In some cases, you have to reach back 18 or 20 years to get to where it all began.
This Monday night began at Stuzzi for dollar margarita pizzas and wine. Italian music was blaring and a guy was saying how he liked teen-aged legs on grown women's bodies. We didn't linger because bar space is precious real estate on Monday nights.
Instead, we headed to Garnett's for dessert, scarfing down buttermilk pie and a cake of two chocolate layers and one red velvet layer, all with coffee icing. No, I don't drink coffee but yes, I can enjoy some coffee icing.
Best of all, it wasn't a butter cream frosting but the not very sweet butter/shortening-based one that I grew up on. Back then it was called Pat's Icing after my mother, or so we thought, but I eventually came to realize that she didn't have a patent on that recipe.
Childhood notions die hard.
The night concluded at Strange Matter for the Cardinal show. The crowd was small but I counted several friends already in place when I arrived.
Locals Palindrone, a band I hadn't seen before, were already playing in front of the stage and I recognized two of the band members from Antlers. Antlers has the dubious distinction of being one of my early Silent Music Revival show bands, back when the event was still held at Rumors Boutique. It's such a small store and Antlers is so loud that once the store filled up, dozens of people stood on the sidewalk and listened from out there.
Unlike those of us inside, they probably didn't leave with ringing ears.
Palindrone wasn't as loud and the focus here was on a psychedelic sound with high vocals and interesting tribal-like drumming. D.C.'s Kuschty Rye Ergot were next and I was surprised when the guy who'd been standing near me during the first set turned out to be guitarist John Stanton.
I'd heard he played in all kinds of collectives and solo projects but tonight it was just him and a drummer. There were no vocals, the better to get lost in the psych rock of their interplay. The drummer had an enormous bass drum, all kinds of percussion and, most impressive of all, a gong.
Be honest. When's the last time you heard gong on a Monday night in Richmond? Besides, I loved watching The Diamond Center's guitarist Kyle studying this guy's intricate and slow-building guitar sound.
The big excitement, despite too small a crowd, was Cardinal, a six-piece led by Australian Richard Davies. Nothing major there, but you need to know that the band released their debut album, which was critically acclaimed, in 1994.
Yes, back in the days of grunge, they released an album of lush pop gems.
I didn't know their music in those days but I can only imagine how amazing it must have been to hear strings and brass on an indie record back then. And lo and behold, this year, 2012, they released their second album.
The way I see it, you take as long as you need to pick up the pieces and recreate the magic. For some, that's eighteen years. I won't name names, but I know of others who took twenty.
Cardinal makes chamber pop, symphonic pop, perfectly arranged and the kind of music that owes a debt to the Beatles and other '60s groups. After explaining that Americans should raise the age to drive and lower the age to drink, Davies sang the gorgeous "Love Like Rain," from the new album "Hymns."
He introduced the band and showed his Welsh upbringing with the comment, "The bloke with the headphones is Malcolm." His humor came through when he said, "If there's any songwriters out there, I'll give you a little tip. Capo on the third fret. It changes everything."
Making fun of their long-awaited second record, he jovially said, "We're going to do a song that's eighteen years old!" Which was just what devotees wanted to hear.
They did one song as a folk song ("This could be disastrous," Davies shrugged) but with symphonic accompaniment. It was magnificent, foreshadowing everything from Fanfarlo to the Decemberists.
"It's Monday night and it's time to go to bed," Davies announced before their last song. "This is a song based on Creedence Clearwater Revival."
You don't hear that everyday. Hell, I've never heard a band say that.
After an all-too-brief set with no encore, friends gathered around to discuss having seen this rare appearance of a band who provided the missing link between the Beatles and Belle and Sebastion. The consensus was that their sound fell somewhere between the Go-Betweens and Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians.
One girl said their musical references made her swoon. Another said, "Any band that references the Bee Gees and CCR, I had to experience."
Anything that starts out well, takes a long break and is able to pick up even stronger nearly two decades later, I have to experience.
Like Cardinal's music, we call that a perfect arrangement.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Hymn to Her: Fabulous and Beautiful
"It took a woman to show us the light." ~Teenage Mother
What sentiment could more perfectly sum up Mother's Day than that?
After a drive to the Northern Neck to pay homage to my own maternal ancestry (sign on insurance company: "Farmers, please report corn acres planted," and sign on gas station: "Happy Momz Day!"), it was time to let the Mother's Day festivities begin.
To ensure mixing with as diverse crowds as possible tonight, first there was a picnic at Agecroft with music by the Richmond Concert Band.
It unfolded under an enormous magnolia tree and with a straight-shot view of the conductor, a bottle of Chianti and way too much food.
This year's theme was "Virginia Connections" and featured the works of, yep, Virginians.
An outdoor concert sounds so different than an indoor one, with the sound having endless space to move around in.
Acoustically, I know it's inferior but that's balanced by the pleasures of a picnic with live symphonic music.
After the performance and a stroll of the grounds, it was on to Firehouse Theater for mockery.
Film Roasters was doing their monthly screening of a truly bad movie with Mystery Science Theatre-like commentary from a trio of wise asses.
The cinematic gem we saw was "Teenage Mother" from 1967 which featured the Young Set (complete with jerky go-go dancer, mocked by one of the improv guys as, "Some bronzer and a lampshade and she's good to go") and the star's wardrobe supplied by Betsy Johnson Paraphernalia.
I know my fashion history; Betsy Johnson was the mod designer in the sixties. Her clothes made guys say things like, "I want that chick. She's stacked."
The movie told the story of a sex education teacher from Sweden trying to enlighten an American high school to much resistance.
Translation: between the dated dialog and endless riffing on it, I was laughing pretty much non-stop.
"Health education being taught by a woman? That's something new!" In 1967, I'm sure it was.
As we laughed along to lines about a teenager's $10 allowance and going to a drive-in to see "Girl on a Chain Gang," we never saw it coming.
"It" was the sex ed teacher's last defense to save her job when the parents got mad at her unorthodox subject matter.
She shut them right up by showing a film of a baby being born using forceps.
That's right, in the middle of this corny 1967 movie with every cliche in the world about teenagers, smoking pot and pre-marital sex, we saw an actual clip of a baby being delivered.
With, I might add, a voice over explaining the placement of the forceps and the accompanying issues.
We saw the baby's head and shoulders come out. Um, happy Mother's Day?
Let's just say that the room got unspeakably quiet as the audience tried to process what was surely most people's first actual birth footage.
When the lights came up, we were instructed, "That's it, you can go home and think about that now."
I'm guessing most people did the opposite and tried to block it out for the rest of their evening.
I thought a better solution was to head over to Richmond Triangle Players for the Ghostlight Afterparty, essentially a piano bar where all the singers are actors.
Afterbirth, afterparty, I always say.
The five hour party was underway when we arrived and the first song we caught was a fine one, "My Funny Valentine" by Carla.
With my J-Ward neighbors a few rows behind, the 'hood was representing.
The superb accompanist Sandy, this time on a grand piano instead of last month's keyboard, did harmony for her daughter's rendition of Carole King's "Where You Lead" in honor of the holiday.
Host Matt kept the show rolling with jokes, tambourine playing and his excellent singing voice.
Walking across the stage at one point, he noticed a stool with a cocktail on it and cracked up.
"That's what I love about Ghostlight Afterparty," he said with no clear idea whose drink it was since no one was onstage then.
Jason did a stellar version of "If I Loved You" after talking about his talented musical mother and why he'd turned out the way he had.
Tonight's guest star was Lisa who set the tone by proclaiming that every time she mentioned her adored 11-year old son Jamie, everyone in the room was required to drink.
A deceptively simple rule and yet one with comic results as the night wore on.
She did a "Mad Lib" version of "A Spoonful of Sugar," singing off a Mad Libs sheet of nonsense words.
Because they're actors, the hamming never stops, like when one guy paused mid-song and said, "Dramatic cross" and moved from center stage to the piano for his big finale.
Of course I saw a couple of my favorite boys, in particular Princess Di (blue pants, pink shirt) and the theater critic (on a date), both pleased as punch to see a friend.
B.C. did a terrific version of "When You're Good to Mama," while Matt shook his booty against the tambourine and Maggie danced across the back of the stage.
Afterwards, Matt noted dryly, "B.C. sings songs in women's registers better than most women do."
And that is why we come to the Ghostlight Afterparty.
Around 11:30 the pizza arrived and the hungry audience took a break and descended on it.
Susan killed it with her rendition of "The Man That Got Away" and a duet of "Suddenly Seymour" had half the room singing along.
Pianist Sandy and Audra wowed the crowd with "Just a Housewife" before we got to the last song of the night.
According to the non-actor, non-singer who took the stage, she was a straight white girl rapping like a straight black man about, you know, having what you need.
It was at that point that Princess Di turned to me and sniffed, "There's fifteen men singing along to this in the back row."
Indeed they were and having a grand old time.
And wherever their mothers were, I'm sure they'd have been very proud of them.
Cause especially on Mother's Day, it takes a woman to, well, do it all.
See the light?
What sentiment could more perfectly sum up Mother's Day than that?
After a drive to the Northern Neck to pay homage to my own maternal ancestry (sign on insurance company: "Farmers, please report corn acres planted," and sign on gas station: "Happy Momz Day!"), it was time to let the Mother's Day festivities begin.
To ensure mixing with as diverse crowds as possible tonight, first there was a picnic at Agecroft with music by the Richmond Concert Band.
It unfolded under an enormous magnolia tree and with a straight-shot view of the conductor, a bottle of Chianti and way too much food.
This year's theme was "Virginia Connections" and featured the works of, yep, Virginians.
An outdoor concert sounds so different than an indoor one, with the sound having endless space to move around in.
Acoustically, I know it's inferior but that's balanced by the pleasures of a picnic with live symphonic music.
After the performance and a stroll of the grounds, it was on to Firehouse Theater for mockery.
Film Roasters was doing their monthly screening of a truly bad movie with Mystery Science Theatre-like commentary from a trio of wise asses.
The cinematic gem we saw was "Teenage Mother" from 1967 which featured the Young Set (complete with jerky go-go dancer, mocked by one of the improv guys as, "Some bronzer and a lampshade and she's good to go") and the star's wardrobe supplied by Betsy Johnson Paraphernalia.
I know my fashion history; Betsy Johnson was the mod designer in the sixties. Her clothes made guys say things like, "I want that chick. She's stacked."
The movie told the story of a sex education teacher from Sweden trying to enlighten an American high school to much resistance.
Translation: between the dated dialog and endless riffing on it, I was laughing pretty much non-stop.
"Health education being taught by a woman? That's something new!" In 1967, I'm sure it was.
As we laughed along to lines about a teenager's $10 allowance and going to a drive-in to see "Girl on a Chain Gang," we never saw it coming.
"It" was the sex ed teacher's last defense to save her job when the parents got mad at her unorthodox subject matter.
She shut them right up by showing a film of a baby being born using forceps.
That's right, in the middle of this corny 1967 movie with every cliche in the world about teenagers, smoking pot and pre-marital sex, we saw an actual clip of a baby being delivered.
With, I might add, a voice over explaining the placement of the forceps and the accompanying issues.
We saw the baby's head and shoulders come out. Um, happy Mother's Day?
