Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together. ~ Anais Nin
I was at Strange Matter in January 2010 before they even had their liquor license, for cryin' out loud.
Fact is, I've seen all kinds of movies there, despite it being a music venue, a lot of them the kind that I couldn't have seen anywhere else.
That first night, it was for "All Tomorrow's Parties," about the music festival curated by other musicians. That was followed by the bike messenger documentary "Pedal" in March that year, then in April, the documentaries "American Hardcore" about that whole scene and "Festival Express" about musicians on tour via train across Canada in 1970.
I not only enjoyed every single movie I saw there, I learned something from each, too.
But it wasn't all music and bikes, because I laughed along to "Raising Arizona" (not for the first time) and that holiday classic, "Santa Conquers the Martians." And it was there that I saw the James Bond parody, "Our Man Flint," for the first time. Add in John Waters' "Polyester" and David Lynch's "Blue Velvet" and "Wild at Heart" and you get some idea of the range that S'Matter showed.
I don't want to brag, but I saw the Monkee's magum opus "Head" there, putting up with the non-stop mindless commentary from the peanut gallery at the bar, people whose parents hadn't even met when "Head" was made.
But of course, it was mostly about the bands I saw there and there were some stellar ones.
I saw Real Estate on a humid, sweltering night, leaving with my dress as wet as my hair.
Some bands I enjoyed seeing there so much that I saw them again the next time they came back through, like Strand of Oaks, Wild Nothing, Speedy Ortiz. Sometimes once isn't enough.
Music fan that I am, I saw some bands simply because I had a free night and knew of the band, like the Man Man show in 2014.
Other times, it was a fellow music lover's recommendation, online or in person, that got me there, like with Kane Strang, Pylon Reenactment Society, Taco Cat and David Bazan of Pedro the Lion.
I went for local boy-made-good Matt White, but also because he was playing with the Rosebuds' Howard Ivans and I'm a big Rosebuds fan. When I needed a neo-'80s fix, I went to see Cold Cave and Drab Majesty and wallowed in the reverb. For pure indie pop, I couldn't resist the Love Language, NOLA's Generationals and dancing to Beach Fossils before everyone knew who they were.
For an early show by Kurt Vile, I stood on the back of a banquette in a room so hot and sticky that I feared I might pass out (I didn't). Once, for an Italian fix, I went to see Sultans, a group of passionate Italians thrilled to be touring the U.S. and meeting American girls.
Over the years, I went to some of their annual shows, like the yearly Food Fights where groups of restaurant staffers formed a band for a night and competed against each other to win the audience's approval. A couple of Halloweens, I attended the Night of the Living Dead bands show, an extravaganza of cover bands of bands with at least one deceased member.
And don't get me started on all the local bands I've seen there over the years because there have been too many to recount.
I've been to many a sold out show where my foresight in snagging a ticket ensured I got in while I knew many people who didn't, but I've also been to shows where I was one of 20 people the band was playing to and I felt like Richmond was representing poorly.
In almost every case, I walked to S'Matter, but on the one occasion I didn't (I had uncharacteristically driven there because my hired mouth and I had come from the West End), I came out at 1:45 a.m. to find my car had been towed. Luckily, I also ran into a musician friend who lives in J-Ward and we walked home together, not because walking alone was an issue - I'd done it scores of times - but because I needed someone to listen to me beat myself up about my stupidity.
And now the news has come that Strange Matter is closing, so they're doing a series of farewell shows. There was no way I wasn't going to one to say goodbye to a place that has been a constant in my musical and film life since the day it opened.
Walking in, the doorman hugged the couple in front of me because tonight was their fourth night coming in for a farewell show. I paid my money, got a wristband and saved my hugs for friends.
Almost at once, I got a hug from the woman I'd met at this very venue, back during what she called Janet-palooza, when she was celebrating her fortieth birthday by going to a show every night for a month.
Seeing her there tonight brought things full circle.
Next was the trumpet player who was playing in one of tonight's bands, then the Chucks-wearing friend who used to complain that going out required too much work. Even he had apparently realized that sometimes you just have to make the effort. The writer who lived in my apartment before I did was there and we talked about all the great films he'd screened as part of RVA Movie Club, many of which I'd been there for. Later I got a greeting from the music teacher and the volunteer coordinator.
All the cool kids were out tonight.
When I spoke to the DJ whom I'd seen at the Byrd for "La Dolce Vita," then at the Hof for the debut of Trey Pollard's "Antiphones" album and again tonight, it was by complimenting him on his range.
Technically, I suppose he could say the same of me.
DJing between band sets was the owner of my local record store where I had first heard tonight's headliner, the Ar-kaics, back in 2013. My, how time flies. As always, he looked happy to be spinning 45s for the crowd in between enjoying the show.
Also on the bill were Weird Tears, who when they hailed from Philly considered S'Matter one of their favorite venues, the nine-piece Piranha-Rama (three horns, two back-up singers), Christi with their pastiche of girl group and hardcore and, finally, the garage band sounding Ar-kaics.
Appropriately sadcore song title considering the reason for tonight's show? Weird Tears' second song, "I Don't Deserve to Be Happy Tonight."
Before their set, I'd chatted with the lead singer of Piranha-Rama, giving her props for her cute red coat with a fake fur collar. She admitted she'd found it at For the Love of Jesus Thrift on southside and had debated long and hard about spending $14 on the coat before sucking it up and forking over the money.
Years later, she realizes it was a brilliant purchase.
Besides, what could I say, standing there in a thrift store wool dress, military-style jacket and pleather-collared sweater, none of which cost more than $4?
It's an additional shame that S'Matter is closing since they'd updated the bathrooms to be unisex with a sign on the former men's room reading, "This bathroom has one stall and no gender." It also had no line, unlike the one that read, "This bathroom has two stalls and no gender," so guess which one I used?
You got it, the one with the two urinals.
In what I can only consider the most fitting tribute to S'Matter, we were barely into the second band's set when I realized how ungodly warm it was in there and began shedding layers. Janet had already removed her jacket and taken it outside to stow away under her scooter seat. All around me, guys were doffing their knit skull caps and wiping sweat off their heads.
Being a regular at S'Matter teaches you quickly that their temperature regulatory system is non-existent and it will be hot and miserable in there once the bands start playing, whether it is August or December. The only difference is that it's not humid inside during the winter months.
Still, that's part of its charm. You don't go to a venue like S'Matter expecting all the comforts of home, you go to hear music played from a stage a few feet from your face. And maybe to dance, which I began doing from the first song Weird Tears played.
But it wasn't all gloom and doom tonight because just today, a couple of local musicians started a Go Fund Me page to try to raise enough money to take over the venue. My writer friend said that they'd already raised $4K this afternoon, with a goal of $150K, in hopes they can keep it from falling into the hands of VCU and further gentrifying that block.
Godspeed, guys, I hope you pull it off.
Because, after all, that building has been a music venue since before I came to Richmond in 1986. I know I went to it when it was the Nancy Raygun, but even before then, it was Twisters and Back Door, I've been told.
What's a city without a small, gritty venue like Strange Matter? Especially one I can walk to. Too soon? Too selfish? The way I see it, music fans deserve to be happy on any given night.
Most importantly, Richmond needs a place where our separate body parts can melt together.
Or maybe that's just me.
Friday, December 7, 2018
Thursday, December 6, 2018
There's Bound To Be Talk
The problem with this town - besides snow flurries on the fifth day of December - is that the restaurant scene hasn't caught up with the theater scene.
How else to explain having to have a 5:15 dinner reservation in order to make an 8:00 curtain? To start with, that's an ungodly early hour to begin the evening meal (I've had lunches where I didn't get back until 5:15 and there's no shame in that) and secondly, I hang with serious food warriors who don't want to be rushed as they eat through nearly everything on the menu.
But, alas, eating after the play ends is challenging at best in Richmond, especially on a Thursday night, so we were gathering at the front table in the window at the Roosevelt, shortly after the clock hit 5. With a new chef in place, I was especially eager to revisit one of my long-time favorite eateries.
My hopes of beginning with a bottle of Virginia Fizz - the first wine I ever drank at the Roosevelt - were dashed when our server got a stricken look on her face when I ordered it, went to check and returned with bad news: all gone.
I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead requested a bottle of Dr. K. Frank Gruner Veltliner while Pru and Beau went with Illahe Pinot Gris because they're fans of Willamette. dammit. Queen B, as usual, abstained, although how she puts up with us sober is a miracle.
First topic: the banishment of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" from the holiday songbook canon because of its suddenly now questionable lyrics. The consensus seemed to be that applying current standards to lyrics written in 1949 is a clear case of political correctness gone amuck.
Everyone seems to forget that in the original film where the song debuted, it was sung by two couples: a man to a woman and a woman to a man and nobody was forcing anyone to do anything. Somewhere, songwriter Frank Loesser is rolling his eyes in disgust.
Food arriving derailed any further discussion.
With the exception of the Queen who couldn't resist the braised boneless short ribs entree, the rest of the table made our meals of snacks and small plates. Chicken liver mousse with huckleberry jam seemed appropriate given that this week is Hannukah, while chicken wings with Alabama white sauce - which, I swear, have been on the Roosevelt's menu practically since Day One - were life-changing for Pru and Beau, who'd never had them before.
I foresee many future orders of those wings procured and devoured at the manse.
Perfectly Fall-like was roasted butternut squash with buttermilk ricotta and sunflower seeds, while Beau moaned over the creamy parsnip soup with apple butter, nutmeg, sage and peanuts.
Apple butter became the next topic when I recalled that "Have a slice of bread with apple butter" was my Mom's go-to suggestion when my sisters and I wanted a snack growing up because there was no junk food in our house. For Pru, apple butter conjured up memories of boarding school, since its location in the mountains meant she was in apple country.
She and Mr. Wright both got the roasted honey-glazed baby carrots with sumac, orange and dill, although I seemed to be the only one who appreciated how toothsome they were. "Just this side of raw but with a honey glaze, but I like them" Pru decreed, but that was a slight exaggeration.
When the owner, a long-time friend, came over to say hello, I introduced her as the woman who also owns Garnett's, Laura Lee's and Ipanema. She was surprised, announcing to the table that I usually introduce her as "the woman who taught me to drink," which is 100% true, but not my favorite way to introduce her, as I reminded her.
"Oh, yea, she usually tells people that if I were a man, she would have married me," she said grinning, to the surprise of everyone at the table, not the least of which had to be Mr. Wright.
Roasted beets got a boost from bleu cheese, pumpkin seeds and our old friend apple butter vinaigrette, but it was their arrangement resembling a Christmas wreath that got everyone's attention. An enormous bowl of mussels swimming in cider broth with bacon didn't even get finished, but the two green goddess salads with cornbread croutons sure did.
With an eye on the clock, we ordered chocolate mousse and corn cake with buttercream frosting to accompany Pru and Beau's requisite liquid final course, although Pru did jazz things up a bit by two-fisting caffeine with an Irish coffee and a regular coffee.
I had all the caffeine I needed in that mousse.
And while we rushed out of there and up 301 to Hanover Tavern, a series of badly-timed lights ensured that we all arrived moments after the play had begun. The Greatest Generation usher who greeted us informed us that the director stipulated that no one be let in late until the initial "play within a play" ended, which took until we heard a shot being fired.
In the interim, he filled us in on what was happening onstage, assuring us, "You're not missing anything important." Whether it was true or not, it made us feel better about our tardiness.
Then we scampered to our seats for "The Game's Afoot: Holmes for the Holidays," a story set in 1936 of a group of touring actors who gather for a Christmas eve party at the Connecticut home of the actor who plays Sherlock Holmes in their production.
On a side note, what is it with Connecticut and the holidays? You know, like that Barbara Stanwyck movie "Christmas in Connecticut," or "Holiday Inn," which also takes place in Connecticut? Discuss.
The ensemble of actors was incredibly strong - and really, what play with Scott Wichmann starring is ever anything but outstanding? - making for a fast-moving and hilarious story about the unexpected murder of a theater critic (prompting the question, does anyone really care if a critic is killed?) after dinner.
The ensuing comedy results from William Gillette, the actor who'd played Holmes, thinking his mother, played by the bombastic Catherine Shaffner, is the murderer. No one wants Mom to be the perp.
The manse group has long loved a good drawing room mystery, while I was seduced by the frequent quotations from Shakespeare woven into the dialog at every opportunity. Audra Honaker played the quirky police detective who shows up to investigate, although it turns out she also has an acting bent and wouldn't mind auditioning should the right role come up.
Acting! (insert raised arm)
It didn't hurt that the story was full of twists and turns so that by the time the inspector arrives, every person at the party is a suspect. Characters come and go from the drawing room, just missing each other, but constantly delivering witty dialog. First a closet then a hidden bar is used to store the corpse, which won't stay put and on the wall hangs a collection of murder weapons: guns, swords, axes, you name it, within easy reach. And don't get me started on the gorgeous period costumes,
The charm was that the wacky antics were pretty much non-stop until the very last moment when we found out who'd really put a knife in the critic's back (and right through that stunning red velvet dress of hers).
In a perfect world, we'd have left Hanover at 10:00 and gone out for a lovely post-theater dinner at a little bistro somewhere where we could all discuss the energetic romp and laugh-out-loud worthy dialog we'd just experienced, but that's not how Richmond works.
Instead, we were split up into separate discussion groups. I don't know about theirs, but ours may have gotten a little off topic.
Cause, baby, it's cold outside.
How else to explain having to have a 5:15 dinner reservation in order to make an 8:00 curtain? To start with, that's an ungodly early hour to begin the evening meal (I've had lunches where I didn't get back until 5:15 and there's no shame in that) and secondly, I hang with serious food warriors who don't want to be rushed as they eat through nearly everything on the menu.
But, alas, eating after the play ends is challenging at best in Richmond, especially on a Thursday night, so we were gathering at the front table in the window at the Roosevelt, shortly after the clock hit 5. With a new chef in place, I was especially eager to revisit one of my long-time favorite eateries.
My hopes of beginning with a bottle of Virginia Fizz - the first wine I ever drank at the Roosevelt - were dashed when our server got a stricken look on her face when I ordered it, went to check and returned with bad news: all gone.
I am nothing if not adaptable, so we instead requested a bottle of Dr. K. Frank Gruner Veltliner while Pru and Beau went with Illahe Pinot Gris because they're fans of Willamette. dammit. Queen B, as usual, abstained, although how she puts up with us sober is a miracle.
First topic: the banishment of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" from the holiday songbook canon because of its suddenly now questionable lyrics. The consensus seemed to be that applying current standards to lyrics written in 1949 is a clear case of political correctness gone amuck.
Everyone seems to forget that in the original film where the song debuted, it was sung by two couples: a man to a woman and a woman to a man and nobody was forcing anyone to do anything. Somewhere, songwriter Frank Loesser is rolling his eyes in disgust.
Food arriving derailed any further discussion.
With the exception of the Queen who couldn't resist the braised boneless short ribs entree, the rest of the table made our meals of snacks and small plates. Chicken liver mousse with huckleberry jam seemed appropriate given that this week is Hannukah, while chicken wings with Alabama white sauce - which, I swear, have been on the Roosevelt's menu practically since Day One - were life-changing for Pru and Beau, who'd never had them before.
I foresee many future orders of those wings procured and devoured at the manse.
Perfectly Fall-like was roasted butternut squash with buttermilk ricotta and sunflower seeds, while Beau moaned over the creamy parsnip soup with apple butter, nutmeg, sage and peanuts.
Apple butter became the next topic when I recalled that "Have a slice of bread with apple butter" was my Mom's go-to suggestion when my sisters and I wanted a snack growing up because there was no junk food in our house. For Pru, apple butter conjured up memories of boarding school, since its location in the mountains meant she was in apple country.
She and Mr. Wright both got the roasted honey-glazed baby carrots with sumac, orange and dill, although I seemed to be the only one who appreciated how toothsome they were. "Just this side of raw but with a honey glaze, but I like them" Pru decreed, but that was a slight exaggeration.
When the owner, a long-time friend, came over to say hello, I introduced her as the woman who also owns Garnett's, Laura Lee's and Ipanema. She was surprised, announcing to the table that I usually introduce her as "the woman who taught me to drink," which is 100% true, but not my favorite way to introduce her, as I reminded her.
"Oh, yea, she usually tells people that if I were a man, she would have married me," she said grinning, to the surprise of everyone at the table, not the least of which had to be Mr. Wright.
Roasted beets got a boost from bleu cheese, pumpkin seeds and our old friend apple butter vinaigrette, but it was their arrangement resembling a Christmas wreath that got everyone's attention. An enormous bowl of mussels swimming in cider broth with bacon didn't even get finished, but the two green goddess salads with cornbread croutons sure did.
With an eye on the clock, we ordered chocolate mousse and corn cake with buttercream frosting to accompany Pru and Beau's requisite liquid final course, although Pru did jazz things up a bit by two-fisting caffeine with an Irish coffee and a regular coffee.
I had all the caffeine I needed in that mousse.
And while we rushed out of there and up 301 to Hanover Tavern, a series of badly-timed lights ensured that we all arrived moments after the play had begun. The Greatest Generation usher who greeted us informed us that the director stipulated that no one be let in late until the initial "play within a play" ended, which took until we heard a shot being fired.
In the interim, he filled us in on what was happening onstage, assuring us, "You're not missing anything important." Whether it was true or not, it made us feel better about our tardiness.
Then we scampered to our seats for "The Game's Afoot: Holmes for the Holidays," a story set in 1936 of a group of touring actors who gather for a Christmas eve party at the Connecticut home of the actor who plays Sherlock Holmes in their production.
On a side note, what is it with Connecticut and the holidays? You know, like that Barbara Stanwyck movie "Christmas in Connecticut," or "Holiday Inn," which also takes place in Connecticut? Discuss.
The ensemble of actors was incredibly strong - and really, what play with Scott Wichmann starring is ever anything but outstanding? - making for a fast-moving and hilarious story about the unexpected murder of a theater critic (prompting the question, does anyone really care if a critic is killed?) after dinner.
The ensuing comedy results from William Gillette, the actor who'd played Holmes, thinking his mother, played by the bombastic Catherine Shaffner, is the murderer. No one wants Mom to be the perp.
The manse group has long loved a good drawing room mystery, while I was seduced by the frequent quotations from Shakespeare woven into the dialog at every opportunity. Audra Honaker played the quirky police detective who shows up to investigate, although it turns out she also has an acting bent and wouldn't mind auditioning should the right role come up.
Acting! (insert raised arm)
It didn't hurt that the story was full of twists and turns so that by the time the inspector arrives, every person at the party is a suspect. Characters come and go from the drawing room, just missing each other, but constantly delivering witty dialog. First a closet then a hidden bar is used to store the corpse, which won't stay put and on the wall hangs a collection of murder weapons: guns, swords, axes, you name it, within easy reach. And don't get me started on the gorgeous period costumes,
The charm was that the wacky antics were pretty much non-stop until the very last moment when we found out who'd really put a knife in the critic's back (and right through that stunning red velvet dress of hers).
