture of the workplace.
As forf forming an impression of a singular guy, it was definitive. Steve Leonard was Mr. Beach. RIP, sir.
But first, let me qualify this by saying that when I moved to Richmond, I had never heard of shag dancing or beach music.
In fact, I managed to live here for five years before bearing witness to a suburban subculture devoted not just to a particular kind of dance music (100-130 bpm) but to a local who made listening to it a party.
And the only reason I was exposed then was because I took a job at the bottom of the ladder to get my foot in the door.
And now I give you a my introduction to the legend (and not just in his own mind, although it definitely started there) circa 1992.
~
During my first week as an over-qualified receptionist at a local radio station, I was sorting mail into staff mailboxes, my back to the door.
A guy breezes in and as I turn, he says, "Oh, you must be the new girl!" Yes, I'm Karen. "Hi, I'm Steve Leonard. I do the beach show." He couldn't be more innocuous looking, so I say hello and return to sorting mail.
Thwack! His hand lands firmly on my backside. "Nice ass," then more quietly, "You wearing a girdle?"
What was this, the 1950s?
Without hesitating - and I know this is where plenty of people will question my choice - I answered him. With confusion, incredulity and a little more distance.
No. No.
"Wow, then that's a great ass!" he said all but beaming at me before walking away.
~
In Hollywood parlance, that is to say that Mr. Beach and I "met cute" and went on to share pizza and a few drinks.
In terms of being a woman, it's a reminder how recently ass-grabbing was still part of the acceptable culture of the workplace.
As forf forming an impression of a singular guy, it was definitive. Steve Leonard was Mr. Beach. RIP, sir.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Good Day Sunshine
Sunscreen, it always comes down to sunscreen, doesn't it? Other than forgetting to reapply it, I have no regrets.
There's no shame in planning an evening around a walk. Remember, today's 92 degrees felt like 98, which is why I took a quick two-mile walk this morning, threw in the towel and headed home to be productive.
Hired mouths needed brunch! Groceries needed purchasing! Dresses needed hemming! Restaurant reviews needed writing! Gardens needed watering! Newspapers needed reading! All this and more was accomplished.
But around 5:30, I ate an ice cream cone and started bargaining with myself.
A plan was in order. I'd only done a couple of miles, so my body was calling out for a longer walk once things cooled down and what could be more brilliant than putting a two-hour air conditioned movie break in the middle of a four-mile walk?
So I grabbed my hat and was out the door walking to Criterion by 5:45, at once blinded by the late afternoon sun and wilted by its intense heat. My brilliance in planning had not extended to considering the idiocy of walking two miles west at this hour.
But we persevere for art, do we not?
It hadn't been tough to select a movie after finding that a screwball romantic comedy directed by playwright Arthur Miller's daughter Rebecca and starring Greta Gerwig, Julianne Moore and Ethan Hawke was playing. "Maggie's Plan" had it all: dense, literate dialog, an academic setting and characters who are as drawn to each other's bodies as their minds.
But then first world problems kick in - can a woman conspire to return to his former wife a man who no longer woos her? - and it makes for a fascinating look at the sell-by dates on relationships, which we all know are rarely as happily-ever-after as we might pine for.
The walk home was practically perfect, the sun setting behind me and the worst of the heat replaced with breezes, a moon and briefly, a firefly landing on my arm.
I'd made a good choice with the movie. Only with women writing and directing do audiences get female characters saying things such as, "Am I so capable I don't deserve attention?"
I can assure you that rare is the capable woman who doesn't deserve attention. And even capable women forget their sunscreen occasionally.
But they at least have a plan to get out.
There's no shame in planning an evening around a walk. Remember, today's 92 degrees felt like 98, which is why I took a quick two-mile walk this morning, threw in the towel and headed home to be productive.
Hired mouths needed brunch! Groceries needed purchasing! Dresses needed hemming! Restaurant reviews needed writing! Gardens needed watering! Newspapers needed reading! All this and more was accomplished.
But around 5:30, I ate an ice cream cone and started bargaining with myself.
A plan was in order. I'd only done a couple of miles, so my body was calling out for a longer walk once things cooled down and what could be more brilliant than putting a two-hour air conditioned movie break in the middle of a four-mile walk?
So I grabbed my hat and was out the door walking to Criterion by 5:45, at once blinded by the late afternoon sun and wilted by its intense heat. My brilliance in planning had not extended to considering the idiocy of walking two miles west at this hour.
But we persevere for art, do we not?
It hadn't been tough to select a movie after finding that a screwball romantic comedy directed by playwright Arthur Miller's daughter Rebecca and starring Greta Gerwig, Julianne Moore and Ethan Hawke was playing. "Maggie's Plan" had it all: dense, literate dialog, an academic setting and characters who are as drawn to each other's bodies as their minds.
But then first world problems kick in - can a woman conspire to return to his former wife a man who no longer woos her? - and it makes for a fascinating look at the sell-by dates on relationships, which we all know are rarely as happily-ever-after as we might pine for.
The walk home was practically perfect, the sun setting behind me and the worst of the heat replaced with breezes, a moon and briefly, a firefly landing on my arm.
I'd made a good choice with the movie. Only with women writing and directing do audiences get female characters saying things such as, "Am I so capable I don't deserve attention?"
I can assure you that rare is the capable woman who doesn't deserve attention. And even capable women forget their sunscreen occasionally.
But they at least have a plan to get out.
For the Love of Mockery
Talk all you want about the "black" card or the "woman" card, but let's get serious about the "city" card.
As in, don't tell me you can't park your compact little car in a space that would accommodate both my Altima and Pru's Mini because I will expect you to park and adjust until you are less than 18 inches from the curb anyway.
Otherwise, I will make a citizen's arrest to confiscate your "city" card. Beau was so hesitant about taking on the parking gauntlet I threw down that a bicyclist riding by piled on, calling out, "Tell him he can park up here," gesturing at an open-ended space that could have accommodated an 18-wheeler.
That kind of condescension while biking is a treat to behold. Luckily, Beau kept his card.
The barkeep at Belmont Food Shop greeted me discreetly, as if we had not just seen each other 18 hours ago, and set up the four of us in the front window, where the confluence of today's 90-something temperatures, a western exposure and the setting sun ensured that perspiration ensued.
"Chef says it's too hot for confit," our server pronounced, setting down plates of amuse bouches (gougeres and three kinds of dressed diced beets, all swoon-worthy) to replace confit. Pickled shrimp and pate took us right into a conversation about the relationship across the table.
"You mean I'm still on trial?" he asks, mock incredulously. No, you're in training, we clarify.
"Training?" Pru challenges. "I prefer 'probation.'" It was immediately clarified that the end game was not a pre-determined outcome, but whatever worked best for both because the term "relationship" is a malleable one, god knows.
Everything we ordered was dead tasty (as my Scottish friend would phrase it) and that extended from the killer skate over sauteed pea shoots to clam chowder to crabmeat over avocado to a sunny asparagus salad with baked Ricotta and lemon to smoked bluefish dip.
When it came time to consider dessert, Pru admonished, "You can have whatever you want," only to get the cheeky response, "I want a 120-pound body and a tall, dark and handsome 35-year old."
Yes, don't we all?
When the subject returned to Beau's lack of parallel parking confidence, the tragic result of too many years living in suburbia, Pru interjected with an idea that she and I would sit in my apartment sipping wine while he practiced parking down on my street between two orange cones outfitted with eggs on top of them, a ploy gleaned from an episode of "The Brady BUnch."
For the record, Marcia did a far better job parallel parking than Greg Brady did, but who's really surprised at that?
In any case, Pru's thought was that we'd watch from above, judging his parking moves and tossing out small rewards when he succeeded. I thought Tootsie Rolls would make a fine reward.
"I'd parallel park for Tootsie Rolls!" she announces, proving yet again why we're soul mates. I'd do a lot for Tootsie Rolls.
After French silk pie and chocolate bread pudding was an acknowledgement that Pru and Beau "will always have coffee" (as opposed to Paris, I suppose), a reference to their shared caffeine addiction which, despite the heat, had them drinking a French press.
We left Belmont to take the scenic route past horse paddocks and nouveau riche houses to Agecroft for Quill's production of "Twelfth Night" on a hot eleventh night of June.
Fortunately, Pru had brought a dramatic black fan with purple flowers for self-cooling, while many in the crowd pressed their programs into service.
My job was to snag the tickets at the box office, where a man walked in and announced, "I hate dealing with old people," a statement that stopped me in my tracks. What exactly do you mean by old?
"Older than you," he assured me. "Besides, you're beautiful." Thanks, stranger.
Tucked to the side of the stage in front of a garden of delphiniums, zinnias, snapdragons and coneflowers and behind a man in a seersucker shirt, our seats afforded a fine view of the two actors laying down the ground rules about not leaving feet in the aisles or walking where the actors would be.
"It sounds silly, but it's happened before and we will cut you," Luke Schares as Feste deadpanned under light blue skies with a pale wedge of a moon overhead. Before the play was over, I'd marvel at a heron flying overhead, spot multiple planes, both large and small crafts, and see stars begin to appear.
Shall we set about some revels?
Goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" more than my fair share of times. I've seen it done as a gender-reversed play, as a staged reading, outdoors in Petersburg, by a high school cast, with Scott Wichmann as Malvolio and actually on Twelfth Night and that's just what I can remember.
But it's an easy play to love, unlike others, as evidenced by the Bermudian explaining why she'd opted out of Quill's outdoor productions last summer. "I just couldn't do "Lear." Talk about depressing!"
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage
Tonight's cast was strong, the energy never lagged and the entire production felt like a non-stop rollicking good time, the perfect summertime entertainment. There was dancing, singing and headstands.
I smell a device.
For language nerds, part of the satisfaction of Shakespeare is word choice and more than once - jot, dissemble, excellent ignorance - Pru and I bemoaned the loss of certain colorful words that have fallen out of use, at least in the circles we frequent.
Daylight and Champagne discovers not more.
Thomas Cunningham as the hapless Malvolio blustered, begged and was sweating bullets as the play's action moved around him, but we felt sorry for all the men in three piece suits onstage.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The lights being on during intermission put out a call to nature, resulting in a swarm of night bugs joining the audience for the second act, flying about into our chairs, noses and mouths (so undoubtedly the actors' as well) and swirling around the stage.
Pru referred to it as "The Pestilence," but I prefer Shakespeare's words.
Why, this is very mid-summer madness.
Which perhaps is what sitting in the courtyard of a 500-year old Tudor house watching a 500-year old play about love and mockery absent Tootsie Rolls amounts to.
If so, give me excess of it.
As in, don't tell me you can't park your compact little car in a space that would accommodate both my Altima and Pru's Mini because I will expect you to park and adjust until you are less than 18 inches from the curb anyway.
Otherwise, I will make a citizen's arrest to confiscate your "city" card. Beau was so hesitant about taking on the parking gauntlet I threw down that a bicyclist riding by piled on, calling out, "Tell him he can park up here," gesturing at an open-ended space that could have accommodated an 18-wheeler.
That kind of condescension while biking is a treat to behold. Luckily, Beau kept his card.
The barkeep at Belmont Food Shop greeted me discreetly, as if we had not just seen each other 18 hours ago, and set up the four of us in the front window, where the confluence of today's 90-something temperatures, a western exposure and the setting sun ensured that perspiration ensued.
"Chef says it's too hot for confit," our server pronounced, setting down plates of amuse bouches (gougeres and three kinds of dressed diced beets, all swoon-worthy) to replace confit. Pickled shrimp and pate took us right into a conversation about the relationship across the table.
"You mean I'm still on trial?" he asks, mock incredulously. No, you're in training, we clarify.
"Training?" Pru challenges. "I prefer 'probation.'" It was immediately clarified that the end game was not a pre-determined outcome, but whatever worked best for both because the term "relationship" is a malleable one, god knows.
Everything we ordered was dead tasty (as my Scottish friend would phrase it) and that extended from the killer skate over sauteed pea shoots to clam chowder to crabmeat over avocado to a sunny asparagus salad with baked Ricotta and lemon to smoked bluefish dip.
When it came time to consider dessert, Pru admonished, "You can have whatever you want," only to get the cheeky response, "I want a 120-pound body and a tall, dark and handsome 35-year old."
Yes, don't we all?
When the subject returned to Beau's lack of parallel parking confidence, the tragic result of too many years living in suburbia, Pru interjected with an idea that she and I would sit in my apartment sipping wine while he practiced parking down on my street between two orange cones outfitted with eggs on top of them, a ploy gleaned from an episode of "The Brady BUnch."
For the record, Marcia did a far better job parallel parking than Greg Brady did, but who's really surprised at that?
In any case, Pru's thought was that we'd watch from above, judging his parking moves and tossing out small rewards when he succeeded. I thought Tootsie Rolls would make a fine reward.
"I'd parallel park for Tootsie Rolls!" she announces, proving yet again why we're soul mates. I'd do a lot for Tootsie Rolls.
After French silk pie and chocolate bread pudding was an acknowledgement that Pru and Beau "will always have coffee" (as opposed to Paris, I suppose), a reference to their shared caffeine addiction which, despite the heat, had them drinking a French press.
We left Belmont to take the scenic route past horse paddocks and nouveau riche houses to Agecroft for Quill's production of "Twelfth Night" on a hot eleventh night of June.
Fortunately, Pru had brought a dramatic black fan with purple flowers for self-cooling, while many in the crowd pressed their programs into service.
My job was to snag the tickets at the box office, where a man walked in and announced, "I hate dealing with old people," a statement that stopped me in my tracks. What exactly do you mean by old?
"Older than you," he assured me. "Besides, you're beautiful." Thanks, stranger.
Tucked to the side of the stage in front of a garden of delphiniums, zinnias, snapdragons and coneflowers and behind a man in a seersucker shirt, our seats afforded a fine view of the two actors laying down the ground rules about not leaving feet in the aisles or walking where the actors would be.
"It sounds silly, but it's happened before and we will cut you," Luke Schares as Feste deadpanned under light blue skies with a pale wedge of a moon overhead. Before the play was over, I'd marvel at a heron flying overhead, spot multiple planes, both large and small crafts, and see stars begin to appear.
Shall we set about some revels?
Goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" more than my fair share of times. I've seen it done as a gender-reversed play, as a staged reading, outdoors in Petersburg, by a high school cast, with Scott Wichmann as Malvolio and actually on Twelfth Night and that's just what I can remember.
But it's an easy play to love, unlike others, as evidenced by the Bermudian explaining why she'd opted out of Quill's outdoor productions last summer. "I just couldn't do "Lear." Talk about depressing!"
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage
Tonight's cast was strong, the energy never lagged and the entire production felt like a non-stop rollicking good time, the perfect summertime entertainment. There was dancing, singing and headstands.
I smell a device.
For language nerds, part of the satisfaction of Shakespeare is word choice and more than once - jot, dissemble, excellent ignorance - Pru and I bemoaned the loss of certain colorful words that have fallen out of use, at least in the circles we frequent.
Daylight and Champagne discovers not more.
Thomas Cunningham as the hapless Malvolio blustered, begged and was sweating bullets as the play's action moved around him, but we felt sorry for all the men in three piece suits onstage.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The lights being on during intermission put out a call to nature, resulting in a swarm of night bugs joining the audience for the second act, flying about into our chairs, noses and mouths (so undoubtedly the actors' as well) and swirling around the stage.
Pru referred to it as "The Pestilence," but I prefer Shakespeare's words.
Why, this is very mid-summer madness.
Which perhaps is what sitting in the courtyard of a 500-year old Tudor house watching a 500-year old play about love and mockery absent Tootsie Rolls amounts to.
If so, give me excess of it.
Saturday, June 11, 2016
I Was There and I'm Told I Had a Good Time
I can always count on my neighborhood to deliver.
Walking up Henry Street just after 8:00 on a Friday evening, I hear the sounds of chanting and a drum. Here come the anti-Trump protesters down Marshall Street, not in lock step, but in solidarity against the racist white man running for President and the rally he's staging a few blocks east.
It's pretty catchy.
No KKK
No facist USA
No Trump!
I don't hesitate to stop and chant along in accord and one of the marchers brings me a flyer about destroying white supremacists like Trump and his ongoing campaign demonizing Blacks, Latinos and Muslims. I spot the drummer from No BS Brass band among the protesters carrying banners and signs.
Behind the marchers is a cadre of VCU bicycle cops and a young white one rides over to greet me. "How are you, ma'am?" he says in a smarmy tone, as if he assumes I'm as disdainful of the march as he apparently is. Just fine, I tell him.
Nodding toward the marchers, he rolls his eyes and condescends, saying, "Just another day in the neighborhood." I roll my eyes in return and walk away without saying a word.
I revel in living in a place where people make their beliefs known in a peaceable way capable of inspiring others. I've marched in parades in J-Ward on multiple occasions, a fact I'm proud of.
A few block further at 1708 Gallery, people are gathering for the Bijou's pop-up members' screening, noshing and sipping. Talk beforehand centers on how the Bijou is moving toward weekly events, both first-run and repertory and how they'll make a point to screen on 16mm and 35 mm whenever possible.
I consider that essential for the Bijou since there are now so many people who have no sense of seeing movies on actual film.
Tonight's first 16 mm film, Truffaut's "Les Mistons," introduced me to the beautiful Bernadette Jouve and, predictably employed the most important trope in a French film: a woman riding a bike in a dress, a fact I've gleaned from years of attendance at the French Film festival.
It was decidedly French in attitude, as when when the lovely Bernadette asks her lover what he feels for her and he responds, "A brutal physical appetite."
Not a bad answer.
Perhaps most interestingly of all, there were many occasions where the actors spoke and no subtitles were provided, a decided difference from today's inane captioning of every grunt and moan.
Also shown on 16 mm, "Mouseholes," by Helen Hill used 1999-era handmade animation and voice-over spoken by her dying grandfather in the hospital for a moving tribute to the man.
The main event was the Richmond premiere of "Chekhov for Children," by Sasha Waters-Freyer, the title referring to a group of kids in NYC's P.S. 75 who rehearsed and produced Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya" in 1979 as part of an intensive arts program targeted at specific schools in the late '70s and early '80s.
Sasha explained that she'd been the student director of the production. Hello, for my one and only school play, I'd been chosen student director, which some thought was a waste since my dramatic nature had earned me the childhood nickname "Camille" with my Dad.