Let's just say that the room got unspeakably quiet as the audience tried to process what was surely most people's first actual birth footage.
When the lights came up, we were instructed, "That's it, you can go home and think about that now."
I'm guessing most people did the opposite and tried to block it out for the rest of their evening.
I thought a better solution was to head over to Richmond Triangle Players for the Ghostlight Afterparty, essentially a piano bar where all the singers are actors.
Afterbirth, afterparty, I always say.
The five hour party was underway when we arrived and the first song we caught was a fine one, "My Funny Valentine" by Carla.
With my J-Ward neighbors a few rows behind, the 'hood was representing.
The superb accompanist Sandy, this time on a grand piano instead of last month's keyboard, did harmony for her daughter's rendition of Carole King's "Where You Lead" in honor of the holiday.
Host Matt kept the show rolling with jokes, tambourine playing and his excellent singing voice.
Walking across the stage at one point, he noticed a stool with a cocktail on it and cracked up.
"That's what I love about Ghostlight Afterparty," he said with no clear idea whose drink it was since no one was onstage then.
Jason did a stellar version of "If I Loved You" after talking about his talented musical mother and why he'd turned out the way he had.
Tonight's guest star was Lisa who set the tone by proclaiming that every time she mentioned her adored 11-year old son Jamie, everyone in the room was required to drink.
A deceptively simple rule and yet one with comic results as the night wore on.
She did a "Mad Lib" version of "A Spoonful of Sugar," singing off a Mad Libs sheet of nonsense words.
Because they're actors, the hamming never stops, like when one guy paused mid-song and said, "Dramatic cross" and moved from center stage to the piano for his big finale.
Of course I saw a couple of my favorite boys, in particular Princess Di (blue pants, pink shirt) and the theater critic (on a date), both pleased as punch to see a friend.
B.C. did a terrific version of "When You're Good to Mama," while Matt shook his booty against the tambourine and Maggie danced across the back of the stage.
Afterwards, Matt noted dryly, "B.C. sings songs in women's registers better than most women do."
And that is why we come to the Ghostlight Afterparty.
Around 11:30 the pizza arrived and the hungry audience took a break and descended on it.
Susan killed it with her rendition of "The Man That Got Away" and a duet of "Suddenly Seymour" had half the room singing along.
Pianist Sandy and Audra wowed the crowd with "Just a Housewife" before we got to the last song of the night.
According to the non-actor, non-singer who took the stage, she was a straight white girl rapping like a straight black man about, you know, having what you need.
It was at that point that Princess Di turned to me and sniffed, "There's fifteen men singing along to this in the back row."
Indeed they were and having a grand old time.
And wherever their mothers were, I'm sure they'd have been very proud of them.
Cause especially on Mother's Day, it takes a woman to, well, do it all.
See the light?
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Where Fate Begins
Arrive too late and you miss out. Leave too early and ditto. Stay in one place and they find you.
By the time I was in the mood to go out, it was 9ish and I had a hankering for Aziza's on Main.
Not for anything in particular because the menu always changes, but definitely in the mood for a small place, a low-key vibe and in all likelihood, a cream puff.
I walked into a bustling restaurant playing upbeat '50s music and when all was said and done, I was too full for dessert.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
With a glass of South African wine in front of me (Man Vintner Sauvignon Blanc), I did something I almost never do.
I chose an entree.
And I had no problem deciding what I wanted: squab with wild mushrooms and gnocchi.
Before I could even order it, the bartender informed me that they were out of one item. Guess which one.
Seems one of the large graduation parties had all but wiped them out of squab.
Instead I opted for the seared John Dory with bacon, spring bean succotash and salsa verde, counting on bacon and beans to make me forget small birds and potato pasta.
The fish was flaky with crisp edges and the succotash of sauteed onions, fresh peas, fava beans and haricot vert offered sweet and salty and tasted like spring on a plate.
Wisely, I did my best to include a little cube of the thick-cut bacon in every bite.
All hope for a cream puff were lost after that.
Leaving Aziza's, I walked right into the shower of bubbles being generated from the roof across the street at 2113.
It sounds corny but it actually had a certain charm at that point in the evening (that point being pre-Bottom madness).
Next on my agenda was a show at the Camel and a very small crowd was there when I arrived.
I took a seat near the sound booth only to overhear two girls at the next table.
"It's amazing to me that someone who drinks every day of the week has never built up any tolerance," the blond said.
"Who are you talking about?" the brunette inquired.
"My Dad!" blond explained as Dad returned from the bathroom.
Moments later Richmond band From Fragile Seeds took the stage. I'd read that they were post rock so I was more than a little surprised that they had vocals.
Their dynamic sound (two guitars, bass and drum creating soundscapes) definitely fit the bill but the vocals came across as emo bordering on hardcore.
Since vocals are usually droning or gibberish (Sigur Ros) in post rock, they didn't quite work for me, at least as post-rock.
But the guitars as a means of building tension and evoking emotion was spot on.
Free CDs were available "unprotected" on a nearby table, we were told.
"We've got two more and that's 66% of that CD over there," the lead singer said. "That's two thirds!" he whispered to the math-challenged among us.
After their set, the nearby Dad turned to me, saying how glad he was to see someone nearer his own age.
Tony made his own introductions. A former business consultant from NOVA, he'd switched to owning a sailboat charter company in Annapolis.
Inquiring if I knew someone in the band, I explained that I'd come to hear D.C. band Vandaveer, whom I'd seen before and knew I liked.
At that moment, the duo got up on stage.
"She's in the band?" he asked about singer Rosie and I nodded. "I saw her sitting outside and I almost offered to pay her cover to get in. That would have been embarrassing."
With Dylan-like vocals and lyrics like "You've got a fistful of swoon," Vandaveer immediately captured the attention of the mere twenty people in the room.
Tony turned around and said, "You were right! They're great!"
Uh huh. Now hush.
The band went on to play some of their current project, an album of hundred-year old murder ballads.
One was about a North Carolina man who murdered his wife and then his six children.
With Rosie's beautiful harmonies complementing Mark's vocals, we heard several murder ballads including one they wrote themselves.
After a song about a ghost story, Tony turned around again, saying, "You should come up to Annapolis and let me take you sailing."
I'll keep that in mind only because I've been in Annapolis twice in the past month after fifteen years of not being there at all.
Now hush.
As Sunday drew near, singer Mark reminded everyone to call their mothers, but not at this hour.
"I was born on Mother's Day and I weighed ten pounds," he said. "That's about the worst present you can give a mother on Mother's Day."
It was too bad the crowd wasn't bigger for the beautiful music that Vandaveer played, but at least they were enthusiastic about our practically private show, clapping and cheering after each.
I was particularly enamored of the lyric, "Go swim in the deep end and find out where fate begins."
A word to the wise is sufficient.
As I was sinking into a song with the line, "Oh, honey, dreams are rarely what they seem," Tony turned around yet again and handed me his card.
"Let me take you sailing," he said, smiling and taking my hand.
Dad may not have had tolerance but he certainly had persistence.
Down to their last song, Mark said, "We have been and forever shall be Vandaveer," and the alt-folk duo left our ears with a song about "However many takes it takes."
Funny, that's exactly how many takes I was planning on to get this life of mine right.
Assisted by a fistful of swoon, of course.
By the time I was in the mood to go out, it was 9ish and I had a hankering for Aziza's on Main.
Not for anything in particular because the menu always changes, but definitely in the mood for a small place, a low-key vibe and in all likelihood, a cream puff.
I walked into a bustling restaurant playing upbeat '50s music and when all was said and done, I was too full for dessert.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
With a glass of South African wine in front of me (Man Vintner Sauvignon Blanc), I did something I almost never do.
I chose an entree.
And I had no problem deciding what I wanted: squab with wild mushrooms and gnocchi.
Before I could even order it, the bartender informed me that they were out of one item. Guess which one.
Seems one of the large graduation parties had all but wiped them out of squab.
Instead I opted for the seared John Dory with bacon, spring bean succotash and salsa verde, counting on bacon and beans to make me forget small birds and potato pasta.
The fish was flaky with crisp edges and the succotash of sauteed onions, fresh peas, fava beans and haricot vert offered sweet and salty and tasted like spring on a plate.
Wisely, I did my best to include a little cube of the thick-cut bacon in every bite.
All hope for a cream puff were lost after that.
Leaving Aziza's, I walked right into the shower of bubbles being generated from the roof across the street at 2113.
It sounds corny but it actually had a certain charm at that point in the evening (that point being pre-Bottom madness).
Next on my agenda was a show at the Camel and a very small crowd was there when I arrived.
I took a seat near the sound booth only to overhear two girls at the next table.
"It's amazing to me that someone who drinks every day of the week has never built up any tolerance," the blond said.
"Who are you talking about?" the brunette inquired.
"My Dad!" blond explained as Dad returned from the bathroom.
Moments later Richmond band From Fragile Seeds took the stage. I'd read that they were post rock so I was more than a little surprised that they had vocals.
Their dynamic sound (two guitars, bass and drum creating soundscapes) definitely fit the bill but the vocals came across as emo bordering on hardcore.
Since vocals are usually droning or gibberish (Sigur Ros) in post rock, they didn't quite work for me, at least as post-rock.
But the guitars as a means of building tension and evoking emotion was spot on.
Free CDs were available "unprotected" on a nearby table, we were told.
"We've got two more and that's 66% of that CD over there," the lead singer said. "That's two thirds!" he whispered to the math-challenged among us.
After their set, the nearby Dad turned to me, saying how glad he was to see someone nearer his own age.
Tony made his own introductions. A former business consultant from NOVA, he'd switched to owning a sailboat charter company in Annapolis.
Inquiring if I knew someone in the band, I explained that I'd come to hear D.C. band Vandaveer, whom I'd seen before and knew I liked.
At that moment, the duo got up on stage.
"She's in the band?" he asked about singer Rosie and I nodded. "I saw her sitting outside and I almost offered to pay her cover to get in. That would have been embarrassing."
With Dylan-like vocals and lyrics like "You've got a fistful of swoon," Vandaveer immediately captured the attention of the mere twenty people in the room.
Tony turned around and said, "You were right! They're great!"
Uh huh. Now hush.
The band went on to play some of their current project, an album of hundred-year old murder ballads.
One was about a North Carolina man who murdered his wife and then his six children.
With Rosie's beautiful harmonies complementing Mark's vocals, we heard several murder ballads including one they wrote themselves.
After a song about a ghost story, Tony turned around again, saying, "You should come up to Annapolis and let me take you sailing."
I'll keep that in mind only because I've been in Annapolis twice in the past month after fifteen years of not being there at all.
Now hush.
As Sunday drew near, singer Mark reminded everyone to call their mothers, but not at this hour.
"I was born on Mother's Day and I weighed ten pounds," he said. "That's about the worst present you can give a mother on Mother's Day."
It was too bad the crowd wasn't bigger for the beautiful music that Vandaveer played, but at least they were enthusiastic about our practically private show, clapping and cheering after each.
I was particularly enamored of the lyric, "Go swim in the deep end and find out where fate begins."
A word to the wise is sufficient.
As I was sinking into a song with the line, "Oh, honey, dreams are rarely what they seem," Tony turned around yet again and handed me his card.
"Let me take you sailing," he said, smiling and taking my hand.