In a perfect world, we'd have left Hanover at 10:00 and gone out for a lovely post-theater dinner at a little bistro somewhere where we could all discuss the energetic romp and laugh-out-loud worthy dialog we'd just experienced, but that's not how Richmond works.
Instead, we were split up into separate discussion groups. I don't know about theirs, but ours may have gotten a little off topic.
Cause, baby, it's cold outside.
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
Heaven Knows
At our first meeting, my girl crush and I fell hard for each other.
Seated in the bow of a power boat (hers and her husband's) sipping pink bubbles while skimming the Corrotoman River, we bonded over age (ours, the same), the quest for true love (she'd succeeded in finding hers, I was still working on it) and having sex in their spacious outdoor shower (her, not me).
The date was August 11, 2014 and our admiration for each other was immediate and mutual.
By the time I got home from that weekend, she'd emailed me gushing, "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"
Sigh. A girl lives for that kind of romance.
In my efforts to see as much of her as I could, I managed two more visits back to their river cottage before that summer ended and a fabulous friendship was born.
Over the four summers since, I've spent many a day and night back at that river cottage so that she and I could talk, laugh, walk, drink, eat, talk, boat, jet-ski and lounge on the deck. Oh, yes, and talk. Finally, last year we had an a-ha moment when we realized we could also spend time together during the other seasons.
Translation: we didn't just want to be each other's summer fling.
When I introduced her and her handsome husband to Mr. Wright, they were not only thrilled for me but eager to spend more time as a foursome. We all enjoyed our summer get-togethers so much that we planned a big river weekend together in October, only to be thwarted when some hurricane or another knocked out power at both their Richmond and river houses.
But while our couple date hadn't worked out, you can only keep a couple of girl crushes apart for so long, so when she emailed me last week suggesting a catch-up dinner/girls' night out, I couldn't say yes fast enough.
Knowing your crush's preferences is essential, so when she assigned me the task of choosing the restaurant, I took into account her dislike of parallel parking. Suggesting Hob Nob because I'm a fan of their food, and guessing that she hadn't been there, I was pleasantly surprised when she responded, "Is that where the old Hermitage Grill was?"
Yes, it is. Turns out that Lakeside is part of her youth, a fact I hadn't known.
Arriving without reservations, we were surprised to find that every table except the sole occupied one was already reserved, so we settled in at the bar for dinner. Her beer and my Anjos Vinho Verde Rose had barely been placed in front of us when a server offered to seat us at the just-vacated table.
We certainly didn't mind since now we could look at each other.
With so much to talk about - it's been two and a half months, after all - we opted for the special of crab and shrimp spring rolls, a fine choice given the crispy golden wrapper that shattered with each bite and the crab-heavy filling.
A cheeseburger, Gouda grits and a Brussels sprout/bleu cheese/pomegranate seed salad fueled us through the next few hours as we dissected millennial anxiety, shared film recommendations and talked about what our menfolk have been up to.
Her man is as much a word nerd as I am - I know he's fond of lumbago, swale and gadabout, a term he's used to describe me once or twice - so I laughed hearing how he has "Dead Guy" listed as one of his phone contacts. Naturally, I also got the backstory on how he got to be "Dead Guy" in the first place, because there's always a good story with him.
He's also full of surprises, having recently suggested they go sailing...so she could see their new sailboat.
Seems he'd decided to sell the sailboat I'd been on with them for so many splendid adventures and upgrade to a new one. Like a proud parent, she pulled out her phone and showed me gorgeous photos of it, pointing out its handsome woodwork, sleek galley and sleeping quarters and new toilet (more important than you might think when pink bubbles are involved).
But she made sure that I knew that the main appeal for us girls is the flat bow, which she assured me would be easier for the two of us to maintain our balance on when we're sitting there chatting as the boat cuts through the water. Depending on the wind and the angle of the boat, we've had to do some serious bracing to stay upright while lounging under the mast.
When I reminded her that we could also not drink while we're up there, she gave me that look that made me crush on her from the beginning. "No, we can't!" she said emphatically.
They'd tried taking the boat out this past Sunday when temperatures had been forecast to warm up into the '60s, but between the cold river and warm air, it was so foggy they gave up. But the fog had other compensations, it seems. "Driving over the bridge, the clouds were so thick you couldn't see the river or the sky or anything except what was right in front of you," she told me dreamily. "It felt like being in heaven!"
Is it any wonder I love this woman?
Eventually we looked up to realize that every table and bar stool was now occupied, a fact neither of us had noticed happening. It didn't affect us, though, so we went on to share a slice of mint chocolate chip cake, its pale green buttercream frosting as sweet and rich as accidentally finding your girl crush at a crab feast.
But we're not idiots, so we also cooked up a plan for another couple date weekend to make up for being robbed of our October plans. It doesn't hurt that our mates have a bit of a man crush on each other, too.
Heaven is a weekend I get to spend with Mr. Wright, my favorite word nerd and my girl crush. But don't give me credit, I'm just doing as I was told.
Which is why, gadabout that I am, every time I can visit, I do.
Seated in the bow of a power boat (hers and her husband's) sipping pink bubbles while skimming the Corrotoman River, we bonded over age (ours, the same), the quest for true love (she'd succeeded in finding hers, I was still working on it) and having sex in their spacious outdoor shower (her, not me).
The date was August 11, 2014 and our admiration for each other was immediate and mutual.
By the time I got home from that weekend, she'd emailed me gushing, "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"
Sigh. A girl lives for that kind of romance.
In my efforts to see as much of her as I could, I managed two more visits back to their river cottage before that summer ended and a fabulous friendship was born.
Over the four summers since, I've spent many a day and night back at that river cottage so that she and I could talk, laugh, walk, drink, eat, talk, boat, jet-ski and lounge on the deck. Oh, yes, and talk. Finally, last year we had an a-ha moment when we realized we could also spend time together during the other seasons.
Translation: we didn't just want to be each other's summer fling.
When I introduced her and her handsome husband to Mr. Wright, they were not only thrilled for me but eager to spend more time as a foursome. We all enjoyed our summer get-togethers so much that we planned a big river weekend together in October, only to be thwarted when some hurricane or another knocked out power at both their Richmond and river houses.
But while our couple date hadn't worked out, you can only keep a couple of girl crushes apart for so long, so when she emailed me last week suggesting a catch-up dinner/girls' night out, I couldn't say yes fast enough.
Knowing your crush's preferences is essential, so when she assigned me the task of choosing the restaurant, I took into account her dislike of parallel parking. Suggesting Hob Nob because I'm a fan of their food, and guessing that she hadn't been there, I was pleasantly surprised when she responded, "Is that where the old Hermitage Grill was?"
Yes, it is. Turns out that Lakeside is part of her youth, a fact I hadn't known.
Arriving without reservations, we were surprised to find that every table except the sole occupied one was already reserved, so we settled in at the bar for dinner. Her beer and my Anjos Vinho Verde Rose had barely been placed in front of us when a server offered to seat us at the just-vacated table.
We certainly didn't mind since now we could look at each other.
With so much to talk about - it's been two and a half months, after all - we opted for the special of crab and shrimp spring rolls, a fine choice given the crispy golden wrapper that shattered with each bite and the crab-heavy filling.
A cheeseburger, Gouda grits and a Brussels sprout/bleu cheese/pomegranate seed salad fueled us through the next few hours as we dissected millennial anxiety, shared film recommendations and talked about what our menfolk have been up to.
Her man is as much a word nerd as I am - I know he's fond of lumbago, swale and gadabout, a term he's used to describe me once or twice - so I laughed hearing how he has "Dead Guy" listed as one of his phone contacts. Naturally, I also got the backstory on how he got to be "Dead Guy" in the first place, because there's always a good story with him.
He's also full of surprises, having recently suggested they go sailing...so she could see their new sailboat.
Seems he'd decided to sell the sailboat I'd been on with them for so many splendid adventures and upgrade to a new one. Like a proud parent, she pulled out her phone and showed me gorgeous photos of it, pointing out its handsome woodwork, sleek galley and sleeping quarters and new toilet (more important than you might think when pink bubbles are involved).
But she made sure that I knew that the main appeal for us girls is the flat bow, which she assured me would be easier for the two of us to maintain our balance on when we're sitting there chatting as the boat cuts through the water. Depending on the wind and the angle of the boat, we've had to do some serious bracing to stay upright while lounging under the mast.
When I reminded her that we could also not drink while we're up there, she gave me that look that made me crush on her from the beginning. "No, we can't!" she said emphatically.
They'd tried taking the boat out this past Sunday when temperatures had been forecast to warm up into the '60s, but between the cold river and warm air, it was so foggy they gave up. But the fog had other compensations, it seems. "Driving over the bridge, the clouds were so thick you couldn't see the river or the sky or anything except what was right in front of you," she told me dreamily. "It felt like being in heaven!"
Is it any wonder I love this woman?
Eventually we looked up to realize that every table and bar stool was now occupied, a fact neither of us had noticed happening. It didn't affect us, though, so we went on to share a slice of mint chocolate chip cake, its pale green buttercream frosting as sweet and rich as accidentally finding your girl crush at a crab feast.
But we're not idiots, so we also cooked up a plan for another couple date weekend to make up for being robbed of our October plans. It doesn't hurt that our mates have a bit of a man crush on each other, too.
Heaven is a weekend I get to spend with Mr. Wright, my favorite word nerd and my girl crush. But don't give me credit, I'm just doing as I was told.
Which is why, gadabout that I am, every time I can visit, I do.
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Blowin' in the Wind
Where was I when Dylan went electric? In elementary school.
By the time I was buying records and forging my own musical path, Dylan was passe, or at least in the junior high circles I moved in, he was. And while I could have circled back around at some point to acquaint myself with his extensive catalog, I never did.
Which is not to say I didn't come around to appreciating his songs, even (especially?) when sung by others, But I was definitely out of the Dylan loop. Years ago, I recall an older friend and massive Dylan fan telling me about a recent Dylan concert, notable because he'd played "Masters of War," which apparently was highly unusual up to that point.
Only problem was I had to go home and look up "Masters of War."
Eventually, I tried to correct my musical inadequacy by reading books such as his chronologically-challenged "Chronicles, Volume I," as well as David Hajdu's "Positively Fourth Street." I made sure to see "I'm Not There" and the iconic documentary "Don't Look Back" in an effort to glean more of Dylan's back pages.
See what I did there? If not, you may be as Dylan-deprived as me.
Still looking to learn, I jumped at the chance to go to Firehouse Theater to see local Americana/bluegrass band Whiskey Rebellion celebrating the music of Dylan.
The producing artistic director expressed surprise to see me there for something other than a play and a discussion of restaurants ensued. Next to me was a woman who'd seen the band before when they were doing an evening of Grateful Dead music. Waiting for the show to start, the guy behind me sang along loudly to Stone Temple Pilots, assuring those around him, "I'll stop singing when the band starts."
Instead he stopped when the director came out and said, "Hi. Happy December and happy Hanukkah!" No candle was lit, however.
The show officially began when the singer/guitarist and upright bass player took the stage and launched into "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright," a song I knew from the Peter, Paul and Mary version.
Please don't judge.
As we applauded that, the remainder of the band came out: violinist, keyboard player, drummer and banjo player and began a song I didn't recognize. But I was okay with that because I went into this knowing that I likely wouldn't be able to identify every song.
Luckily, I immediately recognized "Forever Young," delivered after the singer explained how exciting it had been to select from so many Dylan songs and spend the Fall learning them. And even a Dylan neophyte like me knew "Like a Rolling Stone" from the first measure.
I mean, I'm not a complete idiot.
"Dylan was such an inspirational songwriter," the singer said, pointing out that with guitarists, later generations built on what guitarists accomplished in the '60s and '70s. "But it never got better than Dylan's songwriting. He was untouchable as a songwriter."
Even I knew this. After all, isn't that how he wound up with the Pulitzer prize?
He went on to posit on Dylan's inscrutability and how his songs could be taken literally or how a person could think he was somehow writing about their own life. He seemed to think the latter was the case with "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue."
After a swig of his Miller beer for his scratchy throat, the singer joked that he need it because, "Dylan had that clear crisp timbre, right?" and the audience (95% of whom could have told you where they were the day JFK was assassinated) laughed.
"Then you need a shot of bourbon for that!" a guy near me suggested.
His revived voice was for "Meet Me in the Morning," a song I didn't know, followed by the spot-on "Political World."
We live in a political world
Courage is a thing of the past
Houses are haunted
Children unwanted
The next day could be your last
After their powerful rendition of the song, the singer looked at the audience and said seriously, "True story," causing a guy down in front to holler out, "Good stuff!"
It was, too. All six musicians were strong players clearly enjoying the chance to get their Dylan on, although if I was in elementary school, they weren't even a gleam in their Daddy's eye when Dylan went electric.
"Knockin' on Heaven's Door" got the full-on treatment with a heartbreaking violin part and a reminder to the crowd that it had been written for the film "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid." And while I may have known that at some point, it had long since slipped from my mental Rolodex.
No one should be surprised that I knew "It Ain't Me, Babe" from the Turtles' version, but who knew what a banjo and brushes on the drums could add to it?
Saying that the band needed to get "refilled and tuned up" meant that intermission was imminent and the singer used the opportunity to test our Dylan knowledge. "Everybody must take a break," he announced with an expectant look on his face.
Doesn't quite have the ring of the original lyric, now does it?
They closed the first set with "All Along the Watchtower," which turned out to be the ideal song for shredding on banjo, guitar, violin and keys while the rhythm section held it all down.
I can't even tell you how much more fully Dylan-qualified I felt during intermission.
Around me, I listened as two blond women discussed the benefits of Alexa and two middle-aged men discovered that they'd been at the same high school football game in 1974. I kid you not, they even recalled a short player who could run like hell, though neither remembered the guy's name.
"Ten minutes, that's all it takes in this town to find your connection," one said to the other. If not for the lights going down, I would have turned to him and challenged that theory. Sir, you could talk to me all night and I can guarantee you won't find a connection.
Whiskey Rebellion's second set was all original music and their stellar playing meant that even unfamiliar songs were a pleasure to hear, though as the singer reminded us, these were not Dylan songs because Dylan is at the top of the songwriting pyramid.
An evening of untouchable songs meant that I got a refresher course tonight and even a little inspiration to go deeper, maybe at my next record-listening party. It's never too late to up your Dylan quotient.
I may be late getting on the Dylan train, but only because I didn't know better.
Ah, but I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now.
By the time I was buying records and forging my own musical path, Dylan was passe, or at least in the junior high circles I moved in, he was. And while I could have circled back around at some point to acquaint myself with his extensive catalog, I never did.
Which is not to say I didn't come around to appreciating his songs, even (especially?) when sung by others, But I was definitely out of the Dylan loop. Years ago, I recall an older friend and massive Dylan fan telling me about a recent Dylan concert, notable because he'd played "Masters of War," which apparently was highly unusual up to that point.
Only problem was I had to go home and look up "Masters of War."
Eventually, I tried to correct my musical inadequacy by reading books such as his chronologically-challenged "Chronicles, Volume I," as well as David Hajdu's "Positively Fourth Street." I made sure to see "I'm Not There" and the iconic documentary "Don't Look Back" in an effort to glean more of Dylan's back pages.
See what I did there? If not, you may be as Dylan-deprived as me.
Still looking to learn, I jumped at the chance to go to Firehouse Theater to see local Americana/bluegrass band Whiskey Rebellion celebrating the music of Dylan.
The producing artistic director expressed surprise to see me there for something other than a play and a discussion of restaurants ensued. Next to me was a woman who'd seen the band before when they were doing an evening of Grateful Dead music. Waiting for the show to start, the guy behind me sang along loudly to Stone Temple Pilots, assuring those around him, "I'll stop singing when the band starts."
Instead he stopped when the director came out and said, "Hi. Happy December and happy Hanukkah!" No candle was lit, however.
The show officially began when the singer/guitarist and upright bass player took the stage and launched into "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright," a song I knew from the Peter, Paul and Mary version.
Please don't judge.
As we applauded that, the remainder of the band came out: violinist, keyboard player, drummer and banjo player and began a song I didn't recognize. But I was okay with that because I went into this knowing that I likely wouldn't be able to identify every song.
Luckily, I immediately recognized "Forever Young," delivered after the singer explained how exciting it had been to select from so many Dylan songs and spend the Fall learning them. And even a Dylan neophyte like me knew "Like a Rolling Stone" from the first measure.
I mean, I'm not a complete idiot.
"Dylan was such an inspirational songwriter," the singer said, pointing out that with guitarists, later generations built on what guitarists accomplished in the '60s and '70s. "But it never got better than Dylan's songwriting. He was untouchable as a songwriter."
Even I knew this. After all, isn't that how he wound up with the Pulitzer prize?
He went on to posit on Dylan's inscrutability and how his songs could be taken literally or how a person could think he was somehow writing about their own life. He seemed to think the latter was the case with "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue."
After a swig of his Miller beer for his scratchy throat, the singer joked that he need it because, "Dylan had that clear crisp timbre, right?" and the audience (95% of whom could have told you where they were the day JFK was assassinated) laughed.
"Then you need a shot of bourbon for that!" a guy near me suggested.
His revived voice was for "Meet Me in the Morning," a song I didn't know, followed by the spot-on "Political World."
We live in a political world
Courage is a thing of the past
Houses are haunted
Children unwanted
The next day could be your last
After their powerful rendition of the song, the singer looked at the audience and said seriously, "True story," causing a guy down in front to holler out, "Good stuff!"
It was, too. All six musicians were strong players clearly enjoying the chance to get their Dylan on, although if I was in elementary school, they weren't even a gleam in their Daddy's eye when Dylan went electric.
"Knockin' on Heaven's Door" got the full-on treatment with a heartbreaking violin part and a reminder to the crowd that it had been written for the film "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid." And while I may have known that at some point, it had long since slipped from my mental Rolodex.
No one should be surprised that I knew "It Ain't Me, Babe" from the Turtles' version, but who knew what a banjo and brushes on the drums could add to it?
Saying that the band needed to get "refilled and tuned up" meant that intermission was imminent and the singer used the opportunity to test our Dylan knowledge. "Everybody must take a break," he announced with an expectant look on his face.
Doesn't quite have the ring of the original lyric, now does it?
They closed the first set with "All Along the Watchtower," which turned out to be the ideal song for shredding on banjo, guitar, violin and keys while the rhythm section held it all down.
I can't even tell you how much more fully Dylan-qualified I felt during intermission.