What she wanted to explore was how she'd grown up thinking that that experience, as well as the many films the school's students produced, was perfectly normal.
Only as a an adult did she see that having 10 and 11-year olds interpret the dark, adult viewpoint of Chekhov was not a typical rite of childhood passage.
The documentary was fascinating for the amount of archival footage she had to work with as well as the conversations with her fellow students, now grown up. Everyone credited the program and the play with making them feel like their possibilities were limitless.
Seeing children deliver heavy Chekhovian dialog with passion and adult weariness was startling. One little girl credited her emoting to dealing with her parents' divorce and the sadness that had caused her.
That's some deep stuff.
But they also felt like the production itself, not performing it for an audience (although they did that, too with a nearly 2 1/2 hour production at a real theater), was the point. They were doing it for themselves and the experience, a wonderful thing to teach 5th graders.
Fittingly, we heard a lot from the teacher who'd conceived the project and loved Chekhov.
Let me tell you, I was eating up this film's subject with a spoon. It was a sterling example of what the Bijou will mean to Richmond by having a small theater that shows this sort of film - the kind that never plays here or a classic piece of cinema like the Truffaut or even an artistic gem like the Hill film - week in and week out.
With a bar, I might add.
My great regret was having to leave before the Q & A period to meet friends because I'd have relished hearing more from the director about her original experiences.
Instead I revisited my own childhood, albeit not as a member of a Chekhov production, First up was presenting myself at Belmont Food Shop to meet two couples who'd just finished dinner and after minor chit chat, we strolled back to Holmes' house for a listening party.
"This album is so good I'm going to listen to it for the rest of my life," he announced, piquing everyone's (okay, my) interest.
The CD in question was the Monkees' latest, "Good Times!" which was intended as a commemoration of the band's 50th anniversary and something I somehow hadn't even read about.
The music was striking for how spot-on Monkees-like it sounded, not like an update or interpretation of their sound, but simply like a long-lost record had been unearthed. What was cool were the collaborators: Ben Gibbard, Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne, Noel Gallagher, Rivers Cuomo and Paul Weller.
But the one that made us melt into teen-aged puddles was "You Bring the Summer," sung by my favorite Monkee, Mickey Dolenz and written by the fabulous Andy Partridge of XTC.
The three-minute gem is a practically perfect pop song.
We listened to the CD straight through twice, marveling at how good the songs sounded, how fortuitous it was that they had an unreleased Davy Jones track they could add backing vocals to and a Nilsson demo that Mickey could "duet" with in true Nat "King" Cole style.
They even included - wait for it - an unreleased Boyce and Hart song and as every girl who was ever Vice President of the local Monkees fan club knows, a lot of the Monkees' '60s hits were written by that songwriting duo.
Wait, it gets better. Calling into my local radio station to request the Monkees' new single, "Pleasant Valley Sunday," I'd been instead put on the line with the in-studio guest that day: singer Bobbie Gentry. Sure, I made small talk with her, but all I really wanted was for them to take my song request.
Of course, no kid would have time to listen to pop music if they were busy studying their lines for a Chekhov production.
Sounds like I got the childhood I was supposed to have.
Walking up Henry Street just after 8:00 on a Friday evening, I hear the sounds of chanting and a drum. Here come the anti-Trump protesters down Marshall Street, not in lock step, but in solidarity against the racist white man running for President and the rally he's staging a few blocks east.
It's pretty catchy.
No KKK
No facist USA
No Trump!
I don't hesitate to stop and chant along in accord and one of the marchers brings me a flyer about destroying white supremacists like Trump and his ongoing campaign demonizing Blacks, Latinos and Muslims. I spot the drummer from No BS Brass band among the protesters carrying banners and signs.
Behind the marchers is a cadre of VCU bicycle cops and a young white one rides over to greet me. "How are you, ma'am?" he says in a smarmy tone, as if he assumes I'm as disdainful of the march as he apparently is. Just fine, I tell him.
Nodding toward the marchers, he rolls his eyes and condescends, saying, "Just another day in the neighborhood." I roll my eyes in return and walk away without saying a word.
I revel in living in a place where people make their beliefs known in a peaceable way capable of inspiring others. I've marched in parades in J-Ward on multiple occasions, a fact I'm proud of.
A few block further at 1708 Gallery, people are gathering for the Bijou's pop-up members' screening, noshing and sipping. Talk beforehand centers on how the Bijou is moving toward weekly events, both first-run and repertory and how they'll make a point to screen on 16mm and 35 mm whenever possible.
I consider that essential for the Bijou since there are now so many people who have no sense of seeing movies on actual film.
Tonight's first 16 mm film, Truffaut's "Les Mistons," introduced me to the beautiful Bernadette Jouve and, predictably employed the most important trope in a French film: a woman riding a bike in a dress, a fact I've gleaned from years of attendance at the French Film festival.
It was decidedly French in attitude, as when when the lovely Bernadette asks her lover what he feels for her and he responds, "A brutal physical appetite."
Not a bad answer.
Perhaps most interestingly of all, there were many occasions where the actors spoke and no subtitles were provided, a decided difference from today's inane captioning of every grunt and moan.
Also shown on 16 mm, "Mouseholes," by Helen Hill used 1999-era handmade animation and voice-over spoken by her dying grandfather in the hospital for a moving tribute to the man.
The main event was the Richmond premiere of "Chekhov for Children," by Sasha Waters-Freyer, the title referring to a group of kids in NYC's P.S. 75 who rehearsed and produced Chekhov's "Uncle Vanya" in 1979 as part of an intensive arts program targeted at specific schools in the late '70s and early '80s.
Sasha explained that she'd been the student director of the production. Hello, for my one and only school play, I'd been chosen student director, which some thought was a waste since my dramatic nature had earned me the childhood nickname "Camille" with my Dad.
What she wanted to explore was how she'd grown up thinking that that experience, as well as the many films the school's students produced, was perfectly normal.
Only as a an adult did she see that having 10 and 11-year olds interpret the dark, adult viewpoint of Chekhov was not a typical rite of childhood passage.
The documentary was fascinating for the amount of archival footage she had to work with as well as the conversations with her fellow students, now grown up. Everyone credited the program and the play with making them feel like their possibilities were limitless.
Seeing children deliver heavy Chekhovian dialog with passion and adult weariness was startling. One little girl credited her emoting to dealing with her parents' divorce and the sadness that had caused her.
That's some deep stuff.
But they also felt like the production itself, not performing it for an audience (although they did that, too with a nearly 2 1/2 hour production at a real theater), was the point. They were doing it for themselves and the experience, a wonderful thing to teach 5th graders.
Fittingly, we heard a lot from the teacher who'd conceived the project and loved Chekhov.
Let me tell you, I was eating up this film's subject with a spoon. It was a sterling example of what the Bijou will mean to Richmond by having a small theater that shows this sort of film - the kind that never plays here or a classic piece of cinema like the Truffaut or even an artistic gem like the Hill film - week in and week out.
With a bar, I might add.
My great regret was having to leave before the Q & A period to meet friends because I'd have relished hearing more from the director about her original experiences.
Instead I revisited my own childhood, albeit not as a member of a Chekhov production, First up was presenting myself at Belmont Food Shop to meet two couples who'd just finished dinner and after minor chit chat, we strolled back to Holmes' house for a listening party.
"This album is so good I'm going to listen to it for the rest of my life," he announced, piquing everyone's (okay, my) interest.
The CD in question was the Monkees' latest, "Good Times!" which was intended as a commemoration of the band's 50th anniversary and something I somehow hadn't even read about.
The music was striking for how spot-on Monkees-like it sounded, not like an update or interpretation of their sound, but simply like a long-lost record had been unearthed. What was cool were the collaborators: Ben Gibbard, Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne, Noel Gallagher, Rivers Cuomo and Paul Weller.
But the one that made us melt into teen-aged puddles was "You Bring the Summer," sung by my favorite Monkee, Mickey Dolenz and written by the fabulous Andy Partridge of XTC.
The three-minute gem is a practically perfect pop song.
We listened to the CD straight through twice, marveling at how good the songs sounded, how fortuitous it was that they had an unreleased Davy Jones track they could add backing vocals to and a Nilsson demo that Mickey could "duet" with in true Nat "King" Cole style.
They even included - wait for it - an unreleased Boyce and Hart song and as every girl who was ever Vice President of the local Monkees fan club knows, a lot of the Monkees' '60s hits were written by that songwriting duo.
Wait, it gets better. Calling into my local radio station to request the Monkees' new single, "Pleasant Valley Sunday," I'd been instead put on the line with the in-studio guest that day: singer Bobbie Gentry. Sure, I made small talk with her, but all I really wanted was for them to take my song request.
Of course, no kid would have time to listen to pop music if they were busy studying their lines for a Chekhov production.
Sounds like I got the childhood I was supposed to have.
Friday, June 10, 2016
Moons and Junes and Ferris Wheels
It only took nine plus hours to get from gospel in the garden to Joni on the balcony at 3:30 a.m.
The Valentine Museum's new Music in the Garden series was having its second installment on such a gorgeous and California-like Thursday night that I couldn't think of a single good reason not to head to the leafy garden for music before my date.
Kenneka Cook was mid-set when I found a spot and began scanning the crowd for people I knew. There was the show booker making faces at a baby, the brass band drummer adjusting knobs onstage, the marketing man looking studious in glasses and the Frenchman, just back from Tampa where they'd beaten the impending storm by just two days.
Moving closer, I was charmed to see people sprawled out on the wide porch of the adjoining Wickham House with the "door" windows behind them, a fact I learned from a tour of the house. I'd been struck by the concept of windows so tall that the house's occupants would just throw up the sash and stroll through the opening to the porch.
"We only know how to do one thing and that's gospel music, so let's go to church," the Ingramettes announced and commenced to get people clapping and toes tapping while shaking the rafters on the tent over their heads.
On my way home, I spotted a line at the National for Catfish and the Bottlemen, a group I'd never so much as heard of. A couple clicks once I got home and I quickly learned that they were a British indie band mining '80s jangle, '90s rock and '00s alternative pop in the service of one of my favorite genres: young man music.
Sounding like their influences were comprised of lots of my guilty pleasure songs with a singer whose voice resembles that of the Arctic Monkeys' leader, the songs were buoyant, testosterone-fueled and likely drawn from the narrow scope of boyish experience.
I was hooked immediately, of course.
And I'd beg you but you know I'm never home
I'd love you but I need another year alone
I'd try to ignore it every time you phone
But I'm never coming close
Adorable, right? Now I understood why all those people were standing in line for an evening of young man angst.
But my date and I were off to Amour for dinner where a private party had commandeered the bar area, which necessitated us taking up residence in the front window for a lovely meal that began with veal sweetbreads in a Madeira wine sauce, moved through a crabcake-topped salad, lamb chops and housemade cocoa sorbet.
After making a pit stop at Secco for pink bubbly from Greece and a unique Rose blend of Malbec, Gamay and Cabernet Sauvignon, we witnessed a verbal testament to the powers of Queen Bey ("I want three things from a man and I can't remember the first two, but the last one is he has to know that Beyonce is the most important thing in the world") from a visiting California woman who will be seeing her hero in L.A. in September.
Pop star conversations aside, I'm trying to get in my Secco fixes in before they close their doors next week.
Once we were back on the street, the evening continued on my balcony with Breaux Rose we'd picked up at the winery and some triage on my boombox to get it to play on its inaugural night of summer season 2016, for which we couldn't have asked for finer weather.
Our musical entertainment began with the new Clair Morgan album "New Lions and the Not Good Night," which qualifies as young man music given its musicians, but not its subject matter, which is a reflection of songwriter Clair exploring his role parenting young children and memories of being a child himself.
But ultimately, it was Joni Mitchell's "Hits" album that we listened to twice, agreeably taking tangents about the musicians on her various albums, how sometimes a cover can be better than the original (CSNY's "Woodstock" being a perfect example) and what an absolutely brilliant medley "Chinese Cafe" and "Unchained Medley" make.
Somewhere around two hours before sunrise, my date expressed a wee bit of concern about the music and conversation being broadcast to the neighborhood pretty much in the middle of the night, so we scaled back a notch but it was a small notch.
We've never been the types to make ungainly concessions, whether music or relationships.
To "settle" is to give up. We never settled. But, man, can we kill some time together.
The Valentine Museum's new Music in the Garden series was having its second installment on such a gorgeous and California-like Thursday night that I couldn't think of a single good reason not to head to the leafy garden for music before my date.
Kenneka Cook was mid-set when I found a spot and began scanning the crowd for people I knew. There was the show booker making faces at a baby, the brass band drummer adjusting knobs onstage, the marketing man looking studious in glasses and the Frenchman, just back from Tampa where they'd beaten the impending storm by just two days.
Moving closer, I was charmed to see people sprawled out on the wide porch of the adjoining Wickham House with the "door" windows behind them, a fact I learned from a tour of the house. I'd been struck by the concept of windows so tall that the house's occupants would just throw up the sash and stroll through the opening to the porch.
"We only know how to do one thing and that's gospel music, so let's go to church," the Ingramettes announced and commenced to get people clapping and toes tapping while shaking the rafters on the tent over their heads.
On my way home, I spotted a line at the National for Catfish and the Bottlemen, a group I'd never so much as heard of. A couple clicks once I got home and I quickly learned that they were a British indie band mining '80s jangle, '90s rock and '00s alternative pop in the service of one of my favorite genres: young man music.
Sounding like their influences were comprised of lots of my guilty pleasure songs with a singer whose voice resembles that of the Arctic Monkeys' leader, the songs were buoyant, testosterone-fueled and likely drawn from the narrow scope of boyish experience.
I was hooked immediately, of course.
And I'd beg you but you know I'm never home
I'd love you but I need another year alone
I'd try to ignore it every time you phone
But I'm never coming close
Adorable, right? Now I understood why all those people were standing in line for an evening of young man angst.
But my date and I were off to Amour for dinner where a private party had commandeered the bar area, which necessitated us taking up residence in the front window for a lovely meal that began with veal sweetbreads in a Madeira wine sauce, moved through a crabcake-topped salad, lamb chops and housemade cocoa sorbet.
After making a pit stop at Secco for pink bubbly from Greece and a unique Rose blend of Malbec, Gamay and Cabernet Sauvignon, we witnessed a verbal testament to the powers of Queen Bey ("I want three things from a man and I can't remember the first two, but the last one is he has to know that Beyonce is the most important thing in the world") from a visiting California woman who will be seeing her hero in L.A. in September.
Pop star conversations aside, I'm trying to get in my Secco fixes in before they close their doors next week.
Once we were back on the street, the evening continued on my balcony with Breaux Rose we'd picked up at the winery and some triage on my boombox to get it to play on its inaugural night of summer season 2016, for which we couldn't have asked for finer weather.
Our musical entertainment began with the new Clair Morgan album "New Lions and the Not Good Night," which qualifies as young man music given its musicians, but not its subject matter, which is a reflection of songwriter Clair exploring his role parenting young children and memories of being a child himself.
But ultimately, it was Joni Mitchell's "Hits" album that we listened to twice, agreeably taking tangents about the musicians on her various albums, how sometimes a cover can be better than the original (CSNY's "Woodstock" being a perfect example) and what an absolutely brilliant medley "Chinese Cafe" and "Unchained Medley" make.
Somewhere around two hours before sunrise, my date expressed a wee bit of concern about the music and conversation being broadcast to the neighborhood pretty much in the middle of the night, so we scaled back a notch but it was a small notch.
We've never been the types to make ungainly concessions, whether music or relationships.
To "settle" is to give up. We never settled. But, man, can we kill some time together.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Steadfast and True
Doesn't matter where I'm headed
With you, I've arrived
But I know you get that all the time
Life is too short not to wake up beside you every day
But I know, I know, I know that's what they all say
You don't even have to love me back
I sure know how to show a girl a good time.
To start, I'll take her to dinner, although I'll also tell her what to order and use my hired mouth to eat part of everything she gets. And although I couldn't have planned for it, I'll take full credit for the unintended entertainment of men at a nearby table and their false bravado at eating challenges.
Then, because I know what she likes, I'll suggest a mile walk to enjoy the glorious weather - sunny, warm and very breezy, but most notably, nearly non-existent humidity - with a destination of Bev's, where we find a line nearly out the door but moving steadily.
When I order a classic hot fudge sundae with extra hot fudge for my topping, the young woman behind the counter smiles knowingly and says, "I got you covered," putting my regular scoop of mint chip into a large dish so that the obscene amount of hot fudge won't burble over the sides.
Handing it to me so I can pay, she ogles it one last time. "That looks so good, I wish I was eating it." What it looks like really is a dish of hot fudge since the ice cream is completely obliterated by the chocolate on top, so I understand her envy.
Eating it while my girlfriend licks a strawberry cone, we discuss how the line of customers looks like a tourism photo op with attractive people of various ages and colors happily waiting their turn for ice cream, yet more proof that Richmond is a happening place full of local charm every night of the week.
We even reminisce about the original Bev's over on Belmont, a place likely unfamiliar to every single person in line except long-timers like us.
After strolling back to the car, I'll suggest a movie, something critically acclaimed and vaguely foreign like "A Bigger Splash" (perfectly named after a David Hockmey painting) at Movieland, and she'll agree solely based on the name Ralph Fiennes, only realizing that it's also the new Tilda Swinton movie once we're there.
It's obvious the weather is far too wonderful to sit inside and watch a movie, as evidenced by there being only three other people in the theater, but we persevere for the sake of art and the handsome Matthias Schoenaerts.
And what art! From the landscapes of a breathtaking Italian island to Swinton's wardrobe which could have been borrowed from an old Audrey Hepburn movie (because no one but Tilda or Audrey had the height and lithe figure for so much fabric), pretty people and places abounded.
Because women dig this kind of stuff, it's got to be a girlfriend you take to a movie that places so much emphasis on the unbelievably fantastic relationship of a couple who are completely into each other mentally and physically.
And may I just say for the record how satisfying it is to see as much male nudity as female?
The film takes a darker turn when Fiennes as her ex-lover and former producer ("One way or another, we're going to grow old together") shows up with his nubile and scantily-clad 17-year old daughter in tow, a sure sign bad things are on the horizon.