Dad may not have had tolerance but he certainly had persistence.
Down to their last song, Mark said, "We have been and forever shall be Vandaveer," and the alt-folk duo left our ears with a song about "However many takes it takes."
Funny, that's exactly how many takes I was planning on to get this life of mine right.
Assisted by a fistful of swoon, of course.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Not Date Material
Today's primer: How to take a first-timer to Belle Isle.
Make sure you've got the requisite three bucks in your pocket.
Arrive early enough to experience mid-day on the suspension bridge, all light breezes and sparkling water. All potential.
On the banks of the island, see a group of kayakers getting an introduction to what their day holds, their boats like crayons against the shore.
Don't provide a prologue. Allow the newbie to experience things without your input.
Welcome any unsolicited conversation that comes your way.
Today, it was a grizzled old guy with food stains in his beard, a guitar slung over his shoulder and a promise to show us the old hobos' camp with its burnt-out fire ring...and play for us.
Stop everywhere you can: to face Hollywood cemetery, at the quarry, at the power plant and at the crumbling facade of the nail factory.
Look for sunfish and yellow-bellied cooters in the quarry pond.
Enjoy the parade of humankind, all presumably on Belle Isle for some exercise, fun in the sun or mountain bike riding.
Note the girls in their black sundresses and cute shoes traipsing the branch-strewn walkway.
Hear the girl in the long groovy '70s-era dress complaining to her companion because he had the nerve to bring her to Belle Isle on a date.
Watch the AC/DC-hatted father on the rocks ignore his children frolicking in the rushing rapids as he texts. Luckily for him, neither went under.
Cringe as you watch people in flip-flops and espadrilles try to climb rocks or hop from one to another. Look away when they fall, skid or land badly and bleed.
Take every path you find, regardless of where it might lead or who just came up it looking guilty.
Inhale the blooming honeysuckle at every step because, well, because honeysuckle doesn't bloom forever and right now it's like perfume in the air.
Cross the bridge of splinters to the southside just so you can say you did and then walk back.
Take some time to sit on an overlook bench; whether it's with a view of the pond or the river, it's up to you.
With either one, you'll hear the rushing of the rapids and with your backs to the world, you'll feel like you're the only people on the island.
Once you've circumnavigated the island at least once and preferably twice (opposite directions preferred), head back across the suspension bridge, reading the graffiti advising what a bad idea drugs are.
Once safely back on the mainland, head directly off the bridge access ramp to the Blue Bird ice cream cart.
That three bucks you brought (per instructions) will get you both a chocolate eclair and a strawberry shortcake.
The ice cream will last until you get to the parking lot where somebody arriving much later in the day will patiently wait for you to back out so their car can replace yours.
Well done. You have now made someone's first trip to Belle Isle truly memorable.
Bonus points for cooter sightings.
Make sure you've got the requisite three bucks in your pocket.
Arrive early enough to experience mid-day on the suspension bridge, all light breezes and sparkling water. All potential.
On the banks of the island, see a group of kayakers getting an introduction to what their day holds, their boats like crayons against the shore.
Don't provide a prologue. Allow the newbie to experience things without your input.
Welcome any unsolicited conversation that comes your way.
Today, it was a grizzled old guy with food stains in his beard, a guitar slung over his shoulder and a promise to show us the old hobos' camp with its burnt-out fire ring...and play for us.
Stop everywhere you can: to face Hollywood cemetery, at the quarry, at the power plant and at the crumbling facade of the nail factory.
Look for sunfish and yellow-bellied cooters in the quarry pond.
Enjoy the parade of humankind, all presumably on Belle Isle for some exercise, fun in the sun or mountain bike riding.
Note the girls in their black sundresses and cute shoes traipsing the branch-strewn walkway.
Hear the girl in the long groovy '70s-era dress complaining to her companion because he had the nerve to bring her to Belle Isle on a date.
Watch the AC/DC-hatted father on the rocks ignore his children frolicking in the rushing rapids as he texts. Luckily for him, neither went under.
Cringe as you watch people in flip-flops and espadrilles try to climb rocks or hop from one to another. Look away when they fall, skid or land badly and bleed.
Take every path you find, regardless of where it might lead or who just came up it looking guilty.
Inhale the blooming honeysuckle at every step because, well, because honeysuckle doesn't bloom forever and right now it's like perfume in the air.
Cross the bridge of splinters to the southside just so you can say you did and then walk back.
Take some time to sit on an overlook bench; whether it's with a view of the pond or the river, it's up to you.
With either one, you'll hear the rushing of the rapids and with your backs to the world, you'll feel like you're the only people on the island.
Once you've circumnavigated the island at least once and preferably twice (opposite directions preferred), head back across the suspension bridge, reading the graffiti advising what a bad idea drugs are.
Once safely back on the mainland, head directly off the bridge access ramp to the Blue Bird ice cream cart.
That three bucks you brought (per instructions) will get you both a chocolate eclair and a strawberry shortcake.
The ice cream will last until you get to the parking lot where somebody arriving much later in the day will patiently wait for you to back out so their car can replace yours.
Well done. You have now made someone's first trip to Belle Isle truly memorable.
Bonus points for cooter sightings.
Missionary Work
Look how sunshine is the punchline.
A clandestine dinner at an undisclosed location brings up the question of the evening. How much pig does any one person really need?
Music four ways followed at Gallery 5. Walking in, I asked the ticket taker how soon till music. "In a second," he said as the poet shushed me from the first row.
At that moment, David Shultz began singing. Timing is everything.
We had arrived too late for seats, though, so we found a table at the back and leaned in to hear his songs of "every once in a blue moon" and "spirits ain't too frozen."
As much as I enjoy David playing with his band The Skyline, it's always a pleasure to hear his heartfelt songs accompanied only by his guitar.
Athens, Georgia's Hope for agoldensummer was up next and, while I've seen them before, this time they were as much a comedy act as a musical one.
Don't get me wrong; the harmonizing of two sisters is a thing of beauty, but as someone who has five sisters can attest, sisters have a unique bond and language.
These two were hysterical,doing a sound check to a song about THC and LSD and talking about their long drive down I-95 today to reach Richmond.
Apparently they decided to learn a Robin song. "So we have this awesome three-part harmony," Claire explained. "But it looks like we forgot it."
Forging ahead anyway, they asked what the song's first note was, guessing F.
Their long-suffering male band mate looked over at them (no doubt after an endless afternoon hearing them practice this pop throwaway) and with just the slightest bit of condescension said, "It's an A!"
Only then did we hear any Robin.
They told of going to a corn maze ("We love corn mazes") and getting lost for four hours.
They'd seen a sign at the concession stand saying that if you created a song about the corn maze, you got a free candy bar.
Tonight we heard the song that won them the candy bar.
There was instrument trading, anecdote sharing and saw playing.
It may quite possibly have been the only saw playing going on in Richmond tonight.
But it should be noted that there was also vox saw courtesy of Jonathan Vassar and Speckled Bird, hot off their recent Obama rally performance, and playing next,
"I have to tell you, Michelle Obama's arms are even more impressive in person," Antonia shared. Damn.
During some technical difficulties with Josh's cello (how often do you hear that?), Antonia and Jonathan brought out the banter.
They also brought out the music, beginning with "Cold River Cold" and mentioning their upcoming CD release show.
Standing there hearing Jonathan's sad songs and Antonia's angelic singing with Paul's horn and Josh's cello or clarinet reminded me how far their sound has come since I first heard them.
It was always Americana but now there's a beautiful lushness to it.
Last up was the Diamond Center, a band I've seen scores of times and love for their fuzzy psychedelic big sound.
And yet the show poster had promised that they'd be playing "acoustic-ish."
That was way too alluring to pass up hearing.
Where was all that noise, tribal drumming and volume going to go?
They solved that by being a two-piece instead of a four-piece.
Guitarist Kyle led off with, "It's warm in here. I'm as sweaty as a whore in church," before launching into the most ethereal TDC sound ever.
Brandy's voice and acoustic guitar met Kyle's quieter guitar playing (it was still a Rickenbacker, after all) for a stripped down and yet still swirling sound.
She warned us that Kyle was going to sing a cover next and he even apologized in advance for it.
Turns out they did an excellent cover of Velvet Underground's "Candy Says" as well as some rarely performed older songs from their last record.
"We need to record a new album," Kyle admitted. Indeed they do.
A highlight arrived when the duo invited nine people up on stage and gave each a pitch pipe.
Up there was Matt from Snowy Owls, Allison from the Garbers, Dave Watkins and all of Hope for agoldensummer."
"If yours has an A, play A," Brandy instructed. "If not, play D and don't pass out."
Everyone followed instruction and the song had a special charm for the accompaniment.
The show ended abruptly when they realized how late it was getting, but I already had my satisfaction.
I may never hear them play that way again.
Leaving G5, it was an easy two-block stroll to Bistro 27 for late night cocktails and dessert.
Everyone I take to 27 lately is loving on the Simpatico, a riff on a Negroni, but I went simply with Cazadores on ice.
And a chocolate mousse because it seemed like the least difficult dessert to request at that hour.
Over drinks and a stellar soundtrack, we discussed evangelism, travel, overindulgence, five-year plans and organized religion.
Not bad considering the hour, but some credit must go to the barkeep who kept things lively.
In the words of someone else, "Just another Friday night."
Hey, as long as my night has a good punchline, it can be just another Anyday.
But sunshine's as good an analogy as any.
A clandestine dinner at an undisclosed location brings up the question of the evening. How much pig does any one person really need?
Music four ways followed at Gallery 5. Walking in, I asked the ticket taker how soon till music. "In a second," he said as the poet shushed me from the first row.
At that moment, David Shultz began singing. Timing is everything.
We had arrived too late for seats, though, so we found a table at the back and leaned in to hear his songs of "every once in a blue moon" and "spirits ain't too frozen."
As much as I enjoy David playing with his band The Skyline, it's always a pleasure to hear his heartfelt songs accompanied only by his guitar.
Athens, Georgia's Hope for agoldensummer was up next and, while I've seen them before, this time they were as much a comedy act as a musical one.
Don't get me wrong; the harmonizing of two sisters is a thing of beauty, but as someone who has five sisters can attest, sisters have a unique bond and language.
These two were hysterical,doing a sound check to a song about THC and LSD and talking about their long drive down I-95 today to reach Richmond.
Apparently they decided to learn a Robin song. "So we have this awesome three-part harmony," Claire explained. "But it looks like we forgot it."
Forging ahead anyway, they asked what the song's first note was, guessing F.
Their long-suffering male band mate looked over at them (no doubt after an endless afternoon hearing them practice this pop throwaway) and with just the slightest bit of condescension said, "It's an A!"
Only then did we hear any Robin.
They told of going to a corn maze ("We love corn mazes") and getting lost for four hours.
They'd seen a sign at the concession stand saying that if you created a song about the corn maze, you got a free candy bar.
Tonight we heard the song that won them the candy bar.
There was instrument trading, anecdote sharing and saw playing.
It may quite possibly have been the only saw playing going on in Richmond tonight.
But it should be noted that there was also vox saw courtesy of Jonathan Vassar and Speckled Bird, hot off their recent Obama rally performance, and playing next,
"I have to tell you, Michelle Obama's arms are even more impressive in person," Antonia shared. Damn.