Around me, I listened as two blond women discussed the benefits of Alexa and two middle-aged men discovered that they'd been at the same high school football game in 1974. I kid you not, they even recalled a short player who could run like hell, though neither remembered the guy's name.
"Ten minutes, that's all it takes in this town to find your connection," one said to the other. If not for the lights going down, I would have turned to him and challenged that theory. Sir, you could talk to me all night and I can guarantee you won't find a connection.
Whiskey Rebellion's second set was all original music and their stellar playing meant that even unfamiliar songs were a pleasure to hear, though as the singer reminded us, these were not Dylan songs because Dylan is at the top of the songwriting pyramid.
An evening of untouchable songs meant that I got a refresher course tonight and even a little inspiration to go deeper, maybe at my next record-listening party. It's never too late to up your Dylan quotient.
I may be late getting on the Dylan train, but only because I didn't know better.
Ah, but I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now.
Monday, December 3, 2018
Paying Attention or Not
As of this month, Playboy magazine is celebrating its 65th anniversary.
From that first issue with Marilyn Monroe on the cover through decades of iconic sex symbols and insignificant tarts, the "Magazine for Men" has managed to weather everything from abandoning full frontal nudes and then returning to them to its first transgender Playmate. And still, it persists.
If you want the truth, I was a dedicated reader of Playboy for years.
Look, as a female, I was never into airbrushed pictures of 20-year old twinkies in their birthday suits. But my Dad always had a subscription when I was young and after the initial titillation of naked girls in a magazine I could access wore off, I grasped the broader appeal.
Playboy showcased some damn fine writing, both current and past. All those cliched jokes about "I read it for the articles?" This non-airbrushed woman really did. Not going to lie, I could ignore the nudes for the sake of a good read.
I was that woman who would gift my boyfriends with subscriptions to ensure I had access to the writing. No, really. Before we called it that, that was a win/win.
So you can imagine my complete delight recently when, while having a record-listening party at Holmes' house, I spotted a copy of the March 1980 Playboy - all 264 pages of it! - on his bar.
I knew from conversation that he had an extensive collection of back issues, but I also knew they were buried in a basement room along with scores of vintage comic books, copies of Mad magazine and god knows what else.
Flipping through, I was bowled over by the width and breadth of what was considered Playboy-worthy circa 1980. In fact, it was too much to take in all at once, much less while vintage albums were playing, so I asked to check it out of the basement library, with a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise to return it intact.
What constituted Playboy 38 years ago? Popular culture, for one thing. The cover features Bo Derek in a fringed leather bikini and touts, "Bo Derek, the "10" girl in a sensational nude pictorial." What struck me about her body was not its sexiness, but the sheer athleticism of it.
Inside, the '80s announced themselves with tableaux such as a Ronrico Rum ad with a slender but not ripped guy in a black Speedo on a sailboat, his girlfriend on tiptoe while he masterfully adjusts the sail while kissing her.
Tucked into "Playboy After Dark" was a small feature called "Checking In," which amounted to a brief interview with 29-year old Tom Waites. Asked what he thinks he'll be like as an old man, Waites responds, "I'll probably be your real irritable son of a bitch."
What 29-year old musician could we interview now and still care about in 2050? Far too few, I'd wager.
I'm gratified to read a review of the newest Eagles album, "The Long Run," which Playboy describes as "like a press release from the ontology department of the California Institute for the Mellow" with cuts that describe "that vapid kind of angst, that vague existential discomfort southern Californians are prone to contract. Bimbo starlets, power-crazed moguls, urban cowboys all dressed up with nowhere to go -- haven't we had enough of all that already?"
If the reviewer thinks the world had had enough of that peaceful, easy crap in 1980, imagine how some of us feel now, after 38 additional years of listening to them whine.
Always one of the strengths of Playboy was its extended interview (devoted readers like me salivated over the generous page counts assigned to its interviewers) and if any one subject sealed my devotion to the format, it was the 1976 interview with Jimmy Carter. And not particularly for the "lust in my heart" thread, but the fact that a man running for President saw the value in sitting down for Playboy magazine.
This was truly a new world order.
But this issue's interview was with quarterback Terry Bradshaw, described as wearing white elephant skin boots with the number twelve on them (made out of the bellies of a lot of little lizards), a nod to his jersey number, or maybe just his over-sized ego.
The intro says Bradshaw "makes about a quarter of a million dollars a year for throwing a football very straight and very hard." That $250,000 seemed outlandish in 1980 seems downright quaint now.
Throughout the magazine, I spot ads for all the brands my audiophile guy friends worshiped in 1980: Audiovox, Sony Audio, AR, Pioneer and Bose. The only ads more plentiful are for cigarettes and booze, both of which seemed to require a mustache.
As for the obligatory nude spreads, some are laughable, such as "Welcome Back, Haller," showing the only female "sweathog" from "Welcome Back, Kotter" reminiscing how her erect nipples drove the show's censors crazy. Poor little thing, they made her wear a padded bra to cover them.
Others give me pause. Henriette, the southern centerfold, admits that her ambition is to be a yoga teacher, her favorite drink is ice cold lemonade and her fave authors are Ray Bradbury and John G. Neihardt.
In case you aren't as well read as a 26-year old in 1980, Neihardt was Nebraska's Poet Laureate for 52 years and his masterpiece is considered to be "Black Elk Speaks," told in the voice of a Lakota medicine man.
But what impressed me most was the sheer talent on display throughout.
Here's a new Shel Silverstein poem "Uncle Don, Who Read Us the Sunday Funnies on the Radio." Further back, there's a two-page comic drawing by Silverstein called "And He Has Never Been Heard From Since" that involves a tiny, hatted, naked man who seems to be crawling into a woman's nether region, only reaching back out to grab his hat.
To be clear, that's four pages, two different features, devoted to Silverstein's work. Astounding.
Over here is an entire page called "The Cockeyed Muse- a little treasury of comic verse, some intended, some not" and inconceivable in anything but a literary journal today. Along with two in-house illustrations and a fair amount of white space are pieces by - wait for it - Emily Dickinson and John Keats, among others.
Yes, in Playboy.
Leroy Neiman's Sketchbook shows extraordinary renderings of Charles Mingus, done in Chicago in the late '50s, in NYC clubs in the late '60s and early '70s and finally, confined to a wheelchair during the Newport Jazz festival in 1978, essentially telling the story of one artist documenting another.
And, of course, Playboy was always staying current on the political scene with pieces like "The Canny Conservatism of John Connally" about the then-presidential candidate who'd been governor of Texas and in the car with JFK in Dallas that fateful day in 1963. Who even recalled he was in the running for the White House?
Culled from the Ayatollah Khomeini's writings (while in exile in Paris) about proper behavior for Shi'ite Muslims, "Rules to Live By" covers everything from how to urinate and defecate to relations between humans and animals. After decreeing that, "A woman can not have any sort of sexual relations with an animal; that is reserved for men alone," he further clarifies with acceptable species: dogs, cats, pigeons, donkeys and lambs.
Pigeons?
Since you may not have access to this particular issue of Playboy, allow me to also share with you that he's firm on one thing. After having sexual relations with a lamb, it's a mortal sin to eat its flesh.
Sex or chops, you have to choose.
Another fascinating piece, "Who'd Profit from Legal Marijuana?" breaks down just whose grass would be greener if it were made legal, a topic still being worked through today. Witness:
"It's only a matter of time before Uncle Sam will want to cut himself in on a booming business that seems destined for greater growth. And forgetting for a moment the alleged moral and psychological ramifications of legalized marijuana, a Federal scheme that would generate considerable tax revenue, impose rigid controls and take the paranoia out of pot seem to make solid social and economic sense."
"Tomorrow's News Today" offers up some predictions from the director of the Central Premonition Registry, including one that predicts, "The next president will be shot in 1981." You read it first in Playboy, folks. The question is whether or not Reagan did.
And at the back of the book is "Grapevine," the ragtag two page-spread of inappropriate black and white photographs, assembled as reward for those who make it to page 258.
Here's Tim Curry posing, arms outstretched, astride a huge stone eagle and Andrew Young practically sticking his thumb up his nose, but it's a photograph of Iggy Pop, penis in hand at a Detroit show, coming 93 pages after Keats that best sums up the state of the union as Playboy saw it in March 1980.
Back then, a magazine that could swing from Derek to Dickinson was entertainment for all, not just men. The shame was that the parts I so looked forward to - literary, cartoons, interviews - moved to the back burner as articles about foot fetishes, the value of the quickie and viral sensations began to fill its pages.
Wherever he was, Shel Silverstein was softly weeping at the changes.
So while my interest waned long ago, enough people are apparently still reading (or gawking at) it to justify Playboy making it to their 65th anniversary, even if you can be damn sure there's no more white space.
Forgive me if I sound like a real irritable son of a bitch. Fact is, 38 more years of the Eagles would do it to anybody.
Enough already.
From that first issue with Marilyn Monroe on the cover through decades of iconic sex symbols and insignificant tarts, the "Magazine for Men" has managed to weather everything from abandoning full frontal nudes and then returning to them to its first transgender Playmate. And still, it persists.
If you want the truth, I was a dedicated reader of Playboy for years.
Look, as a female, I was never into airbrushed pictures of 20-year old twinkies in their birthday suits. But my Dad always had a subscription when I was young and after the initial titillation of naked girls in a magazine I could access wore off, I grasped the broader appeal.
Playboy showcased some damn fine writing, both current and past. All those cliched jokes about "I read it for the articles?" This non-airbrushed woman really did. Not going to lie, I could ignore the nudes for the sake of a good read.
I was that woman who would gift my boyfriends with subscriptions to ensure I had access to the writing. No, really. Before we called it that, that was a win/win.
So you can imagine my complete delight recently when, while having a record-listening party at Holmes' house, I spotted a copy of the March 1980 Playboy - all 264 pages of it! - on his bar.
I knew from conversation that he had an extensive collection of back issues, but I also knew they were buried in a basement room along with scores of vintage comic books, copies of Mad magazine and god knows what else.
Flipping through, I was bowled over by the width and breadth of what was considered Playboy-worthy circa 1980. In fact, it was too much to take in all at once, much less while vintage albums were playing, so I asked to check it out of the basement library, with a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise to return it intact.
What constituted Playboy 38 years ago? Popular culture, for one thing. The cover features Bo Derek in a fringed leather bikini and touts, "Bo Derek, the "10" girl in a sensational nude pictorial." What struck me about her body was not its sexiness, but the sheer athleticism of it.
Inside, the '80s announced themselves with tableaux such as a Ronrico Rum ad with a slender but not ripped guy in a black Speedo on a sailboat, his girlfriend on tiptoe while he masterfully adjusts the sail while kissing her.
Tucked into "Playboy After Dark" was a small feature called "Checking In," which amounted to a brief interview with 29-year old Tom Waites. Asked what he thinks he'll be like as an old man, Waites responds, "I'll probably be your real irritable son of a bitch."
What 29-year old musician could we interview now and still care about in 2050? Far too few, I'd wager.
I'm gratified to read a review of the newest Eagles album, "The Long Run," which Playboy describes as "like a press release from the ontology department of the California Institute for the Mellow" with cuts that describe "that vapid kind of angst, that vague existential discomfort southern Californians are prone to contract. Bimbo starlets, power-crazed moguls, urban cowboys all dressed up with nowhere to go -- haven't we had enough of all that already?"
If the reviewer thinks the world had had enough of that peaceful, easy crap in 1980, imagine how some of us feel now, after 38 additional years of listening to them whine.
Always one of the strengths of Playboy was its extended interview (devoted readers like me salivated over the generous page counts assigned to its interviewers) and if any one subject sealed my devotion to the format, it was the 1976 interview with Jimmy Carter. And not particularly for the "lust in my heart" thread, but the fact that a man running for President saw the value in sitting down for Playboy magazine.
This was truly a new world order.
But this issue's interview was with quarterback Terry Bradshaw, described as wearing white elephant skin boots with the number twelve on them (made out of the bellies of a lot of little lizards), a nod to his jersey number, or maybe just his over-sized ego.
The intro says Bradshaw "makes about a quarter of a million dollars a year for throwing a football very straight and very hard." That $250,000 seemed outlandish in 1980 seems downright quaint now.
Throughout the magazine, I spot ads for all the brands my audiophile guy friends worshiped in 1980: Audiovox, Sony Audio, AR, Pioneer and Bose. The only ads more plentiful are for cigarettes and booze, both of which seemed to require a mustache.
As for the obligatory nude spreads, some are laughable, such as "Welcome Back, Haller," showing the only female "sweathog" from "Welcome Back, Kotter" reminiscing how her erect nipples drove the show's censors crazy. Poor little thing, they made her wear a padded bra to cover them.
Others give me pause. Henriette, the southern centerfold, admits that her ambition is to be a yoga teacher, her favorite drink is ice cold lemonade and her fave authors are Ray Bradbury and John G. Neihardt.
In case you aren't as well read as a 26-year old in 1980, Neihardt was Nebraska's Poet Laureate for 52 years and his masterpiece is considered to be "Black Elk Speaks," told in the voice of a Lakota medicine man.
But what impressed me most was the sheer talent on display throughout.
Here's a new Shel Silverstein poem "Uncle Don, Who Read Us the Sunday Funnies on the Radio." Further back, there's a two-page comic drawing by Silverstein called "And He Has Never Been Heard From Since" that involves a tiny, hatted, naked man who seems to be crawling into a woman's nether region, only reaching back out to grab his hat.
To be clear, that's four pages, two different features, devoted to Silverstein's work. Astounding.
Over here is an entire page called "The Cockeyed Muse- a little treasury of comic verse, some intended, some not" and inconceivable in anything but a literary journal today. Along with two in-house illustrations and a fair amount of white space are pieces by - wait for it - Emily Dickinson and John Keats, among others.
Yes, in Playboy.
Leroy Neiman's Sketchbook shows extraordinary renderings of Charles Mingus, done in Chicago in the late '50s, in NYC clubs in the late '60s and early '70s and finally, confined to a wheelchair during the Newport Jazz festival in 1978, essentially telling the story of one artist documenting another.
And, of course, Playboy was always staying current on the political scene with pieces like "The Canny Conservatism of John Connally" about the then-presidential candidate who'd been governor of Texas and in the car with JFK in Dallas that fateful day in 1963. Who even recalled he was in the running for the White House?
Culled from the Ayatollah Khomeini's writings (while in exile in Paris) about proper behavior for Shi'ite Muslims, "Rules to Live By" covers everything from how to urinate and defecate to relations between humans and animals. After decreeing that, "A woman can not have any sort of sexual relations with an animal; that is reserved for men alone," he further clarifies with acceptable species: dogs, cats, pigeons, donkeys and lambs.
Pigeons?
Since you may not have access to this particular issue of Playboy, allow me to also share with you that he's firm on one thing. After having sexual relations with a lamb, it's a mortal sin to eat its flesh.
Sex or chops, you have to choose.
Another fascinating piece, "Who'd Profit from Legal Marijuana?" breaks down just whose grass would be greener if it were made legal, a topic still being worked through today. Witness:
"It's only a matter of time before Uncle Sam will want to cut himself in on a booming business that seems destined for greater growth. And forgetting for a moment the alleged moral and psychological ramifications of legalized marijuana, a Federal scheme that would generate considerable tax revenue, impose rigid controls and take the paranoia out of pot seem to make solid social and economic sense."
"Tomorrow's News Today" offers up some predictions from the director of the Central Premonition Registry, including one that predicts, "The next president will be shot in 1981." You read it first in Playboy, folks. The question is whether or not Reagan did.
And at the back of the book is "Grapevine," the ragtag two page-spread of inappropriate black and white photographs, assembled as reward for those who make it to page 258.
Here's Tim Curry posing, arms outstretched, astride a huge stone eagle and Andrew Young practically sticking his thumb up his nose, but it's a photograph of Iggy Pop, penis in hand at a Detroit show, coming 93 pages after Keats that best sums up the state of the union as Playboy saw it in March 1980.
Back then, a magazine that could swing from Derek to Dickinson was entertainment for all, not just men. The shame was that the parts I so looked forward to - literary, cartoons, interviews - moved to the back burner as articles about foot fetishes, the value of the quickie and viral sensations began to fill its pages.
Wherever he was, Shel Silverstein was softly weeping at the changes.
So while my interest waned long ago, enough people are apparently still reading (or gawking at) it to justify Playboy making it to their 65th anniversary, even if you can be damn sure there's no more white space.
Forgive me if I sound like a real irritable son of a bitch. Fact is, 38 more years of the Eagles would do it to anybody.
Enough already.
Sunday, December 2, 2018
Stick to the Script
This is a tale of two movies.
Despite zero interest on my part, two of my favorite people wanted to spend perfectly good money to see "A Star is Born" Friday night. Putting love and friendship ahead of losing two hours and fifteen minutes of my life that I could never get back, I went.
And I didn't even get popcorn, because I'd just scarfed one of Giustino's Bianca pizzas, so I didn't even have butter to console me.
I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Mac and Mr. Wright were counting on the film to prove wrong my Negative Nancy prognostications about a remake of a remake of a 1937 movie. And while I've never seen the original, I have seen versions one and two and had no real need for a 21st century version.
As for why, I've got reasons. Of course I do.
I'd only seen Bradley Cooper in one movie ("Burnt") and while he was attractive enough, nothing about his acting said I needed to see him in another. Something about seeing a former alcoholic play an alcoholic was distasteful to me. And while I can appreciate a first time director as much as anyone, I think it takes a lot of hubris for someone to wear both the hats of first time director and leading man.
If that wasn't sufficient, I was equally unimpressed with the choice of Lady Gaga as his costar and not just because I haven't heard any of her songs. Both versions two and three of "A Star is Born" benefited from casting a double threat - actress/singers Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand - so what on earth made Cooper think that casting a singer who hadn't acted made sense?
But despite all my reservations, I went along for one simple reason. If I saw it and hated it, I'd have full justification for trash-talking it, whereas if not, my opinion was based solely on what I'd read and a gut feeling.
Ding, ding, ding, I have my justification in spades.
Plus now I can also speak to other weaknesses: characters with no chemistry, a film that checked the millennial buttons without actually aiding the story, a weak screenplay and some bad directorial calls. Somebody needed to call "Cut!" on some of Bradley's scenes and clearly he wasn't going to do it.
And while the people in the row next to us were sniffing and sobbing by the end, knowing the story and its tragic conclusion meant I didn't have to worry about that.
Best of all, Mr. Wright and Mac didn't hold back once we exited the theater, neither one too proud to admit that it was a disappointment. Mac did allow that she could look at Bradley's bare chest all night long and that Gaga had done a fine job with singing, but not much more.
Except for the hours of my life lost, it was the best possible outcome I could have hoped for.
Now, tonight, that was a whole different ball of wax.