Fiennes is a whirling dervish of a man who never shuts up, or eases up on his full court press to win back his ex, but it's a scene where he dances unabashedly to the Stones' "Emotional Rescue" that shows the real measure of the man as an uninhibited actor.
Meanwhile, Swinton manages to demonstrate her superb acting chops with a role that only allows her to whisper occasionally and never speak out loud, despite playing a rock star with Chrissie Hynde-like hair and Bowie-like make-up.
Best of all for my date and me, the movie clarifies nothing, shows little yet much, and ultimately ends on a discomforting note like all good foreign arthouse films do.
Some nights, all you need is the right woman to share that much with.
With you, I've arrived
But I know you get that all the time
Life is too short not to wake up beside you every day
But I know, I know, I know that's what they all say
You don't even have to love me back
~Lynchburg band Steal the Prize "Love Me Back"
I sure know how to show a girl a good time.
To start, I'll take her to dinner, although I'll also tell her what to order and use my hired mouth to eat part of everything she gets. And although I couldn't have planned for it, I'll take full credit for the unintended entertainment of men at a nearby table and their false bravado at eating challenges.
Then, because I know what she likes, I'll suggest a mile walk to enjoy the glorious weather - sunny, warm and very breezy, but most notably, nearly non-existent humidity - with a destination of Bev's, where we find a line nearly out the door but moving steadily.
When I order a classic hot fudge sundae with extra hot fudge for my topping, the young woman behind the counter smiles knowingly and says, "I got you covered," putting my regular scoop of mint chip into a large dish so that the obscene amount of hot fudge won't burble over the sides.
Handing it to me so I can pay, she ogles it one last time. "That looks so good, I wish I was eating it." What it looks like really is a dish of hot fudge since the ice cream is completely obliterated by the chocolate on top, so I understand her envy.
Eating it while my girlfriend licks a strawberry cone, we discuss how the line of customers looks like a tourism photo op with attractive people of various ages and colors happily waiting their turn for ice cream, yet more proof that Richmond is a happening place full of local charm every night of the week.
We even reminisce about the original Bev's over on Belmont, a place likely unfamiliar to every single person in line except long-timers like us.
After strolling back to the car, I'll suggest a movie, something critically acclaimed and vaguely foreign like "A Bigger Splash" (perfectly named after a David Hockmey painting) at Movieland, and she'll agree solely based on the name Ralph Fiennes, only realizing that it's also the new Tilda Swinton movie once we're there.
It's obvious the weather is far too wonderful to sit inside and watch a movie, as evidenced by there being only three other people in the theater, but we persevere for the sake of art and the handsome Matthias Schoenaerts.
And what art! From the landscapes of a breathtaking Italian island to Swinton's wardrobe which could have been borrowed from an old Audrey Hepburn movie (because no one but Tilda or Audrey had the height and lithe figure for so much fabric), pretty people and places abounded.
Because women dig this kind of stuff, it's got to be a girlfriend you take to a movie that places so much emphasis on the unbelievably fantastic relationship of a couple who are completely into each other mentally and physically.
And may I just say for the record how satisfying it is to see as much male nudity as female?
The film takes a darker turn when Fiennes as her ex-lover and former producer ("One way or another, we're going to grow old together") shows up with his nubile and scantily-clad 17-year old daughter in tow, a sure sign bad things are on the horizon.
Fiennes is a whirling dervish of a man who never shuts up, or eases up on his full court press to win back his ex, but it's a scene where he dances unabashedly to the Stones' "Emotional Rescue" that shows the real measure of the man as an uninhibited actor.
Meanwhile, Swinton manages to demonstrate her superb acting chops with a role that only allows her to whisper occasionally and never speak out loud, despite playing a rock star with Chrissie Hynde-like hair and Bowie-like make-up.
Best of all for my date and me, the movie clarifies nothing, shows little yet much, and ultimately ends on a discomforting note like all good foreign arthouse films do.
Some nights, all you need is the right woman to share that much with.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
The Circle is Unbroken
A woman needs situational friends, the kind whom you only see on specific occasions, say a Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society.
I have sat next to the same older woman with twinkling eyes on at least half a dozen occasions and we always find so much to talk about, whether our respective neighborhoods, her years volunteering at the VMFA or changing women's roles.
For today's "Rightful Heritage: FDR and the Land of America" lecture, which had attracted me for its focus on the Civilian Conservation Corps' monumental effort to build national parks, parkways and nature refuges, she had a sentimental reason for coming.
"I remember Franklin Roosevelt being President," she said of the man who, as we were soon to learn, was as avid a conservationist as his fifth cousin, ex-President "Uncle Teddy," espousing the progressive philosophy, "Conservation is the basis for permanent peace" and envisioning national parks as dispensers of our heritage.
Pretty rad for the time.
Most surprising fact gleaned from Douglas Brinkley's effortlessly delivered lecture: FDR ran a tree plantation and whenever required to fill out his occupation on a form, always wrote "tree farmer." Pretty far-removed from his image of Hyde Park, cigarette holders and a monocle, eh?
A woman needs gay friends because who else would write something such as, "I saw you on Sunday at the food event on Broad Street with your "baby doll" dress on, but I was too far away to yell so I thought I'd do it here."
Nope, never comes out of the mouth of a straight man (because they would have no clue what a baby doll style dress is), so it's flattering to know someone notices, even from a distance.
A woman needs married friends because they're so accommodating, if not always as well-trained as one might expect.
We used to meet up regularly with the blessing of his wife (a far less adventurous eater), at least until he took a three-year position that resulted in a daily work schedule and our get-togethers petered out. When I bumped into him at a booze panel last winter, he set the ball in motion by instructing me to call him.
It only took half a year to make it happen tonight at Castanea, a place he'd never been. Naturally, he began by detailing his parking difficulties and concerns with the neighborhood, as he is inclined to do being a white suburbanite out of his comfort zone, although for food, he'll venture most anywhere.
Recently that had been Mama J's Kitchen where he and his wife had been made to feel like regulars, had enjoyed a terrific dinner of soul food ("those greens...that cake!") and generally fallen for the irresistible combo of good food, welcoming atmosphere and agreeable prices (albeit where they were the only white people, which, we agreed, is exactly the situation more white people need to place themselves in).
A Southside resident and regular at Southbound's bar ("It's so close!") he regaled me with tales of the wonder that is the new Wegman's, having joined the 24,000 other people who'd visited it on opening day, although he'd purposely ignored the carts and only looked.
The rest of the story is that they've been back three times since, spent lots of money and the two of them are besotted with the place. He went so far as to suggest that Whole Foods and Fresh Market just go ahead and close up shop since they're now superfluous.
"They've got mushrooms I've only seen on television!" he said with obvious fungus lust.
Much of his praise was for the seafood section and the impressive whole fish displays from which fillets are cut on demand and myriad oysters for roasting abound, but he was also drooling about the cured meat and cheese offerings, which so tempted them that he said they made dinner of bread, meat and cheese three times last week.
"You'll have to go check it out," he tells me. Will I really? Having an embarrassment of fresh produce is really only meaningful if the market's in your neighborhood and south of the river, west of Huguenot is nothing close to mine.
Since we'd last gotten together, he'd become a devotee of sour beers and a decision maker at work, resulting in his insistence that I pick and choose what we'd eat tonight. For me, being bossy is like breathing, so when I'm actually asked to call the shots, I don't even pretend to demur.
After choosing monkfish, a mezze of sauteed zucchini and a smoked pancetta pizza, we settled back with a bowl of olives which led to a discussion of the Olivator, a tool for inserting bleu cheese (or, I suppose, anything sort of soft) into an olive. I'm not kidding, the subject got him so worked up that he pulled out his phone to show me the single-function device, which, it seemed to me, operated pretty much identically to a syringe.
Not a good visual, I know.
"Let's check the 'don'ts,'" he insisted, confusing me at first. "Still no cell phone? No TV? No air conditioning?" No, no and I've always had central air, I just choose not to use it.
He admitted he could only give me so much crap about my lack of phone because his wife still has a flip phone and can't text. "And I'm not allowed to bring it out for any reason when we're out. It has to stay in my pocket, no matter how badly I need to check something."
First, brilliant woman. Second, how civilized. Can we make this official policy?
The first dish out was the monkfish with Victory Farm pac choi sauteed with hot pepper and a salty tapendae on the side, a strong start because the pac choi was every bit as stellar as the rich fish. A huge party at a nearby table must have slowed down receipt of our next course, so I casually mentioned to our overwhelmed barkeep that I was hoping the pizza showed up soon and it did.
As delicious as it was tardy, the pizza hit the spot nicely.
The zucchini, however, never found its way to us, so we punted by ordering double chocolate gelato, declining an offer from a nearby writer who's leaving Richmond (at least for the time being, since they always come back) to buy us drinks and then by offering her our last two slices of pizza, for which she was giddily grateful and promised to stalk me on Facebook so she could buy me that drink another time.
A woman may not need a stranger owing her a drink, but it's not necessarily a bad thing, either.
I have sat next to the same older woman with twinkling eyes on at least half a dozen occasions and we always find so much to talk about, whether our respective neighborhoods, her years volunteering at the VMFA or changing women's roles.
For today's "Rightful Heritage: FDR and the Land of America" lecture, which had attracted me for its focus on the Civilian Conservation Corps' monumental effort to build national parks, parkways and nature refuges, she had a sentimental reason for coming.
"I remember Franklin Roosevelt being President," she said of the man who, as we were soon to learn, was as avid a conservationist as his fifth cousin, ex-President "Uncle Teddy," espousing the progressive philosophy, "Conservation is the basis for permanent peace" and envisioning national parks as dispensers of our heritage.
Pretty rad for the time.
Most surprising fact gleaned from Douglas Brinkley's effortlessly delivered lecture: FDR ran a tree plantation and whenever required to fill out his occupation on a form, always wrote "tree farmer." Pretty far-removed from his image of Hyde Park, cigarette holders and a monocle, eh?
A woman needs gay friends because who else would write something such as, "I saw you on Sunday at the food event on Broad Street with your "baby doll" dress on, but I was too far away to yell so I thought I'd do it here."
Nope, never comes out of the mouth of a straight man (because they would have no clue what a baby doll style dress is), so it's flattering to know someone notices, even from a distance.
A woman needs married friends because they're so accommodating, if not always as well-trained as one might expect.
We used to meet up regularly with the blessing of his wife (a far less adventurous eater), at least until he took a three-year position that resulted in a daily work schedule and our get-togethers petered out. When I bumped into him at a booze panel last winter, he set the ball in motion by instructing me to call him.
It only took half a year to make it happen tonight at Castanea, a place he'd never been. Naturally, he began by detailing his parking difficulties and concerns with the neighborhood, as he is inclined to do being a white suburbanite out of his comfort zone, although for food, he'll venture most anywhere.
Recently that had been Mama J's Kitchen where he and his wife had been made to feel like regulars, had enjoyed a terrific dinner of soul food ("those greens...that cake!") and generally fallen for the irresistible combo of good food, welcoming atmosphere and agreeable prices (albeit where they were the only white people, which, we agreed, is exactly the situation more white people need to place themselves in).
A Southside resident and regular at Southbound's bar ("It's so close!") he regaled me with tales of the wonder that is the new Wegman's, having joined the 24,000 other people who'd visited it on opening day, although he'd purposely ignored the carts and only looked.
The rest of the story is that they've been back three times since, spent lots of money and the two of them are besotted with the place. He went so far as to suggest that Whole Foods and Fresh Market just go ahead and close up shop since they're now superfluous.
"They've got mushrooms I've only seen on television!" he said with obvious fungus lust.
Much of his praise was for the seafood section and the impressive whole fish displays from which fillets are cut on demand and myriad oysters for roasting abound, but he was also drooling about the cured meat and cheese offerings, which so tempted them that he said they made dinner of bread, meat and cheese three times last week.
"You'll have to go check it out," he tells me. Will I really? Having an embarrassment of fresh produce is really only meaningful if the market's in your neighborhood and south of the river, west of Huguenot is nothing close to mine.
Since we'd last gotten together, he'd become a devotee of sour beers and a decision maker at work, resulting in his insistence that I pick and choose what we'd eat tonight. For me, being bossy is like breathing, so when I'm actually asked to call the shots, I don't even pretend to demur.
After choosing monkfish, a mezze of sauteed zucchini and a smoked pancetta pizza, we settled back with a bowl of olives which led to a discussion of the Olivator, a tool for inserting bleu cheese (or, I suppose, anything sort of soft) into an olive. I'm not kidding, the subject got him so worked up that he pulled out his phone to show me the single-function device, which, it seemed to me, operated pretty much identically to a syringe.
Not a good visual, I know.
"Let's check the 'don'ts,'" he insisted, confusing me at first. "Still no cell phone? No TV? No air conditioning?" No, no and I've always had central air, I just choose not to use it.
He admitted he could only give me so much crap about my lack of phone because his wife still has a flip phone and can't text. "And I'm not allowed to bring it out for any reason when we're out. It has to stay in my pocket, no matter how badly I need to check something."
First, brilliant woman. Second, how civilized. Can we make this official policy?
The first dish out was the monkfish with Victory Farm pac choi sauteed with hot pepper and a salty tapendae on the side, a strong start because the pac choi was every bit as stellar as the rich fish. A huge party at a nearby table must have slowed down receipt of our next course, so I casually mentioned to our overwhelmed barkeep that I was hoping the pizza showed up soon and it did.
As delicious as it was tardy, the pizza hit the spot nicely.
The zucchini, however, never found its way to us, so we punted by ordering double chocolate gelato, declining an offer from a nearby writer who's leaving Richmond (at least for the time being, since they always come back) to buy us drinks and then by offering her our last two slices of pizza, for which she was giddily grateful and promised to stalk me on Facebook so she could buy me that drink another time.
A woman may not need a stranger owing her a drink, but it's not necessarily a bad thing, either.
Blood and Biscuits Everywhere
By the standards of "The Lobster," I should have been turned into a beagle back in April 2009.
The way things work in this foreign film that won the Jury Prize at Cannes, once they're single, a person is sent to a special hotel and has 45 days to find a mate. So if your beloved dies or dumps you, you've got about six weeks to replace them or be turned into the animal of your choice (for yet another chance to find your soulmate).
Now there's a world I'm glad I don't live in.
But as imagined by Greek director/writer Yorgos Lanthimos in this romantic science fiction black comedy full of deadpan delivery and uncomfortably funny silences (making it exquisitely un-Hollywood), I thought it made for a fascinating movie in part for its commentary on our culture's emphasis on finding "the one" and living happily ever after.
Sometimes, we discover, it's easier to settle for someone who's less "the one" and more the person willing to rub liniment on that spot on our back we can't reach.
The way this film tells it, it's not enough to be physically or sexually attracted to someone to pair up, you've got to have a shared physical characteristic like nosebleeds or bad eyes.
Apparently I should have been looking for a man with disproportionately long legs or a peach allergy all this time.
Of course, not everyone wants to find a partner, so some of the singles escape to the woods to join the loner group, where there are just as many rules about behavior as at the hotel. With the loners, you don't get to flirt or have sex with anyone, but there's a lot of dancing alone to electronic music.
You're just there to be a loner.
The movie was brilliant in several ways, showing the emptiness of a relationship in which no one is truly vested and capturing the desperation people begin to feel as they realize their "sell-by date" is rapidly approaching.
In this case, that's at the 45-day mark (unless you've shot a loner or three, in which case you get an extra day for every loner brought down, how sick is that?), but in the real world, we know it's slightly less rigid (early 30s the first time and before all traces of youth have shifted south for the middle-aged) but just as pressing.
Like my Mom, who has a habit of reminding me that she can't die because I'm not married, the hotel director teaches the newly-single that all the advantages are in being coupled up like on the Ark.
Not only is everything better if you have someone at your side, it's also safer for women to walk and for men who choke during meals.
An absurd statement like "It's no coincidence that targets are shaped like single people, not couples" reminds us that two is always better than one.
Actually, it sounds a lot like the crackpot propaganda of the post-war world that espoused wifely duties and motherhood as the highest possible aspiration for any good American woman.
The problem, as I see it, with this notion of packing the newly alone off to a singles facility to try to score in 45 days is that sometimes a person just isn't ready to move on in such a short period of time after the loss of a loved one.
That would have been me in 2009, so now I'd be seven years into being a beagle and half my life would be over and who's to say I would have met the beagle of my dreams yet anyway?
There's nothing like a date film that provides big life questions and no answers, while reminding you that it's the persistence to find what you need that matters most.
Shoot, it would have been so much easier if all I'd needed was someone to rub liniment on my back.
The way things work in this foreign film that won the Jury Prize at Cannes, once they're single, a person is sent to a special hotel and has 45 days to find a mate. So if your beloved dies or dumps you, you've got about six weeks to replace them or be turned into the animal of your choice (for yet another chance to find your soulmate).
Now there's a world I'm glad I don't live in.
But as imagined by Greek director/writer Yorgos Lanthimos in this romantic science fiction black comedy full of deadpan delivery and uncomfortably funny silences (making it exquisitely un-Hollywood), I thought it made for a fascinating movie in part for its commentary on our culture's emphasis on finding "the one" and living happily ever after.
Sometimes, we discover, it's easier to settle for someone who's less "the one" and more the person willing to rub liniment on that spot on our back we can't reach.
The way this film tells it, it's not enough to be physically or sexually attracted to someone to pair up, you've got to have a shared physical characteristic like nosebleeds or bad eyes.
Apparently I should have been looking for a man with disproportionately long legs or a peach allergy all this time.
Of course, not everyone wants to find a partner, so some of the singles escape to the woods to join the loner group, where there are just as many rules about behavior as at the hotel. With the loners, you don't get to flirt or have sex with anyone, but there's a lot of dancing alone to electronic music.
You're just there to be a loner.
The movie was brilliant in several ways, showing the emptiness of a relationship in which no one is truly vested and capturing the desperation people begin to feel as they realize their "sell-by date" is rapidly approaching.
In this case, that's at the 45-day mark (unless you've shot a loner or three, in which case you get an extra day for every loner brought down, how sick is that?), but in the real world, we know it's slightly less rigid (early 30s the first time and before all traces of youth have shifted south for the middle-aged) but just as pressing.
Like my Mom, who has a habit of reminding me that she can't die because I'm not married, the hotel director teaches the newly-single that all the advantages are in being coupled up like on the Ark.
