The next time Devendra Banhart plays RVA, it will sell out. And then the half-full crowd that was at tonight's show can remind everyone else what a mind-blowing show they missed in August 2010. It was even notable for the change in his look; that photo-op-ready leonine mane of his was replaced with a respectable short cut. Hello, handsome.
Any way you describe Banhart - psychedelic folk, freak folk, lo-fi- is inadequate. He opened the evening by introducing himself and his band and announcing, "We're the Grogs." They proceeded to play a rocking retro set whose sound borrowed from the 60s and surf music and occasionally wandered dangerously near Americana. His voice, like his personality, is truly unique.
My bartending friend the musician summed up my thoughts. "I expected this to sell out." The guy standing next to me during the show asked me if it was my first DB show. He'd driven from Charlottesville to see them for the second time, knowing what a treat he was in for. He, too, expected a sellout.
Sadly for the audience members who planned to skip the opener, the opener was the Grogs, so Banhart was on stage from the very first moment to the last. By the time the couple next to me showed up and asked how far into the set it was, they had easily missed 7 or 8 songs. It was their loss, too.
Having been raised in Venezuela by a Venezuelan mother, it's impossible not to hear South American influences in his music, even his singing on occasion. He had a warble worthy of Brian Ferry of Roxy Music, which I loved. Late in the set, he introduced a song by saying, "We were all living together in San Francisco and probably listening to way too much Roxy Music." The result was the sublimely sophisticated 16th and Valencia Roxy Music. Truly music to woo by.
Not long after, he said he was going to do a cover because it's one that makes him want to dance. Launching into Taylor Dane's Tell It To My Heart from the late '80s ( either a guilty pleasure or a classic oldie, depending on your vantage point), it lit a fire under the crowd. People couldn't not move, even with his very intense but still oh-so-danceable arrangement.
The show was the perfect mix of Banhart's harder-rocking band stuff and his straight-ahead singer/songwriter material, delivered with only a guitar or keyboards. After a particularly poignant song, he warned us that the next would be a sad one. It was pleasure to hear such sadness. But when he wanted to let the audience know, it was also a clear case of "we will rock you."
My ticket had been a freebie given to me by a friend and likely many people also came with comp tickets. Unfortunately, it meant that there were too many people there for social rather than music purposes. Many who'd arrived late didn't seem to realize that the dark-haired guy onstage was the headliner; I think they presumed that this was some anonymous opening band. And they were too busy talking to even hear what they were missing.
There was a skinny old hippie guy not far from me and he finally blasted one couple, telling them "If you're gonna talk, move to the back so we can hear the music." They gave him a dirty look and I told him, "Amen." Banhart's solo sound needs to be appreciated in a quiet room; the diehards in the crowd had shut up from the first note.
Banhart knows how to please his fans. Midway through the set he said they'd take requests. One idiot shouted out a song they'd already played. Way to represent Richmond, buddy. After one song, he reached down into the audience, touching people's hands. Coming back for the encore, Banhart had stripped off his sweaty shirt. Way to score points all around, DB.
Talking to assorted friends after the show (including one couple I'd seen last night at the G5 show), everyone agreed what an amazing and unappreciated show it had been. Someone suggested that it wasn't properly promoted.
I'm sorry for the absentees' bad luck, but I'm still going to be grateful to have been one of the ones who saw tonight's performance. Oh, I'll be at his next Richmond gig, the sold-out one, for sure. I'll probably be thinking back to how much better it was back when I saw him and wasn't packed like sardines in a can (see: MGMT. the Shins, My Bloody Valentine, the Decemberists et al), but I'll be there.
I wonder if his hair will be long again by then.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Female Fronts and Backs
Not that a show on an obscure Monday night needs a theme, because it's awesome enough that there is a great show to start off the week with, but tonight's actually did have one: female fronted bands. And, just for the record, I love watching a girl play drums (I'm sure that says something about me).
DC's Body Cop made me glad I'd brought earplugs, something I rarely bring or use. The band plays slow-paced punk while the tiny lead singer Kiki wails unintelligibly over top of all that sound; it's pretty impressive. A lot of people had come to hear them specifically and some even left after their set.
For the first few songs, she actually stood in front of the stage, one with the audience, who were barely two feet away. Her frenetic motions and screaming sounds made it hard for the audience to look anywhere else. Reverberating and shrieking, she appeared to be a force of nature.
Between sets, I ran into a friend and her musician husband, whom I'd seen play Gallery 5 with Ted Leo and the Pharmacists two summers ago. I remembered the great energy in the room that night and he remembered the sky-high temperatures ("I think it was 100 degrees," he recalled). In fact, he remembered it as the hottest show they'd ever played.
Richmond's The Two Funerals were next, girl-fronted (guitar and vocals) and girl-backed (drums) and with a guy on bass. They were great to watch, mainly because they all seemed to be enjoying themselves so much. My friend who had previously seen them warned me ahead of time, "They are so much fun."
Fun and apparently good friends with Screaming Females, the headliners for the evening. So, too, were my friends; in fact, SF are staying with them tonight, making them true arts supporters. Because they'd seen SF before, my friends informed me that I wouldn't be needing my earplugs for their set and I was happy to discover that they were right. SF's volume level was perfect: loud enough but not ear-splitting. Pink plugs stayed parked in pocket.
The last time SF played RVA, the show had sold out in an hour, so word had gotten around not to miss tonight's performance. The poster billed them as "NJ Christian surf jazz," an intriguing enough description no matter what it meant.
A lot of the word-of-mouth came about because of lead singer Marissa's epic guitar playing and she was indeed amazing. The songs were well-written and her distinctive voice added a lot of polish to each one. Dressed in red silk Chinese pajamas with big white frog closures, she looked a bit like an anime character, but she orchestrated that band like some kind of heroine.
After the show ended and the crowd began calling for more, she picked up the set list and pointed to the bottom, "We'll do one more. See here it says: Optional? We're choosing to do that song for you." But afterwards, when the crowd called for another, she came back and reminded them that the band had already done the optional song. I took it to mean, "Stop begging."
I understood her point completely. Here we are lucky enough to have these bands playing on a Monday evening, a typically boring night, so let's not be demanding, kids.
The audience's theme for a Monday show should be gratitude, not greed.
DC's Body Cop made me glad I'd brought earplugs, something I rarely bring or use. The band plays slow-paced punk while the tiny lead singer Kiki wails unintelligibly over top of all that sound; it's pretty impressive. A lot of people had come to hear them specifically and some even left after their set.
For the first few songs, she actually stood in front of the stage, one with the audience, who were barely two feet away. Her frenetic motions and screaming sounds made it hard for the audience to look anywhere else. Reverberating and shrieking, she appeared to be a force of nature.
Between sets, I ran into a friend and her musician husband, whom I'd seen play Gallery 5 with Ted Leo and the Pharmacists two summers ago. I remembered the great energy in the room that night and he remembered the sky-high temperatures ("I think it was 100 degrees," he recalled). In fact, he remembered it as the hottest show they'd ever played.
Richmond's The Two Funerals were next, girl-fronted (guitar and vocals) and girl-backed (drums) and with a guy on bass. They were great to watch, mainly because they all seemed to be enjoying themselves so much. My friend who had previously seen them warned me ahead of time, "They are so much fun."
Fun and apparently good friends with Screaming Females, the headliners for the evening. So, too, were my friends; in fact, SF are staying with them tonight, making them true arts supporters. Because they'd seen SF before, my friends informed me that I wouldn't be needing my earplugs for their set and I was happy to discover that they were right. SF's volume level was perfect: loud enough but not ear-splitting. Pink plugs stayed parked in pocket.
The last time SF played RVA, the show had sold out in an hour, so word had gotten around not to miss tonight's performance. The poster billed them as "NJ Christian surf jazz," an intriguing enough description no matter what it meant.
A lot of the word-of-mouth came about because of lead singer Marissa's epic guitar playing and she was indeed amazing. The songs were well-written and her distinctive voice added a lot of polish to each one. Dressed in red silk Chinese pajamas with big white frog closures, she looked a bit like an anime character, but she orchestrated that band like some kind of heroine.
After the show ended and the crowd began calling for more, she picked up the set list and pointed to the bottom, "We'll do one more. See here it says: Optional? We're choosing to do that song for you." But afterwards, when the crowd called for another, she came back and reminded them that the band had already done the optional song. I took it to mean, "Stop begging."
I understood her point completely. Here we are lucky enough to have these bands playing on a Monday evening, a typically boring night, so let's not be demanding, kids.
The audience's theme for a Monday show should be gratitude, not greed.
On the Road with Gravy and Greens
You know how everybody has their own road trip peculiarities? I once dated a guy who insisted that all road trip food be fast food because he never ate it in his real life. I know a girl who says a road trip isn't complete without listening to John Mayer's Heavier Things. I have a friend who requires a book on tape to listen to; music doesn't do it for her.
I have one friend who has a circumstantial road trip rule. If he's driving north, he insists on eating Southern before leaving. He's originally from Surry County and it's like he's afraid his southern soul will perish north of the Mason-Dixon line without proper fortification.
Today he was leaving from Williamsburg for Cambridge, Massachusetts and he wanted to meet for lunch here. So all I had to do was think of a place likely to give him a bit of his southern fix before hitting Route 301. And although I'd never been in Becky's at First and Cary, from what I'd heard, it sounded like it would do just fine.
The look was right: long and narrow, booths on one side and tables on the other and with old wooden swinging doors leading into the kitchen. They had a daily specials menu that ran from pork chops and meatloaf on Mondays to fried chicken and (of course) fried fish on Fridays. My friend very quickly decided on the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, with a side of collard greens being the key component.
Fear of gravy-envy compelled me to order the hot turkey breast sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy. And thank god for the gravy because otherwise that white turkey on white bread with white potatoes on a white plate would have been a bit monochromatic. As it was, it was awfully tonal, but tasty enough.
And in an effort to send him north with a final southern sweet, we had an enormous slice of the three-layer Red Velvet cake. I know, I know, it's really just yellow cake with red food coloring but the thick layer of frosting was to die for.
We'd successfully met his road trip requirement. Hopefully that will be enough to sustain his Surry County-boy soul until he returns to the land of pig and greens.
I have one friend who has a circumstantial road trip rule. If he's driving north, he insists on eating Southern before leaving. He's originally from Surry County and it's like he's afraid his southern soul will perish north of the Mason-Dixon line without proper fortification.
Today he was leaving from Williamsburg for Cambridge, Massachusetts and he wanted to meet for lunch here. So all I had to do was think of a place likely to give him a bit of his southern fix before hitting Route 301. And although I'd never been in Becky's at First and Cary, from what I'd heard, it sounded like it would do just fine.
The look was right: long and narrow, booths on one side and tables on the other and with old wooden swinging doors leading into the kitchen. They had a daily specials menu that ran from pork chops and meatloaf on Mondays to fried chicken and (of course) fried fish on Fridays. My friend very quickly decided on the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, with a side of collard greens being the key component.
Fear of gravy-envy compelled me to order the hot turkey breast sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy. And thank god for the gravy because otherwise that white turkey on white bread with white potatoes on a white plate would have been a bit monochromatic. As it was, it was awfully tonal, but tasty enough.
And in an effort to send him north with a final southern sweet, we had an enormous slice of the three-layer Red Velvet cake. I know, I know, it's really just yellow cake with red food coloring but the thick layer of frosting was to die for.
We'd successfully met his road trip requirement. Hopefully that will be enough to sustain his Surry County-boy soul until he returns to the land of pig and greens.
Really, It's for Your Own Good
Imagine a film based on the worst memories of restaurant servers. Or one where a guy gives birth to a slimy creature after sex with his computer. Or one called The Falling Offness of the Head Part. Imagine all of these and more and you'd have tonight's James River Filmmakers Forum at Balliceaux, the perfect way to spend a Sunday evening.
Since it was dinnertime, I ordered the smoked bluefish over field greens with grilled peach, sunflower seeds and peach cider vinaigrette; I also got a side of chickpea salad because I'd been wanting to try it (it was very well done). The only problem was that the back bar was closed and the event was being held in the back room. The front bar servers ran themselves ragged trying to service the front and back of the restaurant. I felt bad for them.
Six local films were being shown. I saw four friends acting in three different films. I had previously seen three of the films at Project Resolution. Two of the films were experimental in nature. One film was introduced by the director with, "There might be a part at the beginning where you think there's a plot. But don't get your hopes up; there's not."