During some technical difficulties with Josh's cello (how often do you hear that?), Antonia and Jonathan brought out the banter.
They also brought out the music, beginning with "Cold River Cold" and mentioning their upcoming CD release show.
Standing there hearing Jonathan's sad songs and Antonia's angelic singing with Paul's horn and Josh's cello or clarinet reminded me how far their sound has come since I first heard them.
It was always Americana but now there's a beautiful lushness to it.
Last up was the Diamond Center, a band I've seen scores of times and love for their fuzzy psychedelic big sound.
And yet the show poster had promised that they'd be playing "acoustic-ish."
That was way too alluring to pass up hearing.
Where was all that noise, tribal drumming and volume going to go?
They solved that by being a two-piece instead of a four-piece.
Guitarist Kyle led off with, "It's warm in here. I'm as sweaty as a whore in church," before launching into the most ethereal TDC sound ever.
Brandy's voice and acoustic guitar met Kyle's quieter guitar playing (it was still a Rickenbacker, after all) for a stripped down and yet still swirling sound.
She warned us that Kyle was going to sing a cover next and he even apologized in advance for it.
Turns out they did an excellent cover of Velvet Underground's "Candy Says" as well as some rarely performed older songs from their last record.
"We need to record a new album," Kyle admitted. Indeed they do.
A highlight arrived when the duo invited nine people up on stage and gave each a pitch pipe.
Up there was Matt from Snowy Owls, Allison from the Garbers, Dave Watkins and all of Hope for agoldensummer."
"If yours has an A, play A," Brandy instructed. "If not, play D and don't pass out."
Everyone followed instruction and the song had a special charm for the accompaniment.
The show ended abruptly when they realized how late it was getting, but I already had my satisfaction.
I may never hear them play that way again.
Leaving G5, it was an easy two-block stroll to Bistro 27 for late night cocktails and dessert.
Everyone I take to 27 lately is loving on the Simpatico, a riff on a Negroni, but I went simply with Cazadores on ice.
And a chocolate mousse because it seemed like the least difficult dessert to request at that hour.
Over drinks and a stellar soundtrack, we discussed evangelism, travel, overindulgence, five-year plans and organized religion.
Not bad considering the hour, but some credit must go to the barkeep who kept things lively.
In the words of someone else, "Just another Friday night."
Hey, as long as my night has a good punchline, it can be just another Anyday.
But sunshine's as good an analogy as any.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Patience is a Virtue
It was the art date months in the making.
I'd met a guy a while back at 27's bar and after a wide-ranging conversation, he'd suggested we meet to see the Ansel Adams photography show at VMFA.
Weeks and then months passed and the show finally closed at the end of February.
Fast forward and we finally made it happen.
This time it was at the Historical Society for "End of an Era: The Photography of Jack Jeffers."
It's a fascinating show, as much for the beauty of the black and white photographs as for the images he captured in Appalachia during the sixties and seventies.
Best of all, all the text next to the photos is by Jeffers himself, providing insight into how and why the pictures were taken.
The weathered faces that stare out are from another place and time where people still lived in ramshackle houses with no electricity or running water. Their toilet was a hole in the ground.
In 1969. And 1972. Who knew?
"Cyrus" is the lynch pin of the show and one of the most challenging subjects Jeffers encountered. It took months of return trips to convince Cyrus to allow his picture to be taken.
The funny part is that once Jeffers gave him a copy of it, he showed it to absolutely everyone he met.
The exhibit is full of images like that. A woman sits in an antique car apparently lost in her thoughts.
But no, Jeffers explains, she is totally blind. A mountain man looks like the kind of grizzled face you'd see carved on a totem.
Only one face smiles, a testament to the uncertainty the mountain people felt at having their pictures taken.
And why not when they'd never before in their lives seen a camera or photograph?
My art date turned out to be a terrific person to see a show with, full of interpretations, opinions and questions.
We were having such a good time we moved right over to the "For the Love of Beauty" show and got a peek at how rich West Enders lived.
Not my style, but interesting nonetheless.
It turned out to be a voyeuristic kind of afternoon.
Waking out the grand front entrance, he said he hoped he hadn't blabbed on too much.
No such thing, my friend. Art dates are made for blabbing.
Like Jack Jeffers, you just have to be patient enough to wait for them to happen.
I'd met a guy a while back at 27's bar and after a wide-ranging conversation, he'd suggested we meet to see the Ansel Adams photography show at VMFA.
Weeks and then months passed and the show finally closed at the end of February.
Fast forward and we finally made it happen.
This time it was at the Historical Society for "End of an Era: The Photography of Jack Jeffers."
It's a fascinating show, as much for the beauty of the black and white photographs as for the images he captured in Appalachia during the sixties and seventies.
Best of all, all the text next to the photos is by Jeffers himself, providing insight into how and why the pictures were taken.
The weathered faces that stare out are from another place and time where people still lived in ramshackle houses with no electricity or running water. Their toilet was a hole in the ground.
In 1969. And 1972. Who knew?
"Cyrus" is the lynch pin of the show and one of the most challenging subjects Jeffers encountered. It took months of return trips to convince Cyrus to allow his picture to be taken.
The funny part is that once Jeffers gave him a copy of it, he showed it to absolutely everyone he met.
The exhibit is full of images like that. A woman sits in an antique car apparently lost in her thoughts.
But no, Jeffers explains, she is totally blind. A mountain man looks like the kind of grizzled face you'd see carved on a totem.
Only one face smiles, a testament to the uncertainty the mountain people felt at having their pictures taken.
And why not when they'd never before in their lives seen a camera or photograph?
My art date turned out to be a terrific person to see a show with, full of interpretations, opinions and questions.
We were having such a good time we moved right over to the "For the Love of Beauty" show and got a peek at how rich West Enders lived.
Not my style, but interesting nonetheless.
It turned out to be a voyeuristic kind of afternoon.
Waking out the grand front entrance, he said he hoped he hadn't blabbed on too much.
No such thing, my friend. Art dates are made for blabbing.
Like Jack Jeffers, you just have to be patient enough to wait for them to happen.
Saucy and Audacious Eloquence
"No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May."
There was no rising involved, but early I did arrive for Richmond Shakespeare's free production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Maymont.
Doing so got me in the front row, as much as there were rows, where I found several blankets spread and a friendly couple already entrenched.
Like me, they'd attended last year's production and remembered how early and large the crowd had been.
Learning from our mistakes, we were having none of that this year.
Meanwhile, a couple of hawks circled overhead as we made introductions.
Ah, nature. That's why we go to Maymont, right?
With over an hour and a half until show time, I chatted with them, ate my picnic supper of fried chicken, legume and olive salad and watermelon and read.
I was not unique; looking around, most of the early arrivals were either eating or reading a book. I can't recall the last time I saw so many book readers in one place.
Coincidence? I think not.
Meanwhile the actors practiced their lines silently or sotto voice, ran around the stage flexing the stage boards or rehearsed songs.
"I am out of breath in this fond chase."
I would advise getting more exercise or eating more fruit if you want to keep up.
The performance began with the announcement of where the facilities were and the information that, "The Port-a-Potties are over there, they just arrived and they're freshly done."
I think we can all agree that there is nothing quite like a freshly done portable toilet. I know I took advantage of them.
With that reassurance began the play about how the course of true love never does run smooth (and if it does, how concerned should we be?).
And especially in a comedy about people loving the wrong person.
Even more so when the entire cast is in pajamas and robes (and kudos to Hermia for her alluring peignoir).
"Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind."
If you ask me, they should teach that in Romance 101.
As if the misguided lovers weren't amusing enough, the ragtag group of amateur actors who are painfully rehearsing a play for the Duke's wedding provided non-stop hilarity.
When the dim Snug agrees to take on the role of the lion, his Cowardly Lion imitation was laugh-out-loud funny.
Quince's barely restrained impatience with his slow-witted associates was written all over his face and in every muscle of his tensed body, ensuring that we felt his pain.
"Mine ear is much enamored of thy note."
Puck was a bundle of red union-suited energy, mounting stools, bouncing around the stage and leaping off the end of it.
The surrounding trees and lawn were the ideal setting for a story that takes place in a fairy-inhabited woodland (well, except for the children climbing the nearby tree).
That said, I was glad I wasn't in pajamas since once the sun set, it was a tad cool out there in the grass.
"We cannot fight for love as men may do. We should be wooed and were not made to woo."
For me, the pleasure of this play, which I've seen performed many times, comes with the chemistry of the actors playing the three sets of lovers, all of whom shone tonight.
At intermission, we were instructed, "Please feel free to go wherever you want to now."
For me, that was straight to the ice cream truck for a double scoop of butter pecan while a couple of musicians played Paul Simon and Kenny Loggins tunes.
And, yes, someone called out, "Free Bird!" Is that book-reading crowd behavior, people?
All the mix-ups and tomfoolery of the first act were finally righted in the second (whew!) act so everybody ended up happy with their partner and the over-the-top Bottom and his band of actors put on their histrionic play.
That brought to a close this year's gift from Richmond Shakespeare and another fine evening of feuding fairies and love and madness.
"To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days."
Did they ever?
There was no rising involved, but early I did arrive for Richmond Shakespeare's free production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Maymont.
Doing so got me in the front row, as much as there were rows, where I found several blankets spread and a friendly couple already entrenched.
Like me, they'd attended last year's production and remembered how early and large the crowd had been.
Learning from our mistakes, we were having none of that this year.
Meanwhile, a couple of hawks circled overhead as we made introductions.
Ah, nature. That's why we go to Maymont, right?
With over an hour and a half until show time, I chatted with them, ate my picnic supper of fried chicken, legume and olive salad and watermelon and read.
I was not unique; looking around, most of the early arrivals were either eating or reading a book. I can't recall the last time I saw so many book readers in one place.
Coincidence? I think not.
Meanwhile the actors practiced their lines silently or sotto voice, ran around the stage flexing the stage boards or rehearsed songs.
"I am out of breath in this fond chase."
I would advise getting more exercise or eating more fruit if you want to keep up.
The performance began with the announcement of where the facilities were and the information that, "The Port-a-Potties are over there, they just arrived and they're freshly done."
I think we can all agree that there is nothing quite like a freshly done portable toilet. I know I took advantage of them.
With that reassurance began the play about how the course of true love never does run smooth (and if it does, how concerned should we be?).
And especially in a comedy about people loving the wrong person.
Even more so when the entire cast is in pajamas and robes (and kudos to Hermia for her alluring peignoir).
"Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind."
If you ask me, they should teach that in Romance 101.
As if the misguided lovers weren't amusing enough, the ragtag group of amateur actors who are painfully rehearsing a play for the Duke's wedding provided non-stop hilarity.
When the dim Snug agrees to take on the role of the lion, his Cowardly Lion imitation was laugh-out-loud funny.
Quince's barely restrained impatience with his slow-witted associates was written all over his face and in every muscle of his tensed body, ensuring that we felt his pain.
"Mine ear is much enamored of thy note."
Puck was a bundle of red union-suited energy, mounting stools, bouncing around the stage and leaping off the end of it.
The surrounding trees and lawn were the ideal setting for a story that takes place in a fairy-inhabited woodland (well, except for the children climbing the nearby tree).