Back in September, I'd bought a ticket for the Afrikana Film Festival's screening of "Sorry to Bother You," but then the threat of Hurricane Florence had canceled the festival. By the time it got rescheduled for this weekend, tickets had sold out, so I went solo to the Grace Street Theater.
Which didn't mean I didn't run into plenty of familiar faces - the retired VMFA pro, the DJ spinning records, the former gallerist, the diversity specialist, a former Floyd Avenue neighbor - as well as being introduced to the couple next to me, film buffs who knew nothing of the VCU Cinemateque series (though I made sure they do now).
Musician and activist-turned first time director Boots Riley came out to introduce his comedy/fantasy/sci-fi film "Sorry To Bother You," a film about the dangers of capitalist exploitation that I'd missed when it played in local theaters. Lauded by critics for its ambition, scathing humor and originality, it nailed the crazy times we live in.
"If you had told me back then that it would take seven years to make this film, it wouldn't have gotten made," he announced from the stage. He also shared that all the actors, including Danny Glover and Armie Hammer, as well as Patton Oswald and David Cross in voice roles, worked for scale because they believed in the project.
Also, P.S. Bradley, Boots wasn't foolish enough to star in the film he was directing.
Interestingly enough, the black comedy had originally had a line about "making America great again," a line he'd had to edit out once the Groper-in-Chief hijacked our country and made it his motto. So while the dystopian tale was written before he began dismantling the country, its ferocious satire felt pulled from the pages of the Washington Post I'd brought to read before the film began.
The story of a lowly black telemarketer in Oakland whose life changes when he's advised by a more seasoned employee to use his "white voice" on the phone, it was one of those films where you had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next. It would have been tough to foresee a plot line about a company that offered people lifetime labor contracts in exchange for room, board and medical care.
Oh, wait, didn't we used to call that slavery?
When the movie ended jarringly, the audience gasped and groaned in surprise, only to be fooled because there was an addendum that changed everything at the very last second. It was impossible not be impressed with how many difficult subjects Boots had tackled in his first film or how thoughtfully he answered questions during the Q & A period with the audience.
All I can say is, kudos to Afrikana Film festival for gathering a full house of black, white and brown people to watch a film that allowed us look at the state of race in our country while laughing at its absurdity.
If you'd told me that I'd swing from soul-crushing mediocrity to trail-blazing capitalistic commentary on film in 24 hours, I might have asked to skip the former.
But where's the satisfaction in that?
Despite zero interest on my part, two of my favorite people wanted to spend perfectly good money to see "A Star is Born" Friday night. Putting love and friendship ahead of losing two hours and fifteen minutes of my life that I could never get back, I went.
And I didn't even get popcorn, because I'd just scarfed one of Giustino's Bianca pizzas, so I didn't even have butter to console me.
I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Mac and Mr. Wright were counting on the film to prove wrong my Negative Nancy prognostications about a remake of a remake of a 1937 movie. And while I've never seen the original, I have seen versions one and two and had no real need for a 21st century version.
As for why, I've got reasons. Of course I do.
I'd only seen Bradley Cooper in one movie ("Burnt") and while he was attractive enough, nothing about his acting said I needed to see him in another. Something about seeing a former alcoholic play an alcoholic was distasteful to me. And while I can appreciate a first time director as much as anyone, I think it takes a lot of hubris for someone to wear both the hats of first time director and leading man.
If that wasn't sufficient, I was equally unimpressed with the choice of Lady Gaga as his costar and not just because I haven't heard any of her songs. Both versions two and three of "A Star is Born" benefited from casting a double threat - actress/singers Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand - so what on earth made Cooper think that casting a singer who hadn't acted made sense?
But despite all my reservations, I went along for one simple reason. If I saw it and hated it, I'd have full justification for trash-talking it, whereas if not, my opinion was based solely on what I'd read and a gut feeling.
Ding, ding, ding, I have my justification in spades.
Plus now I can also speak to other weaknesses: characters with no chemistry, a film that checked the millennial buttons without actually aiding the story, a weak screenplay and some bad directorial calls. Somebody needed to call "Cut!" on some of Bradley's scenes and clearly he wasn't going to do it.
And while the people in the row next to us were sniffing and sobbing by the end, knowing the story and its tragic conclusion meant I didn't have to worry about that.
Best of all, Mr. Wright and Mac didn't hold back once we exited the theater, neither one too proud to admit that it was a disappointment. Mac did allow that she could look at Bradley's bare chest all night long and that Gaga had done a fine job with singing, but not much more.
Except for the hours of my life lost, it was the best possible outcome I could have hoped for.
Now, tonight, that was a whole different ball of wax.
Back in September, I'd bought a ticket for the Afrikana Film Festival's screening of "Sorry to Bother You," but then the threat of Hurricane Florence had canceled the festival. By the time it got rescheduled for this weekend, tickets had sold out, so I went solo to the Grace Street Theater.
Which didn't mean I didn't run into plenty of familiar faces - the retired VMFA pro, the DJ spinning records, the former gallerist, the diversity specialist, a former Floyd Avenue neighbor - as well as being introduced to the couple next to me, film buffs who knew nothing of the VCU Cinemateque series (though I made sure they do now).
Musician and activist-turned first time director Boots Riley came out to introduce his comedy/fantasy/sci-fi film "Sorry To Bother You," a film about the dangers of capitalist exploitation that I'd missed when it played in local theaters. Lauded by critics for its ambition, scathing humor and originality, it nailed the crazy times we live in.
"If you had told me back then that it would take seven years to make this film, it wouldn't have gotten made," he announced from the stage. He also shared that all the actors, including Danny Glover and Armie Hammer, as well as Patton Oswald and David Cross in voice roles, worked for scale because they believed in the project.
Also, P.S. Bradley, Boots wasn't foolish enough to star in the film he was directing.
Interestingly enough, the black comedy had originally had a line about "making America great again," a line he'd had to edit out once the Groper-in-Chief hijacked our country and made it his motto. So while the dystopian tale was written before he began dismantling the country, its ferocious satire felt pulled from the pages of the Washington Post I'd brought to read before the film began.
The story of a lowly black telemarketer in Oakland whose life changes when he's advised by a more seasoned employee to use his "white voice" on the phone, it was one of those films where you had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next. It would have been tough to foresee a plot line about a company that offered people lifetime labor contracts in exchange for room, board and medical care.
Oh, wait, didn't we used to call that slavery?
When the movie ended jarringly, the audience gasped and groaned in surprise, only to be fooled because there was an addendum that changed everything at the very last second. It was impossible not be impressed with how many difficult subjects Boots had tackled in his first film or how thoughtfully he answered questions during the Q & A period with the audience.
All I can say is, kudos to Afrikana Film festival for gathering a full house of black, white and brown people to watch a film that allowed us look at the state of race in our country while laughing at its absurdity.
If you'd told me that I'd swing from soul-crushing mediocrity to trail-blazing capitalistic commentary on film in 24 hours, I might have asked to skip the former.
But where's the satisfaction in that?
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Black and White
For the third time this week, I was up by 8 a.m.
I'm not thrilled about that, but Lady G was picking me up at 9:12 (her suggestion), which actually turned out to be 9:38, but who's keeping track? A last minute plan hatched to put us in Washington in time for two exhibits and lunch meant we needed to be on the road early-ish.
The things I do for art.
An hour and 45 minutes later (it's best if I don't look at the speedometer when G's driving), we were pulling into a prime parking space in a sunny spot on Constitution Avenue, feeling pretty smug about our luck.
I'd barely uttered the words "I'm so happy to be here" to the world at large before discovering that the parking payment station was malfunctioning, an inconvenience that sapped the next 20 minutes between downloading the parking app and speaking to a customer service representative who asked G everything from her gender to her mother's maiden name.
More than once, she muttered, "I'm not comfortable giving these people all this information."
Had I been there alone, I'd have been out of luck since a phone is apparently a requirement now to park. Don't get me started.
Walking the half block to the museum, we were soon stopped by two lost-looking women who sized us up and asked, "Excuse me, you're from here, aren't you? Where's the Museum of Natural History?" You never saw two natives beam like G and I did from being identified correctly and sent them on their way.
Once inside the National Gallery of Art, our heavy coats left behind at the coat check, we made the requisite first stop, causing G to observe, "Wow, of all the bathrooms I've been to here, I've never been in this one."
Some women never forget their loos.
The primary reason for the trip was to see "Corot: Women," a show neither of us could resist since the artist is known for landscapes, not figure painting. Seems he'd take occasional breaks from lucrative landscape painting gigs to paint models dressed up in prop clothes in his studio, notable because he didn't idealize them.
And why would he? He didn't idealize landscapes.
What was extraordinary about his paintings of women was how he set out to capture the mood of his models more than their garb or as a way of telling a story. Whether introspective, brooding, aloof or sad, the models' full-on gaze back at the artist flouted contemporary expectations of what femininity was.
These women had opinions and feelings and weren't afraid to show them even when they were being captured for posterity. Our kind of women.
"Melancholy," a figure of a woman with her cheek resting in her hand, her left sleeve having fallen off her shoulder, set the tone for the rest of the show. Corot had meticulously captured the woman's face in great detail - everyone in town had to have known who she was - but her body and voluminous white gown were depicted in such loose brushwork that the painting almost looked unfinished.
And here's where I had a teachable moment by reading the signage. Apparently Albrecht Durer had done an engraving of a woman in the same pose back in the 16th century and ever since, pensive cheek in hand poses were shorthand for melancholy.
This was news to me.
Just as fascinating was how Corot made a point to keep various props and furnishings in his studio, including an easel with a Corot landscape on it. Most of the paintings had interiors showing Corot paintings hanging on the walls behind the figures. Three of the paintings depicted the same woman in his studio, one hand on a Corot landscape, the other holding a mandolin.
It was Corot paints Corot paints Corot, a hall of mirrors effect that undoubtedly fed the artist's ego.
Then there was "Woman in a Yellow Sleeve," notable because the signage explained the painting's provenance: "Accepted in lieu of inheritance tax by HM Government from the estate of Lucian Freud and allocated to the National Gallery of London." All I could think was, wow, that must have been a helluva lot of money Sigmund's grandson owed the Queen.
"Lady in Blue" was distinctively different than the exhibition's other paintings because rather than a model in prop costumes, it showed a lovely young woman in an expensive and deeply ruffled blue dress, one plump arm crooked to draw the eye to her face. Because the painting showed her bare-armed without her dress jacket (shocking!), it had an intimate and erotic charge to it.
It also showed the clear influence of Manet in the black-tinged blue gown. Nobody has as much black undertones in their colors as Manet.
Just as good were his nudes, which he'd taken up solely to demonstrate his abilities beyond landscapes, because he depicted real women, the kind who weren't idealized like marble statues with smooth, flawless skin. Who has that kind of skin anyway?
What scandalized 19th century viewers was that these were real, recognizable women who were actually nude while a male artist had observed and painted her.
Why, it was a downright affront to decency and social decorum.
Turning to look at another wall of Corot's figures, G gasped and asked rhetorically, "What is this man doing in here?" She was referring to "St. Sebastian," essentially a male nude with a swaddle of cloth over his twigs and berries. A stranger walked up and exclaimed, "It's a man! What's that about? This is the third time I've seen this show and I never noticed him before!"
Hold the phone. How in the world do you see a compact exhibition - there were only 45 paintings, for crying out loud - of women three times and miss the sole male nude?
Granted, I may have silently judged, but I voiced not a word.
Naturally a confident, successful painter such as Corot wanted to show off his mastery of the male nude, although G and I could make a case for the canvas not belonging at this particular show.
And just in case I ever get asked to pose nude, I've decided I will mimic the reclining nude pose of Corot's "Marietta" for best effect.
By the time we finished soaking in the beauty, our heads were full of images of women captured by the artist in whatever their mood of the day had been. Corot, it seems, gave no instructions to his models, but allowed them to move around and settle in whatever way they chose, even if it was with a dismissive or condescending gaze.
Because sometimes, that's how a girl feels and she can't mask it.
From there, we made our way to see "Gordon Parks: The New Tide, Early Works," a large (150 strong) show of the first decade of Parks' photography career. Some of the works were familiar to me from seeing the VMFA's "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" show back in 2016. The photograph of gang leader Red Jackson doing the "slow drag" with his girlfriend - some people might call it grinding - I recognized immediately.
But there was so much more to learn about Parks at this exhibition.
Like how he'd moved his young family to Chicago to start a career in portrait photography and how he'd worked at the Southside Community Art Center. How his close friendship with Langston Hughes produced images of Hughes smiling, something I'd never seen before.
Easily one of my favorites was "Self Portrait 1941," a stunning image of his face and shoulders next to his large-format camera, the light and shadow on both producing exquisite tones of black and gray. Many of the photographs had been taken in SW Washington, mere blocks from where we stood. "Negro Woman in Her Bedroom" showed her looking into the kind of round dresser mirror my own grandmother had had, with a large picture of FDR on the wall next to it.
Who didn't believe in FDR back in those days?
Even in his first decade of capturing American life, you could already see Parks' commitment to documenting the inequities of black and white life. "Young Boy Standing in the Doorway" showed a boy on crutches from behind, one of his legs amputated after a streetcar cut the leg off while he was playing in the street. It was Park's commentary about white children having playgrounds to go to while black children had nothing beyond the streets for recreation.
"Drugstore Cowboys, Alberta" showed five young men in dungarees, caps and jackets, staring back at him with looks of cockiness, uncertainty and disdain, in front of a "Drink Coca Cola" sign. All of them look street-wise and ready for their close-ups.
Meanwhile, "Panhandler on 7th Street, NW" was a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Also that we needed to head up Seventh Street ourselves or risk passing out from starvation.
Jaleo was covered in scaffolding, but the signs said they were open during construction and that's all we cared about. Given that owner Jose Andres was just the other day nominated for the Nobel Peace prize, G and I thought it only fitting to pay our respects by eating his food.
That, and the food's always fabulous.
By arriving so late in the afternoon, the lunch rush had quieted down and many tables were unoccupied, making it nice for a change not to have to raise our voices to converse. After so much art, all we wanted to do was sink back into the banquette and give in to the four course lunch menu.
G and I are so easy sometimes.
For me, diving in meant gazpacho with cherry tomatoes that inexplicably tasted like August. How does Jose do it? Next came endive with goat cheese, orange sections and almonds, a collection of bright and light flavors, then garlic slices and shrimp in chile oil, all of which I washed down with Cava Sangria.
G, meanwhile, began with roasted onions with bleu cheese, a practically perfect sweet and salty balance, before moving on to chicken fritters, which essentially tasted like chicken pot pie inside the lightest crunchy shell imaginable. She was drinking red Sangria to accompany her Daniel Patrick Moynihan pork sausage over white beans, a dish she freely admitted choosing because of its nod to the long time Democratic senator.
Although we'd intentionally ordered different dishes for each course so as to have as many things as possible to taste, when it came time for dessert, neither of us was ordering ice cream on a chilly day. Instead, we each devoured a flan with vanilla-flecked whipped cream and oranges, a heavenly finish to a stellar lunch.
All I can say is, it's a good thing Jaleo isn't in Richmond or I'd be having four course lunches every chance I got.
We'd taken so long lingering over lunch that I-395 was already starting to back up by the time we got on it, but since G and I never lack for conversational topics - old loves, new loves, crazy exes and hard-of-hearing friends - we didn't care. Still high on art, we tried to look like three people while in the HOV lanes and marveled at the beauty of the late November sky through her filthy windshield.
We tried cleaning it with Windex on I-95, but that turned out to be a bad idea in moving traffic.
Barely crawling along in the left lane near Stafford, I happened to glance over and saw two young deer standing just barely on the other side of the guard rail in the median, inches from us and thousands of moving cars.
One looked right at me, like one of Corot's models, as if to say, yea, I'm here, so what?
"Well, that was magical," G observed of our wildlife moment as the sun began to set. Parking issues aside, she could have been referring to the entire day.
My plan is to celebrate by sleeping way past 8 a.m. tomorrow. And if not, you can expect to see my cheek resting in my hand, melancholy style.
And, let's face it, no one wants to see me melancholy again. Once was plenty.
I'm not thrilled about that, but Lady G was picking me up at 9:12 (her suggestion), which actually turned out to be 9:38, but who's keeping track? A last minute plan hatched to put us in Washington in time for two exhibits and lunch meant we needed to be on the road early-ish.
The things I do for art.
An hour and 45 minutes later (it's best if I don't look at the speedometer when G's driving), we were pulling into a prime parking space in a sunny spot on Constitution Avenue, feeling pretty smug about our luck.
I'd barely uttered the words "I'm so happy to be here" to the world at large before discovering that the parking payment station was malfunctioning, an inconvenience that sapped the next 20 minutes between downloading the parking app and speaking to a customer service representative who asked G everything from her gender to her mother's maiden name.
More than once, she muttered, "I'm not comfortable giving these people all this information."
Had I been there alone, I'd have been out of luck since a phone is apparently a requirement now to park. Don't get me started.
Walking the half block to the museum, we were soon stopped by two lost-looking women who sized us up and asked, "Excuse me, you're from here, aren't you? Where's the Museum of Natural History?" You never saw two natives beam like G and I did from being identified correctly and sent them on their way.
Once inside the National Gallery of Art, our heavy coats left behind at the coat check, we made the requisite first stop, causing G to observe, "Wow, of all the bathrooms I've been to here, I've never been in this one."
Some women never forget their loos.
The primary reason for the trip was to see "Corot: Women," a show neither of us could resist since the artist is known for landscapes, not figure painting. Seems he'd take occasional breaks from lucrative landscape painting gigs to paint models dressed up in prop clothes in his studio, notable because he didn't idealize them.
And why would he? He didn't idealize landscapes.
What was extraordinary about his paintings of women was how he set out to capture the mood of his models more than their garb or as a way of telling a story. Whether introspective, brooding, aloof or sad, the models' full-on gaze back at the artist flouted contemporary expectations of what femininity was.
These women had opinions and feelings and weren't afraid to show them even when they were being captured for posterity. Our kind of women.
"Melancholy," a figure of a woman with her cheek resting in her hand, her left sleeve having fallen off her shoulder, set the tone for the rest of the show. Corot had meticulously captured the woman's face in great detail - everyone in town had to have known who she was - but her body and voluminous white gown were depicted in such loose brushwork that the painting almost looked unfinished.
And here's where I had a teachable moment by reading the signage. Apparently Albrecht Durer had done an engraving of a woman in the same pose back in the 16th century and ever since, pensive cheek in hand poses were shorthand for melancholy.
This was news to me.
Just as fascinating was how Corot made a point to keep various props and furnishings in his studio, including an easel with a Corot landscape on it. Most of the paintings had interiors showing Corot paintings hanging on the walls behind the figures. Three of the paintings depicted the same woman in his studio, one hand on a Corot landscape, the other holding a mandolin.