The way the forum works is that the six short (10-20 minutes) films are shown, followed by a panel discussion with the six directors. The moderator and the audience ask questions of the filmmakers. It's a terrific way to see what's being made locally and ask all kinds of questions afterwards. Questions ranged from the how did you type to the what were you thinking type. It's very casual and a lot of people are there to glean information.
The last film had a scene shot at Ipanema, so that seemed the logical place to go after the three-hour event ended. It was practically dead when I arrived, much to the consternation of the staff who were a bit bored. When I asked, I was told that the music was the "early dinner mix" which I soon surmised meant that all the songs had to be at least 40 years old; I couldn't resist making a comment to that effect (Herman's Hermits? Really?).
Fortunately, not long after that it began to pick up and we were elevated to the "later dinner mix" which included music from this century. Before long I found myself with plenty of people to talk to: various server friends from other restaurants now closed, a new neighbor, and a solo music lover who had compatible enough taste to make for a hugely satisfying talk that spanned the rest of the night.
Our conversation had begun because he'd spent the first twenty minutes at the bar aimlessly playing around on his device (phone, PDA, what do I know?). When I called him on it (because I couldn't resist...and I have a lot of nerve), he admitted that it was nothing but boredom and a reliance upon the thing to entertain him at such moments. He happily set it aside for a stranger.
Then I realized the parallels to one of the films I'd just seen. In it, a guy had used his computer so much that eventually the computer decided to use him. That's how the whole computer impregnation business began in the first place. I felt it best to warn this guy about the precedent before he ended up delivering a PDA.
Why, I was practically performing a public service. The fact that it just happened to deliver me his rapt attention to talk bands, shows and the American way for a few hours was pure gravy.
I only did it to save him from himself.
Since it was dinnertime, I ordered the smoked bluefish over field greens with grilled peach, sunflower seeds and peach cider vinaigrette; I also got a side of chickpea salad because I'd been wanting to try it (it was very well done). The only problem was that the back bar was closed and the event was being held in the back room. The front bar servers ran themselves ragged trying to service the front and back of the restaurant. I felt bad for them.
Six local films were being shown. I saw four friends acting in three different films. I had previously seen three of the films at Project Resolution. Two of the films were experimental in nature. One film was introduced by the director with, "There might be a part at the beginning where you think there's a plot. But don't get your hopes up; there's not."
The way the forum works is that the six short (10-20 minutes) films are shown, followed by a panel discussion with the six directors. The moderator and the audience ask questions of the filmmakers. It's a terrific way to see what's being made locally and ask all kinds of questions afterwards. Questions ranged from the how did you type to the what were you thinking type. It's very casual and a lot of people are there to glean information.
The last film had a scene shot at Ipanema, so that seemed the logical place to go after the three-hour event ended. It was practically dead when I arrived, much to the consternation of the staff who were a bit bored. When I asked, I was told that the music was the "early dinner mix" which I soon surmised meant that all the songs had to be at least 40 years old; I couldn't resist making a comment to that effect (Herman's Hermits? Really?).
Fortunately, not long after that it began to pick up and we were elevated to the "later dinner mix" which included music from this century. Before long I found myself with plenty of people to talk to: various server friends from other restaurants now closed, a new neighbor, and a solo music lover who had compatible enough taste to make for a hugely satisfying talk that spanned the rest of the night.
Our conversation had begun because he'd spent the first twenty minutes at the bar aimlessly playing around on his device (phone, PDA, what do I know?). When I called him on it (because I couldn't resist...and I have a lot of nerve), he admitted that it was nothing but boredom and a reliance upon the thing to entertain him at such moments. He happily set it aside for a stranger.
Then I realized the parallels to one of the films I'd just seen. In it, a guy had used his computer so much that eventually the computer decided to use him. That's how the whole computer impregnation business began in the first place. I felt it best to warn this guy about the precedent before he ended up delivering a PDA.
Why, I was practically performing a public service. The fact that it just happened to deliver me his rapt attention to talk bands, shows and the American way for a few hours was pure gravy.
I only did it to save him from himself.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Early and Gray with No Chance of Enforcement
An evocative dream, the kind you have to shake off 'cause it feels so real, woke me up around 6:30 this morning and the first thing I noticed was the cloudy sky through my bedroom window. As much as I love summer, all that grayness felt like the most beautiful thing in the world to wake up to. It's mid-August and I guess sunshine is getting a little tiresome.
With barely five hours sleep, I should have just rolled over and gone back to sleep. Instead I decided to get up, put on a robe and go sit on my back porch to take in the clouds and the cool. It was such a treat of a morning, but I can't remember the last time I was up so early.
The problem with starting my day at that ungodly hour was that by mid-morning I was looking for something to do; I'd walked, I'd worked out, I'd read the Washington Post. That's how I ended up at the movies once more, this time to see 1961's The Hustler. It was by far the most male-dominated audience I'd seen at a Movies and Mimosas screening.
Color me oblivious yet again, but I was caught off guard by how handsome the young Jackie Gleason and George C. Scott had been. Paul Newman we all know was born gorgeous, but the others I knew only as older men and in this film, they were clearly in their prime. Jackie Gleason could have been a poster child for handsome fat men everywhere. And he definitely made drinking look sexy.
Most striking to me of everything about the movie was how little of it was scored. Huge lengths of the film were completely silent except for whatever dialog or action there was. Even the sound effects of doors closing and footsteps were muted; bustling pool halls were full of silent men. Music, when it was used, was all the more striking after so much hush. To me, it added a sense of expectancy to the story.
I should have anticipated that there would be a romantic subplot, but didn't. Piper Laurie's Method acting was a bit over the top for my taste, and her helmet hairdo was awful, but when it was important, she convincingly played a woman very much in love.
Sarah: I love you.
Fast Eddie: You need the words?
Sarah: Yes, I need them very much. If you ever say them, I'll never let you take them back.
Call me a hopeless romantic, but I have to wonder how she would have enforced that. Seriously.
With barely five hours sleep, I should have just rolled over and gone back to sleep. Instead I decided to get up, put on a robe and go sit on my back porch to take in the clouds and the cool. It was such a treat of a morning, but I can't remember the last time I was up so early.
The problem with starting my day at that ungodly hour was that by mid-morning I was looking for something to do; I'd walked, I'd worked out, I'd read the Washington Post. That's how I ended up at the movies once more, this time to see 1961's The Hustler. It was by far the most male-dominated audience I'd seen at a Movies and Mimosas screening.
Color me oblivious yet again, but I was caught off guard by how handsome the young Jackie Gleason and George C. Scott had been. Paul Newman we all know was born gorgeous, but the others I knew only as older men and in this film, they were clearly in their prime. Jackie Gleason could have been a poster child for handsome fat men everywhere. And he definitely made drinking look sexy.
Most striking to me of everything about the movie was how little of it was scored. Huge lengths of the film were completely silent except for whatever dialog or action there was. Even the sound effects of doors closing and footsteps were muted; bustling pool halls were full of silent men. Music, when it was used, was all the more striking after so much hush. To me, it added a sense of expectancy to the story.
I should have anticipated that there would be a romantic subplot, but didn't. Piper Laurie's Method acting was a bit over the top for my taste, and her helmet hairdo was awful, but when it was important, she convincingly played a woman very much in love.
Sarah: I love you.
Fast Eddie: You need the words?
Sarah: Yes, I need them very much. If you ever say them, I'll never let you take them back.
Call me a hopeless romantic, but I have to wonder how she would have enforced that. Seriously.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Picnicking 2 with Shakespeare
Do you not know I am a woman? When I think I must speak.
How fortunate is Richmond that local actor Joe Carlson decided to stage Shakespeare in Battery Park? The free five-night run of As You Like It has been on my calendar since I first heard him talking about it at Lift Coffee back in May. We followed his advice to the letter: "So unfurl those blankets, break out the lawn chairs and stuff your picnic baskets for an evening of theater in historic Battery Park."
We let 8 1/2 stuff our picnic basket with an Italian hero, an arugula, fresh mozzarella and proscuitto sub, potato wedges, house salads and sfagliatelles. Then we headed to northside for my first visit to Battery Park, a fact of which I am now ashamed. What a lovely spot! The stone walls and terraced hills are a far cry from my neighborhood's Abner Clay Park. Yes, I understand its issues drainage-wise, but but on a clear, dry night like tonight, it was truly an oasis.
I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.
Down a long flight of stone steps and nestled into a corner of the park, the improvised stage area was up against a curtain of trees. Later, when the stage lights came up, the front row of trees were highlighted against the tangle behind them. It was the perfect backdrop for a play mostly set in the Forest of Arden.
A diverse cast of various ages and ethnicities provided the hilarity, romance and melancholy of one of Shakespeare's simplest plays. The three musicians who provided music beforehand were also incorporated into the cast, playing minor speaking parts and supplying music when appropriate. Their location at the back of the "stage" under an umbrella and with candles burning around them made them both blend in and remain a focal point.
Toward the end the characters Touchstone and Audrey began dancing a two-step and the rest of the cast appeared in the audience and grabbed partners of their own. It was the faithful servant Adam who extended his hand to me and asked me to join him in dancing. And what was I just saying in my last post about being among the rhythmically-challenged?
By the time the play ended with the marriage of the four loving couples, darkness was as complete as the audience's satisfaction. Hats off to Joe for having the artistic inspiration to conceive of, much less carry out, such a gift to the city. I only hope this is the first of an annual summer event in a beautifully historic area under-served by the arts.
It was a tough act to follow, but I stopped at Tarrant's on the way home to enjoy some conversation and a beverage.I wanted to tell my bartending friend about the play, but I also got roped into a discussion of dating younger men. One of the servers (28) is dating a 21-year old and on occasion feeling the frustration of dealing with his youth (while definitely enjoying the benefits). She asked for my opinion of whether to fish or cut bait.
And although I've had several younger guy relationships in my life, I am the last person to be offering relationship advice. The best I could do was to tell her, based on my experience, to weigh the good and the frustrating. "You'll know," I assured her.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Maybe it's not youth but wine-made promises she should be worried about.
How fortunate is Richmond that local actor Joe Carlson decided to stage Shakespeare in Battery Park? The free five-night run of As You Like It has been on my calendar since I first heard him talking about it at Lift Coffee back in May. We followed his advice to the letter: "So unfurl those blankets, break out the lawn chairs and stuff your picnic baskets for an evening of theater in historic Battery Park."
We let 8 1/2 stuff our picnic basket with an Italian hero, an arugula, fresh mozzarella and proscuitto sub, potato wedges, house salads and sfagliatelles. Then we headed to northside for my first visit to Battery Park, a fact of which I am now ashamed. What a lovely spot! The stone walls and terraced hills are a far cry from my neighborhood's Abner Clay Park. Yes, I understand its issues drainage-wise, but but on a clear, dry night like tonight, it was truly an oasis.
I can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, more.
Down a long flight of stone steps and nestled into a corner of the park, the improvised stage area was up against a curtain of trees. Later, when the stage lights came up, the front row of trees were highlighted against the tangle behind them. It was the perfect backdrop for a play mostly set in the Forest of Arden.
A diverse cast of various ages and ethnicities provided the hilarity, romance and melancholy of one of Shakespeare's simplest plays. The three musicians who provided music beforehand were also incorporated into the cast, playing minor speaking parts and supplying music when appropriate. Their location at the back of the "stage" under an umbrella and with candles burning around them made them both blend in and remain a focal point.
Toward the end the characters Touchstone and Audrey began dancing a two-step and the rest of the cast appeared in the audience and grabbed partners of their own. It was the faithful servant Adam who extended his hand to me and asked me to join him in dancing. And what was I just saying in my last post about being among the rhythmically-challenged?
By the time the play ended with the marriage of the four loving couples, darkness was as complete as the audience's satisfaction. Hats off to Joe for having the artistic inspiration to conceive of, much less carry out, such a gift to the city. I only hope this is the first of an annual summer event in a beautifully historic area under-served by the arts.
It was a tough act to follow, but I stopped at Tarrant's on the way home to enjoy some conversation and a beverage.I wanted to tell my bartending friend about the play, but I also got roped into a discussion of dating younger men. One of the servers (28) is dating a 21-year old and on occasion feeling the frustration of dealing with his youth (while definitely enjoying the benefits). She asked for my opinion of whether to fish or cut bait.
And although I've had several younger guy relationships in my life, I am the last person to be offering relationship advice. The best I could do was to tell her, based on my experience, to weigh the good and the frustrating. "You'll know," I assured her.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
For I am falser than vows made in wine.
Maybe it's not youth but wine-made promises she should be worried about.