That said, I was glad I wasn't in pajamas since once the sun set, it was a tad cool out there in the grass.
"We cannot fight for love as men may do. We should be wooed and were not made to woo."
For me, the pleasure of this play, which I've seen performed many times, comes with the chemistry of the actors playing the three sets of lovers, all of whom shone tonight.
At intermission, we were instructed, "Please feel free to go wherever you want to now."
For me, that was straight to the ice cream truck for a double scoop of butter pecan while a couple of musicians played Paul Simon and Kenny Loggins tunes.
And, yes, someone called out, "Free Bird!" Is that book-reading crowd behavior, people?
All the mix-ups and tomfoolery of the first act were finally righted in the second (whew!) act so everybody ended up happy with their partner and the over-the-top Bottom and his band of actors put on their histrionic play.
That brought to a close this year's gift from Richmond Shakespeare and another fine evening of feuding fairies and love and madness.
"To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days."
Did they ever?
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Old Monkey Lunch
Sometimes it's a friend's job to correct a glaring omission.
So when a friend suggests lunch and I know he's been to France four times, I instinctively suggest La Parisienne, sure it will please him.
And when I am a few minutes late arriving, I find him already ensconced at the bar, a glass of Rose in hand.
Pleasure is written all over his face.
His first statement is all-encompassing. "I'm glad to see you so happy."
When I thank him for noticing, he tells me he wasn't even trying to notice, but that it was obvious.
This is what we call a very good and observant friend.
After intense discussion, we settle on a buckwheat crepe aux champignons roughly the size of the plate and oozing with wild mushroom duxelle with a fried egg on top.
Friend had actually asked for a raw egg, Parisian style, but we all know that Virginia's nanny state would never allow such a dangerous thing.
Cooked egg aside, my friend is immediately transported to France with the first bite and is rapturous.
He continues the egg theme with a Croque Madame and I opt for the shrimp-stuffed avocado over greens.
When our plates are delivered, owner Ali is suddenly in front of me.
"You should be drinking wine with that," he instructs with a smile. How can I not concede to a Frenchman's greater gustatory sensibility?
A glass of Sancerre does indeed complete my simple French lunch.
Ali introduces us to his mother visiting from Paris. The stylish woman knows no English but gives our repast an approving mother look.
When her meal is finished, she heads out for a proper after-meal stroll. Ali rolls his eyes, but I point out that you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
"In French, that saying translates as you can't teach an old monkey to make new faces," he laughs.
I like their way better.
We finish with housemade truffles and Friend has an espresso as we discuss European coffee preferences with my favorite server.
Not ever having been a coffee drinker, I take his word that Illy is unacceptable while he marvels that I've lived a full life without daily caffeine.
Who needs coffee when I'm busy proving that you can teach an old monkey to make new faces?
Mine is apparently obviously and ridiculously happy looking.
Even without the Sancerre.
So when a friend suggests lunch and I know he's been to France four times, I instinctively suggest La Parisienne, sure it will please him.
And when I am a few minutes late arriving, I find him already ensconced at the bar, a glass of Rose in hand.
Pleasure is written all over his face.
His first statement is all-encompassing. "I'm glad to see you so happy."
When I thank him for noticing, he tells me he wasn't even trying to notice, but that it was obvious.
This is what we call a very good and observant friend.
After intense discussion, we settle on a buckwheat crepe aux champignons roughly the size of the plate and oozing with wild mushroom duxelle with a fried egg on top.
Friend had actually asked for a raw egg, Parisian style, but we all know that Virginia's nanny state would never allow such a dangerous thing.
Cooked egg aside, my friend is immediately transported to France with the first bite and is rapturous.
He continues the egg theme with a Croque Madame and I opt for the shrimp-stuffed avocado over greens.
When our plates are delivered, owner Ali is suddenly in front of me.
"You should be drinking wine with that," he instructs with a smile. How can I not concede to a Frenchman's greater gustatory sensibility?
A glass of Sancerre does indeed complete my simple French lunch.
Ali introduces us to his mother visiting from Paris. The stylish woman knows no English but gives our repast an approving mother look.
When her meal is finished, she heads out for a proper after-meal stroll. Ali rolls his eyes, but I point out that you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
"In French, that saying translates as you can't teach an old monkey to make new faces," he laughs.
I like their way better.
We finish with housemade truffles and Friend has an espresso as we discuss European coffee preferences with my favorite server.
Not ever having been a coffee drinker, I take his word that Illy is unacceptable while he marvels that I've lived a full life without daily caffeine.
Who needs coffee when I'm busy proving that you can teach an old monkey to make new faces?
Mine is apparently obviously and ridiculously happy looking.
Even without the Sancerre.
Ill Met by Moonlight
Sadly, 100% chance of rain means no Puck, so we adjust.
Parking in a rainstorm, I see a familiar face walking towards me. It's the musical theater/opera singer and I have a feeling we're headed in the same direction.
"Let's get tongues wagging by going in together," he wickedly suggests as we head toward Bistro 27.
Before either of us can ask, two glasses of Paarl Heights Pinotage are poured and I begin to make amends to the Pinotage gods I offended last night.
We snack on tenderloin with tomato, Mozzarella and anchovies, a flavor combination so suited to our wine as to be an intentional pairing.
Over discussion of the photography show we'll be seeing together soon, piano bars in NYC where he lived for years and Cabaret being staged at Studio 54, we also nibble on fried calamari.
I say farewell and move on to my next stop.
Lobster ceviche, vinho verde, pork and arepas are the reward for braving the pouring rain to make it to Pescado's China Street.
We decide that dessert must be served to us in a basement so we head to Ipanema.
"Karen!" I am greeted by the barsitter next to me. "I thought I'd see you at Screaming Females," she says, clearly perplexed.
One hates to disappoint.
Blueberry pie a la mode and Wineworks Viognier are served to us on the bench as we watch the parade of people coming in after the Strange Matter show lets out.
Even the band members sit at the bar, so I at least get that vicarious pleasure.
And, to be fair, I have seen Screaming Females before. And thoroughly enjoyed their energy
Last stop: music.
"Hello, darlin," chanteuse Allison Self says to me in between two-stepping across the floor.
I am asked to slow dance early on and decline, regretting it later.
It is the second time my partner in crime and I have made a point to catch the Nashville honky tonk stylings of J. P. Harris and the Tough Choices, an incredibly tight band with beards and mustaches of note.
"Everyone knows Richmond is a dirt bag town," J.P. announces. "I feel right at home here."
He asks for a show of hands on people who have tattoos they regret and people who have been divorced.
If I were to do a Venn diagram, there would be some overlap in those groups.
In a nod to the inked set, he sings, ""I'm crossing your name right off my heart," and I don't think he meant laser removal.
"Let's get those tears right out and get swinging," he says afterwards, all but inviting the two-steppers back to the dance floor.
And they obliged happily.
After the break, the magnificently bearded Harris talks about his aspirations to do a holiday album like the ones so often done by country stars in the sixties.
Apparently after enough gin, he decided his would be a Thanksgiving album and set out to write the hit single.
"I caught my baby stuffing turkey with another man," he sang plaintively, although that one line was as far as he'd gotten before the gin got the best of him.
Luckily he had plenty of full songs with which to entertain us. "Here's another sad story I wrote a couple of years ago," he said introducing the next one.
Sad sounds so good with a kickass band and a sincere delivery. Besides, we'd wandered all we wanted to for the night.
Yes, Shakespeare had been missed, although his sentiment was plainly in evidence.
"I am that merry wanderer of the night," Puck would have said.
As am I. But why not with so many fine places to wander?.
Parking in a rainstorm, I see a familiar face walking towards me. It's the musical theater/opera singer and I have a feeling we're headed in the same direction.
"Let's get tongues wagging by going in together," he wickedly suggests as we head toward Bistro 27.
Before either of us can ask, two glasses of Paarl Heights Pinotage are poured and I begin to make amends to the Pinotage gods I offended last night.
We snack on tenderloin with tomato, Mozzarella and anchovies, a flavor combination so suited to our wine as to be an intentional pairing.
Over discussion of the photography show we'll be seeing together soon, piano bars in NYC where he lived for years and Cabaret being staged at Studio 54, we also nibble on fried calamari.
I say farewell and move on to my next stop.
Lobster ceviche, vinho verde, pork and arepas are the reward for braving the pouring rain to make it to Pescado's China Street.
We decide that dessert must be served to us in a basement so we head to Ipanema.
"Karen!" I am greeted by the barsitter next to me. "I thought I'd see you at Screaming Females," she says, clearly perplexed.
One hates to disappoint.
Blueberry pie a la mode and Wineworks Viognier are served to us on the bench as we watch the parade of people coming in after the Strange Matter show lets out.
Even the band members sit at the bar, so I at least get that vicarious pleasure.
And, to be fair, I have seen Screaming Females before. And thoroughly enjoyed their energy
Last stop: music.
"Hello, darlin," chanteuse Allison Self says to me in between two-stepping across the floor.
I am asked to slow dance early on and decline, regretting it later.
It is the second time my partner in crime and I have made a point to catch the Nashville honky tonk stylings of J. P. Harris and the Tough Choices, an incredibly tight band with beards and mustaches of note.
"Everyone knows Richmond is a dirt bag town," J.P. announces. "I feel right at home here."
He asks for a show of hands on people who have tattoos they regret and people who have been divorced.
If I were to do a Venn diagram, there would be some overlap in those groups.
In a nod to the inked set, he sings, ""I'm crossing your name right off my heart," and I don't think he meant laser removal.
"Let's get those tears right out and get swinging," he says afterwards, all but inviting the two-steppers back to the dance floor.
And they obliged happily.
After the break, the magnificently bearded Harris talks about his aspirations to do a holiday album like the ones so often done by country stars in the sixties.
Apparently after enough gin, he decided his would be a Thanksgiving album and set out to write the hit single.
"I caught my baby stuffing turkey with another man," he sang plaintively, although that one line was as far as he'd gotten before the gin got the best of him.
Luckily he had plenty of full songs with which to entertain us. "Here's another sad story I wrote a couple of years ago," he said introducing the next one.
Sad sounds so good with a kickass band and a sincere delivery. Besides, we'd wandered all we wanted to for the night.
Yes, Shakespeare had been missed, although his sentiment was plainly in evidence.
"I am that merry wanderer of the night," Puck would have said.
As am I. But why not with so many fine places to wander?.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Alas for Me
We all know Richmond can be behind the curve on certain things.
But nineteen years for a film by a French directing legend to show here?
All I can say is better late than never.
Pre-movie festivities took place at Rowland where I met a devoted friend for happy hour and debriefing.
With the front door propped wide open, we got the benefit of a beautiful evening without having to inhale the exhaust of Main Street.
Inside, the music blared and we chose our poison off the happy hour five dollar menu.
She did a Cote du Rhone and told me about the recent ball she'd attended, which was apparently over-supplied with giant cupcakes.
I hear it's tough to plan how many cupcakes a formally dressed crowd will eat.
I went with white burgundy (Cuvee Hortense) while talking about talking because she wanted specifics about frequency.
Talking frequency.
How can I not love a friend who wants that kind of information?
Since it was her first time at Rowland, I insisted we get the butterbean cake, but it was by mutual agreement that we ordered the fish sticks.