It was Corot paints Corot paints Corot, a hall of mirrors effect that undoubtedly fed the artist's ego.
Then there was "Woman in a Yellow Sleeve," notable because the signage explained the painting's provenance: "Accepted in lieu of inheritance tax by HM Government from the estate of Lucian Freud and allocated to the National Gallery of London." All I could think was, wow, that must have been a helluva lot of money Sigmund's grandson owed the Queen.
"Lady in Blue" was distinctively different than the exhibition's other paintings because rather than a model in prop costumes, it showed a lovely young woman in an expensive and deeply ruffled blue dress, one plump arm crooked to draw the eye to her face. Because the painting showed her bare-armed without her dress jacket (shocking!), it had an intimate and erotic charge to it.
It also showed the clear influence of Manet in the black-tinged blue gown. Nobody has as much black undertones in their colors as Manet.
Just as good were his nudes, which he'd taken up solely to demonstrate his abilities beyond landscapes, because he depicted real women, the kind who weren't idealized like marble statues with smooth, flawless skin. Who has that kind of skin anyway?
What scandalized 19th century viewers was that these were real, recognizable women who were actually nude while a male artist had observed and painted her.
Why, it was a downright affront to decency and social decorum.
Turning to look at another wall of Corot's figures, G gasped and asked rhetorically, "What is this man doing in here?" She was referring to "St. Sebastian," essentially a male nude with a swaddle of cloth over his twigs and berries. A stranger walked up and exclaimed, "It's a man! What's that about? This is the third time I've seen this show and I never noticed him before!"
Hold the phone. How in the world do you see a compact exhibition - there were only 45 paintings, for crying out loud - of women three times and miss the sole male nude?
Granted, I may have silently judged, but I voiced not a word.
Naturally a confident, successful painter such as Corot wanted to show off his mastery of the male nude, although G and I could make a case for the canvas not belonging at this particular show.
And just in case I ever get asked to pose nude, I've decided I will mimic the reclining nude pose of Corot's "Marietta" for best effect.
By the time we finished soaking in the beauty, our heads were full of images of women captured by the artist in whatever their mood of the day had been. Corot, it seems, gave no instructions to his models, but allowed them to move around and settle in whatever way they chose, even if it was with a dismissive or condescending gaze.
Because sometimes, that's how a girl feels and she can't mask it.
From there, we made our way to see "Gordon Parks: The New Tide, Early Works," a large (150 strong) show of the first decade of Parks' photography career. Some of the works were familiar to me from seeing the VMFA's "Gordon Parks: Back to Fort Scott" show back in 2016. The photograph of gang leader Red Jackson doing the "slow drag" with his girlfriend - some people might call it grinding - I recognized immediately.
But there was so much more to learn about Parks at this exhibition.
Like how he'd moved his young family to Chicago to start a career in portrait photography and how he'd worked at the Southside Community Art Center. How his close friendship with Langston Hughes produced images of Hughes smiling, something I'd never seen before.
Easily one of my favorites was "Self Portrait 1941," a stunning image of his face and shoulders next to his large-format camera, the light and shadow on both producing exquisite tones of black and gray. Many of the photographs had been taken in SW Washington, mere blocks from where we stood. "Negro Woman in Her Bedroom" showed her looking into the kind of round dresser mirror my own grandmother had had, with a large picture of FDR on the wall next to it.
Who didn't believe in FDR back in those days?
Even in his first decade of capturing American life, you could already see Parks' commitment to documenting the inequities of black and white life. "Young Boy Standing in the Doorway" showed a boy on crutches from behind, one of his legs amputated after a streetcar cut the leg off while he was playing in the street. It was Park's commentary about white children having playgrounds to go to while black children had nothing beyond the streets for recreation.
"Drugstore Cowboys, Alberta" showed five young men in dungarees, caps and jackets, staring back at him with looks of cockiness, uncertainty and disdain, in front of a "Drink Coca Cola" sign. All of them look street-wise and ready for their close-ups.
Meanwhile, "Panhandler on 7th Street, NW" was a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Also that we needed to head up Seventh Street ourselves or risk passing out from starvation.
Jaleo was covered in scaffolding, but the signs said they were open during construction and that's all we cared about. Given that owner Jose Andres was just the other day nominated for the Nobel Peace prize, G and I thought it only fitting to pay our respects by eating his food.
That, and the food's always fabulous.
By arriving so late in the afternoon, the lunch rush had quieted down and many tables were unoccupied, making it nice for a change not to have to raise our voices to converse. After so much art, all we wanted to do was sink back into the banquette and give in to the four course lunch menu.
G and I are so easy sometimes.
For me, diving in meant gazpacho with cherry tomatoes that inexplicably tasted like August. How does Jose do it? Next came endive with goat cheese, orange sections and almonds, a collection of bright and light flavors, then garlic slices and shrimp in chile oil, all of which I washed down with Cava Sangria.
G, meanwhile, began with roasted onions with bleu cheese, a practically perfect sweet and salty balance, before moving on to chicken fritters, which essentially tasted like chicken pot pie inside the lightest crunchy shell imaginable. She was drinking red Sangria to accompany her Daniel Patrick Moynihan pork sausage over white beans, a dish she freely admitted choosing because of its nod to the long time Democratic senator.
Although we'd intentionally ordered different dishes for each course so as to have as many things as possible to taste, when it came time for dessert, neither of us was ordering ice cream on a chilly day. Instead, we each devoured a flan with vanilla-flecked whipped cream and oranges, a heavenly finish to a stellar lunch.
All I can say is, it's a good thing Jaleo isn't in Richmond or I'd be having four course lunches every chance I got.
We'd taken so long lingering over lunch that I-395 was already starting to back up by the time we got on it, but since G and I never lack for conversational topics - old loves, new loves, crazy exes and hard-of-hearing friends - we didn't care. Still high on art, we tried to look like three people while in the HOV lanes and marveled at the beauty of the late November sky through her filthy windshield.
We tried cleaning it with Windex on I-95, but that turned out to be a bad idea in moving traffic.
Barely crawling along in the left lane near Stafford, I happened to glance over and saw two young deer standing just barely on the other side of the guard rail in the median, inches from us and thousands of moving cars.
One looked right at me, like one of Corot's models, as if to say, yea, I'm here, so what?
"Well, that was magical," G observed of our wildlife moment as the sun began to set. Parking issues aside, she could have been referring to the entire day.
My plan is to celebrate by sleeping way past 8 a.m. tomorrow. And if not, you can expect to see my cheek resting in my hand, melancholy style.
And, let's face it, no one wants to see me melancholy again. Once was plenty.
Tawdry and Forlorn Hope
A wine dinner is really just a good excuse to talk trash.
Acacia was the setting, Pru (in a faux fur coat) and Beau were my companions and all we were looking to do was enjoy three courses and talk ourselves silly.
Mission accomplished.
The first wine to be poured was Eola Hills Pinot Gris, a wine I first tasted nine years ago at the now-defunct Avalon, and every bit as tasty in its 2016 iteration. Or, as Pru so eloquently put it, "I could drink this wine with every meal," although she doesn't eat a lot of meals - certainly not my 3 squares a day plus snacks - so that's not as big a deal as it sounds.
Pairing it with butternut squash soup with creme fraiche and chives only made the Willamette Valley wine more attractive but as Harry, the wine rep, pointed out, Oregon knows does how to do Pinot Gris. Beau is just as savvy, deciding to order a case of it to accompany Pru's future meals.
I can't run into Harry without asking if he's still taking his daily outdoor shower and nothing could have made me happier than hearing that he is. That said, he has learned to run the water in the kitchen first before going outside to ensure that he doesn't have to wait, shivering, for the water to get hot
Let's just say I admire his devotion to al fresco showering. He cracked us up with a story about adjusting his shower times recently because of next door neighbors having a tree taken down and his not wanting to be seen by workmen high up in a tree overlooking his lathering. Talk about your shrinkage.
We were schooled by Harry that Forlorn Hope Wines had been started by a skateboarder named Matthew in an area near Sacramento. Their Chardonnay was paired with pasta carbonara with housemade black pepper pappardelle, cubes of bacon and Parmesan, a dish Pru declared to be "sooo good," but in reality was nothing like good.
It was downright obscene, the rich sauce clinging to every wide noodle.
While Beau claimed he could have eaten another plate of it, the womenfolk agreed that anyone who did would either be asleep or on the way to clogged arteries, so what would be the point? Still, no one left so much as a cube of bacon or scrap of pappardelle, either.
A discussion of compliments given turned out to be a revelation for Beau, who wasn't clear on the difference in complimenting an un-showered women in a sweatsuit and a woman who had spent two hours getting ready to go out. This led to a dialog about the pleasures of leisurely preparation - bathing, making up, dressing (which inevitably involves trying on multiple ensembles), accessorizing - preferably with an accompanying dressing drink and, at least in my case, good music.
Listening to the pearls of wisdom falling from our lips, Beau had a light bulb moment. "I'm really frightened about how close this is to my routine."
No shame in making an effort to impress, friend.
Of course, he wasn't always this way. It was only once he began seeing Pru, who saw his potential, that he took her advice about his hair and wardrobe. "I am the man you made," he said with not a little pride.
Given the "before" photo he showed me, he'd be the first to admit he was in need of some making.
We parted ways when it came to main courses, with me going for the swordfish medallions over sunchoke risotto with a side of radicchio and bleu cheese over sweet red pepper sauce, accompanied by Fableist Winery Zinfandel from Paso Robles. Kudos to the kitchen for the medallions since swordfish is easy to overcook, but just as impressive was the killer combination of radiccio with bleu cheese, sharp and rich at the same time.
The happy couple preferred the braised Moroccan lamb shank over pumpkin/tomato mash with crispy Brussels sprouts and lamb jus with Field Recordings Winery "Pets," which is their cutesy shorthand for Petite Syrah.
As it turned out, Pru wasn't fond of the Pets, not a problem for me since I've been to Field Recordings Winery and met Boomer, the winery dog, so we traded and everyone was happy.
With enough wine in our systems for everyone to feel merry, Pru began sharing how desperate she was for some time alone, away from everything - Queen B, contractors and endless manse chores. She went so far as to suggest she take a brief holiday by staying at Beau's place, conveniently located two doors down. Getting dramatic (she is, after all, a former thespian), she declared, hand to forehead, "I guess I could always stay at a Motel 6," to which I responded, what, with all the other tawdry occupants?
Not bloody likely.
Although dessert wasn't part of the wine dinner, the dynamic duo never passes up a chance for French press coffee, so I made do with chocolate cremeux while they mainlined caffeine and Pru had another glass of Pinot Gris. "Nobody doesn't like a wide-awake drunk," she opined.
You can't get this group together and not discuss communication at some point, or, more likely, often, because communication is the bedrock of relationships and Pru and I, at least, have strong feelings about sending mixed or unclear messages.
Citing the early days of their relationship, she asked if he even remembered what unclear messages had been in his early texts when he'd been trying to win her. "No," he admitted, "but I have them all saved." Of course he does. Beau is nothing if not a romantic at heart.
Other information gleaned tonight: Pru was traumatized as a teen by having her rabbit fur-lined jean jacket stolen at Skate Park; that what used to be known as "key parties" are now euphemistically called "lasagna parties" (although no one could tell me whether or not any actual lasagna was involved); and that as recently as last month, she'd been attempting to make sugar shards of glass dripping in blood for cupcakes.
You think you know a person...
And while you might expect that that would be the end of the conversation, instead Beau regaled us with stories of his roommate making fake blood with Karo syrup and leaving hand prints and drips from the apartment building entrance to their apartment door.
Some people's college memories are positively magical.
Although we'd originally talked about an afterparty at my place, plans were postponed because everyone has a busy day tomorrow. So instead, we lingered over the remaining wine and coffee, with Pru eager to remind us that no matter where we were, it's a guaranteed good time.
To prove it, she decreed it so. "We are a party! We are a menage!"
A trois, no less. I'm really frightened how people might take that. Wait, no, I'm not.
Acacia was the setting, Pru (in a faux fur coat) and Beau were my companions and all we were looking to do was enjoy three courses and talk ourselves silly.
Mission accomplished.
The first wine to be poured was Eola Hills Pinot Gris, a wine I first tasted nine years ago at the now-defunct Avalon, and every bit as tasty in its 2016 iteration. Or, as Pru so eloquently put it, "I could drink this wine with every meal," although she doesn't eat a lot of meals - certainly not my 3 squares a day plus snacks - so that's not as big a deal as it sounds.
Pairing it with butternut squash soup with creme fraiche and chives only made the Willamette Valley wine more attractive but as Harry, the wine rep, pointed out, Oregon knows does how to do Pinot Gris. Beau is just as savvy, deciding to order a case of it to accompany Pru's future meals.
I can't run into Harry without asking if he's still taking his daily outdoor shower and nothing could have made me happier than hearing that he is. That said, he has learned to run the water in the kitchen first before going outside to ensure that he doesn't have to wait, shivering, for the water to get hot
Let's just say I admire his devotion to al fresco showering. He cracked us up with a story about adjusting his shower times recently because of next door neighbors having a tree taken down and his not wanting to be seen by workmen high up in a tree overlooking his lathering. Talk about your shrinkage.
We were schooled by Harry that Forlorn Hope Wines had been started by a skateboarder named Matthew in an area near Sacramento. Their Chardonnay was paired with pasta carbonara with housemade black pepper pappardelle, cubes of bacon and Parmesan, a dish Pru declared to be "sooo good," but in reality was nothing like good.
It was downright obscene, the rich sauce clinging to every wide noodle.
While Beau claimed he could have eaten another plate of it, the womenfolk agreed that anyone who did would either be asleep or on the way to clogged arteries, so what would be the point? Still, no one left so much as a cube of bacon or scrap of pappardelle, either.
A discussion of compliments given turned out to be a revelation for Beau, who wasn't clear on the difference in complimenting an un-showered women in a sweatsuit and a woman who had spent two hours getting ready to go out. This led to a dialog about the pleasures of leisurely preparation - bathing, making up, dressing (which inevitably involves trying on multiple ensembles), accessorizing - preferably with an accompanying dressing drink and, at least in my case, good music.
Listening to the pearls of wisdom falling from our lips, Beau had a light bulb moment. "I'm really frightened about how close this is to my routine."
No shame in making an effort to impress, friend.
Of course, he wasn't always this way. It was only once he began seeing Pru, who saw his potential, that he took her advice about his hair and wardrobe. "I am the man you made," he said with not a little pride.
Given the "before" photo he showed me, he'd be the first to admit he was in need of some making.
We parted ways when it came to main courses, with me going for the swordfish medallions over sunchoke risotto with a side of radicchio and bleu cheese over sweet red pepper sauce, accompanied by Fableist Winery Zinfandel from Paso Robles. Kudos to the kitchen for the medallions since swordfish is easy to overcook, but just as impressive was the killer combination of radiccio with bleu cheese, sharp and rich at the same time.
The happy couple preferred the braised Moroccan lamb shank over pumpkin/tomato mash with crispy Brussels sprouts and lamb jus with Field Recordings Winery "Pets," which is their cutesy shorthand for Petite Syrah.
As it turned out, Pru wasn't fond of the Pets, not a problem for me since I've been to Field Recordings Winery and met Boomer, the winery dog, so we traded and everyone was happy.
With enough wine in our systems for everyone to feel merry, Pru began sharing how desperate she was for some time alone, away from everything - Queen B, contractors and endless manse chores. She went so far as to suggest she take a brief holiday by staying at Beau's place, conveniently located two doors down. Getting dramatic (she is, after all, a former thespian), she declared, hand to forehead, "I guess I could always stay at a Motel 6," to which I responded, what, with all the other tawdry occupants?
Not bloody likely.
Although dessert wasn't part of the wine dinner, the dynamic duo never passes up a chance for French press coffee, so I made do with chocolate cremeux while they mainlined caffeine and Pru had another glass of Pinot Gris. "Nobody doesn't like a wide-awake drunk," she opined.
You can't get this group together and not discuss communication at some point, or, more likely, often, because communication is the bedrock of relationships and Pru and I, at least, have strong feelings about sending mixed or unclear messages.
Citing the early days of their relationship, she asked if he even remembered what unclear messages had been in his early texts when he'd been trying to win her. "No," he admitted, "but I have them all saved." Of course he does. Beau is nothing if not a romantic at heart.
Other information gleaned tonight: Pru was traumatized as a teen by having her rabbit fur-lined jean jacket stolen at Skate Park; that what used to be known as "key parties" are now euphemistically called "lasagna parties" (although no one could tell me whether or not any actual lasagna was involved); and that as recently as last month, she'd been attempting to make sugar shards of glass dripping in blood for cupcakes.
You think you know a person...
And while you might expect that that would be the end of the conversation, instead Beau regaled us with stories of his roommate making fake blood with Karo syrup and leaving hand prints and drips from the apartment building entrance to their apartment door.
Some people's college memories are positively magical.
Although we'd originally talked about an afterparty at my place, plans were postponed because everyone has a busy day tomorrow. So instead, we lingered over the remaining wine and coffee, with Pru eager to remind us that no matter where we were, it's a guaranteed good time.
To prove it, she decreed it so. "We are a party! We are a menage!"
A trois, no less. I'm really frightened how people might take that. Wait, no, I'm not.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Come Here, Mister
Life isn't about being drunk, it's about being merry.
At least, that was the distinction made in "Story of a Love Affair," the tenth and final film in the VCU Cinematheque retrospective of Michelangelo Antonioni. And as Professor T. pointed out ahead of the screening, ordinarily you'd have to go to a major city, say NYC or LA, to be treated to a retrospective of the master Italian filmmaker.
We have it so good in Richmond.
But before diving into Antonioni's first feature-length film, we strolled over to Ipanema, arriving so early that they were still serving the lunch menu. Not fussy about what meal we were eating, Mr. Wright and I scored the front-most booth - the one that used to get removed when bands played so they could occupy the space - and settled in until showtime.
Tuscan salads of greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, marinated artichoke hearts, cannellini beans and olives were topped with smoked salmon, despite my suspicion that salmon would not typically be part of a Tuscan meal. Given the chilly temperatures, we accompanied the meal with hot tea, mine a mint, his a South African Rooibus.
You know it's cold when I resort to drinking hot beverages since they're not my thing, though I must say it was a fine accompaniment for my slice of blueberry pie.
It was while eating dessert and discussing that tonight was the conclusion of the Antonioni series that I overheard the two guys in the next booth talking about another ending, that of the Italian Film and Food Festival. One guy recalled that it had always been at the Firehouse Theater. The other, a DJ I've known for years, thought he'd attended it at Artspace, but his friend wasn't convinced.