Picnicking to Salsa
Give me Latin jazz over smooth jazz any day. Give me a free show over a $25 ticket, for that matter. I'll admit that it would have been interesting to see Chaka Khan perform, but I already had plans for this evening.
So when I heard a friend shouting my name from the street this morning, I went down to see what all the noise was about and invited him to go with me to the 4th Annual Latin Jazz Show Festival at Dogwood Dell.
We made a stop at Sally Belle's at Fountain Lake for our picnic lunch first. As we walked up to order, a random man asked us about our Sally Belle creds. As a Richmond resident for 52 years ("but not a native," he reminded us), he wanted to assess our familiarity with the legendary Sally Belle boxed lunches. A bit of discussion proved our familiarity with SB's cheese wafers and deviled eggs and he gave us the stamp of approval.
The irony was that when we went to order, the first thing we were told was that they'd had a run on boxed lunches that morning ("Guess it's that Jazz fest," the proprietor grumbled) and they wouldn't have some of the key ingredients back in stock until about 4 p.m. We could only imagine the furor it would cause when some customers heard that they were out of Sally Belle's potato salad.
We adapted easily, ordering cheeseburgers and those classic upside down cupcakes. We sat under an umbrella and watched the people on paddle boats getting sprayed by the mist of the fountain in the picaresque lake while smelling our burgers being grilled a few feet away. It's pretty charming the way they use a regular outdoor grill situated out behind the building that houses Sally Belle's. Let's just say it adds a lot to the picnic feel by seeing and smelling our food being cooked.
Over at Dogwood Dell, percussion was the first thing we heard as we exited the car. We easily found a shaded place to set up our chairs and start chowing down. Music was in full swing and couples were just beginning to fill up the courtyard area with their sinuous dance moves.
The group playing, Timbason La Original we think, played both traditional and original music. With shout-outs to the crowd identifying Puerto Ricans, Guatemalans, Colombians and Cubans, the band invited hand-clapping participation as well as dancing.
The band members themselves were a non-stop motion of swiveling hips and quick footed-moves. My friend and I had such a great time watching people with far more rhythm than ourselves sing, play and dance.
In between sets, Latin DJs kept the crowd entertained and moving. There was even a short fashion show of models in bathing suits, walking the stage to thumping Latin beats. Appropriately, all body types were represented, curvy as well as reed thin in swim suit styles both current and retro.
They even had a couple of male models for those of us in the audience who appreciate such things. I know I clapped loudly for the two handsome and well-built men, but not as loud as the two older women behind me who were all but coming out of their chairs to show their appreciation for the beefcake.
But in the end, the afternoon was all about the music and this beautiful weather was the perfect setting for it. The light breeze was undoubtedly appreciated by the non-stop salsa dancers as well as the energetic musicians.
It didn't make them any less cool (because they were amazing) but certainly more comfortable.
So when I heard a friend shouting my name from the street this morning, I went down to see what all the noise was about and invited him to go with me to the 4th Annual Latin Jazz Show Festival at Dogwood Dell.
We made a stop at Sally Belle's at Fountain Lake for our picnic lunch first. As we walked up to order, a random man asked us about our Sally Belle creds. As a Richmond resident for 52 years ("but not a native," he reminded us), he wanted to assess our familiarity with the legendary Sally Belle boxed lunches. A bit of discussion proved our familiarity with SB's cheese wafers and deviled eggs and he gave us the stamp of approval.
The irony was that when we went to order, the first thing we were told was that they'd had a run on boxed lunches that morning ("Guess it's that Jazz fest," the proprietor grumbled) and they wouldn't have some of the key ingredients back in stock until about 4 p.m. We could only imagine the furor it would cause when some customers heard that they were out of Sally Belle's potato salad.
We adapted easily, ordering cheeseburgers and those classic upside down cupcakes. We sat under an umbrella and watched the people on paddle boats getting sprayed by the mist of the fountain in the picaresque lake while smelling our burgers being grilled a few feet away. It's pretty charming the way they use a regular outdoor grill situated out behind the building that houses Sally Belle's. Let's just say it adds a lot to the picnic feel by seeing and smelling our food being cooked.
Over at Dogwood Dell, percussion was the first thing we heard as we exited the car. We easily found a shaded place to set up our chairs and start chowing down. Music was in full swing and couples were just beginning to fill up the courtyard area with their sinuous dance moves.
The group playing, Timbason La Original we think, played both traditional and original music. With shout-outs to the crowd identifying Puerto Ricans, Guatemalans, Colombians and Cubans, the band invited hand-clapping participation as well as dancing.
The band members themselves were a non-stop motion of swiveling hips and quick footed-moves. My friend and I had such a great time watching people with far more rhythm than ourselves sing, play and dance.
In between sets, Latin DJs kept the crowd entertained and moving. There was even a short fashion show of models in bathing suits, walking the stage to thumping Latin beats. Appropriately, all body types were represented, curvy as well as reed thin in swim suit styles both current and retro.
They even had a couple of male models for those of us in the audience who appreciate such things. I know I clapped loudly for the two handsome and well-built men, but not as loud as the two older women behind me who were all but coming out of their chairs to show their appreciation for the beefcake.
But in the end, the afternoon was all about the music and this beautiful weather was the perfect setting for it. The light breeze was undoubtedly appreciated by the non-stop salsa dancers as well as the energetic musicians.
It didn't make them any less cool (because they were amazing) but certainly more comfortable.
Pop Culture Slave
I worked on Secco's testosterone levels, I watched a film on cross-dressing and I heard Beatles' songs sung in Japanese. And I did it all in just seven hours. Not bad for an evening's play.
My friend Andrew had suggested meeting for a drink and left the destination up to me. Since my plans afterwards were at the VMFA, Carytown seemed the logical place to rendezvous. I chose Secco because there always seem to be more women than men there and since for a change I'd be with a Y chromosome, here was my chance to help improve the view for all those winey women.
Andrew is a beer drinker who decided to drink wine tonight for fear, he said, that I'd give him crap about drinking beer in a wine bar. Not so, I assured him, but he broadened his horizons anyway. We shared a far more adventurous cheese plate than I knew he was capable of(quadrelle, montenebro, gorgonzola dolce) while catching up on each other's stories. We about balanced out this time: he'd been unexpectedly serenaded by zoot suits and drag queens; I'd been audaciously propositioned. We called it a draw.
We'd gotten so long-winded that we ended up tossing back our second glasses so I could make a movie screening at the museum. And not just any movie, but the highest grossing comedy of all time. One banned in Kansas because decent people didn't want to see cross-dressing.
1959's Some Like It Hot was yet another classic I'd never seen. Even better than the characters for me were the locations: the sleeping cars on the train, the Florida beach hotel, the millionaire's yacht.
I knew so little about the film that I was unprepared for how much of it was a gangster film. Nor did I know that it was Tony Curtis who ended up with Marilyn Monroe. But it was those two who provided my favorite exchange:
It's not how long you wait. It's who you're waiting for.
Him: I'm afraid it may take a little longer.
Her: It's not how long it takes. It's who's taking you.
Now there's some wisdom passing for banter. I second every innuendo in those lines.
After getting my friend fix and my cultural dose, I went to Balliceaux because they were having a DJ play 1960s Asian pop music, a genre I'd never given a moment's thought to. But what could be better on a Friday night?
The evening got off to a fine start when I walked up to the door. Two guys were sitting outside having a smoke and said hi. One said "That's a great dress on you." The top is bright red, so I said, "Oh, you mean the color?" and the other guy said, "No, the whole thing." If they were the welcoming committee, they were doing a superb job, I gotta tell you.
I started at the front bar with some Billy Bi soup (black mussels, saffron, cream), essentially shelled mussels in a decadent broth. I enhanced it by tossing in hunks of Billy bread for maximum broth soppage. It was just what I needed after wine and a movie.
My favorite Balliceaux bartender Austin came up behind me just as I was done eating to let me know that he was working the back bar ("the cool bar tonight," he assured me), so I closed my tab and carried my Tres Generations to a location closer to him (he wanted to discuss the new Arcade Fire with me) and the Asian pop.
It was so much fun; they were even showing clips from the 60s of Asian girls dancing and Asian boys playing in bands. And the music! Clearly the Beatles effect rippled through the East because I heard Japanese covers of "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," "Run for Your Life" and a bunch of others. Just as much fun were the heavily accented covers of American songs (Bee Gees anyone?). It didn't take long for people to start dancing.
I saw loads of friends and people I knew tonight, a lot more than I expected. Like me, they were intrigued by the possibilities of an obscure genre.
I met a guy from Church Hill when he came to the bar for a drink refill and started chatting me up. We talked about late nights at Balliceaux, city living, restaurants and, of course, music. Despite differences in our music taste and ages, he suggested meeting up for dinner at Black Sheep for more music talk or maybe a show. This is always the part of the evening where it gets awkward.
When you tell people you're not dating, they want to know why not. When you're just out for some Asian pop, you don't want to share your personal business, nor do you want to be rude. I wish it were easier to accept an offer of friendship while making it clear that more than that is not a possibility. Why can't I figure out how to do this?
To quote the final line of Some Like It Hot, "Nobody's perfect." (insert shrug) Least of all me.
My friend Andrew had suggested meeting for a drink and left the destination up to me. Since my plans afterwards were at the VMFA, Carytown seemed the logical place to rendezvous. I chose Secco because there always seem to be more women than men there and since for a change I'd be with a Y chromosome, here was my chance to help improve the view for all those winey women.
Andrew is a beer drinker who decided to drink wine tonight for fear, he said, that I'd give him crap about drinking beer in a wine bar. Not so, I assured him, but he broadened his horizons anyway. We shared a far more adventurous cheese plate than I knew he was capable of(quadrelle, montenebro, gorgonzola dolce) while catching up on each other's stories. We about balanced out this time: he'd been unexpectedly serenaded by zoot suits and drag queens; I'd been audaciously propositioned. We called it a draw.
We'd gotten so long-winded that we ended up tossing back our second glasses so I could make a movie screening at the museum. And not just any movie, but the highest grossing comedy of all time. One banned in Kansas because decent people didn't want to see cross-dressing.
1959's Some Like It Hot was yet another classic I'd never seen. Even better than the characters for me were the locations: the sleeping cars on the train, the Florida beach hotel, the millionaire's yacht.
I knew so little about the film that I was unprepared for how much of it was a gangster film. Nor did I know that it was Tony Curtis who ended up with Marilyn Monroe. But it was those two who provided my favorite exchange:
It's not how long you wait. It's who you're waiting for.
Him: I'm afraid it may take a little longer.
Her: It's not how long it takes. It's who's taking you.
Now there's some wisdom passing for banter. I second every innuendo in those lines.
After getting my friend fix and my cultural dose, I went to Balliceaux because they were having a DJ play 1960s Asian pop music, a genre I'd never given a moment's thought to. But what could be better on a Friday night?
The evening got off to a fine start when I walked up to the door. Two guys were sitting outside having a smoke and said hi. One said "That's a great dress on you." The top is bright red, so I said, "Oh, you mean the color?" and the other guy said, "No, the whole thing." If they were the welcoming committee, they were doing a superb job, I gotta tell you.
I started at the front bar with some Billy Bi soup (black mussels, saffron, cream), essentially shelled mussels in a decadent broth. I enhanced it by tossing in hunks of Billy bread for maximum broth soppage. It was just what I needed after wine and a movie.
My favorite Balliceaux bartender Austin came up behind me just as I was done eating to let me know that he was working the back bar ("the cool bar tonight," he assured me), so I closed my tab and carried my Tres Generations to a location closer to him (he wanted to discuss the new Arcade Fire with me) and the Asian pop.
It was so much fun; they were even showing clips from the 60s of Asian girls dancing and Asian boys playing in bands. And the music! Clearly the Beatles effect rippled through the East because I heard Japanese covers of "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da," "Run for Your Life" and a bunch of others. Just as much fun were the heavily accented covers of American songs (Bee Gees anyone?). It didn't take long for people to start dancing.
I saw loads of friends and people I knew tonight, a lot more than I expected. Like me, they were intrigued by the possibilities of an obscure genre.
I met a guy from Church Hill when he came to the bar for a drink refill and started chatting me up. We talked about late nights at Balliceaux, city living, restaurants and, of course, music. Despite differences in our music taste and ages, he suggested meeting up for dinner at Black Sheep for more music talk or maybe a show. This is always the part of the evening where it gets awkward.
When you tell people you're not dating, they want to know why not. When you're just out for some Asian pop, you don't want to share your personal business, nor do you want to be rude. I wish it were easier to accept an offer of friendship while making it clear that more than that is not a possibility. Why can't I figure out how to do this?