Chef Virginia was doing flash-fried rockfish strips on a bed of arugula with Cesar dressing and tartar sauce on the side.
If only we could all grow up eating fish sticks like these, there'd be world peace, I feel certain.
Our bartender joined the conversation organically after eavesdropping on my friend telling me about how hard it is to get her husband to take her out to dinner.
"Bring him in and I'll lecture him about not being so tight," he advised her.
I had to ask if he'd been listening in. "Well, sure," he grinned. Translation: "Duh."
No doubt about it, barkeeps earn their money listening to the trivial bar chatter of people like us.
Sadly, our tete-a-tete had to be cut short because I had aspirations to catch the next-to-last screening of the VCU Cinematheque series at the Grace Street Theater.
My, how the school year flies when you're not paying attention.
I took my usual aisle seat only to be joined shortly by a girl I'd met years ago when we kept passing each other on our walks.
"I haven't seen you in five years," she said, sitting down. "What's new with you?"
Honey, you don't have the time to listen to the answer to that question before this movie starts.
Or enough brain space to handle that and French New Wave.
When the film, Jean-Luc Godard's "Helas Pour Moi" (or Alas for Me), was introduced, it was with the surprising fact that the film is not available with English subtitles in this country.
Luckily for the audience, one of VCU's professors had a very rare print which he was sharing with anyone brave enough to swim in Godard's drowning pool of deep and dark issues.
The story is based on the myth about a god taking over the body of a mere mortal so that he can have sex with the man's faithful wife.
We were warned that the film was not for the lazy-minded and even offered some safety lines to hang onto as we watched it, themes that could pull us back in if we got in too deep.
What is romanticism in this day and age? What does it mean to love one person? How important is fidelity?
I was more than happy to splash around in Godard's pools, expressed in so decidedly an un-American way.
Because it did get dense, with bursts of classical music, disembodied voices and words flashing on the screen even as the story loosely unfolded.
All I can say is that I hope the film students in the audience weren't sporting altered states because there's no way they could pass a quiz on this film without full attention.
As it was, most of the crowd just sat there when it ended, trying to absorb what we'd just seen.
I was hardly surprised to hear that the film couldn't find a distributor when it was released in 1994 (the VCU professor actually had a distribution company at the time that released it in this country), back in the dark ages.
So it worked out well for me that it just now got shown here since I was free and looking for a little mental stimulation tonight.
I don't want to take a quiz on it, but I'm willing to fire up a few synapses on such weighty topics as romanticism, love and fidelity as conceived of by the French.
Make no mistake, though, I followed up the mental heavy lifting with a glass of Paarl Heights Pinotage at Bistro 27 afterwards.
Maybe it was the short night Monday, maybe it was the drive to and from the Northern Neck today or maybe it was the hour and a half swimming in Godard's bottomless pool of soul-searching, but I couldn't finish my wine.
Pouring it out, the bartender shook his head, saying, "The Pinotage gods aren't smiling right now."
I'll just have to live with that.
As long as they don't want to take over my merely mortal body.
But nineteen years for a film by a French directing legend to show here?
All I can say is better late than never.
Pre-movie festivities took place at Rowland where I met a devoted friend for happy hour and debriefing.
With the front door propped wide open, we got the benefit of a beautiful evening without having to inhale the exhaust of Main Street.
Inside, the music blared and we chose our poison off the happy hour five dollar menu.
She did a Cote du Rhone and told me about the recent ball she'd attended, which was apparently over-supplied with giant cupcakes.
I hear it's tough to plan how many cupcakes a formally dressed crowd will eat.
I went with white burgundy (Cuvee Hortense) while talking about talking because she wanted specifics about frequency.
Talking frequency.
How can I not love a friend who wants that kind of information?
Since it was her first time at Rowland, I insisted we get the butterbean cake, but it was by mutual agreement that we ordered the fish sticks.
Chef Virginia was doing flash-fried rockfish strips on a bed of arugula with Cesar dressing and tartar sauce on the side.
If only we could all grow up eating fish sticks like these, there'd be world peace, I feel certain.
Our bartender joined the conversation organically after eavesdropping on my friend telling me about how hard it is to get her husband to take her out to dinner.
"Bring him in and I'll lecture him about not being so tight," he advised her.
I had to ask if he'd been listening in. "Well, sure," he grinned. Translation: "Duh."
No doubt about it, barkeeps earn their money listening to the trivial bar chatter of people like us.
Sadly, our tete-a-tete had to be cut short because I had aspirations to catch the next-to-last screening of the VCU Cinematheque series at the Grace Street Theater.
My, how the school year flies when you're not paying attention.
I took my usual aisle seat only to be joined shortly by a girl I'd met years ago when we kept passing each other on our walks.
"I haven't seen you in five years," she said, sitting down. "What's new with you?"
Honey, you don't have the time to listen to the answer to that question before this movie starts.
Or enough brain space to handle that and French New Wave.
When the film, Jean-Luc Godard's "Helas Pour Moi" (or Alas for Me), was introduced, it was with the surprising fact that the film is not available with English subtitles in this country.
Luckily for the audience, one of VCU's professors had a very rare print which he was sharing with anyone brave enough to swim in Godard's drowning pool of deep and dark issues.
The story is based on the myth about a god taking over the body of a mere mortal so that he can have sex with the man's faithful wife.
We were warned that the film was not for the lazy-minded and even offered some safety lines to hang onto as we watched it, themes that could pull us back in if we got in too deep.
What is romanticism in this day and age? What does it mean to love one person? How important is fidelity?
I was more than happy to splash around in Godard's pools, expressed in so decidedly an un-American way.
Because it did get dense, with bursts of classical music, disembodied voices and words flashing on the screen even as the story loosely unfolded.
All I can say is that I hope the film students in the audience weren't sporting altered states because there's no way they could pass a quiz on this film without full attention.
As it was, most of the crowd just sat there when it ended, trying to absorb what we'd just seen.
I was hardly surprised to hear that the film couldn't find a distributor when it was released in 1994 (the VCU professor actually had a distribution company at the time that released it in this country), back in the dark ages.
So it worked out well for me that it just now got shown here since I was free and looking for a little mental stimulation tonight.
I don't want to take a quiz on it, but I'm willing to fire up a few synapses on such weighty topics as romanticism, love and fidelity as conceived of by the French.
Make no mistake, though, I followed up the mental heavy lifting with a glass of Paarl Heights Pinotage at Bistro 27 afterwards.
Maybe it was the short night Monday, maybe it was the drive to and from the Northern Neck today or maybe it was the hour and a half swimming in Godard's bottomless pool of soul-searching, but I couldn't finish my wine.
Pouring it out, the bartender shook his head, saying, "The Pinotage gods aren't smiling right now."
I'll just have to live with that.
As long as they don't want to take over my merely mortal body.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Can't Ski, Can't Dive
It's like shooting fish in a barrel.
I mean, they make it so easy. Park once, party twice.
By reporting to Balliceaux, multiple itches were scratched.
Walking in, I was delighted to see the poet, who was enjoying dinner with a friend.
She may or may not have referred to me as her cultural conscience, but I'm hoping she meant it in a good way.
In the back room, Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story was fast filling up. Tonight's theme was "Work: Boss stories"
Sure, I had a boss/work story if I was the public storytelling type.
It happened back when I was working at a radio station.
It involved a promotion, the suggestion of illegal activities, my introduction to tequila and being kissed in an elevator as part of the interview process.
No details forthcoming, but let's just say I got the job.
Others had their own stories. We heard about "Rationalization Girl" (we've all had one) being beaten out by Reality Girl.
One storyteller prefaced her story with, "I'm very hire-able," to preclude any misconceptions. Later, she had an existential crisis.
Local music writer Shannon Cleary's story was about how it sucks to be a teenager, but my laugh-out-loud moment came in a reference to AFI ("I'm pretty sure I knew that was A Fire Inside").
A story of splinter-gathering in one's rear end yielded, "My boyfriend tried to get the splinters out. But he's a carpenter so that didn't work out."
A woman who was 22 in 1974 and making less than $2.25 an hour told of her boss wanting to play "Midnight Scrabble."
So that's what they were calling it in the '70s.
A former music critic shared how his appreciation for Mark Knopfler got him a job. Another time, a James Brown imitation did not result in him being hired.
He talked about "before Alley McBeal, before the whole Al Green resurgence" when he saw Reverend Green and a few notes in, the woman sitting next to him had clutched his thigh in rapture.
"Excuse me, I just had to touch a man." she said, echoing the kind of passion I recall when I saw him a year and a half ago, here.
After intermission and running into the recluse and meeting his main squeeze, three more storytellers shared their stories of depression, seduction and, last but certainly not least, Sea World of Ohio.
Because besides San Diego and Florida,where would you expect them to expand their empire?
The storyteller explained, "They wanted the slutty girls for water skiers. I got to be a pearl diver."
Kind of says it all, doesn't it?
By the end of an evening with Secretly Y'All, I've always heard things I couldn't have imagined, didn't need to hear or I had no business hearing.
That's why I love it.
Even better, it was followed by RVA Big band playing, meaning that with no effort other than scoring some Monferrato "Bricco de Conte" Barbera and a slice of chocolate cream pie, seats were in place for the next show.
It's my third time seeing RVA Big Band and I saw a few different faces, keeping it fresh and no doubt giving others an out when they need it.
Marcus Tenney, whom I'd seen just Saturday with The New Belgians, was here playing as usual.
On his first sax solo he had his hood up but by his second and third, it had been shoved back.
Playing swing is hot work.
Finding two completely different things to do in the same room is easy as pie.
Chocolate cream, that is.
Proof positive, with a barrel like that, any idiot can do it.
I mean, they make it so easy. Park once, party twice.
By reporting to Balliceaux, multiple itches were scratched.
Walking in, I was delighted to see the poet, who was enjoying dinner with a friend.
She may or may not have referred to me as her cultural conscience, but I'm hoping she meant it in a good way.
In the back room, Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story was fast filling up. Tonight's theme was "Work: Boss stories"
Sure, I had a boss/work story if I was the public storytelling type.
It happened back when I was working at a radio station.
It involved a promotion, the suggestion of illegal activities, my introduction to tequila and being kissed in an elevator as part of the interview process.
No details forthcoming, but let's just say I got the job.
Others had their own stories. We heard about "Rationalization Girl" (we've all had one) being beaten out by Reality Girl.
One storyteller prefaced her story with, "I'm very hire-able," to preclude any misconceptions. Later, she had an existential crisis.
Local music writer Shannon Cleary's story was about how it sucks to be a teenager, but my laugh-out-loud moment came in a reference to AFI ("I'm pretty sure I knew that was A Fire Inside").
A story of splinter-gathering in one's rear end yielded, "My boyfriend tried to get the splinters out. But he's a carpenter so that didn't work out."
A woman who was 22 in 1974 and making less than $2.25 an hour told of her boss wanting to play "Midnight Scrabble."
So that's what they were calling it in the '70s.
A former music critic shared how his appreciation for Mark Knopfler got him a job. Another time, a James Brown imitation did not result in him being hired.
He talked about "before Alley McBeal, before the whole Al Green resurgence" when he saw Reverend Green and a few notes in, the woman sitting next to him had clutched his thigh in rapture.