Without a moment's hesitation, I turned toward the other booth, called my friend's name and set out to clarify things. Yes, the Italian Film Fest had been at Artspace as well as the Firehouse, I shared. I know I saw Marco Bellochio's "Fists in the Pocket," there in 2010, along with killer eats from Mamma Zu, Edo's and 8 1/2.
"And Karen weighs in!" the DJ announced, Just trying to help. I could have told him to look it up on the blog for further details, but refrained.
After crossing the street to the Grace Street Theatre only to find someone in my favorite seat, we made do with alternate seats nearby. Mr. Wright offered to go explain to the interlopers that they were trespassing, but I was feeling magnanimous.
Professor T. began the evening by explaining that we'd be seeing an archival Italian print on 35 mm, a rare treat which came with one small glitch. Archival prints don't get spliced to allow for standard two projector screening, so we should expect to see brief periods of black every 20 minutes. It seemed a small price to pay to see an archival Italian print on 35 mm.
And, as Mr. Wright later pointed out, the brief black breaks wound up feeling like scene changes during a play, perfectly appropriate given the high art we were seeing.
The visiting professor gave his usual 12-13 minute reading of his prepared paper on Anonioni and this particular film, his voice an odd combination of monotone, inappropriately inflected words and a question mark at the end of statements.
I'm not knocking the man's knowledge, just his delivery.
After seeing five of the ten Antonioni films this semester, films full of middle class malaise and post-war bleakness, I couldn't have been more surprised at the director's first foray into film. It was a black and white film noir, loosely based on the novel, "The Postman Always Rings Twice."
Hello dark streets, steamy love scenes and piano and sax score to set the mood. I love me a good film noir.
But then, as a bonus, there were scenes set in an uncrowded 1950 Milan, gorgeous clothing and gowns worn by the lead actress and a dead sexy car (see: 1948 Maserati A6G 1500, which surely must have been the inspiration for speedy cars in cartoons for decades to come).
What was strange was how very American the lead actor, Massimo Girotti, looked, a fact which worked fine in the context of the story but left me wanting for a more appropriately Italian actor, say, Marcello Mastroianni or Giancarlo Giannini.
What good are all those vowels in his name if he looks like John Garfield?
As for the distinction between stages of intoxication, it was when the older husband entered his younger, unhappy wife's bedroom late at night with a bottle of Champagne and two glasses that she asked of him, "Are you drunk?" and he responded, "Not drunk, just merry."
I've always labeled the stage before drunk as "loopy," but there's something charmingly dated about referring to it as "merry." As in, I've had a few glasses of bubbly and I'm feeling kind of merry right now. Not "deck them halls" merry, just merry.
Of course, that's just me weighing in. Again.
At least, that was the distinction made in "Story of a Love Affair," the tenth and final film in the VCU Cinematheque retrospective of Michelangelo Antonioni. And as Professor T. pointed out ahead of the screening, ordinarily you'd have to go to a major city, say NYC or LA, to be treated to a retrospective of the master Italian filmmaker.
We have it so good in Richmond.
But before diving into Antonioni's first feature-length film, we strolled over to Ipanema, arriving so early that they were still serving the lunch menu. Not fussy about what meal we were eating, Mr. Wright and I scored the front-most booth - the one that used to get removed when bands played so they could occupy the space - and settled in until showtime.
Tuscan salads of greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, marinated artichoke hearts, cannellini beans and olives were topped with smoked salmon, despite my suspicion that salmon would not typically be part of a Tuscan meal. Given the chilly temperatures, we accompanied the meal with hot tea, mine a mint, his a South African Rooibus.
You know it's cold when I resort to drinking hot beverages since they're not my thing, though I must say it was a fine accompaniment for my slice of blueberry pie.
It was while eating dessert and discussing that tonight was the conclusion of the Antonioni series that I overheard the two guys in the next booth talking about another ending, that of the Italian Film and Food Festival. One guy recalled that it had always been at the Firehouse Theater. The other, a DJ I've known for years, thought he'd attended it at Artspace, but his friend wasn't convinced.
Without a moment's hesitation, I turned toward the other booth, called my friend's name and set out to clarify things. Yes, the Italian Film Fest had been at Artspace as well as the Firehouse, I shared. I know I saw Marco Bellochio's "Fists in the Pocket," there in 2010, along with killer eats from Mamma Zu, Edo's and 8 1/2.
"And Karen weighs in!" the DJ announced, Just trying to help. I could have told him to look it up on the blog for further details, but refrained.
After crossing the street to the Grace Street Theatre only to find someone in my favorite seat, we made do with alternate seats nearby. Mr. Wright offered to go explain to the interlopers that they were trespassing, but I was feeling magnanimous.
Professor T. began the evening by explaining that we'd be seeing an archival Italian print on 35 mm, a rare treat which came with one small glitch. Archival prints don't get spliced to allow for standard two projector screening, so we should expect to see brief periods of black every 20 minutes. It seemed a small price to pay to see an archival Italian print on 35 mm.
And, as Mr. Wright later pointed out, the brief black breaks wound up feeling like scene changes during a play, perfectly appropriate given the high art we were seeing.
The visiting professor gave his usual 12-13 minute reading of his prepared paper on Anonioni and this particular film, his voice an odd combination of monotone, inappropriately inflected words and a question mark at the end of statements.
I'm not knocking the man's knowledge, just his delivery.
After seeing five of the ten Antonioni films this semester, films full of middle class malaise and post-war bleakness, I couldn't have been more surprised at the director's first foray into film. It was a black and white film noir, loosely based on the novel, "The Postman Always Rings Twice."
Hello dark streets, steamy love scenes and piano and sax score to set the mood. I love me a good film noir.
But then, as a bonus, there were scenes set in an uncrowded 1950 Milan, gorgeous clothing and gowns worn by the lead actress and a dead sexy car (see: 1948 Maserati A6G 1500, which surely must have been the inspiration for speedy cars in cartoons for decades to come).
What was strange was how very American the lead actor, Massimo Girotti, looked, a fact which worked fine in the context of the story but left me wanting for a more appropriately Italian actor, say, Marcello Mastroianni or Giancarlo Giannini.
What good are all those vowels in his name if he looks like John Garfield?
As for the distinction between stages of intoxication, it was when the older husband entered his younger, unhappy wife's bedroom late at night with a bottle of Champagne and two glasses that she asked of him, "Are you drunk?" and he responded, "Not drunk, just merry."
I've always labeled the stage before drunk as "loopy," but there's something charmingly dated about referring to it as "merry." As in, I've had a few glasses of bubbly and I'm feeling kind of merry right now. Not "deck them halls" merry, just merry.
Of course, that's just me weighing in. Again.
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
At the Orange Bird
Believe me, we didn't set out to attend a school fundraiser.
After a week, Mac and I had plenty to talk about and a need to be entertained, so the plan was dinner and a movie. But when we arrived at Branch and Vine, we found a sandwich board welcoming diners to a fundraising night for Mary Munford Elementary School.
I mean, it's not like we were denied entrance or anything. It simply meant that a percentage of whatever we paid for our meals would end up in the school's coffers. Neither of us had any problem with supporting a good cause, even if we had no dog in this fight, so we stayed, despite tables covered in crayons and coloring pages.
The owner came over to take our order, leading to a discussion of grapes when he listed out his wine by the glass options, ending with Nero. "Nero?" Mac asked and before he could answer, I clarified that he meant Nero d'Avola and suggested she try the Sicilian wine because it's delicious.
Clearly the owner appreciated the help because he went on to lament how when he was coming up - you know, back in his day - the wine choices were Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay. "And maybe some white Zinfandel," he concluded sagely.
At moments like that, you just smile and nod. Just bring the wine, please, sir.
As always, their sandwiches hit the spot. Mac had arrived jonesing for Giustino's pizza, but we had insufficient time to score a Southside pie and make it to the Criterion Cinemas in a timely manner, so I'd suggested a carb substitute. Both her Cubano and my turkey/Gruyere/sliced apples/tomato jam sandwich benefited from superior bread (my baguette, her ciabatta) and satisfied her itch.
Mine had the added bonus of Thanksgiving notes given the combo of turkey and sweet jam, which could just have easily been cranberry sauce, while the side we shared of sweet potatoes and Brussels sprouts also tasted like it had roots in the holiday.
As we were finishing up our meal, more families showed up to have dinner for the cause, so at least we'd timed our visit to finish before the serious rugrat onslaught began. And if that sounds insensitive, just remember that Mac and I donated to Mary Munford this evening and you didn't.
Tonight's movie, "Green Book," was inspired by the true story of classical black pianist Don Shirley and Italian-American Tony Vallelonga, who was hired to be the driver for his 1962 tour of the South. The Green Book of the title is the handbook that used to be printed up advising black travelers where they could legally stay and eat without fear of reprisal.
It's especially galling to learn that it was still being produced as late as 1966.
Mac and I were both intrigued by the film after seeing previews since A) neither of us had heard of Shirley and B) we both became huge fans of Mahershala Ali after seeing "Moonlight" together. That it took place in an era that was both culturally fascinating and appallingly racist only made it more interesting to us.
Both the lead actors' performances were strong, but as with any period film, I made it my mission to look for continuity details that rang true and false.
Red and blue mailboxes, women wearing gloves and furs at parties, smoking everywhere, insisting that safe drivers use the "10 and 2" position on the steering wheel? All correct for the era.
But referring to Shirley as a black man rather than a Negro (or worse) or using the phrase "being black while traveling?" Sorry, those are both pure 21st century dialog and not a bit true to 1962. And no one, I repeat, no one in the Bronx, had all white lights on their Christmas tree in 1962. Period.
Both of us were surprised that the car driven had power windows, but Mac felt sure that it was only because it was a Cadillac. But my ignorance is rooted in life experience: I didn't have power windows on my car until 1998.
As for scenes at fancy events of tables covered in champagne flutes, well, it rubbed me the wrong way. It was somewhere after the mid-1950s that champagne coupes began giving way to flutes, but flutes didn't reign supreme until the '80s, so it seems unlikely at best that these places in the Deep South would have been ahead of the curve on the best glasses in which to serve Champagne.
The film had plenty of laugh out loud-worthy lines, too, such as when Tony is asked if he's a cop. "Do I look Irish?" he responds belligerently. But the one that tickled my fancy most was, "She has terrible grammar, but she's a nice person."
I know, I know, it's hard to imagine any redeeming qualities in a person with poor grammar, but apparently it can happen.
Driving home discussing what we'd just seen, we realized we'd both reached the same conclusion during the movie. We wanted to learn more about Don Shirley, this musical prodigy who'd played with and written symphonies for major symphony orchestras, but whose name was completely unknown to us. What if I've flipped past a Don Shirley album in the dollar bins at my local record store and missed a golden opportunity?
Maybe it's for the best. I like to think that the dollar saved instead went to help fund a grammar worksheet for some deserving youngster at Mary Munford.
Just doing my part any way I can. Nice people and terrible grammarians know it's all about the kids.
After a week, Mac and I had plenty to talk about and a need to be entertained, so the plan was dinner and a movie. But when we arrived at Branch and Vine, we found a sandwich board welcoming diners to a fundraising night for Mary Munford Elementary School.
I mean, it's not like we were denied entrance or anything. It simply meant that a percentage of whatever we paid for our meals would end up in the school's coffers. Neither of us had any problem with supporting a good cause, even if we had no dog in this fight, so we stayed, despite tables covered in crayons and coloring pages.
The owner came over to take our order, leading to a discussion of grapes when he listed out his wine by the glass options, ending with Nero. "Nero?" Mac asked and before he could answer, I clarified that he meant Nero d'Avola and suggested she try the Sicilian wine because it's delicious.
Clearly the owner appreciated the help because he went on to lament how when he was coming up - you know, back in his day - the wine choices were Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Pinot Grigio and Chardonnay. "And maybe some white Zinfandel," he concluded sagely.
At moments like that, you just smile and nod. Just bring the wine, please, sir.
As always, their sandwiches hit the spot. Mac had arrived jonesing for Giustino's pizza, but we had insufficient time to score a Southside pie and make it to the Criterion Cinemas in a timely manner, so I'd suggested a carb substitute. Both her Cubano and my turkey/Gruyere/sliced apples/tomato jam sandwich benefited from superior bread (my baguette, her ciabatta) and satisfied her itch.
Mine had the added bonus of Thanksgiving notes given the combo of turkey and sweet jam, which could just have easily been cranberry sauce, while the side we shared of sweet potatoes and Brussels sprouts also tasted like it had roots in the holiday.
As we were finishing up our meal, more families showed up to have dinner for the cause, so at least we'd timed our visit to finish before the serious rugrat onslaught began. And if that sounds insensitive, just remember that Mac and I donated to Mary Munford this evening and you didn't.
Tonight's movie, "Green Book," was inspired by the true story of classical black pianist Don Shirley and Italian-American Tony Vallelonga, who was hired to be the driver for his 1962 tour of the South. The Green Book of the title is the handbook that used to be printed up advising black travelers where they could legally stay and eat without fear of reprisal.
It's especially galling to learn that it was still being produced as late as 1966.
Mac and I were both intrigued by the film after seeing previews since A) neither of us had heard of Shirley and B) we both became huge fans of Mahershala Ali after seeing "Moonlight" together. That it took place in an era that was both culturally fascinating and appallingly racist only made it more interesting to us.
Both the lead actors' performances were strong, but as with any period film, I made it my mission to look for continuity details that rang true and false.
Red and blue mailboxes, women wearing gloves and furs at parties, smoking everywhere, insisting that safe drivers use the "10 and 2" position on the steering wheel? All correct for the era.
But referring to Shirley as a black man rather than a Negro (or worse) or using the phrase "being black while traveling?" Sorry, those are both pure 21st century dialog and not a bit true to 1962. And no one, I repeat, no one in the Bronx, had all white lights on their Christmas tree in 1962. Period.
Both of us were surprised that the car driven had power windows, but Mac felt sure that it was only because it was a Cadillac. But my ignorance is rooted in life experience: I didn't have power windows on my car until 1998.
As for scenes at fancy events of tables covered in champagne flutes, well, it rubbed me the wrong way. It was somewhere after the mid-1950s that champagne coupes began giving way to flutes, but flutes didn't reign supreme until the '80s, so it seems unlikely at best that these places in the Deep South would have been ahead of the curve on the best glasses in which to serve Champagne.
The film had plenty of laugh out loud-worthy lines, too, such as when Tony is asked if he's a cop. "Do I look Irish?" he responds belligerently. But the one that tickled my fancy most was, "She has terrible grammar, but she's a nice person."
I know, I know, it's hard to imagine any redeeming qualities in a person with poor grammar, but apparently it can happen.
Driving home discussing what we'd just seen, we realized we'd both reached the same conclusion during the movie. We wanted to learn more about Don Shirley, this musical prodigy who'd played with and written symphonies for major symphony orchestras, but whose name was completely unknown to us. What if I've flipped past a Don Shirley album in the dollar bins at my local record store and missed a golden opportunity?
Maybe it's for the best. I like to think that the dollar saved instead went to help fund a grammar worksheet for some deserving youngster at Mary Munford.
Just doing my part any way I can. Nice people and terrible grammarians know it's all about the kids.
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Giving the Peace Sign
The things you have to do at Thanksgiving.
When asked to fill out a foil "leaf" with what I was thankful for and hang it on a small brass tree, I reduced my gratitude to its simplest level: I am grateful for all the people who love me. And I am.
While I've always been thankful for devoted parents, siblings who can finish my childhood stories and friends who choose to spend time with me, this year's list got longer with the addition of Mr. Wright, a partner who not only braved the gauntlet of meeting my family, but talked me down after the madness ended.
Part of how he accomplished this, it should be noted, was by ensuring that the three mornings after Turkey Day all involved waking up on the water. Those who know me know that this is a sure-fire way to get me to my happy place.
Now that I think about it, I didn't get my usual pre-sisters stress zit, either, so maybe his presence in my life is working in myriad ways.
To prepare for the psychological demands of spending the day with family, I'd made a point to do my usual Thanksgiving Eve blowout with Holmes and Beloved.
Beginning at Acacia, where the vibe was low-key and quiet but the crab fritters, grilled mahi mahi and beet/feta salad (the latter so good it won over the beet-hating Holmes) and chocolate cremeux were stellar, and then at Holmes' man-cave, where we listened to countless records - Elvis Costello to the Zombies - our evening was devoted to toasting the ghosts of Thanksgivings past with Graham Beck Brut Rose.
It's a tradition that goes back to 2010 for the three of us and shows no signs of letting up, no matter where any of us wind up having our turkey.
Come Thanksgiving Day, we motored to the house of Sister #6, a true hostess with the mostess and it's not only because her celebrations involve her husband shucking Old Saltes for anyone who will slurp them, although I'll be honest, that is my favorite part of it all. I'd stand there chatting with him, slurping 3 or 4 oysters and then taking 3 shucked beauties up to my Dad before returning to do it all over again. And again.
Because the 30 family members in attendance were seated at four tables over three rooms, my sister had come up with a plan for FFF - that's forced family fun, a phrase I first learned on a bev nap - to shake things up. Someone would get up, plate and glass in hand, and tap someone else on the shoulder, thereby usurping their chair and changing the make-up of that table.
The purpose, she claimed, was for everyone to get a chance to sit at the table with my parents, but I'm not sure she ran that plan by them first. I know that by the time I got to the fourth table, everyone was either in a food coma or tired of talking, which is saying a lot for this group.
All I'm saying is, it can be exhausting to eat and drink for seven hours with family.
But Black Friday dawned in Deale, Maryland, a little town on the Chesapeake Bay that offered up a big marina and, after a drive through its nearly empty waterfront streets, a cozy lunch (because they'd stopped serving breakfast five minutes before we'd arrived) at the South Country Cafe, a place where the cashier calls you "hon" and a stack of housemade pies sat on a ledge near the door.
Carter's Creek provided the wake-up water-views come the weekend, along with the usual pleasures of small-town life in Irvington. A walk to the Local Cafe for a bagel meant seeing lots of visitors to the Tides Inn and Hope and Glory Inn out and about on inn bicycles, a holiday market going on at the Steamboat Museum and, promptly at noon, a steady rain that ensured a snug, indoor afternoon.
Best of all, I'd brought along one of my recent library book sale finds, a petite blue edition of "The Playboy Interviews with John Lennon and Yoko Ono" from 1981, a book guaranteed to occupy me for as long as it took for Mr. Wright to gather reference materials for an upcoming course he's teaching.
From the executive editor's foreword to the interviewer's introduction, I was immediately taken with these extensive conversations between John, Yoko and the Playboy writer because Lennon was willing to talk about everything. In fact, that had been the starting point for the book because the magazine interview couldn't include a fraction of what the couple had shared over multiple interviews and it was such good stuff.