To quote the final line of Some Like It Hot, "Nobody's perfect." (insert shrug) Least of all me.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Orphans Good, Drugs Bad
Some events have my name written all over them Let's see, 1) films 2) about music and 3) four blocks from home. Even the torrential rain wouldn't have made a good excuse not to go and of course I wasn't looking for an excuse.
So promptly at 7, I showed up at Gallery 5 and claimed the comfiest chair in the front row, a blue padded number with armrests. I've sat in G5's plastic folding chairs enough times to have the sense to grab something better when it's available. There were maybe ten other people there because, as it turned out, the starting time for the event had been wrong on the website and wrong in the paper. Bill Daniel, the guy putting on the show, came over to apologize for the mistake and told us the show wouldn't start until 8:30.
"Oh, so we have time to drink beforehand?" I asked. "Just be back by 8:30 sharp cause you don't want to miss the introduction," he said. I asked a friend if she wanted to join me, but she'd just bought a tallboy, so she wanted to stay and drink it. I told her I was walking over to 27 should she finish her PBR in a reasonable amount of time.
Bistro 27 was all kinds of busy when I arrived and people continued to come in, as if, according to Chef Carlos, "they're letting off the buses outside the door." I don't know if it was the rain or just a Thursday night, but the hordes kept streaming in the whole time I was there.
When Carlos first came over to greet me, the first thing he'd done was pull out his phone. "I need your number," he said. "A guy was in here the other night and he wanted me to call you and tell you to come over but I didn't have your number. What is it?" he asked, finger poised above the phone.
"What guy?" I wanted to know. "Who wanted me here?" It was a regular customer, somebody in the business, but I waited until he could tell me specifically whom before sharing my digits. "So!" he said in his characteristic way. "Next time we need you here, I have the number." Mission accomplished, I guess.
Unfortunately, I'd already eaten, so I just got wine, but we talked food. He's about to make some changes in the menu and thought I'd be interested. The blood sausage is coming off the menu because, "You and I are the only ones who eat it," he said. Well, that's a shame because I've enjoyed it both times I've had it there.
Instead he'll be doing rabbit sausage over a potato cake with Manchego, which sounds very promising. Also, he'll add deep-fried sweetbreads over a mushroom ragout and Rappahannock oyster gratine with a fennel and pineapple relish. He could tell by my reaction that I intend to try all three; as a regular there, I do like new options often.
Thankfully, the torrents of rain that had fallen while I was in 27 had stopped by the time I left to return to G5. Lots more people had shown up too. Bill Daniel, who refers to himself as a film tramp, had put together a program called "Sonic Orphans: An Evening of Lost and Found Music Films 1965-1987." The novelty was that these film odds and ends were truly discovered randomly, had never been edited and have never been put on youtube.
Part of the pleasure for me was watching actual film with the projector clacking away throughout. Many of the film reels had some sort of damage, some had missing sound, but it only added to the found quality of them. The show began with a 1966 clip of the Beatles by the Bay (San Francisco) discovered in a film lab by Daniel.
Although soundless, the clip began with thousands of hysterical and shrieking fans waiting to greet their arrival. It showed the Fab Four talking to reporters, looking young and handsome, and smoking cigarettes as they uneasily did their press duty.
So many in the audience giggled and laughed throughout this clip, making comments wondering why the kids were acting so crazy over a band and critiquing the tentative behavior of the band. I was a bit surprised at their cultural illiteracy; clearly they could not even conceive of how radical it must have been to experience a sound and phenomena so wholly new.
There was a clip of a band called Rocket Squad, very groovy in Nehru jackets and love beads and with go-go dancers in stylish overalls moving non-stop. Bill said he'd shown that clip for years with no idea who they were, when just last month an audience member in Pittsburgh had recognized the band. That is undoubtedly the beauty of these screenings: the shared collective knowledge and memory that can help put a name to some of these orphan films.
There was footage of Sonic Youth from 1986, shot by Bill himself. Texas punk/new wave band Boy Troubles looked like every New Wave band, but the lead singer oozed charisma. A clip of Butthole Surfers from 1987 was a crowd favorite. There was also a terrific clip of Johny Cash, all in black, doing "Big River" in 1957 and even smiling on occasion.
As an added bonus, local DJ Marty (of Ted Leo and the Pharmacists) provided the accompaniment for a clip of a 1973 band called Jazzloft. The members looked like every 1970s cliche: long hair, bad bangs, porno moustaches and Marlboro Reds. But the silent 11-minute clip was elevated by Marty's choice of music; even more impressive was that he'd never seen the clip before. His ability to create that perfect combination tonight (and tonight only) was the highlight of my night.
A close second, though, would have to be a couple of 1970s audio public service announcements he played throughout the evening. One was done by Steve Miller, telling kids not to do heroin and hard drugs; he even referred to the Space Cowboy as saying so. He also sounded like he was stoned out of his mind.
Another PSA was done by Porky Pig, of all characters, warning kids to stay away from smack and downers because many are just low-grade animal tranquilizers. "I hope that none of my friends think that being out of it is being in," Porky preached in those pre-Just Say No days. But at least he ended it on an upbeat note. "TH-th-that's all, folks!"
I thought they were hysterical, but Steve and Porky didn't get nearly the laughs that Beatle-mania did. Go figure.
So promptly at 7, I showed up at Gallery 5 and claimed the comfiest chair in the front row, a blue padded number with armrests. I've sat in G5's plastic folding chairs enough times to have the sense to grab something better when it's available. There were maybe ten other people there because, as it turned out, the starting time for the event had been wrong on the website and wrong in the paper. Bill Daniel, the guy putting on the show, came over to apologize for the mistake and told us the show wouldn't start until 8:30.
"Oh, so we have time to drink beforehand?" I asked. "Just be back by 8:30 sharp cause you don't want to miss the introduction," he said. I asked a friend if she wanted to join me, but she'd just bought a tallboy, so she wanted to stay and drink it. I told her I was walking over to 27 should she finish her PBR in a reasonable amount of time.
Bistro 27 was all kinds of busy when I arrived and people continued to come in, as if, according to Chef Carlos, "they're letting off the buses outside the door." I don't know if it was the rain or just a Thursday night, but the hordes kept streaming in the whole time I was there.
When Carlos first came over to greet me, the first thing he'd done was pull out his phone. "I need your number," he said. "A guy was in here the other night and he wanted me to call you and tell you to come over but I didn't have your number. What is it?" he asked, finger poised above the phone.
"What guy?" I wanted to know. "Who wanted me here?" It was a regular customer, somebody in the business, but I waited until he could tell me specifically whom before sharing my digits. "So!" he said in his characteristic way. "Next time we need you here, I have the number." Mission accomplished, I guess.
Unfortunately, I'd already eaten, so I just got wine, but we talked food. He's about to make some changes in the menu and thought I'd be interested. The blood sausage is coming off the menu because, "You and I are the only ones who eat it," he said. Well, that's a shame because I've enjoyed it both times I've had it there.
Instead he'll be doing rabbit sausage over a potato cake with Manchego, which sounds very promising. Also, he'll add deep-fried sweetbreads over a mushroom ragout and Rappahannock oyster gratine with a fennel and pineapple relish. He could tell by my reaction that I intend to try all three; as a regular there, I do like new options often.
Thankfully, the torrents of rain that had fallen while I was in 27 had stopped by the time I left to return to G5. Lots more people had shown up too. Bill Daniel, who refers to himself as a film tramp, had put together a program called "Sonic Orphans: An Evening of Lost and Found Music Films 1965-1987." The novelty was that these film odds and ends were truly discovered randomly, had never been edited and have never been put on youtube.
Part of the pleasure for me was watching actual film with the projector clacking away throughout. Many of the film reels had some sort of damage, some had missing sound, but it only added to the found quality of them. The show began with a 1966 clip of the Beatles by the Bay (San Francisco) discovered in a film lab by Daniel.
Although soundless, the clip began with thousands of hysterical and shrieking fans waiting to greet their arrival. It showed the Fab Four talking to reporters, looking young and handsome, and smoking cigarettes as they uneasily did their press duty.
So many in the audience giggled and laughed throughout this clip, making comments wondering why the kids were acting so crazy over a band and critiquing the tentative behavior of the band. I was a bit surprised at their cultural illiteracy; clearly they could not even conceive of how radical it must have been to experience a sound and phenomena so wholly new.
There was a clip of a band called Rocket Squad, very groovy in Nehru jackets and love beads and with go-go dancers in stylish overalls moving non-stop. Bill said he'd shown that clip for years with no idea who they were, when just last month an audience member in Pittsburgh had recognized the band. That is undoubtedly the beauty of these screenings: the shared collective knowledge and memory that can help put a name to some of these orphan films.
There was footage of Sonic Youth from 1986, shot by Bill himself. Texas punk/new wave band Boy Troubles looked like every New Wave band, but the lead singer oozed charisma. A clip of Butthole Surfers from 1987 was a crowd favorite. There was also a terrific clip of Johny Cash, all in black, doing "Big River" in 1957 and even smiling on occasion.
As an added bonus, local DJ Marty (of Ted Leo and the Pharmacists) provided the accompaniment for a clip of a 1973 band called Jazzloft. The members looked like every 1970s cliche: long hair, bad bangs, porno moustaches and Marlboro Reds. But the silent 11-minute clip was elevated by Marty's choice of music; even more impressive was that he'd never seen the clip before. His ability to create that perfect combination tonight (and tonight only) was the highlight of my night.
A close second, though, would have to be a couple of 1970s audio public service announcements he played throughout the evening. One was done by Steve Miller, telling kids not to do heroin and hard drugs; he even referred to the Space Cowboy as saying so. He also sounded like he was stoned out of his mind.
Another PSA was done by Porky Pig, of all characters, warning kids to stay away from smack and downers because many are just low-grade animal tranquilizers. "I hope that none of my friends think that being out of it is being in," Porky preached in those pre-Just Say No days. But at least he ended it on an upbeat note. "TH-th-that's all, folks!"
I thought they were hysterical, but Steve and Porky didn't get nearly the laughs that Beatle-mania did. Go figure.
Sucking Cool
I'm not a native Richmonder but my father is. And his father worked his entire adult life for Richmond Dairy delivering milk. He started in the 1930s delivering milk in a horse-drawn wagon, and continued right through the changeover to trucks in the 1940s until his retirement.
My dad has fond memories of going to work with his dad, listening to the adult conversations of the milkmen and watching the trucks being loaded. He even remembers the fun of visiting the firemen at the nearby firehouse, which is now Gallery 5. And I live mere blocks from these landmarks of my father's youth.
All this is to say that I grew up outside Virginia but hearing endless stories about the golden years of Richmond Dairy. And yet when I moved to Richmond, all anyone talked about was Curles Neck Dairy. And maybe that was because of the Dairy Bar, the former Curles Neck plant employee cafeteria that became a real restaurant after the plant closed in the 80s.
So when a friend suggested lunch today, I suggested the Dairy Bar. Obviously I can't honor my family's Richmond Dairy roots and honestly, it wasn't so much about lunch as it was about having one of those cold, creamy milkshakes that they're known for. "Isn't a great day for a milkshake?" I asked of my friend, hoping to convince him. "What are you talking about?" he countered. "Every day's a good day for a milkshake." Words to live by during this heat.
Naturally the noon hour at the Dairy Bar is crowded, so we took seats at the actual dairy bar, hoping for a good view of the ice cream disbursement. The 10-year old boy sitting next to us had a burger and a shake and told us it was his third day in a row having lunch there; he's attending nearby baseball camp with the Flying Squirrels.
Inquiring as to the flavor of his shake, he said it was chocolate. His grandfather told us that it was also his third chocolate shake in a row. Completely satisfied, he couldn't quite bring himself to try a new flavor.
The grandfather also recognized me from a decade ago when we worked in the same office building. He'd looked vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn't have placed his face in a million years. I was impressed that he remembered me so quickly.
When the two of them left, they were replaced with a grandfather/granddaughter twosome. I wouldn't be surprised to find that both grandfathers had come to the Dairy Bar when they were young because it's that kind of place.
My friend went for the fried cod sandwich with onion rings and a chocolate/peanut butter shake, while I had a BLT with a chocolate shake. As we sat eating, an employee began scooping from the case in front of us to make a banana split. When she dug out the strawberry ice cream, deep pink and studded with strawberry bits, we immediately realized the error of our ways.