Not only is everything better if you have someone at your side, it's also safer for women to walk and for men who choke during meals.
An absurd statement like "It's no coincidence that targets are shaped like single people, not couples" reminds us that two is always better than one.
Actually, it sounds a lot like the crackpot propaganda of the post-war world that espoused wifely duties and motherhood as the highest possible aspiration for any good American woman.
The problem, as I see it, with this notion of packing the newly alone off to a singles facility to try to score in 45 days is that sometimes a person just isn't ready to move on in such a short period of time after the loss of a loved one.
That would have been me in 2009, so now I'd be seven years into being a beagle and half my life would be over and who's to say I would have met the beagle of my dreams yet anyway?
There's nothing like a date film that provides big life questions and no answers, while reminding you that it's the persistence to find what you need that matters most.
Shoot, it would have been so much easier if all I'd needed was someone to rub liniment on my back.
Monday, June 6, 2016
Mysteries of Love
Remember that day in 2010 when I went to see "Blue Velvet" at Capital Ale House and they'd canceled it in favor of National Beer Day?
Yea, neither do I, but it happened. My blog says so and it never lies.
So with Movie Club Richmond's screening of David Lynch's masterpiece in my sights again as the kickoff to the Great Southern (Richmond's second annual Twin Peaks Festival), I made a date that would eventually include the movie that inspired the oddball TV series.
So let's call it a teachable moment, shall we?
Contemplating dinner choices first, I suggested the new Peter Chang's in Scott's Addition (the space a huge improvement over that strip mall monstrosity in the West End) and to my date's surprise, it was not only open but barely occupied when we slid into bar stools at the empty bar and said hello to a familiar face behind it.
Score one for me.
Of course everything was stellar and most was Szechuan-hot - the deep-fried pork belly, the salmon-stuffed cucumber "boats," the duck rolls with barbecue sauce - with the exception being the shrimp dumplings, which my date appropriately described as "bland and delicious" and I categorized as the ideal palate cleanser between courses for our increasingly fiery mouths.
By the time we finished all that and our Vinho Verde, the place had filled up nicely and we could fully appreciate what an opportune moment it had been that we arrived before the rush.
Stop #2 was a farewell of sorts because Secco closes in two weeks and since I'd made the drapes (and love the variety of by-the-glass wine options), I have a decided affinity for the place. In a lovely example of stranger kindness, five people at the bar immediately slid down a stool so that we could have two seats together to enjoy a glass of Austrian Rose and a cheese plate.
Seeing "Blue Velvet" at Strange Matter (who didn't let me down, unlike Capital Ale House had) couldn't have been any stranger than the film itself, none of which I remembered from having seen it 30 years ago. I mean none of it.
But it wasn't just me because my date had seen it multiple times and he didn't recall much more, so I didn't feel too bad.
What I did notice was how leisurely the film's pacing was (whether or not that was entirely intentional or a function of it being 1988, I'm not entirely certain), which had to be grueling for some of the younger members of the audience with their reduced attention spans, but also how completely strange it must have seemed for the time (not that everything about the Reagan years wasn't weird as all get out).
Post-film research yielded the fact that the movie's setting, Lumberton, USA (where it's always a sunny, woodsy day), is a real place in North Carolina.
Movie Club had even arranged for a show after the screening, so while the bands got set up, we headed up the block to Ipanema for snackage, scoring the timeless grilled Gouda sandwich and a slice of Mexican chocolate pie to fill in the cracks left by eating Chinese food earlier.
Or at least, that was my date's rationale. I just wanted dessert.
Ipanema, too, was getting set up for live music but we relocated to Strange Matter before it began, unable to be in two places at one time. The problem was, we'd dithered so long at Ipanema, we'd missed the first band, Christi, a shame because I really enjoy their sound.
We did catch Lady God's set - admiring bassist Chrissie's gorgeous instrument - delivered to a particularly small crowd, which was hardly a surprise given that it's been a deader than usual weekend. Is everyone on vacation or at the river or does it just seem that way?
One of the few familiar faces was a fellow music-lover and his date Karen, just back from a weekend away and looking for some last minute Sunday entertainment. Chatting revealed that, unlike us, they'd caught Christi but had missed the 1986 film.
"Wow, that must have been something to see after all these years," my friend mused. "Was it still really weird?"
Well, sure, but that was the whole appeal. More importantly, it didn't get pre-empted for beer, and after six years of waiting that's enough right there.
Strange? "That's a human ear, all right." Yes, yes it was.
Yea, neither do I, but it happened. My blog says so and it never lies.
So with Movie Club Richmond's screening of David Lynch's masterpiece in my sights again as the kickoff to the Great Southern (Richmond's second annual Twin Peaks Festival), I made a date that would eventually include the movie that inspired the oddball TV series.
So let's call it a teachable moment, shall we?
Contemplating dinner choices first, I suggested the new Peter Chang's in Scott's Addition (the space a huge improvement over that strip mall monstrosity in the West End) and to my date's surprise, it was not only open but barely occupied when we slid into bar stools at the empty bar and said hello to a familiar face behind it.
Score one for me.
Of course everything was stellar and most was Szechuan-hot - the deep-fried pork belly, the salmon-stuffed cucumber "boats," the duck rolls with barbecue sauce - with the exception being the shrimp dumplings, which my date appropriately described as "bland and delicious" and I categorized as the ideal palate cleanser between courses for our increasingly fiery mouths.
By the time we finished all that and our Vinho Verde, the place had filled up nicely and we could fully appreciate what an opportune moment it had been that we arrived before the rush.
Stop #2 was a farewell of sorts because Secco closes in two weeks and since I'd made the drapes (and love the variety of by-the-glass wine options), I have a decided affinity for the place. In a lovely example of stranger kindness, five people at the bar immediately slid down a stool so that we could have two seats together to enjoy a glass of Austrian Rose and a cheese plate.
Seeing "Blue Velvet" at Strange Matter (who didn't let me down, unlike Capital Ale House had) couldn't have been any stranger than the film itself, none of which I remembered from having seen it 30 years ago. I mean none of it.
But it wasn't just me because my date had seen it multiple times and he didn't recall much more, so I didn't feel too bad.
What I did notice was how leisurely the film's pacing was (whether or not that was entirely intentional or a function of it being 1988, I'm not entirely certain), which had to be grueling for some of the younger members of the audience with their reduced attention spans, but also how completely strange it must have seemed for the time (not that everything about the Reagan years wasn't weird as all get out).
Post-film research yielded the fact that the movie's setting, Lumberton, USA (where it's always a sunny, woodsy day), is a real place in North Carolina.
Movie Club had even arranged for a show after the screening, so while the bands got set up, we headed up the block to Ipanema for snackage, scoring the timeless grilled Gouda sandwich and a slice of Mexican chocolate pie to fill in the cracks left by eating Chinese food earlier.
Or at least, that was my date's rationale. I just wanted dessert.
Ipanema, too, was getting set up for live music but we relocated to Strange Matter before it began, unable to be in two places at one time. The problem was, we'd dithered so long at Ipanema, we'd missed the first band, Christi, a shame because I really enjoy their sound.
We did catch Lady God's set - admiring bassist Chrissie's gorgeous instrument - delivered to a particularly small crowd, which was hardly a surprise given that it's been a deader than usual weekend. Is everyone on vacation or at the river or does it just seem that way?
One of the few familiar faces was a fellow music-lover and his date Karen, just back from a weekend away and looking for some last minute Sunday entertainment. Chatting revealed that, unlike us, they'd caught Christi but had missed the 1986 film.
"Wow, that must have been something to see after all these years," my friend mused. "Was it still really weird?"
Well, sure, but that was the whole appeal. More importantly, it didn't get pre-empted for beer, and after six years of waiting that's enough right there.
Strange? "That's a human ear, all right." Yes, yes it was.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Love Is Careless in its Choosing
It's a swell life I have.
As I'm sitting on Hermitage Road en route to Hardywood, the evening sun inching toward setting on my left, a ridiculously long freight train crossing in front of me and Chakha Khan belting out "Through the Fire" at all-windows-open top volume, I am reminded of that fact yet again.
At the last minute I'd found out that tonight was Cover to Cover and that the Trunk Show band was doing "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" and decided it would be just disrespectful not to give the Thin White Duke my attention.
In no time, I made the acquaintance of a young women originally from Michigan after complimenting her gorgeous blond curly hair. "Yea, it's the best part of genetics," she said, both of us glowing from the warmth of the tap room.
Currently on a four-year post as a political scheduler in Richmond, she admitted to still getting to know the city, which made it all the more surprising that she'd found out about C2C.
"I was in Halcyon this afternoon and overheard someone talking about it and decided I definitely needed to come," she said. Turns out she'd done theater back in Michigan, leading to a comparison of which shows we'd both seen.
When Trunk Show took the stage, I pointed at guitarist Grant in a white short and vest and asked her if he was cute. "Well, he's got a guitar in front of him," she said rhetorically. "But, yes, he's definitely cute."
Then it was showtime. Matt, clad in synthetics with a blazer on top, yelled, "I'm really hot...in more ways than one!" and the show was off and running. When he got to the "I'm a space invader" lyric during "Moonage Daydream," the blazer was thrown off to reveal a symphony in Spandex: a backless, deep-cut purple top and silver skin-tight pants.
A few notes into "Starman," my young Michigan friend turns and grins, saying, "This is one of my very favorite Bowie songs!" Nearby, practically every middle-aged guy was singing along to every word.
Matt, on the other hand, only once forgot the lyrics all evening.
"This backless thing is great in a building that's 90,000 degrees, but the fabric just doesn't breathe!" Matt lamented from stage before going on to explain to the room (and especially newbies like Michigan) that the whole idea of Cover to Cover is to "bring back the idea of the album as a story meant to be heard start to finish, as opposed to his generation's habit of hearing one song out of context and never exploring the rest of the album at all.
Hey, he said it, I'm just seconding that notion.
But it wasn't just the Matt show and stellar vocalists Ali and Maggie (she's the brilliant one who came up with the C2C idea - it's always a woman, isn't it, with the best ideas?) were welcomed to the stage to sing lead in their appropriately glammy ensembles while the rest of us danced in the sweaty tap room to every song.
In the spirit of Matt's admonition, I followed Bowie with an evening of record-listening at Holmes' man cave, drinking "good swill," as he puts it (Graham Beck Brut Rose and French champagne Beloved had planned to save for her birthday) while grooving to "Ricky Nelson Live at the Troubadour," Joni Mitchell's "For the Roses" (after the third time Beloved and I replaced the needle on the start of "You Turn Me On, I'm a Radio," Holmes cut off our needle privileges) and "Court and Spark" and "The Best of Spirit," which reeked of the late 1960s.
But it was Holmes' extensive Neil Young collection that yielded the new-to-me "This Note's for You," a 1988 record by Neil Young and the Bluenotes (which couldn't have pleased Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes) that not only had a horn section, but pulled from the same influences as Stray Cats.
Who knew Neil ever went in this direction? Certainly not me.
Throughout the night, Holmes would spontaneously announce, "Everybody dance!" and everybody did. We were having such a great time that the only reason I left at 1 a.m. was because I knew I had to be up early.
When I got home, my downstairs neighbor was on his porch, contemplating the thunderstorm rolling in, smoking a cigarette and curious about where I'd been. When I told him I'd gone to a show followed by a friend's house to listen to records and talk, he sat up in attention.
"That's so cool that you do that kind of stuff!" he enthused. Do what, have a life? "No, that's more than a life. That you intentionally listen to music with friends and talk about it. I feel like the people I know never do that. No one I know actively listens to music."
To be clear, he graduated from VCU two weeks ago and is a practicing musician and this is his reality, that people can't be bothered to really listen to music, much less discuss it.
Being a millennial must suck in so many ways.
After five minutes of shared storm watching and lifestyle discussion, I bid him goodnight, intent on getting to bed so I'd be up early enough to catch the first hour of Broad Appetit. And, unlike Holmes who cracked me up earlier by deadpanning, "I like to have secure premises when I retire," I closed not a single window before sliding between the sheets
I was not only up, I met my date on the street, so eager was I to eat and escape quickly.
Even at 11:02, Broad Street was alive with people pushing strollers, walking dogs and making the loop in search of the best small plates. Unfortunately, this year's event had a far greater amount of fair-type vendors shoulder to shoulder with local restaurants, but really just taking up valuable space, in my opinion.
In one hour, we ate the equivalent of brunch: Lucy's meatloaf over cornbread and bacon-wrapped chicken with ranch dressing, Amour's duck crepes, potato pancake with applesauce and chocolate crepes with fleur de sel, Maple and Pine's short rib shortcake with mushroom ragout and quinoa salad with avocado mousse over an heirloom tomato, Castanea's paella and Lehja's butter chicken over rice and my favorite, an edamame and avocado chaat.
Just as good as the food I ate was the weather, which maintained a mostly comfortable cloudy overhang the whole hour we strolled the circuit. Only once we headed away from the increasing crowds did the sun make a concerted effort to come out.
It's only 12:03 and the whole day and evening is still ahead of me. Yep, my life is truly swell.
As I'm sitting on Hermitage Road en route to Hardywood, the evening sun inching toward setting on my left, a ridiculously long freight train crossing in front of me and Chakha Khan belting out "Through the Fire" at all-windows-open top volume, I am reminded of that fact yet again.
At the last minute I'd found out that tonight was Cover to Cover and that the Trunk Show band was doing "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars" and decided it would be just disrespectful not to give the Thin White Duke my attention.
In no time, I made the acquaintance of a young women originally from Michigan after complimenting her gorgeous blond curly hair. "Yea, it's the best part of genetics," she said, both of us glowing from the warmth of the tap room.
Currently on a four-year post as a political scheduler in Richmond, she admitted to still getting to know the city, which made it all the more surprising that she'd found out about C2C.
"I was in Halcyon this afternoon and overheard someone talking about it and decided I definitely needed to come," she said. Turns out she'd done theater back in Michigan, leading to a comparison of which shows we'd both seen.
When Trunk Show took the stage, I pointed at guitarist Grant in a white short and vest and asked her if he was cute. "Well, he's got a guitar in front of him," she said rhetorically. "But, yes, he's definitely cute."
Then it was showtime. Matt, clad in synthetics with a blazer on top, yelled, "I'm really hot...in more ways than one!" and the show was off and running. When he got to the "I'm a space invader" lyric during "Moonage Daydream," the blazer was thrown off to reveal a symphony in Spandex: a backless, deep-cut purple top and silver skin-tight pants.
A few notes into "Starman," my young Michigan friend turns and grins, saying, "This is one of my very favorite Bowie songs!" Nearby, practically every middle-aged guy was singing along to every word.
Matt, on the other hand, only once forgot the lyrics all evening.
"This backless thing is great in a building that's 90,000 degrees, but the fabric just doesn't breathe!" Matt lamented from stage before going on to explain to the room (and especially newbies like Michigan) that the whole idea of Cover to Cover is to "bring back the idea of the album as a story meant to be heard start to finish, as opposed to his generation's habit of hearing one song out of context and never exploring the rest of the album at all.
Hey, he said it, I'm just seconding that notion.
But it wasn't just the Matt show and stellar vocalists Ali and Maggie (she's the brilliant one who came up with the C2C idea - it's always a woman, isn't it, with the best ideas?) were welcomed to the stage to sing lead in their appropriately glammy ensembles while the rest of us danced in the sweaty tap room to every song.
In the spirit of Matt's admonition, I followed Bowie with an evening of record-listening at Holmes' man cave, drinking "good swill," as he puts it (Graham Beck Brut Rose and French champagne Beloved had planned to save for her birthday) while grooving to "Ricky Nelson Live at the Troubadour," Joni Mitchell's "For the Roses" (after the third time Beloved and I replaced the needle on the start of "You Turn Me On, I'm a Radio," Holmes cut off our needle privileges) and "Court and Spark" and "The Best of Spirit," which reeked of the late 1960s.
But it was Holmes' extensive Neil Young collection that yielded the new-to-me "This Note's for You," a 1988 record by Neil Young and the Bluenotes (which couldn't have pleased Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes) that not only had a horn section, but pulled from the same influences as Stray Cats.
Who knew Neil ever went in this direction? Certainly not me.
Throughout the night, Holmes would spontaneously announce, "Everybody dance!" and everybody did. We were having such a great time that the only reason I left at 1 a.m. was because I knew I had to be up early.
When I got home, my downstairs neighbor was on his porch, contemplating the thunderstorm rolling in, smoking a cigarette and curious about where I'd been. When I told him I'd gone to a show followed by a friend's house to listen to records and talk, he sat up in attention.
"That's so cool that you do that kind of stuff!" he enthused. Do what, have a life? "No, that's more than a life. That you intentionally listen to music with friends and talk about it. I feel like the people I know never do that. No one I know actively listens to music."
To be clear, he graduated from VCU two weeks ago and is a practicing musician and this is his reality, that people can't be bothered to really listen to music, much less discuss it.
Being a millennial must suck in so many ways.
After five minutes of shared storm watching and lifestyle discussion, I bid him goodnight, intent on getting to bed so I'd be up early enough to catch the first hour of Broad Appetit. And, unlike Holmes who cracked me up earlier by deadpanning, "I like to have secure premises when I retire," I closed not a single window before sliding between the sheets
I was not only up, I met my date on the street, so eager was I to eat and escape quickly.
Even at 11:02, Broad Street was alive with people pushing strollers, walking dogs and making the loop in search of the best small plates. Unfortunately, this year's event had a far greater amount of fair-type vendors shoulder to shoulder with local restaurants, but really just taking up valuable space, in my opinion.
In one hour, we ate the equivalent of brunch: Lucy's meatloaf over cornbread and bacon-wrapped chicken with ranch dressing, Amour's duck crepes, potato pancake with applesauce and chocolate crepes with fleur de sel, Maple and Pine's short rib shortcake with mushroom ragout and quinoa salad with avocado mousse over an heirloom tomato, Castanea's paella and Lehja's butter chicken over rice and my favorite, an edamame and avocado chaat.
Just as good as the food I ate was the weather, which maintained a mostly comfortable cloudy overhang the whole hour we strolled the circuit. Only once we headed away from the increasing crowds did the sun make a concerted effort to come out.
It's only 12:03 and the whole day and evening is still ahead of me. Yep, my life is truly swell.