"Excuse me, I just had to touch a man." she said, echoing the kind of passion I recall when I saw him a year and a half ago, here.
After intermission and running into the recluse and meeting his main squeeze, three more storytellers shared their stories of depression, seduction and, last but certainly not least, Sea World of Ohio.
Because besides San Diego and Florida,where would you expect them to expand their empire?
The storyteller explained, "They wanted the slutty girls for water skiers. I got to be a pearl diver."
Kind of says it all, doesn't it?
By the end of an evening with Secretly Y'All, I've always heard things I couldn't have imagined, didn't need to hear or I had no business hearing.
That's why I love it.
Even better, it was followed by RVA Big band playing, meaning that with no effort other than scoring some Monferrato "Bricco de Conte" Barbera and a slice of chocolate cream pie, seats were in place for the next show.
It's my third time seeing RVA Big Band and I saw a few different faces, keeping it fresh and no doubt giving others an out when they need it.
Marcus Tenney, whom I'd seen just Saturday with The New Belgians, was here playing as usual.
On his first sax solo he had his hood up but by his second and third, it had been shoved back.
Playing swing is hot work.
Finding two completely different things to do in the same room is easy as pie.
Chocolate cream, that is.
Proof positive, with a barrel like that, any idiot can do it.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Time Travel
As the brand new Passion Pit song released today advises, "Take a Walk."
Not that I don't every day, but today's got an unusually late start due to the night before.
Which meant different things to see and hear than my usual morning stroll.
Near Grace and Ryland, a guy looks at me quizzically and says, "What are you doing way down here?"
Clearly he knows me from another section of Grace, but I smile and justify my location to this stranger nonetheless.
Further up I see a bumper sticker that makes me burst out laughing.
"If selling babies for profit is wrong, I don't want to be right."
Wrong on so many levels and yet so funny.
The runner -up is on the same car. "Technically, you only need one time travel convention."
Assuming everyone chooses wisely, that is.
Coming back down Hell Block, a guy walks down steps and says good morning, a greeting I return.
"Nice body," he observes with a sweeping glance yet without even a hint of a smile.
I think I'll travel back to a time when people at least show some humor when saying inappropriate things to me.
Even if they sell babies for profit.
Not that I don't every day, but today's got an unusually late start due to the night before.
Which meant different things to see and hear than my usual morning stroll.
Near Grace and Ryland, a guy looks at me quizzically and says, "What are you doing way down here?"
Clearly he knows me from another section of Grace, but I smile and justify my location to this stranger nonetheless.
Further up I see a bumper sticker that makes me burst out laughing.
"If selling babies for profit is wrong, I don't want to be right."
Wrong on so many levels and yet so funny.
The runner -up is on the same car. "Technically, you only need one time travel convention."
Assuming everyone chooses wisely, that is.
Coming back down Hell Block, a guy walks down steps and says good morning, a greeting I return.
"Nice body," he observes with a sweeping glance yet without even a hint of a smile.
I think I'll travel back to a time when people at least show some humor when saying inappropriate things to me.
Even if they sell babies for profit.
Did It in a Minute
I almost did nothing at all.
It would have impressed some friends (Andrew, I'm looking at you) but disappointed others (Rob, now you), but it doesn't matter because I caved.
A low-key start with Anjos vinho verde foraged at Hoppy Dog (where the owner and I agreed that sometimes you want to be able to drink a wine for hours without getting loopy) and Italian dry sausage (and no, that's not a metaphor) was elevated by the music.
And not my kind of music, either, but the kind that was distinctly of the past. Oldies of a sort that one might even call moldy oldies.
Dated, overblown and in far too many cases, sadly yet instantly recognizable.
After hearing songs I hadn't heard in decades (eighth grade, really?), I felt the importance of getting away from moldy cheese music and rejoining the real world.
At least for a couple of hours.
But not until after admiring the remains of the supermoon which hung big and bright in the cloudless sky, so different than last night.
Besides, when observing scientific phenomena, it's always best to have others with whom to corroborate what you observe.
Decamping to Secco for dessert, we were rewarded with cardamom gelato with espresso crumbles and cream puffs with chocolate cream and caramel sauce with sea salt sprinkles.
The subject of indulgence came up but was quickly shoved under the rug.
Which is where I feel certain a lot of those songs I heard tonight crawled out from.
On the other hand, it's not often I can be taken back to when I was fourteen or even 24.
"Digging Your Scene" by the Blow Monkeys? Oh, my, yes.
It's a miracle I went out at all with that kind of cheesey music tempting me to stay and listen to the next forgotten nugget.
If you're going to do nothing at all, you may as well relax into your 22-year old self and let the music wash over you. As long as I can find others who dig my scene.
I could.
But let the record show I did make it out.
It would have impressed some friends (Andrew, I'm looking at you) but disappointed others (Rob, now you), but it doesn't matter because I caved.
A low-key start with Anjos vinho verde foraged at Hoppy Dog (where the owner and I agreed that sometimes you want to be able to drink a wine for hours without getting loopy) and Italian dry sausage (and no, that's not a metaphor) was elevated by the music.
And not my kind of music, either, but the kind that was distinctly of the past. Oldies of a sort that one might even call moldy oldies.
Dated, overblown and in far too many cases, sadly yet instantly recognizable.
After hearing songs I hadn't heard in decades (eighth grade, really?), I felt the importance of getting away from moldy cheese music and rejoining the real world.
At least for a couple of hours.
But not until after admiring the remains of the supermoon which hung big and bright in the cloudless sky, so different than last night.
Besides, when observing scientific phenomena, it's always best to have others with whom to corroborate what you observe.
Decamping to Secco for dessert, we were rewarded with cardamom gelato with espresso crumbles and cream puffs with chocolate cream and caramel sauce with sea salt sprinkles.
The subject of indulgence came up but was quickly shoved under the rug.
Which is where I feel certain a lot of those songs I heard tonight crawled out from.
On the other hand, it's not often I can be taken back to when I was fourteen or even 24.
"Digging Your Scene" by the Blow Monkeys? Oh, my, yes.
It's a miracle I went out at all with that kind of cheesey music tempting me to stay and listen to the next forgotten nugget.
If you're going to do nothing at all, you may as well relax into your 22-year old self and let the music wash over you. As long as I can find others who dig my scene.
I could.
But let the record show I did make it out.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Tales from Urban Bohemia
Chapter 1: In which there is a reprieve
With news that Ettamae's was closing, my J-Ward buddy and I went to lunch with heavy hearts.
Our server greeted us by saying, "You know it's our last day?" I called dibs on the last shrimp BLT and we ate on the balcony where it was muggy, hazy and bittersweet.
By the time we were paying, it was announced that they'd be open through Mother's Day brunch.
It makes me sad that a favorite neighborhood spot isn't being supported. "Sorry about Ettamae's. You did the most to keep it going!" a friend writes.
And here I thought their house-made corned beef and fruit tarts were enough. Hang on, Ettamae's. We need your kind.
Chapter 2: In which thoughts turn to Girl Scout campouts
Holmes and his main squeeze wanted escorts for the First Fridays artwalk so I rounded up a fourth and we began with Michel Chiarlo Barbera d'Asti here before heading to Corporate Museum and Frame to see Holmes' friend's show.
"River Road" by John Henley encompassed all kinds of river views, some familiar and some not. The Belle Isle quarry was instantly recognizable (although not to all, sadly) but Huguenot Woods not so much.
A photograph of Dutch Gap reminded me of the last places I went kayaking and rowing.
I run into a handsome theater critic friend who gulps mid-conversation, saying, "My date just walked out the door!" before doing the same.
Ghostprint Gallery's show by Juan Perdiguero, "Perros Indalo," was captivating for the classically-posed, almost portrait-like drawings over photographs of dogs.
The Spanish artist was in the building, telling of how he photographed the stray dogs that wandered into his studio space and superimposed them over photographs of indigenous vegetation
At one of the G40 pop-up galleries, I couldn't help but notice "Saturday Night Soldiers," an image of people happily lost on a dance floor.
A girl came up behind me to look at it, turning to her companion and asking, "Do you have an extra $900 on you?" He did not.
In a basement (my first under Broad Street) at another G40 pop-up, I saw a Lichtenstein-like mixed media piece with the prophetic "The world is mine. Now what?" sentiment as its message.
My question exactly.
Dinner was at a back booth at the Belvidere with Vinho Verde, smoked salmon and beef tenderloin.
Pat Benetar ruled the women's bathroom and in the restaurant, it was Rolling Stones. Holmes claimed it was the best rice he'd had in Richmond.
Final stop of the evening was at Bistro 27 for cocktails, although mine consisted only of Cazadores with a large slow-melting cube.
The treat was $1 dessert, made by mixologist Bobby Kruger. Huge homemade marshmallows on sticks were rolled in dark chocolate and then graham cracker crumbs.
Nothing like it before tequila. Music was appropriately indie and non-restaurant like (hello, XX and Empire of the Sun) and conversation ensued over Death in the Afternoon and gin/dark rum Negronis.
Walking home, a magnificent moon foreshadows Saturday's super moon.
What else can a person do but play Pet Shop Boys and imagine domino dancing?
Chapter 3: In which we are not wristband-worthy
With RVA Beerfest at Gallery 5 and barely three blocks from my front door, the afternoon was all about bands and beer-slicked floors.
Paying our admission, we were asked for IDs. We'd not brought ours since we weren't drinking beer. We were allowed in without benefit of an identifying bracelet.
Who comes to Beerfest not to drink?
The New Belgians were playing their brand of funk/soul/jazz with Marcus Tenney doing triple duty on sax, tambourine and vocals.
Black Girls followed and the crowd increased exponentially, although not in that dance-y way they respond at Balliceaux.
Party in full swing, Beerfest immediately changed their end time from 6:00 to 7:00. I saw my favorite Beer Betty who marveled at seeing me in summer attire.
Fact is, in this kind of humidity and stickiness, everyone who possibly can settles for shorts and a tank top.
Even dress-wearers...when prodded.
I saw bags of Frozen Water being delivered to the kegs and people getting endless samples of beer.
One guy sampled and recommended it to his friend who demurred. "Aw, come on, try it," he cajoled. "Oh, wait, is that beer pressure?"
Groan. Some people's jokes remind me of corny uncle humor.
Chapter 4: In which there is no celebration of Cinqo de Mayo
Walking from 13th Street to Bistro Bobette, I pause at the door of La Grotta. Seeing it's raining, a well-maintained looking woman starts out and stops, turning to her group.
"Oh, it's raining. Our fireworks will be canceled."
I'm pretty much positive I will never utter those words in my life.
Inside the restaurant, I find one stool and an amiable bar crowd. I kiss the bartender's cheeks and later he introduces me to a guy apropos of nothing.
Turns out the guy had inquired about the source of the bartender's lip prints and I was being introduced as Exhibit A.
Meanwhile, the bar crowd yields a variety of people with whom I can chat.
There's a Brit currently building a house in the south of France.
There's a familiar dachshund owner raving about a Sichuan restaurant near Staples Mill.
There's a French gendarme ("It's like your C.I.D.") who has jurisdiction in any French territory in the world.
I eat off the bar specials menu, particularly enjoying hearts of artichoke over micro-greens.