"Can we have a sample of that?" my friend asked. It tasted as good as it looked. Walking outside into the visible heat, he commented on the hot but lackluster breeze. If the forecasters are right and this heat is going to last well into September, we'll have plenty more opportunities for milkshake days.
And unlike ten-year-olds, we're more than willing to try something new. I'm thinking if he gets the strawberry shake next time, I can get the butter brickle...although that little girl's mint chocolate chip shake looked awfully refreshing.
Regardless of flavor, I feel sure my grandfather would heartily approve of me supporting Virginia dairy products, even the sweet ones. As he used to say to us when we were little, "Come here and give me some sugar."
My dad has fond memories of going to work with his dad, listening to the adult conversations of the milkmen and watching the trucks being loaded. He even remembers the fun of visiting the firemen at the nearby firehouse, which is now Gallery 5. And I live mere blocks from these landmarks of my father's youth.
All this is to say that I grew up outside Virginia but hearing endless stories about the golden years of Richmond Dairy. And yet when I moved to Richmond, all anyone talked about was Curles Neck Dairy. And maybe that was because of the Dairy Bar, the former Curles Neck plant employee cafeteria that became a real restaurant after the plant closed in the 80s.
So when a friend suggested lunch today, I suggested the Dairy Bar. Obviously I can't honor my family's Richmond Dairy roots and honestly, it wasn't so much about lunch as it was about having one of those cold, creamy milkshakes that they're known for. "Isn't a great day for a milkshake?" I asked of my friend, hoping to convince him. "What are you talking about?" he countered. "Every day's a good day for a milkshake." Words to live by during this heat.
Naturally the noon hour at the Dairy Bar is crowded, so we took seats at the actual dairy bar, hoping for a good view of the ice cream disbursement. The 10-year old boy sitting next to us had a burger and a shake and told us it was his third day in a row having lunch there; he's attending nearby baseball camp with the Flying Squirrels.
Inquiring as to the flavor of his shake, he said it was chocolate. His grandfather told us that it was also his third chocolate shake in a row. Completely satisfied, he couldn't quite bring himself to try a new flavor.
The grandfather also recognized me from a decade ago when we worked in the same office building. He'd looked vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn't have placed his face in a million years. I was impressed that he remembered me so quickly.
When the two of them left, they were replaced with a grandfather/granddaughter twosome. I wouldn't be surprised to find that both grandfathers had come to the Dairy Bar when they were young because it's that kind of place.
My friend went for the fried cod sandwich with onion rings and a chocolate/peanut butter shake, while I had a BLT with a chocolate shake. As we sat eating, an employee began scooping from the case in front of us to make a banana split. When she dug out the strawberry ice cream, deep pink and studded with strawberry bits, we immediately realized the error of our ways.
"Can we have a sample of that?" my friend asked. It tasted as good as it looked. Walking outside into the visible heat, he commented on the hot but lackluster breeze. If the forecasters are right and this heat is going to last well into September, we'll have plenty more opportunities for milkshake days.
And unlike ten-year-olds, we're more than willing to try something new. I'm thinking if he gets the strawberry shake next time, I can get the butter brickle...although that little girl's mint chocolate chip shake looked awfully refreshing.
Regardless of flavor, I feel sure my grandfather would heartily approve of me supporting Virginia dairy products, even the sweet ones. As he used to say to us when we were little, "Come here and give me some sugar."
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Half a Couple Date is Better Than None
I had a couple date tonight but she ended up having to work late, so it wound up being just me and him at Lemaire.
He and I are the more similar ones, so she usually provides the balance to our shared traits, so her presence was missed for that.
But he and I are the direct ones, so we enjoyed an evening of straightforward conversation about everything from his spreadsheet for the perfect woman (our starting point for next time's chat because it came up at the very end of the evening) to our perspectives on burial (don't even think about it) to the location of his upcoming birthday extravaganza.
The place was mobbed when I arrived, full of what I guessed to be corporate types engaged in some sort of meet and greet.
Upon my friend's arrival, he confirmed them to be worker bees; he should know because he has referred to himself on more than one occasion as a corporate drone (for the time being anyway) and recognizes his kind.
Eventually they faded away, leaving a much calmer bar for the rest of us.
But he's very much a food lover, too, so we ordered a cheese plate (Drunken Goat, Midnight Moon and Humboldt Fog) and the fried mac and cheese balls with truffled cheese fondue (totally unnecessary cheese for cheese) at his suggestion.
It was only when it arrived that we looked at each other and realized what a lot of cheese we had.
The grapes and mixed berries were a welcome break from the fromage feast.
We discovered a mutual love of talking about other bar sitters (the out-of-town cougar in the straw hat was worth her considerable weight in gold for conversational value).
He sought out specifics on some of my posts and I regaled him with the details of a new acquaintance's efforts to get to know me better at a recent show at the National.
"That's a really great story," he said, amazed at the audacity of a virtual stranger.
I love to share stories like that and just sit back and watch the reaction they get. Welcome to my world.
As the one who had recommended Ronnie's Ribs to me, he wanted my assessment of Ronnie's dry-rub magic (personally, I thought ribs and wings ruled that roost).
He told me about some of his recent out-of-town meals, including an amazing tomato pie at the hole-in-the-wall Dixie Supply Bakery & Cafe in Charleston.
Notable here is the fact that he doesn't like tomatoes and said he could have eaten two pies.
Since we're still getting to know each other, he gleans a lot about me from reading my posts.
Not long into tonight's conversation, he looked at me and said, "I can't imagine you at Costco!" referring to my first visit there earlier today.
Needless to say, I took this as a compliment.
I shared with him how I'd once mentioned running into a musician I knew at Target and my friend Andrew had had a similar reaction.
"You go to Target?" he'd marveled. His amazement was clear; he had no idea that my world included Target on occasion.
It's interesting the wild stories my friends can easily imagine happening to me, but when I veer anywhere close to typical, they're left shocked and surprised.
I'm actually pretty normal; it's how the rest of the world reacts to me that brings on the craziness.
At least that's what I tell myself.
He and I are the more similar ones, so she usually provides the balance to our shared traits, so her presence was missed for that.
But he and I are the direct ones, so we enjoyed an evening of straightforward conversation about everything from his spreadsheet for the perfect woman (our starting point for next time's chat because it came up at the very end of the evening) to our perspectives on burial (don't even think about it) to the location of his upcoming birthday extravaganza.
The place was mobbed when I arrived, full of what I guessed to be corporate types engaged in some sort of meet and greet.
Upon my friend's arrival, he confirmed them to be worker bees; he should know because he has referred to himself on more than one occasion as a corporate drone (for the time being anyway) and recognizes his kind.
Eventually they faded away, leaving a much calmer bar for the rest of us.
But he's very much a food lover, too, so we ordered a cheese plate (Drunken Goat, Midnight Moon and Humboldt Fog) and the fried mac and cheese balls with truffled cheese fondue (totally unnecessary cheese for cheese) at his suggestion.
It was only when it arrived that we looked at each other and realized what a lot of cheese we had.
The grapes and mixed berries were a welcome break from the fromage feast.
We discovered a mutual love of talking about other bar sitters (the out-of-town cougar in the straw hat was worth her considerable weight in gold for conversational value).
He sought out specifics on some of my posts and I regaled him with the details of a new acquaintance's efforts to get to know me better at a recent show at the National.
"That's a really great story," he said, amazed at the audacity of a virtual stranger.
I love to share stories like that and just sit back and watch the reaction they get. Welcome to my world.
As the one who had recommended Ronnie's Ribs to me, he wanted my assessment of Ronnie's dry-rub magic (personally, I thought ribs and wings ruled that roost).
He told me about some of his recent out-of-town meals, including an amazing tomato pie at the hole-in-the-wall Dixie Supply Bakery & Cafe in Charleston.
Notable here is the fact that he doesn't like tomatoes and said he could have eaten two pies.
Since we're still getting to know each other, he gleans a lot about me from reading my posts.
Not long into tonight's conversation, he looked at me and said, "I can't imagine you at Costco!" referring to my first visit there earlier today.
Needless to say, I took this as a compliment.
I shared with him how I'd once mentioned running into a musician I knew at Target and my friend Andrew had had a similar reaction.
"You go to Target?" he'd marveled. His amazement was clear; he had no idea that my world included Target on occasion.
It's interesting the wild stories my friends can easily imagine happening to me, but when I veer anywhere close to typical, they're left shocked and surprised.
I'm actually pretty normal; it's how the rest of the world reacts to me that brings on the craziness.
At least that's what I tell myself.
Give a Girl a Break
Did the male half of the population get a memo yesterday to divest themselves of their womenfolk?
How could this be happening to yet another of my friends?
After an evening of comforting a friend about the unceremonious end to her relationship yesterday, I came home to this e-mail: "Seriously. Got dumped. Ice cold style."
With no more information than that, I suggested she call me today and we'd talk.
She invited me to join her as she ran some shopping errands and while my distaste for most shopping is well-known, this was all about food, the only kind of shopping I can stand.
Besides, it would give us plenty of time to discuss the dead end her relationship had suddenly reached.
She started telling me the details as soon as I got in the car and continued in the car long after we arrived at our destination.
It was easier to get the facts, just the facts, over before we got around other people.
Discussion could follow anywhere...and did.
Not surprisingly, she had a bit of a hangover, so we necessarily started with lunch.
At Sprout, she had the curried chicken salad over Manakintowne greens and I had cucumber, bacon, tomato and goat cheese over the same greens.
It's such a great time of the year for out-of-the-garden goodness and both of us were impressed with our choices.
Sprout continues to deliver on taste while making it incredibly easy to be a locavore.
Our shopping began at Costco, and we were an unlikely pair since she's so much a regular that the cashiers know her by name and it was my first time ever.
Yes, I was a Costco virgin (and, believe me, only gave it up for a really good friend).
We already knew that this would be the least enjoyable part of the trip, so we made short work of her list and got out of there.
Tan-A Market was our second stop and here we lingered, admiring all the colorful cans, so many containing unfamiliar foods and ingredients.
My friend commented that if she had open-front cabinets, it would be here that she'd stock up on unusual canned goods for their visual presence and only afterwards figure out what dishes to use them in.
I could see the beauty of her offbeat plan.
Finally we got to Bodega Latina, partly to shop and partly to eat again.
The music was awesome; I commented on how much I was liking it and she said, "Don't you wish you knew Spanish so you'd know what they're singing?"
Kind of, but the music was interesting enough without comprehension. Surely they couldn't be singing about anything bad.
We were there for Mexican Cokes and pupusas revueltas (thick corn tortillas, chicharron, loroco queso and frijol) with curtido (fermented cabbage slaw with red chiles).
You'd think we hadn't just had lunch a couple of hours previously.
Actually, you'd be closer to the truth to guess that I'm not used to all that shopping and she was still sopping up last night's hurt.
I loved the pupusas, but next time, when I haven't already eaten, I'll definitely go for the tongue tacos (self-deprecating headline to follow).
Much like last night, I could offer little advice, only an empathetic ear for a friend who has been hurt.
If I knew the answer to getting over a relationship, I'd be practicing it myself.
She complimented me on my ability to maintain such a positive outlook when so much has not worked out in my own life the past year and a half.
As I pointed out to her, the alternative is pretty unappealing.
Compartmentalize, put a smile on your attitude and move forward.
And don't hesitate to resort to extra lunches and long talks with friends when necessary.
And for the rest of you guys who got that dumping memo, please rip it up.
You're making my friends really sad.
Not to mention putting me in a position where I have to go to (eww!) meat markets and (egads!) shopping in the name of offering support.
It's nowhere near as bad as being dumped, but it's not easy, either.
How could this be happening to yet another of my friends?
After an evening of comforting a friend about the unceremonious end to her relationship yesterday, I came home to this e-mail: "Seriously. Got dumped. Ice cold style."
With no more information than that, I suggested she call me today and we'd talk.
She invited me to join her as she ran some shopping errands and while my distaste for most shopping is well-known, this was all about food, the only kind of shopping I can stand.
Besides, it would give us plenty of time to discuss the dead end her relationship had suddenly reached.
She started telling me the details as soon as I got in the car and continued in the car long after we arrived at our destination.
It was easier to get the facts, just the facts, over before we got around other people.
Discussion could follow anywhere...and did.
Not surprisingly, she had a bit of a hangover, so we necessarily started with lunch.
At Sprout, she had the curried chicken salad over Manakintowne greens and I had cucumber, bacon, tomato and goat cheese over the same greens.
It's such a great time of the year for out-of-the-garden goodness and both of us were impressed with our choices.