Saturday, June 4, 2016
Do It for the Girls
Our little scene is all grown up. Anybody got a tissue?
At least that's how I felt after waiting out the hardest of the rain to walk over to Gallery 5 in flip-flops and a drip-dry dress under an umbrella accidentally "borrowed" from an Air BnB in Portland, passing a photographer friend who called out, "Enjoy the show!" as we passed in the murky wetness of Madison Street.
To my surprise, I was greeted by a clutch of people at the door and an experienced doorman carefully managing a line, allowing one in for every one who came out. There was a time when a downpour would have kept Richmond from making any effort to bother going out at all.
Not so anymore, hipsters. Tonight's First Friday gallery opening was for Jennifer Kennedy's Girls Rock! benefit show with four of the artists' favorite bands and subjects (with at least one woman in each, coincidence or no?) performing while upstairs, people leaned in for a good look at all the familiar musical faces Jennifer had captured over the past few years.
Perhaps most noticeable about the pieces was how varied the state of completion was, some partially sketched out and others fully colored in and realized. The secret is that she only draws during the band's set, so if they stop playing, she puts her pencils down.
Avers' set had just begun when I finally made it inside, but something was off. Finishing a song, Alexandra (who resembles no one so much as a millennial version of Sheryl Crow in white jeans) explained, "If you've seen us before, you know Charlie is missing. He's in North Carolina at his sister's wedding where he's probably rocking out. Because Charlie is always rocking out somewhere."
Truer words were never spoken.
As good as the band's polished music-from-a-cave sound played tonight, Charlie's energetic presence, enthusiasm for playing and those outstanding chops were missed. Not to mention that glorious mop of hair, which even fellow guitarist Adrian's shoulder-length hair flipping, intentional and as frequent as breathing or blinking, could not offset, much as he might try.
There was a lot of it when he sang lead on "Girls with Headaches," which winds down with glorious three-part harmonies to further add to Avers' charms.
Set over, I head upstairs to ogle the art, immediately sucked in by the game of trying to identify the artists depicted without resorting to the key before choosing my favorite and supporting Girls Rock! by buying myself a piece of art that completely captured the energy of my friend and favorite instrument-maker, Dave.
As I was completing the paperwork, a couple approached, eager to buy their own drawing, only to learn it had been purchased but not yet marked sold. When it appeared they were going to give up on the idea, I insisted they find a second choice. In true Murphy's Law fashion, that, too, had been sold and not marked.
I sent them out again, entreating them to support the cause and find something they wanted, my second contribution to the Girls Rock! cause this evening.
It was upstairs that I also ran into the soon-to-deliver classical musician couple, with the magnificently-maned Mr. pointing at his wife's rounded belly saying, "Look at what I did!" with obvious pride. My chat with her involved the vagaries of laying out plans (say, for a healthy pregnancy) only to have life rudely intervene.
When I heard the first notes of Christi, I headed down and stationed myself on the landing of the staircase for a fine view of the band rocking out in the best pop punk marries girl group way and even covering Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" complete with '90s guitars and two front women in jean shorts, not that the youngsters in the room recognized the song until halfway through.
From my bird's eye vantage point, I saw the sound guy dash to the bathroom and moments later the lead singer called out, "Can we keep playing?' The crowd cheered their approval and the sound guy, presumably, sighed in relief behind a closed door, oblivious to anything other than delayed relief.
They closed with "Get You Offa My Mind," because what woman hasn't had that annoying problem? Our foremothers could have saved us a lot of trouble by throwing themselves in front of buffaloes and ending the species when they had the chance. But alas.
Then who comes down the stairs grinning happily but the art-seeking couple who had finally decided on one of the many drawings of Gull? Turns out she'd been intent on buying a piece from a show where she'd attended and seen Jen drawing.
That hadn't occurred to me as motivation in choosing, although it was a happy accident because I had been at the WRIR fundraiser at Strange Matter in March 2014 when Jennifer had sketched the piece I'd bought.
After their set, I mingled. The post-punk wife had bought her husband's image and the dulcitar player's sister had bought one of him.
The PK (preacher's kid for those of us not raised in the Bible Belt) and I enjoyed a lively discussion of why I don't and he does engage people about their religious beliefs ("I love going down that hole with so-called believers," he said) and why he's convinced that the planet's salvation involves convincing the large Christian population to embrace environmentalism.
Think about how many people that would be if he could get them on board, even just the American Christians. Only a PK would even want to try.
There were other friends - the DJ from last night's show, the subject of my new art purchase, the organizer of the event with whom I discussed feminism briefly ("I said, 'Dad, you have three daughters, you're a feminist," she tells me), the earth mother, loopy after two 8.5% beers she got for performing, which I'd missed waiting out the raining cats and dogs portion of tonight's weather.
Lady God had the closing spot on the bill and the friend who claims to be an introvert but always chats through every show informed me, "The crowd's going to like them, They're good." What's not to like about a garage rock/pop band heavy on the bass?
They kicked off their set with "Rattlesnake" before bassist Chrissie asked sweetly of the sound guy, "Can I please get a sprinkle of guitar and a half teaspoon of bass more in my monitor?" The results of the tweaks were quite tasty as the band finished out the night with as big a crowd as Lobo Marino had had three hours earlier.
It's funny, more than one person tonight mentioned how Gallery 5 had been at capacity pretty much since the doors had opened. Several others, including two performers, commented on how Jennifer's show was a perfect example of how interwoven and mutually supportive Richmond's artistic scene has become these days.
Richmond is rocking out somewhere pretty much every night of the week, have you noticed?
Look what we did.
At least that's how I felt after waiting out the hardest of the rain to walk over to Gallery 5 in flip-flops and a drip-dry dress under an umbrella accidentally "borrowed" from an Air BnB in Portland, passing a photographer friend who called out, "Enjoy the show!" as we passed in the murky wetness of Madison Street.
To my surprise, I was greeted by a clutch of people at the door and an experienced doorman carefully managing a line, allowing one in for every one who came out. There was a time when a downpour would have kept Richmond from making any effort to bother going out at all.
Not so anymore, hipsters. Tonight's First Friday gallery opening was for Jennifer Kennedy's Girls Rock! benefit show with four of the artists' favorite bands and subjects (with at least one woman in each, coincidence or no?) performing while upstairs, people leaned in for a good look at all the familiar musical faces Jennifer had captured over the past few years.
Perhaps most noticeable about the pieces was how varied the state of completion was, some partially sketched out and others fully colored in and realized. The secret is that she only draws during the band's set, so if they stop playing, she puts her pencils down.
Avers' set had just begun when I finally made it inside, but something was off. Finishing a song, Alexandra (who resembles no one so much as a millennial version of Sheryl Crow in white jeans) explained, "If you've seen us before, you know Charlie is missing. He's in North Carolina at his sister's wedding where he's probably rocking out. Because Charlie is always rocking out somewhere."
Truer words were never spoken.
As good as the band's polished music-from-a-cave sound played tonight, Charlie's energetic presence, enthusiasm for playing and those outstanding chops were missed. Not to mention that glorious mop of hair, which even fellow guitarist Adrian's shoulder-length hair flipping, intentional and as frequent as breathing or blinking, could not offset, much as he might try.
There was a lot of it when he sang lead on "Girls with Headaches," which winds down with glorious three-part harmonies to further add to Avers' charms.
Set over, I head upstairs to ogle the art, immediately sucked in by the game of trying to identify the artists depicted without resorting to the key before choosing my favorite and supporting Girls Rock! by buying myself a piece of art that completely captured the energy of my friend and favorite instrument-maker, Dave.
As I was completing the paperwork, a couple approached, eager to buy their own drawing, only to learn it had been purchased but not yet marked sold. When it appeared they were going to give up on the idea, I insisted they find a second choice. In true Murphy's Law fashion, that, too, had been sold and not marked.
I sent them out again, entreating them to support the cause and find something they wanted, my second contribution to the Girls Rock! cause this evening.
It was upstairs that I also ran into the soon-to-deliver classical musician couple, with the magnificently-maned Mr. pointing at his wife's rounded belly saying, "Look at what I did!" with obvious pride. My chat with her involved the vagaries of laying out plans (say, for a healthy pregnancy) only to have life rudely intervene.
When I heard the first notes of Christi, I headed down and stationed myself on the landing of the staircase for a fine view of the band rocking out in the best pop punk marries girl group way and even covering Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game" complete with '90s guitars and two front women in jean shorts, not that the youngsters in the room recognized the song until halfway through.
From my bird's eye vantage point, I saw the sound guy dash to the bathroom and moments later the lead singer called out, "Can we keep playing?' The crowd cheered their approval and the sound guy, presumably, sighed in relief behind a closed door, oblivious to anything other than delayed relief.
They closed with "Get You Offa My Mind," because what woman hasn't had that annoying problem? Our foremothers could have saved us a lot of trouble by throwing themselves in front of buffaloes and ending the species when they had the chance. But alas.
Then who comes down the stairs grinning happily but the art-seeking couple who had finally decided on one of the many drawings of Gull? Turns out she'd been intent on buying a piece from a show where she'd attended and seen Jen drawing.
That hadn't occurred to me as motivation in choosing, although it was a happy accident because I had been at the WRIR fundraiser at Strange Matter in March 2014 when Jennifer had sketched the piece I'd bought.
After their set, I mingled. The post-punk wife had bought her husband's image and the dulcitar player's sister had bought one of him.
The PK (preacher's kid for those of us not raised in the Bible Belt) and I enjoyed a lively discussion of why I don't and he does engage people about their religious beliefs ("I love going down that hole with so-called believers," he said) and why he's convinced that the planet's salvation involves convincing the large Christian population to embrace environmentalism.
Think about how many people that would be if he could get them on board, even just the American Christians. Only a PK would even want to try.
There were other friends - the DJ from last night's show, the subject of my new art purchase, the organizer of the event with whom I discussed feminism briefly ("I said, 'Dad, you have three daughters, you're a feminist," she tells me), the earth mother, loopy after two 8.5% beers she got for performing, which I'd missed waiting out the raining cats and dogs portion of tonight's weather.
Lady God had the closing spot on the bill and the friend who claims to be an introvert but always chats through every show informed me, "The crowd's going to like them, They're good." What's not to like about a garage rock/pop band heavy on the bass?
They kicked off their set with "Rattlesnake" before bassist Chrissie asked sweetly of the sound guy, "Can I please get a sprinkle of guitar and a half teaspoon of bass more in my monitor?" The results of the tweaks were quite tasty as the band finished out the night with as big a crowd as Lobo Marino had had three hours earlier.
It's funny, more than one person tonight mentioned how Gallery 5 had been at capacity pretty much since the doors had opened. Several others, including two performers, commented on how Jennifer's show was a perfect example of how interwoven and mutually supportive Richmond's artistic scene has become these days.
Richmond is rocking out somewhere pretty much every night of the week, have you noticed?
Look what we did.
Friday, June 3, 2016
No Parking Zone
Tea Party sounds so much nicer than "mob of racists and homophobes."
~ bumpersticker on Park Avenue
Looking great! Flowers look pretty good, too!
~ guy calling out from car with out-of-state plates after driving the wrong way on a one-way street and spotting me watching his idiocy as I water my garden
Hey! Got any time left you could share?
~ stranger asking for my parking receipt as I get back in my car (I gave him my leftover hour)
My cross-country adventuring friend is back, so we decamped to the North to mingle, watch potters at the wheel and listen to men in pink shirts play music in the garden before servicing my hired mouth.
Gleaned from her trip to the Left Coast and back: never visit Oklahoma City on prom night, casinos on reservations are depressing but watching talented bowlers is stellar entertainment and having a cold when you're in a car for four weeks is taxing on both parties.
Oh, yes, and a bracelet suggesting the rhythms of life is worth the price.
As we're leaving the restaurant, we spot a family table with all four children under 10, heads bowed and engrossed in the blue lights of screens.
Tragic, we agree.
"They've been like that since they sat down," the impossibly young-looking hostess pipes up, her blond ponytail swinging as she shakes her pretty little head. "Headphones, too. We weren't like that when we were little."
And by we, I have to assume she means her fellow young millennials (as opposed to older millennials or Generation Z, the latest demographic target of fact-finding marketers) who had to wait until middle school to be granted device privileges.
Cry me a river.
Even the drive back from the hinterlands passes quickly with talk of Republican-baiters, wedding officiating and eleventh hour house tours. Fireworks are exploding over the Diamond as we drive by and she reminisces about a drive to the North Carolina beach on a long-ago July fourth, passing fireworks for miles along I-95, a sight you never forget.
Four weeks is really too long for friends to try to recap in a matter of hours. Hence, impending lunch plans were made to further the insider tip sharing of a two-time Paris pro.
She waved me goodbye with an armful of books - Egan's Pulitzer Prize-winning "A Visit from the Goon Squad" and Moore's "Sacre Bleu, a Comedy D'Art," among others - while at the same time clarifying that they were not birthday presents, merely fodder for discussion.
Be still my conversation heart, let's do read and dissect together.
But for tonight, let's instead invite a fellow music-lover (coincidentally a fellow) to take a somewhat steamy stroll over to Strange Matter for a show, arriving well enough in advance (okay, 20 minutes) to slide over to Ipanema and have a glass of wine and share some social intercourse in the uncrowded restaurant.
The music isn't loud enough, but the vibe is comfortable and music awaits us a few doors down.
Loop master Dave Watkins has gone and built himself another instrument, this time with a $99 Telecaster kit and the usual obscene amount of elbow grease, and proceeds to make music on it, magnificently layering sounds made by playing the guitar, tapping on it and singing into it to create dense soundscapes that entrance the room.
And by room, I mean a semi-circle of young men standing around Dave, worshiping at his altar and trying to absorb his genius.
Between songs a friend says hello and shares that just a few minutes earlier, he'd noticed that everyone in the audience was male until I walked in. "Women don't like this kind of music, I guess," he says. "Too technical?"
But I like it a lot, I remind him. "Women don't like power pop, either," he insists. Well, I love that, too. "Well, you're not a typical woman."
Thank you, I'll take that as a the compliment.
Philly's Laser Background took the stage and played their new album "Correct" from start to finish, effectively taking the crowd on a mildly psychedelic electronic journey complete with synthesizers and, as my date so perfectly put it, cosmetically-enhanced voice work (loads of effects).
Naturally the requisite non-stop dance guy threw his waist-length hair around as he stepped erratically and shook his body directly in front of the stage to the trippy sounds that deserved visual effects.
Born too late, he'd have made a terrific Dead follower, forever searching for a beat.
I'd shared with a friend that I'd seen Laser Background referred to as "paisley pop" and it took only one song for him to turn and deadpan, "I hear no paisley." Turns out he spoke too soon because a few songs later, a decidedly whimsical paisley pop feel emerged and I savored the moment almost as much as the music.
This, kids, is why we come out for live music on a Thursday night.
Recluse Raccoon closed out the show, trucker hats on heads and rhythm section keeping things lively as guitarist Timothy sang his succinct and slightly mournful songs to close out the evening and send the two of us walking home along a mostly deserted Broad Street, a far cry from the suburban landscapes of Henrico County and any clandestine Tea Party activity.
A women doesn't have to be typical to appreciate a late night post-paisley walk when the company's right and there's time left to share.
Things move really fast now. How did that happen?
~ bumpersticker on Park Avenue
Looking great! Flowers look pretty good, too!
~ guy calling out from car with out-of-state plates after driving the wrong way on a one-way street and spotting me watching his idiocy as I water my garden
Hey! Got any time left you could share?
~ stranger asking for my parking receipt as I get back in my car (I gave him my leftover hour)
My cross-country adventuring friend is back, so we decamped to the North to mingle, watch potters at the wheel and listen to men in pink shirts play music in the garden before servicing my hired mouth.
Gleaned from her trip to the Left Coast and back: never visit Oklahoma City on prom night, casinos on reservations are depressing but watching talented bowlers is stellar entertainment and having a cold when you're in a car for four weeks is taxing on both parties.
Oh, yes, and a bracelet suggesting the rhythms of life is worth the price.
As we're leaving the restaurant, we spot a family table with all four children under 10, heads bowed and engrossed in the blue lights of screens.
Tragic, we agree.
"They've been like that since they sat down," the impossibly young-looking hostess pipes up, her blond ponytail swinging as she shakes her pretty little head. "Headphones, too. We weren't like that when we were little."
And by we, I have to assume she means her fellow young millennials (as opposed to older millennials or Generation Z, the latest demographic target of fact-finding marketers) who had to wait until middle school to be granted device privileges.
Cry me a river.
Even the drive back from the hinterlands passes quickly with talk of Republican-baiters, wedding officiating and eleventh hour house tours. Fireworks are exploding over the Diamond as we drive by and she reminisces about a drive to the North Carolina beach on a long-ago July fourth, passing fireworks for miles along I-95, a sight you never forget.
Four weeks is really too long for friends to try to recap in a matter of hours. Hence, impending lunch plans were made to further the insider tip sharing of a two-time Paris pro.
She waved me goodbye with an armful of books - Egan's Pulitzer Prize-winning "A Visit from the Goon Squad" and Moore's "Sacre Bleu, a Comedy D'Art," among others - while at the same time clarifying that they were not birthday presents, merely fodder for discussion.
Be still my conversation heart, let's do read and dissect together.
But for tonight, let's instead invite a fellow music-lover (coincidentally a fellow) to take a somewhat steamy stroll over to Strange Matter for a show, arriving well enough in advance (okay, 20 minutes) to slide over to Ipanema and have a glass of wine and share some social intercourse in the uncrowded restaurant.
The music isn't loud enough, but the vibe is comfortable and music awaits us a few doors down.
Loop master Dave Watkins has gone and built himself another instrument, this time with a $99 Telecaster kit and the usual obscene amount of elbow grease, and proceeds to make music on it, magnificently layering sounds made by playing the guitar, tapping on it and singing into it to create dense soundscapes that entrance the room.
And by room, I mean a semi-circle of young men standing around Dave, worshiping at his altar and trying to absorb his genius.
Between songs a friend says hello and shares that just a few minutes earlier, he'd noticed that everyone in the audience was male until I walked in. "Women don't like this kind of music, I guess," he says. "Too technical?"
But I like it a lot, I remind him. "Women don't like power pop, either," he insists. Well, I love that, too. "Well, you're not a typical woman."