That said, after reading for less than two hours, I pulled that chenille blanket over me and took a rainy day nap the likes of which can only be explained as sleeping out the final vestiges of Thanksgiving Day stress.
Post-rain, we headed to the Quays, an upscale Irish pub, meaning the fried fish fillets were mahi mahi and served over rice/quinoa instead of with chips, but also the sort of place where an appetizer of Dublin rolls (corned beef and cabbage in eggroll wrappers) arrived long after our entrees and not that far ahead of some pretty tasty butterscotch bread pudding.
Northern Neck charm or clueless management? You make the call.
From there, we only had to cross the hall to Walkabout Creek, where a DJ was onstage, lights were flashing and the locals were just getting cranked up for some serious Saturday night dancing, first to country, then to pop and hip-hop, and fortunately, with enough classic soul thrown in to get us up there, too.
Everybody dance now.
Today dawned so warm and sunny that all indoor activity was suspended so we could make the most of such late-November splendor. My walk took me across the grounds of the Dog and Oyster Winery and through their back 40, depositing me on the main drag which, as I quickly leaned, meant waving to every Sunday driver that passed.
While Mr. Wright assures me that in my short, pink athletic skirt, no one was going to take me for a local, I am nonetheless working on getting just the right Northern Neck wave mastered.
That and 79 cents will get me a copy of the Rappahannock Record at the gas station.
Down at the dock, the creek was muddy from yesterday's rain and the tide so high that it felt like we were on a boat. While checking the oyster garden float, we found it full of pine needles but no bivalves because apparently a storm had broken the frame and released the bottom.
Mr. Wright was the brilliant one who suggested that maybe a new oyster reef will form with the escapees, perhaps just beside the dock for easy shucking and slurping. If so, it'll give me one more thing to be thankful for next year.
Not that I need anything more given how good I have it these days. Like Reba McEntire said, "I have a lot to be thankful for. I am healthy, happy and I am loved."
Finally, the trifecta. Now if I could just nail how to wave to passing trucks, I wouldn't ask for anything more.
When asked to fill out a foil "leaf" with what I was thankful for and hang it on a small brass tree, I reduced my gratitude to its simplest level: I am grateful for all the people who love me. And I am.
While I've always been thankful for devoted parents, siblings who can finish my childhood stories and friends who choose to spend time with me, this year's list got longer with the addition of Mr. Wright, a partner who not only braved the gauntlet of meeting my family, but talked me down after the madness ended.
Part of how he accomplished this, it should be noted, was by ensuring that the three mornings after Turkey Day all involved waking up on the water. Those who know me know that this is a sure-fire way to get me to my happy place.
Now that I think about it, I didn't get my usual pre-sisters stress zit, either, so maybe his presence in my life is working in myriad ways.
To prepare for the psychological demands of spending the day with family, I'd made a point to do my usual Thanksgiving Eve blowout with Holmes and Beloved.
Beginning at Acacia, where the vibe was low-key and quiet but the crab fritters, grilled mahi mahi and beet/feta salad (the latter so good it won over the beet-hating Holmes) and chocolate cremeux were stellar, and then at Holmes' man-cave, where we listened to countless records - Elvis Costello to the Zombies - our evening was devoted to toasting the ghosts of Thanksgivings past with Graham Beck Brut Rose.
It's a tradition that goes back to 2010 for the three of us and shows no signs of letting up, no matter where any of us wind up having our turkey.
Come Thanksgiving Day, we motored to the house of Sister #6, a true hostess with the mostess and it's not only because her celebrations involve her husband shucking Old Saltes for anyone who will slurp them, although I'll be honest, that is my favorite part of it all. I'd stand there chatting with him, slurping 3 or 4 oysters and then taking 3 shucked beauties up to my Dad before returning to do it all over again. And again.
Because the 30 family members in attendance were seated at four tables over three rooms, my sister had come up with a plan for FFF - that's forced family fun, a phrase I first learned on a bev nap - to shake things up. Someone would get up, plate and glass in hand, and tap someone else on the shoulder, thereby usurping their chair and changing the make-up of that table.
The purpose, she claimed, was for everyone to get a chance to sit at the table with my parents, but I'm not sure she ran that plan by them first. I know that by the time I got to the fourth table, everyone was either in a food coma or tired of talking, which is saying a lot for this group.
All I'm saying is, it can be exhausting to eat and drink for seven hours with family.
But Black Friday dawned in Deale, Maryland, a little town on the Chesapeake Bay that offered up a big marina and, after a drive through its nearly empty waterfront streets, a cozy lunch (because they'd stopped serving breakfast five minutes before we'd arrived) at the South Country Cafe, a place where the cashier calls you "hon" and a stack of housemade pies sat on a ledge near the door.
Carter's Creek provided the wake-up water-views come the weekend, along with the usual pleasures of small-town life in Irvington. A walk to the Local Cafe for a bagel meant seeing lots of visitors to the Tides Inn and Hope and Glory Inn out and about on inn bicycles, a holiday market going on at the Steamboat Museum and, promptly at noon, a steady rain that ensured a snug, indoor afternoon.
Best of all, I'd brought along one of my recent library book sale finds, a petite blue edition of "The Playboy Interviews with John Lennon and Yoko Ono" from 1981, a book guaranteed to occupy me for as long as it took for Mr. Wright to gather reference materials for an upcoming course he's teaching.
From the executive editor's foreword to the interviewer's introduction, I was immediately taken with these extensive conversations between John, Yoko and the Playboy writer because Lennon was willing to talk about everything. In fact, that had been the starting point for the book because the magazine interview couldn't include a fraction of what the couple had shared over multiple interviews and it was such good stuff.
That said, after reading for less than two hours, I pulled that chenille blanket over me and took a rainy day nap the likes of which can only be explained as sleeping out the final vestiges of Thanksgiving Day stress.
Post-rain, we headed to the Quays, an upscale Irish pub, meaning the fried fish fillets were mahi mahi and served over rice/quinoa instead of with chips, but also the sort of place where an appetizer of Dublin rolls (corned beef and cabbage in eggroll wrappers) arrived long after our entrees and not that far ahead of some pretty tasty butterscotch bread pudding.
Northern Neck charm or clueless management? You make the call.
From there, we only had to cross the hall to Walkabout Creek, where a DJ was onstage, lights were flashing and the locals were just getting cranked up for some serious Saturday night dancing, first to country, then to pop and hip-hop, and fortunately, with enough classic soul thrown in to get us up there, too.
Everybody dance now.
Today dawned so warm and sunny that all indoor activity was suspended so we could make the most of such late-November splendor. My walk took me across the grounds of the Dog and Oyster Winery and through their back 40, depositing me on the main drag which, as I quickly leaned, meant waving to every Sunday driver that passed.
While Mr. Wright assures me that in my short, pink athletic skirt, no one was going to take me for a local, I am nonetheless working on getting just the right Northern Neck wave mastered.
That and 79 cents will get me a copy of the Rappahannock Record at the gas station.
Down at the dock, the creek was muddy from yesterday's rain and the tide so high that it felt like we were on a boat. While checking the oyster garden float, we found it full of pine needles but no bivalves because apparently a storm had broken the frame and released the bottom.
Mr. Wright was the brilliant one who suggested that maybe a new oyster reef will form with the escapees, perhaps just beside the dock for easy shucking and slurping. If so, it'll give me one more thing to be thankful for next year.
Not that I need anything more given how good I have it these days. Like Reba McEntire said, "I have a lot to be thankful for. I am healthy, happy and I am loved."
Finally, the trifecta. Now if I could just nail how to wave to passing trucks, I wouldn't ask for anything more.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
On Not Eating More Than You Can Lift
There is no love sincerer than the love of food.
~ George Bernard Shaw
I could politely be called an enthusiastic eater.
Partly that's because there's little that doesn't appeal to me and partly because I never succumbed to any sort of guilt about eating. I wake up hungry every single morning of my life, regardless of what I've eaten the night before.
I've been known to ask the driver of the car I'm riding in if we're going to stop for lunch barely 15 minutes after leaving home. If I get asked out at the last minute for lunch or dinner and I've already eaten, I keep quiet about it and go out for a second meal.
And sometimes when I look back at what I've been up to for the past couple of days, it feels like it's been non-stop eating. Oh, sure, I did some writing and bathing in between chowing down sessions, but not much else.
That's not embarrassment talking, that's simple fact.
Sometimes I find myself sitting at Metzger on a Sunday evening, mere hours after returning from brunch at Laura Lee's, inhaling pretzel rolls, lavash and spent grain sourdough with mustard butter and beer cheese, a completely unique squash salad with ribbons of carrots and a dark chocolate torte as if I hadn't eaten all day.
That vintage yet obscure soul music is, as usual, playing on the sound system only encourages us to linger and me to order yet another glass of Gruner Veltliner as the Sunday crowd gradually dwindles to the diehards on bar stools.
Not even a day later, I'll be happily ensconced on a stool at Dinamo, slurping up my cold weather go-to, also known as the pescatarian's delight: fish soup. Tomato based and muscular, the soup is loaded with rockfish, mussels, squid and couscous' Sardinian cousin, fregola, with just enough heat to keep you honest.
And for the record, I'm also using slices of Italian bread to sop up what my spoon is incapable of delivering to my mouth. Enthusiastic eaters leave no morsel behind.
But woman does not live by soup and wine alone, so we also share a salad and white pizza with red onions because the simplicity of a thin crust crowned with onions is about as satisfying as bread and cheese gets. The green salad is essential with pie. And the chocolate espresso torte? That's just my standard ending at Dinamo, even when I opt out of whipped cream and cherries.
There are only three things women need in life: food, water and compliments. ~ Chris Rock
Sorry, Chris, but some of us also need music.
Which means that by Tuesday night, I will lead Mr. Wright to Saison Market for wine and conversation surrounded by members of the Comedy Coalition working on being hilarious and loud. We sip until we're hungry before heading to Tarrant's Back Door for fish tacos, only three of which arrive at our table because the cashier has dropped the fourth one on the floor,
When I point out to him that we could go ahead and start on the three still safe inside their box, he looks at me with amazement since clearly this option has not occurred to him. Meanwhile, we dive into the tacos, each of which contains two enormous pieces of grilled tilapia the length of the tortilla and a fresh-tasting corn and cabbage slaw.
And notice I said grilled since fried fish tacos are not a personal favorite and the Back Door is one of the few places that knows this and gives me what I like. Eventually, the fourth taco shows up and is dispatched quickly.
Our final destination, since woman can not live by food, water and compliments alone (though I have come to revel in the latter becoming a daily part of my life after it being MIA for years) was Black Iris Gallery to see L.A.'s Lonesome Leash play for a small but appreciative crowd.
First of all, there's the setting: an intimate, wood-lined room with great acoustics. Then there's the vibe: dimly-lit, hushed, anticipatory. And the crowd who comes out on a chilly Tuesday night? They're a mix of music lovers, members of the LGBTQ community and those who've been tipped off that an amazing talent will be sharing their gift.
Witness how Mr. Wright's L.A. connection had alerted him to the show after I had already I had already made it my pick for the evening.
The one-man band that is Lonesome Leash (aka Walt) took his place in the corner of the room behind his arsenal: a bass drum, a snare drum and an accordion, with a keyboard to his right. Right off the bat, this is not someone who plays the accordion according to the tenets of Cajun, Alpine or Tejano but instead makes it pulse with an energy that sounds bigger than it should.
Although he began by singing in a hushed voice - delicately, beautifully, laying his life out for dissection - as he played gentle drums and winding accordion, it only took until the end of the first song before he was also playing trumpet. Folded into accordion and drums, the pure sound of the horn took the music into something positively soul-stirring.
With each song, it seemed as if he opened himself up further, skin, bones, heart and mind, inviting the listener to follow along as he mused on life, love and time spent alone driving. Sample lyric: "There is love in everyone I have known..." He switched to keyboards to play some of the poignant songs from his new album "Delicate Art" before returning to dazzling us as a one-man band.
Each song captured the audience, from the slow burners to the more overtly powerful tunes, and it was all we could do to clap loudly to show our appreciation for his talent each time he quietly folded his hands to signal the song ending.
When the show concluded, a friend walked over, stood between us and Walt and said, "Thank goodness there are delicate and emotionally fragile musicians willing to open themselves up and share their take on the world." Amen, girlfriend. I couldn't have said it better myself. It was as if a butterfly had landed on my arm and sat there for an hour, allowing me to savor up close the beauty of its wings and movement.
A musical memory of the highest order.
And no amount of eats can replace that feeling. So, sorry, Chris Rock, but it'll take more than food, water and compliments, though you can score a helluva lot of points with them.
You want to show me your sincerity, GB Shaw? Add music to the mix.
~ George Bernard Shaw
I could politely be called an enthusiastic eater.
Partly that's because there's little that doesn't appeal to me and partly because I never succumbed to any sort of guilt about eating. I wake up hungry every single morning of my life, regardless of what I've eaten the night before.
I've been known to ask the driver of the car I'm riding in if we're going to stop for lunch barely 15 minutes after leaving home. If I get asked out at the last minute for lunch or dinner and I've already eaten, I keep quiet about it and go out for a second meal.
And sometimes when I look back at what I've been up to for the past couple of days, it feels like it's been non-stop eating. Oh, sure, I did some writing and bathing in between chowing down sessions, but not much else.
That's not embarrassment talking, that's simple fact.
Sometimes I find myself sitting at Metzger on a Sunday evening, mere hours after returning from brunch at Laura Lee's, inhaling pretzel rolls, lavash and spent grain sourdough with mustard butter and beer cheese, a completely unique squash salad with ribbons of carrots and a dark chocolate torte as if I hadn't eaten all day.
That vintage yet obscure soul music is, as usual, playing on the sound system only encourages us to linger and me to order yet another glass of Gruner Veltliner as the Sunday crowd gradually dwindles to the diehards on bar stools.
Not even a day later, I'll be happily ensconced on a stool at Dinamo, slurping up my cold weather go-to, also known as the pescatarian's delight: fish soup. Tomato based and muscular, the soup is loaded with rockfish, mussels, squid and couscous' Sardinian cousin, fregola, with just enough heat to keep you honest.
And for the record, I'm also using slices of Italian bread to sop up what my spoon is incapable of delivering to my mouth. Enthusiastic eaters leave no morsel behind.
But woman does not live by soup and wine alone, so we also share a salad and white pizza with red onions because the simplicity of a thin crust crowned with onions is about as satisfying as bread and cheese gets. The green salad is essential with pie. And the chocolate espresso torte? That's just my standard ending at Dinamo, even when I opt out of whipped cream and cherries.
There are only three things women need in life: food, water and compliments. ~ Chris Rock
Sorry, Chris, but some of us also need music.
Which means that by Tuesday night, I will lead Mr. Wright to Saison Market for wine and conversation surrounded by members of the Comedy Coalition working on being hilarious and loud. We sip until we're hungry before heading to Tarrant's Back Door for fish tacos, only three of which arrive at our table because the cashier has dropped the fourth one on the floor,
When I point out to him that we could go ahead and start on the three still safe inside their box, he looks at me with amazement since clearly this option has not occurred to him. Meanwhile, we dive into the tacos, each of which contains two enormous pieces of grilled tilapia the length of the tortilla and a fresh-tasting corn and cabbage slaw.
And notice I said grilled since fried fish tacos are not a personal favorite and the Back Door is one of the few places that knows this and gives me what I like. Eventually, the fourth taco shows up and is dispatched quickly.
Our final destination, since woman can not live by food, water and compliments alone (though I have come to revel in the latter becoming a daily part of my life after it being MIA for years) was Black Iris Gallery to see L.A.'s Lonesome Leash play for a small but appreciative crowd.
First of all, there's the setting: an intimate, wood-lined room with great acoustics. Then there's the vibe: dimly-lit, hushed, anticipatory. And the crowd who comes out on a chilly Tuesday night? They're a mix of music lovers, members of the LGBTQ community and those who've been tipped off that an amazing talent will be sharing their gift.
Witness how Mr. Wright's L.A. connection had alerted him to the show after I had already I had already made it my pick for the evening.
The one-man band that is Lonesome Leash (aka Walt) took his place in the corner of the room behind his arsenal: a bass drum, a snare drum and an accordion, with a keyboard to his right. Right off the bat, this is not someone who plays the accordion according to the tenets of Cajun, Alpine or Tejano but instead makes it pulse with an energy that sounds bigger than it should.
Although he began by singing in a hushed voice - delicately, beautifully, laying his life out for dissection - as he played gentle drums and winding accordion, it only took until the end of the first song before he was also playing trumpet. Folded into accordion and drums, the pure sound of the horn took the music into something positively soul-stirring.
With each song, it seemed as if he opened himself up further, skin, bones, heart and mind, inviting the listener to follow along as he mused on life, love and time spent alone driving. Sample lyric: "There is love in everyone I have known..." He switched to keyboards to play some of the poignant songs from his new album "Delicate Art" before returning to dazzling us as a one-man band.
Each song captured the audience, from the slow burners to the more overtly powerful tunes, and it was all we could do to clap loudly to show our appreciation for his talent each time he quietly folded his hands to signal the song ending.
When the show concluded, a friend walked over, stood between us and Walt and said, "Thank goodness there are delicate and emotionally fragile musicians willing to open themselves up and share their take on the world." Amen, girlfriend. I couldn't have said it better myself. It was as if a butterfly had landed on my arm and sat there for an hour, allowing me to savor up close the beauty of its wings and movement.
A musical memory of the highest order.
And no amount of eats can replace that feeling. So, sorry, Chris Rock, but it'll take more than food, water and compliments, though you can score a helluva lot of points with them.
You want to show me your sincerity, GB Shaw? Add music to the mix.
Monday, November 19, 2018
Ladies Who Brunch
Except for having to explain what a fern bar was to one of my girlfriends, we chose the ideal spot to reconvene after a year.
As for how three long-time friends who'd met through a shared love of music could let a year go by without breaking bread, well, I blame myself. Between my low period and the whirlwind of meeting my match, I'd not been pushing for get-togethers like I used to.
No surprise, today's overdue brunch happened because of music, too. Earlier this week, I'd heard from Xtina after she'd spotted me at a show and we'd decided a rendezvous was in order. Naturally we folded in Em, which made running into her Friday night even more unlikely.
Surely my moon must be in the seventh house or something.
These two always defer to me about picking where to eat and though I tried to suggest our usual place, 821 Cafe, they were hankering for something new to them. That was simple enough because neither had been to Laura Lee's, a shame given the fabulous food and decidedly female vibe, and it took no time for Em to jump on making a reservation.
Good thing, too, because the place was mobbed by mid-day.