Sprout continues to deliver on taste while making it incredibly easy to be a locavore.
Our shopping began at Costco, and we were an unlikely pair since she's so much a regular that the cashiers know her by name and it was my first time ever.
Yes, I was a Costco virgin (and, believe me, only gave it up for a really good friend).
We already knew that this would be the least enjoyable part of the trip, so we made short work of her list and got out of there.
Tan-A Market was our second stop and here we lingered, admiring all the colorful cans, so many containing unfamiliar foods and ingredients.
My friend commented that if she had open-front cabinets, it would be here that she'd stock up on unusual canned goods for their visual presence and only afterwards figure out what dishes to use them in.
I could see the beauty of her offbeat plan.
Finally we got to Bodega Latina, partly to shop and partly to eat again.
The music was awesome; I commented on how much I was liking it and she said, "Don't you wish you knew Spanish so you'd know what they're singing?"
Kind of, but the music was interesting enough without comprehension. Surely they couldn't be singing about anything bad.
We were there for Mexican Cokes and pupusas revueltas (thick corn tortillas, chicharron, loroco queso and frijol) with curtido (fermented cabbage slaw with red chiles).
You'd think we hadn't just had lunch a couple of hours previously.
Actually, you'd be closer to the truth to guess that I'm not used to all that shopping and she was still sopping up last night's hurt.
I loved the pupusas, but next time, when I haven't already eaten, I'll definitely go for the tongue tacos (self-deprecating headline to follow).
Much like last night, I could offer little advice, only an empathetic ear for a friend who has been hurt.
If I knew the answer to getting over a relationship, I'd be practicing it myself.
She complimented me on my ability to maintain such a positive outlook when so much has not worked out in my own life the past year and a half.
As I pointed out to her, the alternative is pretty unappealing.
Compartmentalize, put a smile on your attitude and move forward.
And don't hesitate to resort to extra lunches and long talks with friends when necessary.
And for the rest of you guys who got that dumping memo, please rip it up.
You're making my friends really sad.
Not to mention putting me in a position where I have to go to (eww!) meat markets and (egads!) shopping in the name of offering support.
It's nowhere near as bad as being dumped, but it's not easy, either.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Therapy for Getting Dumped
There are certain places I just don't go. Period. The end.
And then a friend will call me up to say that she's just been dumped and asking me to please go out with her and hear her sob story.
Unfortunately, she wants to sob at a meat market.
When she tells me she wants to start with drinks at Tobacco Company, I cringe.
The last time I was there was the day OJ took his SUV and led the police on a televised chase. This is not my kind of place.
But my friend is distraught and wants to be around people, specifically men.
"Are you looking to get picked up?" I ask incredulously. "No, but I definitely want the opportunity to turn someone down," she says in all seriousness.
I must be a very good friend because I agree to this plan.
Being in a place I don't like surrounded by people who hold no appeal requires one thing: good wine.
I opt for the Conundrum at S14 a glass and hope it will make the time go faster.
I listen to how the dumping went down, unable to be of any assistance.
Yes, I got unexpectedly dumped last year, here, but that hardly makes me an expert (and my still not being over it doesn't encourage her any).
I have no answers to offer, so I order another glass of Conundrum.
During a discussion of city versus suburban living, my friend unexpectedly turns to the two guys sitting next to her and asks where they live; one lives in Philly and one in the Richmond suburbs.
My friend latches on to the the local and the Philly guy moves over to sit next to me.
I'm not looking for male companionship, but it turns out he is an author twice published so we are at least able to enjoy some good conversation.
Meanwhile, the local is "reading" my friend and telling her how she needs to change and what her issues are. He even gives her advice about the dumper's behavior; she is enthralled.
What he says about her is true, but it's all stuff she's been told before.
I am extraneous and wish to teleport to any number of other places. Conundrum, please.
Eventually, I convince her that we need to eat and she chooses Dora's Brazilian Grill on the corner just down the street.
Meat palaces like this are wasted on me; while I appreciate the food, I cannot eat enough to justify the cost.
But it doesn't matter because we are here to make her feel better and wine and meat are what will accomplish this.
Owner Dora gets us set up and ready to partake. The procession begins with salad and herbed biscuits, followed by black beans, fried plantains, rice, baked potato and sweet potato slices.
Homemade pork sausage, alcatra, roasted lamb, chicken drumsticks, roast pork, top sirloin, grilled flank steak, bacon-wrapped chicken, rib steak and Virginia grill are all eventually brought to our table.
It is an embarrassment of protein.
After a while it becomes a blur, but the roasted lamb and rib steak stand out as my favorites.
Before long I am sick of meat and can no longer think of any answers for my friend's questions.
I don't know why a guy is seemingly happy one day and dumping you the next.
Conundrums of all types abounded tonight.
And then a friend will call me up to say that she's just been dumped and asking me to please go out with her and hear her sob story.
Unfortunately, she wants to sob at a meat market.
When she tells me she wants to start with drinks at Tobacco Company, I cringe.
The last time I was there was the day OJ took his SUV and led the police on a televised chase. This is not my kind of place.
But my friend is distraught and wants to be around people, specifically men.
"Are you looking to get picked up?" I ask incredulously. "No, but I definitely want the opportunity to turn someone down," she says in all seriousness.
I must be a very good friend because I agree to this plan.
Being in a place I don't like surrounded by people who hold no appeal requires one thing: good wine.
I opt for the Conundrum at S14 a glass and hope it will make the time go faster.
I listen to how the dumping went down, unable to be of any assistance.
Yes, I got unexpectedly dumped last year, here, but that hardly makes me an expert (and my still not being over it doesn't encourage her any).
I have no answers to offer, so I order another glass of Conundrum.
During a discussion of city versus suburban living, my friend unexpectedly turns to the two guys sitting next to her and asks where they live; one lives in Philly and one in the Richmond suburbs.
My friend latches on to the the local and the Philly guy moves over to sit next to me.
I'm not looking for male companionship, but it turns out he is an author twice published so we are at least able to enjoy some good conversation.
Meanwhile, the local is "reading" my friend and telling her how she needs to change and what her issues are. He even gives her advice about the dumper's behavior; she is enthralled.
What he says about her is true, but it's all stuff she's been told before.
I am extraneous and wish to teleport to any number of other places. Conundrum, please.
Eventually, I convince her that we need to eat and she chooses Dora's Brazilian Grill on the corner just down the street.
Meat palaces like this are wasted on me; while I appreciate the food, I cannot eat enough to justify the cost.
But it doesn't matter because we are here to make her feel better and wine and meat are what will accomplish this.
Owner Dora gets us set up and ready to partake. The procession begins with salad and herbed biscuits, followed by black beans, fried plantains, rice, baked potato and sweet potato slices.
Homemade pork sausage, alcatra, roasted lamb, chicken drumsticks, roast pork, top sirloin, grilled flank steak, bacon-wrapped chicken, rib steak and Virginia grill are all eventually brought to our table.
It is an embarrassment of protein.
After a while it becomes a blur, but the roasted lamb and rib steak stand out as my favorites.
Before long I am sick of meat and can no longer think of any answers for my friend's questions.
I don't know why a guy is seemingly happy one day and dumping you the next.
Conundrums of all types abounded tonight.
Disco Diner
A seldom-scene friend was in a celebratory mood today and called me at the last minute.
Today was the two-year anniversary of when he gave up smoking and discovered he had cancer.
After an appointment this morning confirming that he's now cancer-free, he wanted to have lunch and celebrate himself.
Usually he lets me choose our destination, but today he announced that we were going to Third Street Diner, a place I haven't been since before it reopened a few years back.
It turned out that we were going for memory's sake.
Back in his radio days in the 90s, he said, he'd spent a lot of time at Third Street, "Upstairs, snorting lines, drinking coffee and eating pancakes."
Let's just say he led a far more colorful life than I could ever imagine, so I just wait for the tales.
The decor was (how do I say this?) interesting.
The curvy black fake fur banquettes with matching faux fur chairs looked like they came from the disco era.
In my cantaloupe-colored dress, I created quite the Halloween effect against all that black.
But other than that and the new candy machine up front, it was all pretty much the same.
They still had the rotating dessert case, the dim bar, the plastic menus.
I'm not even sure that the menu items have changed.
But it's pure diner food, which is my friend's favorite.
He got his usual hamburger (never with cheese!) with lettuce, tomato, mayo and fries.
They were the old-fashioned crinkle cut fries which he loves to douse in mayo.
I've known this guy for over 15 years and I've seen him eat this exact lunch more times than I could count.
I'll tell you what, though, he seems to take pleasure in it every single time.
I played it safe with a grilled cheese with bacon and onion rings on the side.
The onion rings were not freshly made for me, but the sandwich was perfectly satisfying.
I mean, if a diner can't make a decent grilled cheese, all the fuzzy banquettes in the world aren't going to make a bit of difference.
I can't speak to how good the pancakes were back in the day, but from the sound of the stories, I don't think it mattered much.
Today was the two-year anniversary of when he gave up smoking and discovered he had cancer.
After an appointment this morning confirming that he's now cancer-free, he wanted to have lunch and celebrate himself.
Usually he lets me choose our destination, but today he announced that we were going to Third Street Diner, a place I haven't been since before it reopened a few years back.
It turned out that we were going for memory's sake.
Back in his radio days in the 90s, he said, he'd spent a lot of time at Third Street, "Upstairs, snorting lines, drinking coffee and eating pancakes."
Let's just say he led a far more colorful life than I could ever imagine, so I just wait for the tales.
The decor was (how do I say this?) interesting.
The curvy black fake fur banquettes with matching faux fur chairs looked like they came from the disco era.
In my cantaloupe-colored dress, I created quite the Halloween effect against all that black.
But other than that and the new candy machine up front, it was all pretty much the same.
They still had the rotating dessert case, the dim bar, the plastic menus.
I'm not even sure that the menu items have changed.
But it's pure diner food, which is my friend's favorite.
He got his usual hamburger (never with cheese!) with lettuce, tomato, mayo and fries.
They were the old-fashioned crinkle cut fries which he loves to douse in mayo.
I've known this guy for over 15 years and I've seen him eat this exact lunch more times than I could count.
I'll tell you what, though, he seems to take pleasure in it every single time.
I played it safe with a grilled cheese with bacon and onion rings on the side.
The onion rings were not freshly made for me, but the sandwich was perfectly satisfying.
I mean, if a diner can't make a decent grilled cheese, all the fuzzy banquettes in the world aren't going to make a bit of difference.
I can't speak to how good the pancakes were back in the day, but from the sound of the stories, I don't think it mattered much.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Call Me a Dog
Even during the dog days of August, a picnic at Dogwood Dell before a performance is still a pretty wonderful thing.
I let Garnett's provide the picnic (turkey, bacon and cole slaw on toasted rye bread with potato salad and chocolate mud pie) and I arrived early enough to score a front row spot for my blanket and chair.
An hour plus before the show and there were probably close to a hundred people who had already staked out their real estate.
Most were well into eating/drinking mode, all obeying the sign that warned "No dogs! No tables!"
Those who had brought bottled fun were being discreet about their pouring, but you could identify them by the higher volume of their laughter.
When it came time for dessert, I realized I'd left my utensils in the car.
Fortunately the group behind me saw my look of consternation and provided a fork.
I thanked them, explaining that if they hadn't come to my rescue, I'd have eaten the pie with my fingers.
"You shouldn't have told us about the pie," one girl warned, like she was going to snatch it out of my hands. I ate it quickly just in case.
The trio of girls next to me had forgotten a corkscrew and were puzzling over how to find one.
I pointed out a group I was pretty sure could supply one and when one of the girls went over to them, the entire group turned and looked at me.
Found out!
I went over and explained that I had noticed their cups and presumed that they might be able to help out.
They laughed, called me observant and invited me to join them for a cup of my own.
Generous picnicers were everywhere tonight.
Like all Dogwood Dell productions, this one began with Richmond mainstay Lou Dean opening the show, something he's apparently been doing for 48 years now (next up, Bill Bevins?).
He introduced Grant Mudge, artistic director of Richmond Shakespeare, who cracked wise by observing the capacity crowd and saying, "It's a shame Richmond doesn't love Shakespeare more. What a crowd!"
That crowd roared with approval at the acknowledgement.
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it;
So began Richmond Shakespeare's first performance at the Dell in fourteen years and tonight's offering was Twelfth Night or What You Will.
As Shakespeare's romances go, it's not one that makes my heart beat faster, but the character of Malvolio in his yellow stockings with cross garters is absolutely one of my favorites.