Thank you, I'll take that as a the compliment.
Philly's Laser Background took the stage and played their new album "Correct" from start to finish, effectively taking the crowd on a mildly psychedelic electronic journey complete with synthesizers and, as my date so perfectly put it, cosmetically-enhanced voice work (loads of effects).
Naturally the requisite non-stop dance guy threw his waist-length hair around as he stepped erratically and shook his body directly in front of the stage to the trippy sounds that deserved visual effects.
Born too late, he'd have made a terrific Dead follower, forever searching for a beat.
I'd shared with a friend that I'd seen Laser Background referred to as "paisley pop" and it took only one song for him to turn and deadpan, "I hear no paisley." Turns out he spoke too soon because a few songs later, a decidedly whimsical paisley pop feel emerged and I savored the moment almost as much as the music.
This, kids, is why we come out for live music on a Thursday night.
Recluse Raccoon closed out the show, trucker hats on heads and rhythm section keeping things lively as guitarist Timothy sang his succinct and slightly mournful songs to close out the evening and send the two of us walking home along a mostly deserted Broad Street, a far cry from the suburban landscapes of Henrico County and any clandestine Tea Party activity.
A women doesn't have to be typical to appreciate a late night post-paisley walk when the company's right and there's time left to share.
Things move really fast now. How did that happen?
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Facts are Horrid Things
I would have been such a loser in 1790.
This I discovered by going to the Criterion to see "Love & Friendship" tonight along with other single women and a few older couples. The early Jane Austen book I'd never even heard of follows the diabolically clever machinations of a beautiful widow with two enormous strikes against her.
No husband and no money.
Unlike those of us in that position these days, Lady Susan (beguilingly played by Kate Beckinsale) knows she's got to correct the first in order to secure the second. Fortunately, she's considered the most accomplished flirt in England.
The beauty of it - and the appeal of the non-stop witty dialog - is that she's not only charismatic but so much smarter than almost everyone around her that she really is quite irresistible. So assured is she in her powers of attraction that she can predict not only how men will react to her manipulations but when.
Needless to say, women aren't terribly fond of her, including her 16-year old daughter. Homes might even call her a femme fatale.
Everything about the film shone, from the gorgeous Irish country locations subbing for England (so much intense conversation whilst walking the extensive lawns) to the widow's wardrobe morphing from proper darks to brilliant pinks and purple with black lace.
But even if I'd been blindfolded, I'd still be raving about a near perfect film where our heroine has such a brilliant command of language and such sharp powers of observation ("If she was going to be jealous, she should not have married such a charming man") that her American BFF risks the wrath of her gouty husband ("Too old to be governable, too young to die") to aid and abet her friend's shenanigans.
Because when it comes right down to it, few things in life matter as much as love and friendship (and the discussion of the two).
Tonight was proof it took all kinds of effort to catch a husband in Jane Austen's time, even for Class A flirts.
Whew, I'm thanking my lucky stars it's a whole lot easier to be poor, unmarried and too old to be governable now.
This I discovered by going to the Criterion to see "Love & Friendship" tonight along with other single women and a few older couples. The early Jane Austen book I'd never even heard of follows the diabolically clever machinations of a beautiful widow with two enormous strikes against her.
No husband and no money.
Unlike those of us in that position these days, Lady Susan (beguilingly played by Kate Beckinsale) knows she's got to correct the first in order to secure the second. Fortunately, she's considered the most accomplished flirt in England.
The beauty of it - and the appeal of the non-stop witty dialog - is that she's not only charismatic but so much smarter than almost everyone around her that she really is quite irresistible. So assured is she in her powers of attraction that she can predict not only how men will react to her manipulations but when.
Needless to say, women aren't terribly fond of her, including her 16-year old daughter. Homes might even call her a femme fatale.
Everything about the film shone, from the gorgeous Irish country locations subbing for England (so much intense conversation whilst walking the extensive lawns) to the widow's wardrobe morphing from proper darks to brilliant pinks and purple with black lace.
But even if I'd been blindfolded, I'd still be raving about a near perfect film where our heroine has such a brilliant command of language and such sharp powers of observation ("If she was going to be jealous, she should not have married such a charming man") that her American BFF risks the wrath of her gouty husband ("Too old to be governable, too young to die") to aid and abet her friend's shenanigans.
Because when it comes right down to it, few things in life matter as much as love and friendship (and the discussion of the two).
Tonight was proof it took all kinds of effort to catch a husband in Jane Austen's time, even for Class A flirts.
Whew, I'm thanking my lucky stars it's a whole lot easier to be poor, unmarried and too old to be governable now.
Monday, May 30, 2016
Unmarried Woman Hero
Like the rest of America, I traveled for the Memorial Day holiday. Unlike most, my journey included Norfolk, Cumberland and Little Saigon.
Besides a tour of a gorgeously restored 1906 house, there were pork chops, presents and birthday cakes in Norfolk, after a hot drive down during which the phrase, "And in celestial news..." was uttered in all seriousness.
Cumberland offered up memories of steak salad at 821 Cafe, a lot of Bryan Ferry and New Jack Swing and poring over guidebooks and maps. Color me bowled over at the unlikeliest of clarifications.
Little Saigon, aka the multi-cultural neighborhood behind Mekong, presented a backyard party with crabs, crawfish and rap playing, the first two out back partially under tents and the latter in the house where homemade chocolate cake with cognac seduced me.
It was at the pickin' table (where I showed no less than three people how to dismember a crab properly) that I got reacquainted with the girlfriend of a rock star, herself a fashionista/hoarder (if that last part is to be believed about defining herself), providing several meandering conversations about the nature of textiles (she was elated when I explained with diagram the different in woven and knit fabrics), astrology (as a Virgo, she explained their perfectionist nature and why she's so hard on herself) and about the variable conditions of earning your "adult badge," a phrase she praised me for.
It was by the enormous wine cooler that I shared a story about the songwriter responsible for "Up, Up and Away" and "By the Time I Get To Phoenix" that had the guy grinning, saying, "I know those songs, but if half the people here heard them, they'd have no idea what you're talking about."
"I hate talking to young people now because they don't know anything," his wife said. She, on the other hand, was beyond thrilled when I told her Irish actor Richard Harris, a huge favorite of hers apparently, had a pop album, immediately suggesting to her husband that he make a mental note for a future gift.
You don't meet a lot of people who even know who Richard Harris is, much less claim to be devoted fans.
I saw a kid eat his first oyster and a young woman take one, look at it sloshing around in its brine, curl her lip and return it to the table. "I just can't do it," she said.
That's fine, honey, I can do it for you, thank you very much. Slurp.
The councilman challenged our little circle by asking about a movie that changed us. One woman said, "Jaws," although she wasn't entirely certain why.
I hesitated with mine and he asked if I'd ever seen "An Unmarried Woman."
Freaky because that had been the film that had popped into my head when he'd first asked the question, but it's an obscure one that I'd mistakenly assumed no one would know. Not to mention I'd seen it at least half a dozen times at the theater back in the '70s, young and dewy-eyed at its depiction of a liberated woman.
And not just because Alan Bates represented everything sexy and artsy about guys, either.
He said the movie had changed his perception of women. I said it had changed my perception of what was expected of women. The others in the group had never even heard of it.
Explaining how it had transformed the way he treated his wife (taking her off the pedestal and seeing her as a person...how novel for that era), he was agog to hear of my serial viewings and that I had the soundtrack (on vinyl, natch, although probably worn down to a slinky after years of playing repeatedly).
But where I stopped the conversation cold was when a friend announced to general surprise that she wasn't on Facebook. I think the party actually stopped for a few seconds when I trumped her by saying I didn't have a cell phone.
"You are my new hero," the film fan intoned. "But how do you have a life?" Hmm, let's see, without all the interruptions of constant connectivity?
It's pretty great if you like living in the moment.
And in technology news, the classic mini-series "Roots" has been remade for the generations with so little attention span that their characters must be limited to 140 and their life validated by Instagram and Snapchat.
What this means for Roots 2.0 is faster pacing so viewers don't get bored and 30 whippings instead of the ten in the original because we have become so accustomed to violence that whipping a human being on camera for a mere ten times just doesn't resonate anymore.
That is the world that I don't need to be a part of. "You're not ordinary," a fellow language nerd writes.
I know and I've got the badge to prove it.
Besides a tour of a gorgeously restored 1906 house, there were pork chops, presents and birthday cakes in Norfolk, after a hot drive down during which the phrase, "And in celestial news..." was uttered in all seriousness.
Cumberland offered up memories of steak salad at 821 Cafe, a lot of Bryan Ferry and New Jack Swing and poring over guidebooks and maps. Color me bowled over at the unlikeliest of clarifications.
Little Saigon, aka the multi-cultural neighborhood behind Mekong, presented a backyard party with crabs, crawfish and rap playing, the first two out back partially under tents and the latter in the house where homemade chocolate cake with cognac seduced me.
It was at the pickin' table (where I showed no less than three people how to dismember a crab properly) that I got reacquainted with the girlfriend of a rock star, herself a fashionista/hoarder (if that last part is to be believed about defining herself), providing several meandering conversations about the nature of textiles (she was elated when I explained with diagram the different in woven and knit fabrics), astrology (as a Virgo, she explained their perfectionist nature and why she's so hard on herself) and about the variable conditions of earning your "adult badge," a phrase she praised me for.
It was by the enormous wine cooler that I shared a story about the songwriter responsible for "Up, Up and Away" and "By the Time I Get To Phoenix" that had the guy grinning, saying, "I know those songs, but if half the people here heard them, they'd have no idea what you're talking about."
"I hate talking to young people now because they don't know anything," his wife said. She, on the other hand, was beyond thrilled when I told her Irish actor Richard Harris, a huge favorite of hers apparently, had a pop album, immediately suggesting to her husband that he make a mental note for a future gift.
You don't meet a lot of people who even know who Richard Harris is, much less claim to be devoted fans.
I saw a kid eat his first oyster and a young woman take one, look at it sloshing around in its brine, curl her lip and return it to the table. "I just can't do it," she said.
That's fine, honey, I can do it for you, thank you very much. Slurp.
The councilman challenged our little circle by asking about a movie that changed us. One woman said, "Jaws," although she wasn't entirely certain why.
I hesitated with mine and he asked if I'd ever seen "An Unmarried Woman."
Freaky because that had been the film that had popped into my head when he'd first asked the question, but it's an obscure one that I'd mistakenly assumed no one would know. Not to mention I'd seen it at least half a dozen times at the theater back in the '70s, young and dewy-eyed at its depiction of a liberated woman.
And not just because Alan Bates represented everything sexy and artsy about guys, either.
He said the movie had changed his perception of women. I said it had changed my perception of what was expected of women. The others in the group had never even heard of it.
Explaining how it had transformed the way he treated his wife (taking her off the pedestal and seeing her as a person...how novel for that era), he was agog to hear of my serial viewings and that I had the soundtrack (on vinyl, natch, although probably worn down to a slinky after years of playing repeatedly).
But where I stopped the conversation cold was when a friend announced to general surprise that she wasn't on Facebook. I think the party actually stopped for a few seconds when I trumped her by saying I didn't have a cell phone.
"You are my new hero," the film fan intoned. "But how do you have a life?" Hmm, let's see, without all the interruptions of constant connectivity?
It's pretty great if you like living in the moment.
And in technology news, the classic mini-series "Roots" has been remade for the generations with so little attention span that their characters must be limited to 140 and their life validated by Instagram and Snapchat.
What this means for Roots 2.0 is faster pacing so viewers don't get bored and 30 whippings instead of the ten in the original because we have become so accustomed to violence that whipping a human being on camera for a mere ten times just doesn't resonate anymore.
That is the world that I don't need to be a part of. "You're not ordinary," a fellow language nerd writes.
I know and I've got the badge to prove it.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Kiss Them For Me
Apparently it arouses suspicion if I answer an email at 9:45 p.m.
I thought you were out and about every evening. Here it is Friday night and you're answering me. Don't you have a restaurant to review or a gallery opening to attend?
Don't get smart with me, mister. My hired mouth had already met a friend for dinner and I was at home long enough to change clothes and shoes before going to Balliceaux to see Psychic Mirrors, the Miami funk septet I'd so enjoyed dancing to three years ago there.
A greeting at the front door evolved into a philosophical discussion of the myriad benefits of music - intellectually, physiologically, emotionally, spiritually - with the door guy. We only dropped our meeting of the minds when a line began to form to get in.
But not much of a line. Nothing like the line waiting to get into the line to ride the elevator to Quirk's rooftop bar was when I walked to dinner. Or the line for the '90s dance party at the National when I came back. Or even the two-sided line at the club on Harrison, with cops attending both side, on my second time out.
But enough of a line that he went back to work and I headed towards the back.
"Siouxsie!" the booker says, gesturing at my hair. When I don't have a snappy comeback, he prods. "And the Banshees?" like I'm an idiot, which I sort of feel like.
Moving on, we reminisce about how much both of us had gotten off on this band's last show.
Everyone I talk to - the gallerist, the record store employee, the IT guy - is here because these guys are from Miami and we get so little Miami music. Also, they note, Miamians don't even start playing until midnight.
In the meantime, to warm us up DJs are spinning obscure disco records getting the crowd in the mood. It's an odd assortment of people of all ages and colors who have not gone away for the holiday weekend. A guy walks in and his t-shirt tells me we must talk.
Rap - lies = Hip hop
Is it really this simple, I ask. He insists it is, saying that hip hop is about a vocal styling focused on a more laid back lifestyle than rap, one that focuses on kicking it old school and enjoying yourself with good people, not negativity.
Another guy decides to chat me up, but between his West End address, techie job and stiff manner, we're striking out until he asks if I'd like to see a picture of his girlfriend. Sure, why not?
He pulls out a picture of a shiny, red 1972 MGB, fully restored. Instead of fawning over the good-looking car, I tell him I had a 1971 MGB GT and his jaw drops. "Then you have to come for a ride in my car."
From there, we're just two MG nerds, swooning over chokes and lamenting electrical problems. "You know they were all hand-built?" he asks. Do I?
Before he cuts out mid-set, he hands me a card with the Barnes & Noble info scratched out. On the reverse side, he's written, "John 495 8230 MY CARD." Seeing that he's written MY CARD on this card may be the funniest thing I've seen all day.
He scuttles back to the West End and a weekend, he said, of doing chores around the house. Happy Memorial Day.
Once the merch table was being set up, we knew the show couldn't be far behind and if you could have seen the satisfaction on Psychic Mirror's sound guy's face when he looked at the singer just as the other five began playing, you'd have seen a Cheshire cat grin. Balliceaux is a good-sounding room.
I am dancing before the first song reaches the halfway mark and so is the guy beside me.
A song ends. "That song sounded like Steely Dan, didn't it?" Guy Next to Me asks. True enough. Before the set was over, any number of bands had been cannabalized: The Clash (particularly "Rock the Casbah"), all kinds of Stevie Wonder, the Time, maybe a bit of Sheila E. some '80s R & B obscurities.
Endlessly changing influences, the band stays in a constant groove like a disco DJ would have done, leaving very little time to recoup between songs. Most shocking is that some people are actually rooted in place, not moving so much as a shoulder or foot.
The set lasts just over an hour, we scream for one more and they oblige with a "new" song that sounds like '50s do-wop, except done with synth, screaming guitar, bass, keyboard, drums and multiple vocalists, including a woman.
Coming back to Jackson Ward, I spot two students on Marshall Street, each with one end of a white scarf in both hands. Standing under a tree, they are waving the scarves alternately to create a ripple effect and giggling with delight at the results in the warm night air. At 1:30 a.m.
It's only late if you're not out and about. Let's face it, no one would be the least bit surprised to get an email from me at this hour, now would they?
I thought you were out and about every evening. Here it is Friday night and you're answering me. Don't you have a restaurant to review or a gallery opening to attend?
Don't get smart with me, mister. My hired mouth had already met a friend for dinner and I was at home long enough to change clothes and shoes before going to Balliceaux to see Psychic Mirrors, the Miami funk septet I'd so enjoyed dancing to three years ago there.
A greeting at the front door evolved into a philosophical discussion of the myriad benefits of music - intellectually, physiologically, emotionally, spiritually - with the door guy. We only dropped our meeting of the minds when a line began to form to get in.
But not much of a line. Nothing like the line waiting to get into the line to ride the elevator to Quirk's rooftop bar was when I walked to dinner. Or the line for the '90s dance party at the National when I came back. Or even the two-sided line at the club on Harrison, with cops attending both side, on my second time out.
But enough of a line that he went back to work and I headed towards the back.
"Siouxsie!" the booker says, gesturing at my hair. When I don't have a snappy comeback, he prods. "And the Banshees?" like I'm an idiot, which I sort of feel like.
Moving on, we reminisce about how much both of us had gotten off on this band's last show.
Everyone I talk to - the gallerist, the record store employee, the IT guy - is here because these guys are from Miami and we get so little Miami music. Also, they note, Miamians don't even start playing until midnight.
In the meantime, to warm us up DJs are spinning obscure disco records getting the crowd in the mood. It's an odd assortment of people of all ages and colors who have not gone away for the holiday weekend. A guy walks in and his t-shirt tells me we must talk.
Rap - lies = Hip hop
Is it really this simple, I ask. He insists it is, saying that hip hop is about a vocal styling focused on a more laid back lifestyle than rap, one that focuses on kicking it old school and enjoying yourself with good people, not negativity.
Another guy decides to chat me up, but between his West End address, techie job and stiff manner, we're striking out until he asks if I'd like to see a picture of his girlfriend. Sure, why not?
He pulls out a picture of a shiny, red 1972 MGB, fully restored. Instead of fawning over the good-looking car, I tell him I had a 1971 MGB GT and his jaw drops. "Then you have to come for a ride in my car."
From there, we're just two MG nerds, swooning over chokes and lamenting electrical problems. "You know they were all hand-built?" he asks. Do I?
Before he cuts out mid-set, he hands me a card with the Barnes & Noble info scratched out. On the reverse side, he's written, "John 495 8230 MY CARD." Seeing that he's written MY CARD on this card may be the funniest thing I've seen all day.
He scuttles back to the West End and a weekend, he said, of doing chores around the house. Happy Memorial Day.