Walking in to find I was the last to arrive, a fact which thrilled Xtina who'd made it one of her life goals to arrive before I did at one of our dates, led to a discussion of punctuality. For most of my life, I can safely say I was always on time, but that changed a decade ago when I stopped holding myself to that standard. It was hugely liberating, a fact I shared, and both friends marveled at my willingness to go easier on myself.
"Women have such a hard time with that," Em noted. "I wish I could relax about it." Give it a decade or so, my dear, and see if you don't soften all kinds of self-imposed rules.
I watched as they ogled the joint and made suitably appreciative comments about the decor: the soft green curved banquettes, the beguiling art that doubled as sound baffles, the glass garage door that let in loads of November sunlight.
Then I explained to the young 'un that bars were once bastions of male dominance, news to her. So I shared that fern bars were created in the happenin' days of the sexual revolution in the '70s as a means to attract young, single women to drink in public, something many had been reluctant to do - more likely explicitly forbidden to do by their mothers - in seedy, smokey dives full of men.
The ones I remember from the '80s were indeed full of ferns, along with Tiffany lamps, plenty of brass railings and as many women as men, so it never occurred to me that bars hadn't always been crowded by both sexes. Fast forward to the 21st century and Laura Lee's nods to the fern bar Version 2.0, combining the best of what originally set those bars apart with a more contemporary sensibility.
Of course they were enchanted once they knew the history and, as the senior member of this trio, it's my job to inform them.
First on the conversational docket was the development of Xtina's stage presence, a subject brought up because Em had recently seen Xtina's band perform and had been wowed at how much more comfortable she'd become on stage. I'd noticed myself the last few shows.
"She was dancing and wearing a crop top onstage, Karen!" Em explained, seeking to share her surprise with a like-minded friend. Who was this person inhabiting our friend's body? We reminisced how when we'd first seen her performing in a band, she'd sung and played guitar while keeping her eyes closed and pretending that the audience wasn't there.
Shyness had prevented any sort of audience rapport.
But no more. Her new attitude, she said, was to have a good time and not worry about messing up a line singing or with a goofy dance step. She was far happier for letting go of unrealistic expectations.
When we finally got around to ordering, the orders broke down along party lines. Xtina got her usual huevos rancheros, while Em was a shoe-in for the enormous chocolate chip pancakes. What I really wanted was the fried chicken for two, but since I had no partner-in-yardbird, I made do with avocado toast with tomato jam, bacon and part of the biscuits we ordered for the table.
Also for the table was a hot toddy with chai spice, which arrived in a black glass that resembled the intricate designs on milk glass. We agreed that it tasted like Christmas - or Thanksgiving at the least - and Xtina especially dug the lemony warmth of it.
And while I don't need to rhapsodize about Laura Lee's biscuits, let's just have a moment for biscuits with enough fat baked into them (Em: "If they're made with lard, I don't want to know about it") that slathering butter on them isn't essential. That said, I did slather cherry jam over every available biscuit surface.
I gave props to Em (and her cute husband) for having DJ'd the Abigail Spanberger victory party - that's right, I'm friends with the brilliant woman who played Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" - and really gotten that party started. That led to her telling us about how often a guy will approach them when they're DJing together, but direct every question, whether about equipment, music choice or just DJing, directly to her husband as if she were invisible.
The struggle is real.
Much of today's extended brunch talk was about Xtina's new dating life now that she's recently out of a two-year relationship. She's torn about going forward with a nice drummer she met and looking forward to meeting up with a handsome NOLA transplant who used to live in Richmond and will be back soon. Meanwhile, we watched as our server made eye contact with her every chance he could and she debated whether or not to leave her phone number on her bill. Should she, shouldn't she, how do you know who's right for you?
It must be exhausting to be young, beautiful and single.
Of course, we couldn't dissect their lives without touching on mine, meaning I got to hear both telling me how much I deserve this new reality of mine, even if it does keep me out of the widespread circulation that used to define my life. I'm still out an awful lot, but often now it's with my biggest fan.
Which sort of makes me the poster child for hanging in there until the right person shows up. You just never know how long it'll take or how worthwhile the wait will be. Patience, not necessarily punctuality.
Try telling that to someone who doesn't know what a fern bar is.
As for how three long-time friends who'd met through a shared love of music could let a year go by without breaking bread, well, I blame myself. Between my low period and the whirlwind of meeting my match, I'd not been pushing for get-togethers like I used to.
No surprise, today's overdue brunch happened because of music, too. Earlier this week, I'd heard from Xtina after she'd spotted me at a show and we'd decided a rendezvous was in order. Naturally we folded in Em, which made running into her Friday night even more unlikely.
Surely my moon must be in the seventh house or something.
These two always defer to me about picking where to eat and though I tried to suggest our usual place, 821 Cafe, they were hankering for something new to them. That was simple enough because neither had been to Laura Lee's, a shame given the fabulous food and decidedly female vibe, and it took no time for Em to jump on making a reservation.
Good thing, too, because the place was mobbed by mid-day.
Walking in to find I was the last to arrive, a fact which thrilled Xtina who'd made it one of her life goals to arrive before I did at one of our dates, led to a discussion of punctuality. For most of my life, I can safely say I was always on time, but that changed a decade ago when I stopped holding myself to that standard. It was hugely liberating, a fact I shared, and both friends marveled at my willingness to go easier on myself.
"Women have such a hard time with that," Em noted. "I wish I could relax about it." Give it a decade or so, my dear, and see if you don't soften all kinds of self-imposed rules.
I watched as they ogled the joint and made suitably appreciative comments about the decor: the soft green curved banquettes, the beguiling art that doubled as sound baffles, the glass garage door that let in loads of November sunlight.
Then I explained to the young 'un that bars were once bastions of male dominance, news to her. So I shared that fern bars were created in the happenin' days of the sexual revolution in the '70s as a means to attract young, single women to drink in public, something many had been reluctant to do - more likely explicitly forbidden to do by their mothers - in seedy, smokey dives full of men.
The ones I remember from the '80s were indeed full of ferns, along with Tiffany lamps, plenty of brass railings and as many women as men, so it never occurred to me that bars hadn't always been crowded by both sexes. Fast forward to the 21st century and Laura Lee's nods to the fern bar Version 2.0, combining the best of what originally set those bars apart with a more contemporary sensibility.
Of course they were enchanted once they knew the history and, as the senior member of this trio, it's my job to inform them.
First on the conversational docket was the development of Xtina's stage presence, a subject brought up because Em had recently seen Xtina's band perform and had been wowed at how much more comfortable she'd become on stage. I'd noticed myself the last few shows.
"She was dancing and wearing a crop top onstage, Karen!" Em explained, seeking to share her surprise with a like-minded friend. Who was this person inhabiting our friend's body? We reminisced how when we'd first seen her performing in a band, she'd sung and played guitar while keeping her eyes closed and pretending that the audience wasn't there.
Shyness had prevented any sort of audience rapport.
But no more. Her new attitude, she said, was to have a good time and not worry about messing up a line singing or with a goofy dance step. She was far happier for letting go of unrealistic expectations.
When we finally got around to ordering, the orders broke down along party lines. Xtina got her usual huevos rancheros, while Em was a shoe-in for the enormous chocolate chip pancakes. What I really wanted was the fried chicken for two, but since I had no partner-in-yardbird, I made do with avocado toast with tomato jam, bacon and part of the biscuits we ordered for the table.
Also for the table was a hot toddy with chai spice, which arrived in a black glass that resembled the intricate designs on milk glass. We agreed that it tasted like Christmas - or Thanksgiving at the least - and Xtina especially dug the lemony warmth of it.
And while I don't need to rhapsodize about Laura Lee's biscuits, let's just have a moment for biscuits with enough fat baked into them (Em: "If they're made with lard, I don't want to know about it") that slathering butter on them isn't essential. That said, I did slather cherry jam over every available biscuit surface.
I gave props to Em (and her cute husband) for having DJ'd the Abigail Spanberger victory party - that's right, I'm friends with the brilliant woman who played Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" - and really gotten that party started. That led to her telling us about how often a guy will approach them when they're DJing together, but direct every question, whether about equipment, music choice or just DJing, directly to her husband as if she were invisible.
The struggle is real.
Much of today's extended brunch talk was about Xtina's new dating life now that she's recently out of a two-year relationship. She's torn about going forward with a nice drummer she met and looking forward to meeting up with a handsome NOLA transplant who used to live in Richmond and will be back soon. Meanwhile, we watched as our server made eye contact with her every chance he could and she debated whether or not to leave her phone number on her bill. Should she, shouldn't she, how do you know who's right for you?
It must be exhausting to be young, beautiful and single.
Of course, we couldn't dissect their lives without touching on mine, meaning I got to hear both telling me how much I deserve this new reality of mine, even if it does keep me out of the widespread circulation that used to define my life. I'm still out an awful lot, but often now it's with my biggest fan.
Which sort of makes me the poster child for hanging in there until the right person shows up. You just never know how long it'll take or how worthwhile the wait will be. Patience, not necessarily punctuality.
Try telling that to someone who doesn't know what a fern bar is.
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Leave a Light On
There are multiple reasons to attend InLight, but overhearing strangers is surely one of them.
I'm liking Fresh Market these days, how about you?
Yea, Richmond the past two weeks reminds me of Blacksburg...
You don't have to read the sign, just look at it and come on.
It's a million hours past your bedtime, so we have to go.
I've gone on record as saying that I don't think the VMFA is as well suited to InLight as neighborhood locations, but no one listens to me. So here we - that's the thousands of us who traipsed through - were, back at a confined location being herded along paths to see light installations blocked by hordes of people.
Just an observation from the cheap seats.
My favorite piece revealed itself on the way in with Sarah Choo Jing's "Art of the Rehearsal," a massive projection on the side of the museum. My immediate reaction was one of familiarity - the two-story streetscape allowed views inside individual apartments where each tenant danced a different kind of dance to the same music - because I was reminded of "Rear Window" and the views afforded to wheelchair-bound Jimmy Stewart.
But unlike his bird's eye view of Miss Lonely Hearts, a composer and a murderer, I had a view of a salsa dancer on the roof, a ballerina in the kitchen, a Middle Eastern dancer in the hallway and myriad others going through their individual rehearsals, each framed by their space.
I don't know which I was more into, the choreography or the voyeuristic elements of of the elaborate scene. I do know I found it captivating to watch as the empty windows, balconies and patios became the setting for multiple dances before they retreated to their apartments again out of sight. I don't know about others, but I stood and watched it through many times so I could focus on a different dancer every time.
A man with a thick Spanish accent asked someone if the dancers were real and a passerby responded politely, "I think it's projections coming from these boxes." Knowing nods followed.
And while she wasn't technically part of InLight, Chloe, the 24'-high resin head of a woman, was every bit as striking as the light installations. Viewed against a deepening gray-blue sky, a tree with half its leaves still hanging on providing the backdrop, Chloe caught every bit of available light and glowed like the moon with its whiteness.
I'd have lingered there even longer than I did except that people kept posing groups in front of it for photo ops. Meanwhile, I had to accept that not everyone wanted to actually take in the art when it was so much easier to just snap a picture and move on.
I was bent over, reading a sign about Bob Kaputof's "Oasis in the Night Sky" when a woman asked if she could butt in front of me to take a picture of the sign in front of me. Without so much as looking up, I shook my head no and continued reading.
Sorry, honey, real time life trumps virtual documentation every time, at least for now. Yes, I have my concerns about the future.
Approaching the former Confederate Home for Women (now the Pauley Center), I heard a young guy exclaim, "Look, it's Chiocca's!" in reference to all the neon signs: a hand pointing downstairs, a crescent moon, an "open" sign and another that said "Butter" in yellow lights, among others. The Theremin Collection's "Hidden in Plain Sight" celebrated they neon heyday of the 1920s.
One of the best views I saw was accidental, coming when I reached the top of the hill and looked back toward the many lighted windows of the museum, the Chihuly red reeds and the endless stream of people making their way around the grounds. I'm telling you, Richmond Tourism could use that picaresque image to entice people to visit such a cool city.
Mart Finkelstein's "Echoes in Motion" was like a beacon from the sculpture garden's highest level, except that long before I'd arrived, it had become Selfie Central, so it was impossible to fully see the back-lit series of black, white and colored panels, some still and others undulating organically like microbes reproducing, for all the photo shoots and re-takes ("I look awful, take it again!").
Darkness is a big part of why InLight works, but the slate steps leading down the hill were clogged with people going in both directions, so it was inevitable there'd be traffic jams as the steps receded into the darkness.
I overheard a woman complain that she couldn't see where she was going (though she was also on the incorrect side of the staircase to go up) and then gulp, "Oops!" loudly. She'd landed on one of the stones to the side of the steps and something had toppled in the process. "It's just an orange cone," her companion said reassuringly. "I'll put it back!"
Surely one of the most lovely and unusual installations was Leila Ehteshaim and Carl Patow's "River City Reflections," a reflecting pool filled with small glass jars with lights in them. At the top of the hill, a person would write down their wish for Richmond, seal it in the jar and send it cascading down the water-covered steps to the pool to join the undulating mass of jars floating on the water's surface.
"I think Mayor Stoney should have to pull one of these out of the water and make it come true," a woman in a blue hat announced.
"What if it's for something like making unicorns real?" a stranger challenged her back. "Well, it has to be in his sphere," the first insisted, while several people chimed in, saying the best thing that could happen would be for us to become one city, black and white, rich and poor.
If only.
Because I'd waited to go to InLight until the last couple hours before it closed, the crowds had thinned a tad by the time I made my way back for one final visit to the dancers of "Art of the Rehearsal," where I was every bit as enchanted as the first time.
So the VMFA isn't my first choice for InLight. You don't see that stopping me from attending, do you? I was at the first one eleven years ago and, barring being in another country, I'll be at future events. There will be no photos to prove it, but trust me on this.
Because if I don't go, there won't be a single person there not taking photographs and that's just wrong. Somebody besides Chloe's gotta represent the Luddites, experiencing it all IRL, not virtually later.
At you service, InLight.
I'm liking Fresh Market these days, how about you?
Yea, Richmond the past two weeks reminds me of Blacksburg...
You don't have to read the sign, just look at it and come on.
It's a million hours past your bedtime, so we have to go.
I've gone on record as saying that I don't think the VMFA is as well suited to InLight as neighborhood locations, but no one listens to me. So here we - that's the thousands of us who traipsed through - were, back at a confined location being herded along paths to see light installations blocked by hordes of people.
Just an observation from the cheap seats.
My favorite piece revealed itself on the way in with Sarah Choo Jing's "Art of the Rehearsal," a massive projection on the side of the museum. My immediate reaction was one of familiarity - the two-story streetscape allowed views inside individual apartments where each tenant danced a different kind of dance to the same music - because I was reminded of "Rear Window" and the views afforded to wheelchair-bound Jimmy Stewart.
But unlike his bird's eye view of Miss Lonely Hearts, a composer and a murderer, I had a view of a salsa dancer on the roof, a ballerina in the kitchen, a Middle Eastern dancer in the hallway and myriad others going through their individual rehearsals, each framed by their space.
I don't know which I was more into, the choreography or the voyeuristic elements of of the elaborate scene. I do know I found it captivating to watch as the empty windows, balconies and patios became the setting for multiple dances before they retreated to their apartments again out of sight. I don't know about others, but I stood and watched it through many times so I could focus on a different dancer every time.
A man with a thick Spanish accent asked someone if the dancers were real and a passerby responded politely, "I think it's projections coming from these boxes." Knowing nods followed.
And while she wasn't technically part of InLight, Chloe, the 24'-high resin head of a woman, was every bit as striking as the light installations. Viewed against a deepening gray-blue sky, a tree with half its leaves still hanging on providing the backdrop, Chloe caught every bit of available light and glowed like the moon with its whiteness.
I'd have lingered there even longer than I did except that people kept posing groups in front of it for photo ops. Meanwhile, I had to accept that not everyone wanted to actually take in the art when it was so much easier to just snap a picture and move on.
I was bent over, reading a sign about Bob Kaputof's "Oasis in the Night Sky" when a woman asked if she could butt in front of me to take a picture of the sign in front of me. Without so much as looking up, I shook my head no and continued reading.
Sorry, honey, real time life trumps virtual documentation every time, at least for now. Yes, I have my concerns about the future.
Approaching the former Confederate Home for Women (now the Pauley Center), I heard a young guy exclaim, "Look, it's Chiocca's!" in reference to all the neon signs: a hand pointing downstairs, a crescent moon, an "open" sign and another that said "Butter" in yellow lights, among others. The Theremin Collection's "Hidden in Plain Sight" celebrated they neon heyday of the 1920s.
One of the best views I saw was accidental, coming when I reached the top of the hill and looked back toward the many lighted windows of the museum, the Chihuly red reeds and the endless stream of people making their way around the grounds. I'm telling you, Richmond Tourism could use that picaresque image to entice people to visit such a cool city.
Mart Finkelstein's "Echoes in Motion" was like a beacon from the sculpture garden's highest level, except that long before I'd arrived, it had become Selfie Central, so it was impossible to fully see the back-lit series of black, white and colored panels, some still and others undulating organically like microbes reproducing, for all the photo shoots and re-takes ("I look awful, take it again!").
Darkness is a big part of why InLight works, but the slate steps leading down the hill were clogged with people going in both directions, so it was inevitable there'd be traffic jams as the steps receded into the darkness.
I overheard a woman complain that she couldn't see where she was going (though she was also on the incorrect side of the staircase to go up) and then gulp, "Oops!" loudly. She'd landed on one of the stones to the side of the steps and something had toppled in the process. "It's just an orange cone," her companion said reassuringly. "I'll put it back!"
Surely one of the most lovely and unusual installations was Leila Ehteshaim and Carl Patow's "River City Reflections," a reflecting pool filled with small glass jars with lights in them. At the top of the hill, a person would write down their wish for Richmond, seal it in the jar and send it cascading down the water-covered steps to the pool to join the undulating mass of jars floating on the water's surface.
"I think Mayor Stoney should have to pull one of these out of the water and make it come true," a woman in a blue hat announced.
"What if it's for something like making unicorns real?" a stranger challenged her back. "Well, it has to be in his sphere," the first insisted, while several people chimed in, saying the best thing that could happen would be for us to become one city, black and white, rich and poor.
If only.
Because I'd waited to go to InLight until the last couple hours before it closed, the crowds had thinned a tad by the time I made my way back for one final visit to the dancers of "Art of the Rehearsal," where I was every bit as enchanted as the first time.
So the VMFA isn't my first choice for InLight. You don't see that stopping me from attending, do you? I was at the first one eleven years ago and, barring being in another country, I'll be at future events. There will be no photos to prove it, but trust me on this.
Because if I don't go, there won't be a single person there not taking photographs and that's just wrong. Somebody besides Chloe's gotta represent the Luddites, experiencing it all IRL, not virtually later.
At you service, InLight.
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