Thomas Cunningham, whom I'd seen in several of RS's staged readings, did a great job with the beleaguered servant's role, but the cast was strong all the way around.
And how could I, a former beagle owner, not love a play that likens a woman to a beagle?
It came when the hilarious Sir Toby Belch (the always excellent Foster Solomon, whom I've seen many times over the years) declares, "She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; what o' that?"
I was probably the only member of the audience thinking, "Damn, I want the right person to say that about me."
What o' that indeed?
And hopefully it would be followed by an excess of...well everything.
I let Garnett's provide the picnic (turkey, bacon and cole slaw on toasted rye bread with potato salad and chocolate mud pie) and I arrived early enough to score a front row spot for my blanket and chair.
An hour plus before the show and there were probably close to a hundred people who had already staked out their real estate.
Most were well into eating/drinking mode, all obeying the sign that warned "No dogs! No tables!"
Those who had brought bottled fun were being discreet about their pouring, but you could identify them by the higher volume of their laughter.
When it came time for dessert, I realized I'd left my utensils in the car.
Fortunately the group behind me saw my look of consternation and provided a fork.
I thanked them, explaining that if they hadn't come to my rescue, I'd have eaten the pie with my fingers.
"You shouldn't have told us about the pie," one girl warned, like she was going to snatch it out of my hands. I ate it quickly just in case.
The trio of girls next to me had forgotten a corkscrew and were puzzling over how to find one.
I pointed out a group I was pretty sure could supply one and when one of the girls went over to them, the entire group turned and looked at me.
Found out!
I went over and explained that I had noticed their cups and presumed that they might be able to help out.
They laughed, called me observant and invited me to join them for a cup of my own.
Generous picnicers were everywhere tonight.
Like all Dogwood Dell productions, this one began with Richmond mainstay Lou Dean opening the show, something he's apparently been doing for 48 years now (next up, Bill Bevins?).
He introduced Grant Mudge, artistic director of Richmond Shakespeare, who cracked wise by observing the capacity crowd and saying, "It's a shame Richmond doesn't love Shakespeare more. What a crowd!"
That crowd roared with approval at the acknowledgement.
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it;
So began Richmond Shakespeare's first performance at the Dell in fourteen years and tonight's offering was Twelfth Night or What You Will.
As Shakespeare's romances go, it's not one that makes my heart beat faster, but the character of Malvolio in his yellow stockings with cross garters is absolutely one of my favorites.
Thomas Cunningham, whom I'd seen in several of RS's staged readings, did a great job with the beleaguered servant's role, but the cast was strong all the way around.
And how could I, a former beagle owner, not love a play that likens a woman to a beagle?
It came when the hilarious Sir Toby Belch (the always excellent Foster Solomon, whom I've seen many times over the years) declares, "She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; what o' that?"
I was probably the only member of the audience thinking, "Damn, I want the right person to say that about me."
What o' that indeed?
And hopefully it would be followed by an excess of...well everything.
Walking the Brick Carpet
I got a late start on my morning walk today, which meant finding shade on Grace Street was going to be challenging.
I resorted to walking the less-scenic Broad Street because the taller buildings were still providing shade late in the morning.
Walking west on Broad from Belvidere, the wide sidewalks are bisected by a ribbon of brick, but only on the blocks that have VCU property on them.
For no particular reason, when I'm on those blocks, I have a tendency to walk the brick walkways rather than the more even and smooth concrete.
I never gave it a second thought until a tall, handsome passer-by noticed.
Him: Look at you, baby, taking up that whole brick sidewalk.
Me: (smiling guiltily because I am smack in the middle of it)
Him: And you know what, you deserve every bit of it! (smiling back)
Guilt assuaged.
I resorted to walking the less-scenic Broad Street because the taller buildings were still providing shade late in the morning.
Walking west on Broad from Belvidere, the wide sidewalks are bisected by a ribbon of brick, but only on the blocks that have VCU property on them.
For no particular reason, when I'm on those blocks, I have a tendency to walk the brick walkways rather than the more even and smooth concrete.
I never gave it a second thought until a tall, handsome passer-by noticed.
Him: Look at you, baby, taking up that whole brick sidewalk.
Me: (smiling guiltily because I am smack in the middle of it)
Him: And you know what, you deserve every bit of it! (smiling back)
Guilt assuaged.
Music Lover Goes Partying First
How is that some nights I have invitations to do four fun things and other nights I am desperately seeking even one worthy destination?
Tonight I whittled the four down to two and spent six thoroughly enjoyable hours with old friends, new friends and music lovers, but still didn't get to do everything I wanted to do.
Yesterday I'd gotten a last minute party invitation from a friend celebrating all kinds of things: openings, anniversaries, life in general.
The crowd was comprised of foodies, wine geeks, stellar cooks and only one thumping bore, whom I avoided.
The conversation was as varied as the crowd.
The food was extensive and creative: tilapia ceviche, rare dry-rub flank steak, arugula and white bean salad, smoked salmon salad, onion confit with cheese and bread, roasted pork loin, bean and corn salad, pasta with asparagus and pesto, and way too much more to remember, much less mention.
I did my best to taste it all in the name of being a good guest.
Because of the abundance of wine reps, there were all kinds of liquid delights, both the grape variety and the hop variety.
There were beer tastings (the creamy chocolate stout surprised me) and wine tastings (same wine, same year, one corked and one in a screw top; surprisingly, the screw top yielded more on the nose and slightly fuller flavor).
I did an Octagon tasting with a friend's handsome brown-eyed man.
There were toasts to obscure grapes. Far too many pictures were taken and will doubtlessly appear on Facebook and embarrass us all.
Eventually the music got louder and dancing began, with several white guys showing off their dubious hip hop moves .
I got reacquainted with a girl I'd met at the Man Meat dinner two years ago and we delved into our relationship tales; the parallels were uncanny (the differences were in the endings so far) and we made plans to meet again far from the madding crowd.
I enjoyed extended conversation with our local jazz DJ, a fellow radio rat.
I was thanked by a wine rep whose tasting I'd written about in my Belle column last month.
He was tickled when he realized it was me who had sung his praises (the event sold out).
But finally, I had to beat feet or risk missing music and my second stop of the evening.
It was Live at Ipanema tonight and I didn't want to miss the River City Band's take on bluegrass.
Nor did several local musicians, including Alison Self, Chris of the Colloquial Orchestra, Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and the multi-talented Jonathan Vassar.
As I sat at the bar before the show talking to the bartender about the small crowd (it grew much larger later), I mentioned all the other events going on tonight that may have splintered the audience.
The guy next to me turned and introduced himself as Grant, one of the musicians playing tonight.
He seemed to know I was Karen and said that he reads my blog.
"For the music, I guess?" I asked. "And for the restaurant stuff and all of it," he added.
Quelle compliment!
River City Band was made up of an upright bass, banjo, guitar, mandolin and occasionally violin (Jessica was borrowed from Zac Hyrciak and the Jungle Beat) and their set included original material and diverse covers, including Jimmy Cliff's "The Harder They Fall" and one by Jonathan Vassar.
They had a great sound and several excellent voices.
The only sour note was the incessant talking of the audience.
Despite strong performances by the band, and the fact that the show was being recorded, they had to fight to be heard over the drunken conversations of the crowd; I hate when that happens.
Luckily for me, River City Band will be playing the Listening Room in October so I can enjoy them more completely then.
And with any luck, there won't be three other must-dos competing for my time that evening.
But if my dilemma is having to choose which event to attend on any given evening, I really don't have any problem at all.
Tonight I whittled the four down to two and spent six thoroughly enjoyable hours with old friends, new friends and music lovers, but still didn't get to do everything I wanted to do.
Yesterday I'd gotten a last minute party invitation from a friend celebrating all kinds of things: openings, anniversaries, life in general.
The crowd was comprised of foodies, wine geeks, stellar cooks and only one thumping bore, whom I avoided.
The conversation was as varied as the crowd.
The food was extensive and creative: tilapia ceviche, rare dry-rub flank steak, arugula and white bean salad, smoked salmon salad, onion confit with cheese and bread, roasted pork loin, bean and corn salad, pasta with asparagus and pesto, and way too much more to remember, much less mention.
I did my best to taste it all in the name of being a good guest.
Because of the abundance of wine reps, there were all kinds of liquid delights, both the grape variety and the hop variety.
There were beer tastings (the creamy chocolate stout surprised me) and wine tastings (same wine, same year, one corked and one in a screw top; surprisingly, the screw top yielded more on the nose and slightly fuller flavor).
I did an Octagon tasting with a friend's handsome brown-eyed man.
There were toasts to obscure grapes. Far too many pictures were taken and will doubtlessly appear on Facebook and embarrass us all.
Eventually the music got louder and dancing began, with several white guys showing off their dubious hip hop moves .
I got reacquainted with a girl I'd met at the Man Meat dinner two years ago and we delved into our relationship tales; the parallels were uncanny (the differences were in the endings so far) and we made plans to meet again far from the madding crowd.
I enjoyed extended conversation with our local jazz DJ, a fellow radio rat.
I was thanked by a wine rep whose tasting I'd written about in my Belle column last month.
He was tickled when he realized it was me who had sung his praises (the event sold out).
But finally, I had to beat feet or risk missing music and my second stop of the evening.
It was Live at Ipanema tonight and I didn't want to miss the River City Band's take on bluegrass.
Nor did several local musicians, including Alison Self, Chris of the Colloquial Orchestra, Josh of Mermaid Skeletons and the multi-talented Jonathan Vassar.
As I sat at the bar before the show talking to the bartender about the small crowd (it grew much larger later), I mentioned all the other events going on tonight that may have splintered the audience.
The guy next to me turned and introduced himself as Grant, one of the musicians playing tonight.
He seemed to know I was Karen and said that he reads my blog.
"For the music, I guess?" I asked. "And for the restaurant stuff and all of it," he added.
Quelle compliment!
River City Band was made up of an upright bass, banjo, guitar, mandolin and occasionally violin (Jessica was borrowed from Zac Hyrciak and the Jungle Beat) and their set included original material and diverse covers, including Jimmy Cliff's "The Harder They Fall" and one by Jonathan Vassar.
They had a great sound and several excellent voices.
The only sour note was the incessant talking of the audience.
Despite strong performances by the band, and the fact that the show was being recorded, they had to fight to be heard over the drunken conversations of the crowd; I hate when that happens.
Luckily for me, River City Band will be playing the Listening Room in October so I can enjoy them more completely then.
And with any luck, there won't be three other must-dos competing for my time that evening.
But if my dilemma is having to choose which event to attend on any given evening, I really don't have any problem at all.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Intrigue! Passion! Bubbles! Limbo!
I'm a big fan of Bowtie Cinema's Movies and Mimosas showings on weekend mornings, assuming I haven't been up too late the night before (last night was a reasonable 1:15). My only problem is finding someone interested in doing both with me. It's challenging enough to find someone who'll go to an 11 a.m. movie, much less arrive early enough to imbibe first.
So I finally figured out the solution:I need to go to the movie with one friend and then go do the mimosas with another. Duh. It's so obvious I don't know how I didn't think of it before.
Today's feature was Dial M for Murder, one of my favorite Hitchcock films for its jigsaw puzzle-like perfection. Every piece of action, every clue, every subtle facial expression hang together perfectly in that movie; it's so satisfying to see the British-cool but evil husband proven guilty and acquit the innocent beautiful wife. Meanwhile the passionate American lover (coming across like an eager puppy) tries to help the cause, all the while sublimating his feelings for his true love.
And although my favorite character is the dapper, droll and understated Chief Inspector (there must be something about a man who combs his moustache), my favorite line comes from the would-be murderer and eventual victim: "I'm almost resigned to living on what I earn." I'm almost there myself, buddy.
And of course that oh-so civilized ending when the husband realizes he's been found out and proceeds to make himself a drink while the Chief Inspector calls Scotland Yard. His innate breeding requires that he offer to make drinks for his intended victim and her paramour as well and both accept. I can't quite imagine an American character capable of pouring with such grace.
After parting ways with my fellow Hitchcock lover, I headed straight to my mimosa-loving friend's apartment. She had promised that the champagne would be decent and the orange juice fresh-squeezed; I knew the stories would be good because she'd alluded to that fact when we'd made the mimosa plans. Unlike the recent spate of so many friends finding love, she is still happily reveling in unattached fun. It seems to be working for her.
Loosely speaking, I guess she and I are in the same availability category, although I can't quite make that leap to taking on a friend with benefits. But I can't date either, so I seem to be in limbo.