Once the merch table was being set up, we knew the show couldn't be far behind and if you could have seen the satisfaction on Psychic Mirror's sound guy's face when he looked at the singer just as the other five began playing, you'd have seen a Cheshire cat grin. Balliceaux is a good-sounding room.
I am dancing before the first song reaches the halfway mark and so is the guy beside me.
A song ends. "That song sounded like Steely Dan, didn't it?" Guy Next to Me asks. True enough. Before the set was over, any number of bands had been cannabalized: The Clash (particularly "Rock the Casbah"), all kinds of Stevie Wonder, the Time, maybe a bit of Sheila E. some '80s R & B obscurities.
Endlessly changing influences, the band stays in a constant groove like a disco DJ would have done, leaving very little time to recoup between songs. Most shocking is that some people are actually rooted in place, not moving so much as a shoulder or foot.
The set lasts just over an hour, we scream for one more and they oblige with a "new" song that sounds like '50s do-wop, except done with synth, screaming guitar, bass, keyboard, drums and multiple vocalists, including a woman.
Coming back to Jackson Ward, I spot two students on Marshall Street, each with one end of a white scarf in both hands. Standing under a tree, they are waving the scarves alternately to create a ripple effect and giggling with delight at the results in the warm night air. At 1:30 a.m.
It's only late if you're not out and about. Let's face it, no one would be the least bit surprised to get an email from me at this hour, now would they?
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Up on the Roof
Okay, so I dipped my toe back into the birthday pond.
But in my own defense, it was way back on April 28 that the three of us had made these plans: celebrate my birthday by checking out Quirk's new rooftop bar.
We couldn't have known then that it would rain for the next four weeks and once the sun reappeared, there'd be a mass rush to the roof, resulting in a line to get in.
Waiting did give us the opportunity to catch up, which had been the original starting point for this evening anyway, while also doing a preliminary check of the people in line.
Is it wrong of me to say that the crowd looked like they were there for the selfies? How about they looked like they didn't live in the city and couldn't parallel park?
So, yes, there was some judging going on, but my friends hadn't even been to the inside bar much less the long-delayed rooftop dazzler, so we were committed to the experience.
Upstairs, we somehow scored three bar stools at the pastel-striped bar, mostly under the canopy, in record time.
Now, getting a drink was a different story. That took every bit of 20 minutes (water took closer to 30) and that's probably being kind. When a woman behind me finally got the bartender's attention, she ordered a double rather than risk another marathon wait.
Just so you know, she was ordering a vodka and Red Bull. 'Nuff said.
I was just glad our stool backs protected us from the encroaching newcomers desperate to get a cocktail (we marveled at the sheer size of the bottle of bitters) or glass of Rose (bottles of which Quirk must empty in record time) now that they'd made it to the promised land.
While I could talk about the crowd (dubbed "douchey" more than once, but noticeably more diverse than many bars) and overheard inanities (tardy orthodontist visits for the kid and essential chiropractor appointments for Mom), it was really the view that made it worthwhile to have made it up there.
Someone had told me that the building was one of the tallest in the area, a fact which was apparent as we moved around the crowded spaces to ogle landmarks and the neighborhood's fairly dense tree cover. The minarets of the Altria (nee Mosque), the Belgian Building at VUU and Ebenezer Baptist Church were all readily apparent but my house was completely invisible beneath the intense green canopy of trees.
Broad Street never looked so good, unfurling between stretches of treetops like a soft black ribbon, looking unhurried, almost empty and extending as far as the eye could see.
It was strange to look down on the Emrick Flats' roof patio (because I'd been on it) but also a kick to be almost eye level with the towers of the nearby Renaissance Building. And the timing of seeing a brilliant red sunset sinking into a building we couldn't identify made it feel like we'd intentionally come for the sky show.
The three of us continued to marvel at not knowing a single person (in the words of Butch Cassidy, "Who are those guys?") while checking out the herb gardens planted in metal washtubs, the lower, less-crowded deck and the non-stop hustle of the enormous staff in flowered shirts.
Given Quirk's proximity to my house, I'll look forward to the day that it's not the top new destination in the city and the "in" crowd moves on to the latest and greatest while I continue to admire the 'hood from above.
But eventually the girls and I need sustenance, resulting in a visit to a surprisingly hopping 821 Cafe where I walk in, a server hugs me and guesses that I'm there for black bean nachos. There are benefits to being a creature of habit, I suppose.
She directs us to the bar for fastest seating ("And you can look at how cute Garth is!") and once we've ordered (two usuals, one surprise), we begin the nit-picking process of choosing which roof photos taken by the youngest in our trio are acceptable to all.
Translation: which have posting potential.
Laugh if you want, but I know this process well. With five sisters, we know to take a minimum of three dozen photos of the six of us to have any hope of producing one that flatters us all.
Far easier tonight when we only need to placate three women's egos and two of them are under 40.
For the record, there were at least half a dozen that captured us splendidly and plenty more that I'd have been fine with, but I also know that one advantage of age is acceptance.
That was apparent when we touched on the subject of plastic surgery (Blythe Danner's excellent face work launched the conversation), with both of them saying that when the time comes, they won't hesitate to have it done if they can afford it.
That's one palliative I haven't been able to get on board with, but really, how surprising is that given my other eccentricities?
If I'm going to earn each of these birthdays with daily experiences and marathon celebrations, I should have the happy face to prove it, right?
"At least you're still hot," my friend opines when I crack wise about my age.
Girlfriends, the best sort of free therapy.
But in my own defense, it was way back on April 28 that the three of us had made these plans: celebrate my birthday by checking out Quirk's new rooftop bar.
We couldn't have known then that it would rain for the next four weeks and once the sun reappeared, there'd be a mass rush to the roof, resulting in a line to get in.
Waiting did give us the opportunity to catch up, which had been the original starting point for this evening anyway, while also doing a preliminary check of the people in line.
Is it wrong of me to say that the crowd looked like they were there for the selfies? How about they looked like they didn't live in the city and couldn't parallel park?
So, yes, there was some judging going on, but my friends hadn't even been to the inside bar much less the long-delayed rooftop dazzler, so we were committed to the experience.
Upstairs, we somehow scored three bar stools at the pastel-striped bar, mostly under the canopy, in record time.
Now, getting a drink was a different story. That took every bit of 20 minutes (water took closer to 30) and that's probably being kind. When a woman behind me finally got the bartender's attention, she ordered a double rather than risk another marathon wait.
Just so you know, she was ordering a vodka and Red Bull. 'Nuff said.
I was just glad our stool backs protected us from the encroaching newcomers desperate to get a cocktail (we marveled at the sheer size of the bottle of bitters) or glass of Rose (bottles of which Quirk must empty in record time) now that they'd made it to the promised land.
While I could talk about the crowd (dubbed "douchey" more than once, but noticeably more diverse than many bars) and overheard inanities (tardy orthodontist visits for the kid and essential chiropractor appointments for Mom), it was really the view that made it worthwhile to have made it up there.
Someone had told me that the building was one of the tallest in the area, a fact which was apparent as we moved around the crowded spaces to ogle landmarks and the neighborhood's fairly dense tree cover. The minarets of the Altria (nee Mosque), the Belgian Building at VUU and Ebenezer Baptist Church were all readily apparent but my house was completely invisible beneath the intense green canopy of trees.
Broad Street never looked so good, unfurling between stretches of treetops like a soft black ribbon, looking unhurried, almost empty and extending as far as the eye could see.
It was strange to look down on the Emrick Flats' roof patio (because I'd been on it) but also a kick to be almost eye level with the towers of the nearby Renaissance Building. And the timing of seeing a brilliant red sunset sinking into a building we couldn't identify made it feel like we'd intentionally come for the sky show.
The three of us continued to marvel at not knowing a single person (in the words of Butch Cassidy, "Who are those guys?") while checking out the herb gardens planted in metal washtubs, the lower, less-crowded deck and the non-stop hustle of the enormous staff in flowered shirts.
Given Quirk's proximity to my house, I'll look forward to the day that it's not the top new destination in the city and the "in" crowd moves on to the latest and greatest while I continue to admire the 'hood from above.
But eventually the girls and I need sustenance, resulting in a visit to a surprisingly hopping 821 Cafe where I walk in, a server hugs me and guesses that I'm there for black bean nachos. There are benefits to being a creature of habit, I suppose.
She directs us to the bar for fastest seating ("And you can look at how cute Garth is!") and once we've ordered (two usuals, one surprise), we begin the nit-picking process of choosing which roof photos taken by the youngest in our trio are acceptable to all.
Translation: which have posting potential.
Laugh if you want, but I know this process well. With five sisters, we know to take a minimum of three dozen photos of the six of us to have any hope of producing one that flatters us all.
Far easier tonight when we only need to placate three women's egos and two of them are under 40.
For the record, there were at least half a dozen that captured us splendidly and plenty more that I'd have been fine with, but I also know that one advantage of age is acceptance.
That was apparent when we touched on the subject of plastic surgery (Blythe Danner's excellent face work launched the conversation), with both of them saying that when the time comes, they won't hesitate to have it done if they can afford it.
That's one palliative I haven't been able to get on board with, but really, how surprising is that given my other eccentricities?
If I'm going to earn each of these birthdays with daily experiences and marathon celebrations, I should have the happy face to prove it, right?
"At least you're still hot," my friend opines when I crack wise about my age.
Girlfriends, the best sort of free therapy.
Earth on Hell
Not for one second today did I celebrate my birthday. Doubters, take note.
Probably today's unlikeliest adventure involved walking to the Virginia Historical Society at 9:30, an hour at which I am usually still happily between the sheets, to catch the preview of their new traveling exhibition, "Gridiron Glory: The Best of the Pro Football Hall of Fame."
When the laughter subsides, I'll continue.
While I may eschew athletic endeavor or spectating sports, I was raised in a decent football fanatic household - since 1963, my parents have had Redskins season tickets at the 50-yard line, ten rows back behind the Redskins' bench - so besides honestly being curious about the historical aspects of the blood sport, I actually understand the game.
I know, surprise, right?
Chock full of interesting artifacts and interactive screens and shoulder pads, the show is a dense look at the game, right down to a ledger showing the first time a player was paid for playing. So it's a little something for the history nerd and a lot of something for the sports buff.
And, frankly, it's also an ideal payback for all those women who dragged their main men to see the "Dressing Downton" exhibit some months back.
Come, ladies, and marvel at the size of a linebacker's arm or thigh (there are molds).
Leaving the Historical Society, I walked by the Department of Historical Resources next door and decide there's no time like the present to research the house I live in, especially having recently learned that the downstairs windows are not original.
Besides immediately learning that the date I'd been told was incorrect - the house was built in 1880, not 1876 - I started digging through files of newspaper clippings, correspondence and other official documents, only to find my house not only once served as a girls' home but also had an additional third story.
Call me Nancy Drew, but I plan to go back when I have more time to dig deeper.
The big news in the neighborhood is the opening of Antler and Fin in the old Broad at Belvidere and with a party there tonight, I strolled the two blocks to check out the renovation.
You can't imagine my delight in seeing a guy busily sweeping the parking lot behind the Antler, an area that is treated like a block-sized trash can by people coming and going from the Rite-Aid or 804 Convenience store. When I asked if he was doing it because of Antler, he said yes.
Even better, he'd seen a cop who said they'd been trying to clean up the area with Antler & Fin moving in, hardly a surprise since the area used to be far better looked after when the B at B was there.
I'm just happy to hear J-Ward is back on their radar.
The renovated space looks completely different because the heavy shades that blocked the view of Broad Street are gone and late afternoon light pours in now in a way that never happened before. Prints of different fish types are framed on the wall along with antlers and even an antler chandelier. A living wall near the front window and a white grid with planters hanging from it on the side wall make for a groovy feel.
But the smartest thing they did was remove the back of the front booth to open up that row of dark, boxy booths and replace the tables with lighter wood tables.
None of the food being served - phyllo with wild boar or pulled pig, rillettes, smoked duck wings - appeared on the menu I saw, so that wasn't the point, not that that stopped me from eating it.
Familiar faces - a neighbor couple, a favorite drummer, the facilitator not in charge for a change, the PR beard - lined the bar and before long I'd met the commercial real estate agent whose name I've known for years and a tall man whose height means he never has problems ordering at a bar (except a Democratic one, according to him). Next thing I knew, a beer geek and a workaholic friend walked in to join the party.
The conversation turned out to be good, so I wound up staying far longer than I'd anticipated. Apparently I was the only one with the knowledge of who used to make those insanely good biscuits at Monument Coffee, a place everyone lamented losing.
And one by one, we scattered to the winds.
From one end of Jackson Ward to the other, my last stop was the Basement for "A Life Behind Bars," part of Theatre LAB's Cellar series in cahoots with Women's Mercury, written and performed by Dan Ruth, a VCU grad who moved to NYC in 1993, only to return (as they all seem to do).
The difference was that Dan had turned his years cleaning up customers' bodily fluids and picking up strangers ("What, none of you frisk your street trash?") into this compelling piece of theater.
Although I scored the full body hug from The Man About Town, the woman behind him must have taken an instant dislike to me because when I asked if the seat next to her was taken, she said, "I don't know," but moved immediately when I sat in it.
The women on my other side, however, were not only friendly but hugely enthusiastic about seeing Dan whom they'd seen ages ago and been "electrified" by (her words).
From the get-go, the show was compelling because years of bartending and being an alcoholic provided rich fodder for hilarity and piteousness once actor/writer Ruth decided to share (and get cleaned up). But it was also a poignant look at the Big Apple, both pre- and post - September 11th, with an emphasis on Brooklyn, Hell's Kitchen ("I'm here to get you loaded, not fix your life" he tells millennials) and kitchens with bathtubs.
"We were the last generation who knew how to bartend without a phone in our face." Only a 50-year old can say this.
He was especially funny ruminating on the changes in Richmond since he last lived here, marveling at the growth of VCU's footprint. "I"m going to try to finish the show before VCU tears down TheatreLAB and builds another dorm."
Another place he excelled was at impressions - drunk, old Jewish ladies, a skater punk kid, an entitled Manhattan millennial - effectively becoming the people he mocks, demonstrating particular skill at bringing to life the city health inspector he despises.
Of course the stories get pretty fierce once he descends into full-blown alcoholism, but the show ends with him announcing a decade of sobriety and a new lease on life (not to mention a solid piece of theater).
That had already become clear when he'd held up a photo of himself just before he went into detox, a disturbing shot of a man so far down the rabbit hole of alcoholism as to be oblivious to absolutely everything else.
A man who might, like me, celebrate his birthday for week, but would hurt more for it and likely wouldn't recall any of it.
Pity, because it's so much fun retelling the good stuff. It's like doing it all over again without any of the effort. And, believe me, birthday weeks take effort.
Probably today's unlikeliest adventure involved walking to the Virginia Historical Society at 9:30, an hour at which I am usually still happily between the sheets, to catch the preview of their new traveling exhibition, "Gridiron Glory: The Best of the Pro Football Hall of Fame."
When the laughter subsides, I'll continue.
While I may eschew athletic endeavor or spectating sports, I was raised in a decent football fanatic household - since 1963, my parents have had Redskins season tickets at the 50-yard line, ten rows back behind the Redskins' bench - so besides honestly being curious about the historical aspects of the blood sport, I actually understand the game.
I know, surprise, right?
Chock full of interesting artifacts and interactive screens and shoulder pads, the show is a dense look at the game, right down to a ledger showing the first time a player was paid for playing. So it's a little something for the history nerd and a lot of something for the sports buff.
And, frankly, it's also an ideal payback for all those women who dragged their main men to see the "Dressing Downton" exhibit some months back.
Come, ladies, and marvel at the size of a linebacker's arm or thigh (there are molds).
Leaving the Historical Society, I walked by the Department of Historical Resources next door and decide there's no time like the present to research the house I live in, especially having recently learned that the downstairs windows are not original.
Besides immediately learning that the date I'd been told was incorrect - the house was built in 1880, not 1876 - I started digging through files of newspaper clippings, correspondence and other official documents, only to find my house not only once served as a girls' home but also had an additional third story.
Call me Nancy Drew, but I plan to go back when I have more time to dig deeper.
The big news in the neighborhood is the opening of Antler and Fin in the old Broad at Belvidere and with a party there tonight, I strolled the two blocks to check out the renovation.
You can't imagine my delight in seeing a guy busily sweeping the parking lot behind the Antler, an area that is treated like a block-sized trash can by people coming and going from the Rite-Aid or 804 Convenience store. When I asked if he was doing it because of Antler, he said yes.
Even better, he'd seen a cop who said they'd been trying to clean up the area with Antler & Fin moving in, hardly a surprise since the area used to be far better looked after when the B at B was there.
I'm just happy to hear J-Ward is back on their radar.
The renovated space looks completely different because the heavy shades that blocked the view of Broad Street are gone and late afternoon light pours in now in a way that never happened before. Prints of different fish types are framed on the wall along with antlers and even an antler chandelier. A living wall near the front window and a white grid with planters hanging from it on the side wall make for a groovy feel.
But the smartest thing they did was remove the back of the front booth to open up that row of dark, boxy booths and replace the tables with lighter wood tables.
None of the food being served - phyllo with wild boar or pulled pig, rillettes, smoked duck wings - appeared on the menu I saw, so that wasn't the point, not that that stopped me from eating it.
Familiar faces - a neighbor couple, a favorite drummer, the facilitator not in charge for a change, the PR beard - lined the bar and before long I'd met the commercial real estate agent whose name I've known for years and a tall man whose height means he never has problems ordering at a bar (except a Democratic one, according to him). Next thing I knew, a beer geek and a workaholic friend walked in to join the party.
The conversation turned out to be good, so I wound up staying far longer than I'd anticipated. Apparently I was the only one with the knowledge of who used to make those insanely good biscuits at Monument Coffee, a place everyone lamented losing.
And one by one, we scattered to the winds.
From one end of Jackson Ward to the other, my last stop was the Basement for "A Life Behind Bars," part of Theatre LAB's Cellar series in cahoots with Women's Mercury, written and performed by Dan Ruth, a VCU grad who moved to NYC in 1993, only to return (as they all seem to do).
The difference was that Dan had turned his years cleaning up customers' bodily fluids and picking up strangers ("What, none of you frisk your street trash?") into this compelling piece of theater.
Although I scored the full body hug from The Man About Town, the woman behind him must have taken an instant dislike to me because when I asked if the seat next to her was taken, she said, "I don't know," but moved immediately when I sat in it.
The women on my other side, however, were not only friendly but hugely enthusiastic about seeing Dan whom they'd seen ages ago and been "electrified" by (her words).
From the get-go, the show was compelling because years of bartending and being an alcoholic provided rich fodder for hilarity and piteousness once actor/writer Ruth decided to share (and get cleaned up). But it was also a poignant look at the Big Apple, both pre- and post - September 11th, with an emphasis on Brooklyn, Hell's Kitchen ("I'm here to get you loaded, not fix your life" he tells millennials) and kitchens with bathtubs.
"We were the last generation who knew how to bartend without a phone in our face." Only a 50-year old can say this.
He was especially funny ruminating on the changes in Richmond since he last lived here, marveling at the growth of VCU's footprint. "I"m going to try to finish the show before VCU tears down TheatreLAB and builds another dorm."
Another place he excelled was at impressions - drunk, old Jewish ladies, a skater punk kid, an entitled Manhattan millennial - effectively becoming the people he mocks, demonstrating particular skill at bringing to life the city health inspector he despises.
Of course the stories get pretty fierce once he descends into full-blown alcoholism, but the show ends with him announcing a decade of sobriety and a new lease on life (not to mention a solid piece of theater).
That had already become clear when he'd held up a photo of himself just before he went into detox, a disturbing shot of a man so far down the rabbit hole of alcoholism as to be oblivious to absolutely everything else.
A man who might, like me, celebrate his birthday for week, but would hurt more for it and likely wouldn't recall any of it.
Pity, because it's so much fun retelling the good stuff. It's like doing it all over again without any of the effort. And, believe me, birthday weeks take effort.
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Dont Tell Me What the Poets are Doing
Wear sunscreen.
Twice over my birthday weekend, I heard that cheesy Baz Luhrman spoken word piece written as a mock graduation speech and played ad nauseum during its heyday. You know, the one written from the viewpoint of an older woman who's fairly sure she's figured a few things out.
Of all the unlikely birthday happenings - and there were several - one had to be the hour spent talking to my aunt/godmother, a woman I rarely see but with whom I share a passion for theater, ballet and the like. At 70-something, she has season tickets to the opera for the first time in her life. That fascinates me, that she's still trying new things.
I hear about the feminist meetings she went to when she was a young woman working at the World Bank on early computers and how strident she found some of the organizers. How even though she never had children, she's appalled at the parenting she sees today. How she resented being picked up from school and missing a school play because I was being born and my Grandfather wanted company at home.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded.
On the other hand, you will never be younger than you are today, so why not smile when the phones come out for birthday pictures? Although we're still tallying up the results, birthday photos appear to have been taken at Metzger, Nota Bene, L'Opossum, Acacia and Lucca. Only Garnett's was spared.
So. Much. Documentation. ("At least I'm not Instagramming it!" one photographer says).
The tasting menu and wine pairings at Acacia made for a beautifully leisurely meal with exquisite bites -white anchovies over radicchio, skate wing, venison over farro, melon soup, tuna tartare, calamari with curry - following sublime sips (thoughtfully chosen, as with Newton Cabernet Sauvignon or delightfully different as with Kesselstatt Riesling tasting of lime and stone fruit), set to a soundtrack that included Chaka Khan and Barry White.
Came home to a friend's message improvising a song about my extended birthday celebrating, a tuneful message that uses up every second of the recording mocking me.
Floss.
I do, every day, before I go out to have my evening adventure, having taken up the habit when I read that doing so could add six years to my life. Do you know how much fun I could have in those six years? When I told a friend this is why I took up flossing, she responds, "Of course it is."
We managed to close down Acacia, with Robinson Street long since having rolled up the sidewalks, me clutching three itineraries in my hand. How to choose?
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it.
After a sunny lunch at Garnett's with an old radio friend who insists on double chocolate chess pie to celebrate, I go into full birthday girl mode, meaning I had a massage (hella good birthday gift) and then went to Victoria's Secret to buy bras, including a purple one that fellow Gemini Prince would have given the thumbs' up to.
For that matter, as I got ready to go out tonight I listened to the radio playing all Dylan and Dylan covers in tribute to my fellow Gemini's 75th birthday today.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
That would be Leo and Bonnie, she another fellow Gemini. I love when you two remind me how little and how much I have changed.
Tonight's social companion is another fellow Gemini and when she comes to pick me up, I suggest we walk. My jaw drops when she tells me she's worn cute shoes and prefers to drive. Not ten minutes earlier, I'd chosen sensible shoes over cute, just about certain she'd show up ready to hit the pavement.
"Go put on your cute shoes," she directs me and I do.
Whether anyone at Lucca notices or not is debatable, but the feast we enjoy constitutes all the food - Maryland and Newfoundland oysters, an octopus and potato salad that could inspire poetry, clams in green garlic sauce, mushroom and Gruyere risotto, charcuterie and cheese, roasted calamari with fresh garbanzo beans and mushrooms - leaves us so full that even our shoes feel a tad tight on our feet.
Then I remember my mother's rule that everyone has a corner in their stomach for dessert, so we gorge on chocolate hazelnut crostada and panna cotta.
Travel.
And travel to romantic places while you still have a romantic bone left in your body. Like Dublin...or Vienna, Prague and Budapest...or Paris and the Loire. But definitely travel, and not with hot rollers or there will be ultimatums.
Advice is a form of nostalgia.
Power and beauty fade, albeit a bit more slowly with judicious use of sunscreen, but birthdays are forever. Or at least a solid week or so.
Twice over my birthday weekend, I heard that cheesy Baz Luhrman spoken word piece written as a mock graduation speech and played ad nauseum during its heyday. You know, the one written from the viewpoint of an older woman who's fairly sure she's figured a few things out.
Of all the unlikely birthday happenings - and there were several - one had to be the hour spent talking to my aunt/godmother, a woman I rarely see but with whom I share a passion for theater, ballet and the like. At 70-something, she has season tickets to the opera for the first time in her life. That fascinates me, that she's still trying new things.
I hear about the feminist meetings she went to when she was a young woman working at the World Bank on early computers and how strident she found some of the organizers. How even though she never had children, she's appalled at the parenting she sees today. How she resented being picked up from school and missing a school play because I was being born and my Grandfather wanted company at home.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded.
On the other hand, you will never be younger than you are today, so why not smile when the phones come out for birthday pictures? Although we're still tallying up the results, birthday photos appear to have been taken at Metzger, Nota Bene, L'Opossum, Acacia and Lucca. Only Garnett's was spared.
So. Much. Documentation. ("At least I'm not Instagramming it!" one photographer says).
The tasting menu and wine pairings at Acacia made for a beautifully leisurely meal with exquisite bites -white anchovies over radicchio, skate wing, venison over farro, melon soup, tuna tartare, calamari with curry - following sublime sips (thoughtfully chosen, as with Newton Cabernet Sauvignon or delightfully different as with Kesselstatt Riesling tasting of lime and stone fruit), set to a soundtrack that included Chaka Khan and Barry White.
Came home to a friend's message improvising a song about my extended birthday celebrating, a tuneful message that uses up every second of the recording mocking me.
Floss.
I do, every day, before I go out to have my evening adventure, having taken up the habit when I read that doing so could add six years to my life. Do you know how much fun I could have in those six years? When I told a friend this is why I took up flossing, she responds, "Of course it is."
We managed to close down Acacia, with Robinson Street long since having rolled up the sidewalks, me clutching three itineraries in my hand. How to choose?
Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it.
After a sunny lunch at Garnett's with an old radio friend who insists on double chocolate chess pie to celebrate, I go into full birthday girl mode, meaning I had a massage (hella good birthday gift) and then went to Victoria's Secret to buy bras, including a purple one that fellow Gemini Prince would have given the thumbs' up to.
For that matter, as I got ready to go out tonight I listened to the radio playing all Dylan and Dylan covers in tribute to my fellow Gemini's 75th birthday today.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
That would be Leo and Bonnie, she another fellow Gemini. I love when you two remind me how little and how much I have changed.
Tonight's social companion is another fellow Gemini and when she comes to pick me up, I suggest we walk. My jaw drops when she tells me she's worn cute shoes and prefers to drive. Not ten minutes earlier, I'd chosen sensible shoes over cute, just about certain she'd show up ready to hit the pavement.
"Go put on your cute shoes," she directs me and I do.
Whether anyone at Lucca notices or not is debatable, but the feast we enjoy constitutes all the food - Maryland and Newfoundland oysters, an octopus and potato salad that could inspire poetry, clams in green garlic sauce, mushroom and Gruyere risotto, charcuterie and cheese, roasted calamari with fresh garbanzo beans and mushrooms - leaves us so full that even our shoes feel a tad tight on our feet.
Then I remember my mother's rule that everyone has a corner in their stomach for dessert, so we gorge on chocolate hazelnut crostada and panna cotta.
Travel.
And travel to romantic places while you still have a romantic bone left in your body. Like Dublin...or Vienna, Prague and Budapest...or Paris and the Loire. But definitely travel, and not with hot rollers or there will be ultimatums.
Advice is a form of nostalgia.
Power and beauty fade, albeit a bit more slowly with judicious use of sunscreen, but birthdays are forever. Or at least a solid week or so.
Monday, May 23, 2016
A Voice of Reason
We've been through a lot together, and most of it was your fault
~wording on birthday gift (box of out-sized matches)
I hear this a lot, but that stuff wasn't my fault, just a byproduct of, you know, having fun.
Besides, birthdays aren't a sprint, they're a marathon.
They're an opportunity to discuss the Oxford comma, which happened at Metzger while drinking Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose, eating a cheese plate and a charcuterie plate and listening to vintage soul thanks to a Taurus also obsessed with my favorite New Jersey DJ.
For the birthday girl who grew up in Maryland, the fried softshell crab was a decided highlight.
Sitting five abreast, from the farthest bar stool I overhear, "He's talking about putting tse-tse fly sauce on his sub," and wonder how my friend can be so far along when it's only our first stop.
Oh please, do go on! I could listen to you talk about your blog all night!
~ front of birthday card showing couple deep in discussion
Prom kids commandeered a long table behind us at Nota Bene, where we wound our five-top around the corner of the bar - and I learned that the bartender's prom date 20 years ago had been named Nikki LaRoqua and that she measured up to her name - for ease in hearing each other blather.
Words fell short when a steady stream of food began showing up, a lot of it off the specials board: two bowls of braised fennel with capers and tomato, two more of sugartoads with bagna caude and lots of bread to soak up its buttery, garlicy goodness, pizza of Tellegio and onions, the same roasted cauliflower with lemon, olive oil, capers and fresno chilies I'd fallen hard for just over a week ago and a big bowl of clams and fennel.
People think I'm bossy, too."
~ caption on birthday card image of Ghengis Khan talking to dark-haired woman with glass of pink bubbles in front of her
There was spirited discussion of the difference between a harlot and a strumpet, with the consolation "harlot" t-shirt going to Pru.
Lights were dim but the restaurant was still packed when we arrived at L'Opossum for our final course. Inquiring about the nature of the black bottom, our server summed it up by saying, "It's a circle of life in a chocolate cupcake."
Perhaps not everyone could glean her meaning from that, but I could.
With disco alternating with k.d. lange crooning cover songs, we had three of them, mine with a lit candle, plus creme brulee, fiery chocolate and foie gras bread pudding. I sipped glasses of Cocchi Barolo Chinato while others savored plastic-wrapped Laura Palmers.
Holmes ordered a Glen Moray and our server asked if he wanted it over a Death Star. He did, allowing us all to marvel over the globe-shaped ice.
It takes a long time to become young.
~ Picasso, but handwritten inside one of my birthday cards
For the second year in a row, we closed down L'Opossum in service of celebrating my birthday.
Today began with a birthday gift being delivered (on Sunday, no less) before motoring through the mist to Upper Shirley Vineyards for lunch. I hadn't expected the place to be so large, but both the packed parking lot and capacity dining room prove that the word was out.
I'll tell you this much: it appears to be the place for ladies who lunch (eat? trash talk?) in the East End. Lots of bling, lots of all-female tables, lots of shrill conversation bouncing off hard walls.
Addressing the Southern half of my heritage with practically perfect ham biscuits sweet with pepper jelly eaten on the couch for lack of a free space, followed by a move to a table of our own, shrimp and avocado salad and then fried chicken and waffles, we saved the wine tasting for afterward in lieu of dessert.
I am too lucky to have you as a girlfriend, companion, confidante, soul sister, advisory. partner-in-crime and voice of reason when I need one.~ sentiment written inside a birthday card
How hilarious is it to hear me referred to as a voice of reason? I'll take it with a grain of salt.
The Tannat was the most arresting of the bunch but it was glasses of Rose we took first to the big porch to get a view of the river, where it was too chilly and damp for the birthday girl before moving back to the couch and eventually to the city for a double hot fudge sundae at Bev's and at Secco, a bottle of Can Xa Brut Rose because birthdays.
A quick stop at En Su Boca made birthday nachos my reality and I finally got to see "Barbershop: The Next Cut," a film I'd gone to see weeks ago only to find it sold out.
Funny and not funny, relevant without being strident, with talking points that come across like an overdue rap session, it's the kind of film that makes you realize that white people don't see nearly enough black movies.
Shakedown 1981 during the scene when the entire barbershop breaks into dance at the first notes ("Can't fool myself...") of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" and I immediately flash back to a Christmas party that year when the exact same thing happened, albeit not as rhythmically since we were white.
And can we just have a moment for how good looking - body and face - Common is? It's too bad about that time I didn't get in to see him at the Pit. Needless to say, I also have new respect for Nicki Minaj's bountiful booty. Truly, a masterpiece of human engineering.
And wear some jeans for chrissakes.
~ sentiment written inside a birthday card
I might if I had that kind of booty.
~wording on birthday gift (box of out-sized matches)
I hear this a lot, but that stuff wasn't my fault, just a byproduct of, you know, having fun.
Besides, birthdays aren't a sprint, they're a marathon.
They're an opportunity to discuss the Oxford comma, which happened at Metzger while drinking Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose, eating a cheese plate and a charcuterie plate and listening to vintage soul thanks to a Taurus also obsessed with my favorite New Jersey DJ.
For the birthday girl who grew up in Maryland, the fried softshell crab was a decided highlight.
Sitting five abreast, from the farthest bar stool I overhear, "He's talking about putting tse-tse fly sauce on his sub," and wonder how my friend can be so far along when it's only our first stop.
Oh please, do go on! I could listen to you talk about your blog all night!
~ front of birthday card showing couple deep in discussion
Prom kids commandeered a long table behind us at Nota Bene, where we wound our five-top around the corner of the bar - and I learned that the bartender's prom date 20 years ago had been named Nikki LaRoqua and that she measured up to her name - for ease in hearing each other blather.
Words fell short when a steady stream of food began showing up, a lot of it off the specials board: two bowls of braised fennel with capers and tomato, two more of sugartoads with bagna caude and lots of bread to soak up its buttery, garlicy goodness, pizza of Tellegio and onions, the same roasted cauliflower with lemon, olive oil, capers and fresno chilies I'd fallen hard for just over a week ago and a big bowl of clams and fennel.
People think I'm bossy, too."
~ caption on birthday card image of Ghengis Khan talking to dark-haired woman with glass of pink bubbles in front of her
There was spirited discussion of the difference between a harlot and a strumpet, with the consolation "harlot" t-shirt going to Pru.
Lights were dim but the restaurant was still packed when we arrived at L'Opossum for our final course. Inquiring about the nature of the black bottom, our server summed it up by saying, "It's a circle of life in a chocolate cupcake."
Perhaps not everyone could glean her meaning from that, but I could.
With disco alternating with k.d. lange crooning cover songs, we had three of them, mine with a lit candle, plus creme brulee, fiery chocolate and foie gras bread pudding. I sipped glasses of Cocchi Barolo Chinato while others savored plastic-wrapped Laura Palmers.
Holmes ordered a Glen Moray and our server asked if he wanted it over a Death Star. He did, allowing us all to marvel over the globe-shaped ice.
It takes a long time to become young.
~ Picasso, but handwritten inside one of my birthday cards
For the second year in a row, we closed down L'Opossum in service of celebrating my birthday.
Today began with a birthday gift being delivered (on Sunday, no less) before motoring through the mist to Upper Shirley Vineyards for lunch. I hadn't expected the place to be so large, but both the packed parking lot and capacity dining room prove that the word was out.
I'll tell you this much: it appears to be the place for ladies who lunch (eat? trash talk?) in the East End. Lots of bling, lots of all-female tables, lots of shrill conversation bouncing off hard walls.
Addressing the Southern half of my heritage with practically perfect ham biscuits sweet with pepper jelly eaten on the couch for lack of a free space, followed by a move to a table of our own, shrimp and avocado salad and then fried chicken and waffles, we saved the wine tasting for afterward in lieu of dessert.
I am too lucky to have you as a girlfriend, companion, confidante, soul sister, advisory. partner-in-crime and voice of reason when I need one.~ sentiment written inside a birthday card
How hilarious is it to hear me referred to as a voice of reason? I'll take it with a grain of salt.
The Tannat was the most arresting of the bunch but it was glasses of Rose we took first to the big porch to get a view of the river, where it was too chilly and damp for the birthday girl before moving back to the couch and eventually to the city for a double hot fudge sundae at Bev's and at Secco, a bottle of Can Xa Brut Rose because birthdays.
A quick stop at En Su Boca made birthday nachos my reality and I finally got to see "Barbershop: The Next Cut," a film I'd gone to see weeks ago only to find it sold out.
Funny and not funny, relevant without being strident, with talking points that come across like an overdue rap session, it's the kind of film that makes you realize that white people don't see nearly enough black movies.
Shakedown 1981 during the scene when the entire barbershop breaks into dance at the first notes ("Can't fool myself...") of Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" and I immediately flash back to a Christmas party that year when the exact same thing happened, albeit not as rhythmically since we were white.
And can we just have a moment for how good looking - body and face - Common is? It's too bad about that time I didn't get in to see him at the Pit. Needless to say, I also have new respect for Nicki Minaj's bountiful booty. Truly, a masterpiece of human engineering.
And wear some jeans for chrissakes.
~ sentiment written inside a birthday card
I might if I had that kind of booty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