And after an afternoon of mimosas, I'm almost at peace with my love life being in limbo. Not happy, but accepting. Or maybe that's just the result of opening that second bottle of bubbles...
So I finally figured out the solution:I need to go to the movie with one friend and then go do the mimosas with another. Duh. It's so obvious I don't know how I didn't think of it before.
Today's feature was Dial M for Murder, one of my favorite Hitchcock films for its jigsaw puzzle-like perfection. Every piece of action, every clue, every subtle facial expression hang together perfectly in that movie; it's so satisfying to see the British-cool but evil husband proven guilty and acquit the innocent beautiful wife. Meanwhile the passionate American lover (coming across like an eager puppy) tries to help the cause, all the while sublimating his feelings for his true love.
And although my favorite character is the dapper, droll and understated Chief Inspector (there must be something about a man who combs his moustache), my favorite line comes from the would-be murderer and eventual victim: "I'm almost resigned to living on what I earn." I'm almost there myself, buddy.
And of course that oh-so civilized ending when the husband realizes he's been found out and proceeds to make himself a drink while the Chief Inspector calls Scotland Yard. His innate breeding requires that he offer to make drinks for his intended victim and her paramour as well and both accept. I can't quite imagine an American character capable of pouring with such grace.
After parting ways with my fellow Hitchcock lover, I headed straight to my mimosa-loving friend's apartment. She had promised that the champagne would be decent and the orange juice fresh-squeezed; I knew the stories would be good because she'd alluded to that fact when we'd made the mimosa plans. Unlike the recent spate of so many friends finding love, she is still happily reveling in unattached fun. It seems to be working for her.
Loosely speaking, I guess she and I are in the same availability category, although I can't quite make that leap to taking on a friend with benefits. But I can't date either, so I seem to be in limbo.
And after an afternoon of mimosas, I'm almost at peace with my love life being in limbo. Not happy, but accepting. Or maybe that's just the result of opening that second bottle of bubbles...
Party of One
Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody, so it was just me, myself and I for dinner and a show tonight (to paraphrase Joan Armatrading). Luckily, I'm pretty good company, if I do say so myself.
Dinner was at Bistro 27, although another regular was in my stool when I arrived, so I had to sit elsewhere, throwing everybody off. When Dave finally took a moment from waiting tables to say hello, it was with the explanation that he hadn't seen me because I wasn't in my regular seat. Apparently I'm invisible elsewhere. My new location did put me closer to the chef though, who greeted me by kissing my hand, always a charming start to any evening.
When I heard the specials, I knew I didn't need to even look at the menu. I ordered the crispy-fried soft-shell crab with radicchio braised in white balsamic vinegar and beurre blanc. The sweetness of the crab contrasted with the tartness of the radicchio all swimming in that decadent pink sauce made for a little bit of heaven. I finished by sopping sauce with crusty bread and looking at Carlos like he was crazy when he kept asking, "You liked it? It's okay?"
At one point, a woman stopped outside the front window and Ron the bartender threw her a kiss, then looked guiltily at me. "I don't know her well enough to stick out my tongue," he explained, anticipating my comment. "I only use my tongue with people I know really well." Well, I suppose there's some satisfaction in that seeing as how he's stuck out his tongue at me three times in the past 24 hours.
I had enough time before the show for dessert and chose the chocolate mousse when told that it had just been made this afternoon. My usual seat occupant commented on how delicious it looked as he downed his quail, but I don't share my dessert with stool stealers. And it was very good, satisfying my long-neglected chocolate fix but still light enough so I wouldn't feel bogged down at the show.
I was going to the Canal Club to see Marionette and the Whigs, my second Athens, GA band in less than two weeks. The Canal Club is not my favorite venue, but the sound was excellent tonight and that makes a big difference in enjoyment of live music.
Local favorites Marionette played a strong set, intent on making amends for their last Poe's Pub show, which they found lacking (the audience, it should be noted, thought they were great). The crowd was partly fans and the rest became converts, much like what happened when they opened for the National. In fact, leaving the Canal Club, I heard the guy behind me tell his girlfriend, "I liked that second band better than the Whigs. They were amazing."
Oddly enough, the Whigs had played the Canal Club exactly two years ago today, a fact noted by the lead singer. "So meet us back here one year from today," he suggested. At that last show, another excellent local favorite had opened: Mermaid Skeletons. The Whigs have been blessed to have a couple of RVA's best bands prime the audience for them on August 8th.
I can't recall the last time I saw a band where all the members had long hair. The drummer, in particular, swung his hair as he played in his best Dave Grohl-like fashion. It was impressive to watch. Their garage rock sound is already stadium-ready with all three guys using arena moves as they played (next up they're opening for Kings of Leon and the Black Keys; perfect pairings). The audience reacted accordingly with one guy even holding up his lighter old-school style. Luckily it was a Zippo, so the flame lasted a good long while.
After the show, I enjoyed conversation with Marionette's guitarist Adam, always a pleasure to talk to. His studio is nearly complete and he raved about the sound and lighting in the place;I smell a party possibility there in the near future.
But at the end of the evening, I left with the one who brung me, namely myself. With three of my most regular companions recently moving into relationship territory (and another lost to love six months ago), it looks like I'll be my own date even more frequently than in the past. At least there's always the random stranger for occasional conversation.
Good thing I can stand me.
Dinner was at Bistro 27, although another regular was in my stool when I arrived, so I had to sit elsewhere, throwing everybody off. When Dave finally took a moment from waiting tables to say hello, it was with the explanation that he hadn't seen me because I wasn't in my regular seat. Apparently I'm invisible elsewhere. My new location did put me closer to the chef though, who greeted me by kissing my hand, always a charming start to any evening.
When I heard the specials, I knew I didn't need to even look at the menu. I ordered the crispy-fried soft-shell crab with radicchio braised in white balsamic vinegar and beurre blanc. The sweetness of the crab contrasted with the tartness of the radicchio all swimming in that decadent pink sauce made for a little bit of heaven. I finished by sopping sauce with crusty bread and looking at Carlos like he was crazy when he kept asking, "You liked it? It's okay?"
At one point, a woman stopped outside the front window and Ron the bartender threw her a kiss, then looked guiltily at me. "I don't know her well enough to stick out my tongue," he explained, anticipating my comment. "I only use my tongue with people I know really well." Well, I suppose there's some satisfaction in that seeing as how he's stuck out his tongue at me three times in the past 24 hours.
I had enough time before the show for dessert and chose the chocolate mousse when told that it had just been made this afternoon. My usual seat occupant commented on how delicious it looked as he downed his quail, but I don't share my dessert with stool stealers. And it was very good, satisfying my long-neglected chocolate fix but still light enough so I wouldn't feel bogged down at the show.
I was going to the Canal Club to see Marionette and the Whigs, my second Athens, GA band in less than two weeks. The Canal Club is not my favorite venue, but the sound was excellent tonight and that makes a big difference in enjoyment of live music.
Local favorites Marionette played a strong set, intent on making amends for their last Poe's Pub show, which they found lacking (the audience, it should be noted, thought they were great). The crowd was partly fans and the rest became converts, much like what happened when they opened for the National. In fact, leaving the Canal Club, I heard the guy behind me tell his girlfriend, "I liked that second band better than the Whigs. They were amazing."
Oddly enough, the Whigs had played the Canal Club exactly two years ago today, a fact noted by the lead singer. "So meet us back here one year from today," he suggested. At that last show, another excellent local favorite had opened: Mermaid Skeletons. The Whigs have been blessed to have a couple of RVA's best bands prime the audience for them on August 8th.
I can't recall the last time I saw a band where all the members had long hair. The drummer, in particular, swung his hair as he played in his best Dave Grohl-like fashion. It was impressive to watch. Their garage rock sound is already stadium-ready with all three guys using arena moves as they played (next up they're opening for Kings of Leon and the Black Keys; perfect pairings). The audience reacted accordingly with one guy even holding up his lighter old-school style. Luckily it was a Zippo, so the flame lasted a good long while.
After the show, I enjoyed conversation with Marionette's guitarist Adam, always a pleasure to talk to. His studio is nearly complete and he raved about the sound and lighting in the place;I smell a party possibility there in the near future.
But at the end of the evening, I left with the one who brung me, namely myself. With three of my most regular companions recently moving into relationship territory (and another lost to love six months ago), it looks like I'll be my own date even more frequently than in the past. At least there's always the random stranger for occasional conversation.
Good thing I can stand me.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
A Festival for the Rest of Us
I gave up on the Watermelon Festival years ago; too hot, too many strollers, too little reward for the effort. But I've been a regular at the Jonny Z Festival since its inception and today was my third. Mercifully, it wasn't the hotter-than-hell weather that it was last year, so vendors were still smiling rather than melting.
Although Joe's Inn was open, it was crowded, so we made do with slices of pizza and lemonade. Mexican Cokes were also very popular, so there was a lot of bottle-swigging going on. I love how old-school it looks.
A lot of the appeal of this festival is that it's populated by the craftspeople and artisans of the Bizarre Market, easily some of RVA's most talented creators. We strolled from table to table, checking out recycled stationary, essential oils and all kinds of jewelry (I may not wear it, but I can admire it). My friend bought a beautiful handcrafted necklace for his new sweetie.
The Farm to Family bus was there and a friend stocked up on corn and peaches, both of which are superb at the moment. I passed a woman with a baby on her back and a melon in each hand; if she'd had a basket on her head, the picture would have been complete.
As always, the music at the festival was terrific. I thoroughly enjoyed Catnip Dreams, an all-girl five-piece with Allison of Hot Lava on drums. They had loads of energy and it's hard to resist all those female voices (not to mention those white sunglasses!). On bass was Laurie from Sprout; clearly she's a woman of many talents. Josh Small was up next and he never disappoints with his heartfelt delivery. I just don't know how he could stand wearing that knit Redskins cap on a day like today.
I think there may have been fewer vendors this year than the last two. In the past I've been able to score an original drawing or print, but the only art today was of the painting variety and nothing called to me, as art should if you're going to live with it. Not that I should be buying art right now, but if I'd seen the right thing, I'm sure I would have been able to rationalize it.
Of course I ran into plenty of friends, especially around the band area, a surprising number of whom I'd seen just last night at the art walk. A music lover need never want in this town, that's for sure.
For the third year in a row, I left thinking that the funky little festival would be exactly the kind of thing Jonny Z. would have thought of, organized and participated in; it's a fitting tribute to a guy who had his hand in so many aspects of this city's culture. I have one of his prints hanging in my bedroom so I'm constantly reminded of his legacy.
Like the button says, "Live your life like Jonny Z." It's not even corny; it's as worthwhile a goal as any I can think of.
Although Joe's Inn was open, it was crowded, so we made do with slices of pizza and lemonade. Mexican Cokes were also very popular, so there was a lot of bottle-swigging going on. I love how old-school it looks.
A lot of the appeal of this festival is that it's populated by the craftspeople and artisans of the Bizarre Market, easily some of RVA's most talented creators. We strolled from table to table, checking out recycled stationary, essential oils and all kinds of jewelry (I may not wear it, but I can admire it). My friend bought a beautiful handcrafted necklace for his new sweetie.
The Farm to Family bus was there and a friend stocked up on corn and peaches, both of which are superb at the moment. I passed a woman with a baby on her back and a melon in each hand; if she'd had a basket on her head, the picture would have been complete.
As always, the music at the festival was terrific. I thoroughly enjoyed Catnip Dreams, an all-girl five-piece with Allison of Hot Lava on drums. They had loads of energy and it's hard to resist all those female voices (not to mention those white sunglasses!). On bass was Laurie from Sprout; clearly she's a woman of many talents. Josh Small was up next and he never disappoints with his heartfelt delivery. I just don't know how he could stand wearing that knit Redskins cap on a day like today.
I think there may have been fewer vendors this year than the last two. In the past I've been able to score an original drawing or print, but the only art today was of the painting variety and nothing called to me, as art should if you're going to live with it. Not that I should be buying art right now, but if I'd seen the right thing, I'm sure I would have been able to rationalize it.
Of course I ran into plenty of friends, especially around the band area, a surprising number of whom I'd seen just last night at the art walk. A music lover need never want in this town, that's for sure.
For the third year in a row, I left thinking that the funky little festival would be exactly the kind of thing Jonny Z. would have thought of, organized and participated in; it's a fitting tribute to a guy who had his hand in so many aspects of this city's culture. I have one of his prints hanging in my bedroom so I'm constantly reminded of his legacy.
Like the button says, "Live your life like Jonny Z." It's not even corny; it's as worthwhile a goal as any I can think of.
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