The creamy texture of the hearts in ailoi makes for a rich indulgence. Swordfish bites with onion and tomato benefit from a dipping sauce.
The gendarme moves over and joins me, using his accented English to make small talk, or as small as you can get when discussing Spinoza or Alain.
After explaining where he has authority, I conclude that I can break the law in Bobette and he will be unable to do anything about it.
He says should that happen, he will advise me of my error and allow me to make my own mistakes.
I have ordered Kaffir lime ice cream based on the chef's recommendation and when it arrives, I offer the gendarme a bite.
"Francis says this is wonderful," I offer.
"Have you been to France?" he inquires.
"No," I admit.
"Then how can you say it's wonderful?" he asks.
"I said Francis says it's wonderful," I correct, pointing at the ice cream.
He grabs my face and kisses my cheek.
"You are honest. For that you get a kiss," he explains.
He orders a bottle of Moutard Pere et Fils Rose, presumably for its pink fruitiness but also because he is recently returned to this country after time in the Middle East.
I am happy to have a glass and talk about our favorite authors.
I run into a girlfriend who is stressed and make a joke that transforms her.
"That's the biggest smile I've had in weeks," she says. "Thank you for that."
Just doing my job.
Chapter 5: In which I do not see the whole of the moon
Leaving the restaurant, there is a sax player filling the air and the sidewalks of the Slip are bustling with people.
The temperature is just about perfect and the humidity is still curling my straight bangs.
A mile and I'm home where I linger outside hoping that the super moon will be visible, but alas.
I'll have to hope for something super tomorrow instead.
Chapter 6 should do just fine.
With news that Ettamae's was closing, my J-Ward buddy and I went to lunch with heavy hearts.
Our server greeted us by saying, "You know it's our last day?" I called dibs on the last shrimp BLT and we ate on the balcony where it was muggy, hazy and bittersweet.
By the time we were paying, it was announced that they'd be open through Mother's Day brunch.
It makes me sad that a favorite neighborhood spot isn't being supported. "Sorry about Ettamae's. You did the most to keep it going!" a friend writes.
And here I thought their house-made corned beef and fruit tarts were enough. Hang on, Ettamae's. We need your kind.
Chapter 2: In which thoughts turn to Girl Scout campouts
Holmes and his main squeeze wanted escorts for the First Fridays artwalk so I rounded up a fourth and we began with Michel Chiarlo Barbera d'Asti here before heading to Corporate Museum and Frame to see Holmes' friend's show.
"River Road" by John Henley encompassed all kinds of river views, some familiar and some not. The Belle Isle quarry was instantly recognizable (although not to all, sadly) but Huguenot Woods not so much.
A photograph of Dutch Gap reminded me of the last places I went kayaking and rowing.
I run into a handsome theater critic friend who gulps mid-conversation, saying, "My date just walked out the door!" before doing the same.
Ghostprint Gallery's show by Juan Perdiguero, "Perros Indalo," was captivating for the classically-posed, almost portrait-like drawings over photographs of dogs.
The Spanish artist was in the building, telling of how he photographed the stray dogs that wandered into his studio space and superimposed them over photographs of indigenous vegetation
At one of the G40 pop-up galleries, I couldn't help but notice "Saturday Night Soldiers," an image of people happily lost on a dance floor.
A girl came up behind me to look at it, turning to her companion and asking, "Do you have an extra $900 on you?" He did not.
In a basement (my first under Broad Street) at another G40 pop-up, I saw a Lichtenstein-like mixed media piece with the prophetic "The world is mine. Now what?" sentiment as its message.
My question exactly.
Dinner was at a back booth at the Belvidere with Vinho Verde, smoked salmon and beef tenderloin.
Pat Benetar ruled the women's bathroom and in the restaurant, it was Rolling Stones. Holmes claimed it was the best rice he'd had in Richmond.
Final stop of the evening was at Bistro 27 for cocktails, although mine consisted only of Cazadores with a large slow-melting cube.
The treat was $1 dessert, made by mixologist Bobby Kruger. Huge homemade marshmallows on sticks were rolled in dark chocolate and then graham cracker crumbs.
Nothing like it before tequila. Music was appropriately indie and non-restaurant like (hello, XX and Empire of the Sun) and conversation ensued over Death in the Afternoon and gin/dark rum Negronis.
Walking home, a magnificent moon foreshadows Saturday's super moon.
What else can a person do but play Pet Shop Boys and imagine domino dancing?
Chapter 3: In which we are not wristband-worthy
With RVA Beerfest at Gallery 5 and barely three blocks from my front door, the afternoon was all about bands and beer-slicked floors.
Paying our admission, we were asked for IDs. We'd not brought ours since we weren't drinking beer. We were allowed in without benefit of an identifying bracelet.
Who comes to Beerfest not to drink?
The New Belgians were playing their brand of funk/soul/jazz with Marcus Tenney doing triple duty on sax, tambourine and vocals.
Black Girls followed and the crowd increased exponentially, although not in that dance-y way they respond at Balliceaux.
Party in full swing, Beerfest immediately changed their end time from 6:00 to 7:00. I saw my favorite Beer Betty who marveled at seeing me in summer attire.
Fact is, in this kind of humidity and stickiness, everyone who possibly can settles for shorts and a tank top.
Even dress-wearers...when prodded.
I saw bags of Frozen Water being delivered to the kegs and people getting endless samples of beer.
One guy sampled and recommended it to his friend who demurred. "Aw, come on, try it," he cajoled. "Oh, wait, is that beer pressure?"
Groan. Some people's jokes remind me of corny uncle humor.
Chapter 4: In which there is no celebration of Cinqo de Mayo
Walking from 13th Street to Bistro Bobette, I pause at the door of La Grotta. Seeing it's raining, a well-maintained looking woman starts out and stops, turning to her group.
"Oh, it's raining. Our fireworks will be canceled."
I'm pretty much positive I will never utter those words in my life.
Inside the restaurant, I find one stool and an amiable bar crowd. I kiss the bartender's cheeks and later he introduces me to a guy apropos of nothing.
Turns out the guy had inquired about the source of the bartender's lip prints and I was being introduced as Exhibit A.
Meanwhile, the bar crowd yields a variety of people with whom I can chat.
There's a Brit currently building a house in the south of France.
There's a familiar dachshund owner raving about a Sichuan restaurant near Staples Mill.
There's a French gendarme ("It's like your C.I.D.") who has jurisdiction in any French territory in the world.
I eat off the bar specials menu, particularly enjoying hearts of artichoke over micro-greens.
The creamy texture of the hearts in ailoi makes for a rich indulgence. Swordfish bites with onion and tomato benefit from a dipping sauce.
The gendarme moves over and joins me, using his accented English to make small talk, or as small as you can get when discussing Spinoza or Alain.
After explaining where he has authority, I conclude that I can break the law in Bobette and he will be unable to do anything about it.
He says should that happen, he will advise me of my error and allow me to make my own mistakes.
I have ordered Kaffir lime ice cream based on the chef's recommendation and when it arrives, I offer the gendarme a bite.
"Francis says this is wonderful," I offer.
"Have you been to France?" he inquires.
"No," I admit.
"Then how can you say it's wonderful?" he asks.
"I said Francis says it's wonderful," I correct, pointing at the ice cream.
He grabs my face and kisses my cheek.
"You are honest. For that you get a kiss," he explains.
He orders a bottle of Moutard Pere et Fils Rose, presumably for its pink fruitiness but also because he is recently returned to this country after time in the Middle East.
I am happy to have a glass and talk about our favorite authors.
I run into a girlfriend who is stressed and make a joke that transforms her.
"That's the biggest smile I've had in weeks," she says. "Thank you for that."
Just doing my job.
Chapter 5: In which I do not see the whole of the moon
Leaving the restaurant, there is a sax player filling the air and the sidewalks of the Slip are bustling with people.
The temperature is just about perfect and the humidity is still curling my straight bangs.
A mile and I'm home where I linger outside hoping that the super moon will be visible, but alas.
I'll have to hope for something super tomorrow instead.
Chapter 6 should do just fine.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Slowing Down to Smell 95
The honeysuckle made all the difference.
Don't get me wrong; an invitation to a friend's new bay-front house for a couple of days is a treat.
With a view of the Bay Bridge and countless sailboats (37 at mid-morning and then the races began around 4:00) dotting the water, it's a captivating place to spend time.
She even took me out to dinner at her local wine bar, Grapes, where I met the neighborhood butcher, Mike and ate his veal (sliders, that is).
An onion tart and side salad reminded me of Bistro Bobette and the grouper (fresh caught hours before it hit my plate, according to the chef, Vickie) with buerre blanc and mango/black bean salsa was as fresh-tasting and flavorful as fish at Pescado's.
Friend's choice of shrimp and orcchiette in garlic cream sauce would never have been mine, but I had to agree with the chef that it's the perfect pasta for cupping sauce and absolutely lovely with Chateau de L'Aulee Cremant de Loire.
Dinner conversation revolved first around meat (an eating butcher is a happy butcher who wants to talk beef) and new developments in my friend's dating life.
What do you do when your boyfriend says exactly what you want to hear?
Besides freak out, which is what she'd done and what she wanted to discuss.
That kind of girl talk requires dessert and we went with chocolate gateaux with a thick layer of ganache on top to settle her down.
And, yes, we went back to her place for more bubbles and bay sounds.
But when it's time to leave Annapolis and make my way back to a place better suited to me, the sad fact is I have to get on soul-sucking I-95.
And that's after I have to get on soul-sucking Route 50, a road I used to know by heart from endless trips to the beach in my Maryland youth.
But that was before it was eight lanes and 70 mph and not a two-lane blacktop to sun and fun.
Even when there's no road construction, I find 95 soulless and depressing.
With endless delays, like today, it can be insufferable.
Except.
Early on in the northern Virginia back-up, as I sat in my barely-moving car with all the windows down and Pinback blaring, I smelled the unmistakable scent of something wonderful.
Honeysuckle was nearby.
I turned down the music to smell it better.
If the day ever comes where smelling honeysuckle doesn't make everything at least a little bit better, just shoot me.
Fact: I can't care about stopped traffic or rude drivers or even being late for my lunch date when I'm surrounded by the scent of hot, sweet summer.
It may be the first time that I-95 restored rather than stole from my soul.
And I'd never have experienced it without a construction delay.
Thank you, VDOT. You made my day.
Don't get me wrong; an invitation to a friend's new bay-front house for a couple of days is a treat.
With a view of the Bay Bridge and countless sailboats (37 at mid-morning and then the races began around 4:00) dotting the water, it's a captivating place to spend time.
She even took me out to dinner at her local wine bar, Grapes, where I met the neighborhood butcher, Mike and ate his veal (sliders, that is).
An onion tart and side salad reminded me of Bistro Bobette and the grouper (fresh caught hours before it hit my plate, according to the chef, Vickie) with buerre blanc and mango/black bean salsa was as fresh-tasting and flavorful as fish at Pescado's.
Friend's choice of shrimp and orcchiette in garlic cream sauce would never have been mine, but I had to agree with the chef that it's the perfect pasta for cupping sauce and absolutely lovely with Chateau de L'Aulee Cremant de Loire.
Dinner conversation revolved first around meat (an eating butcher is a happy butcher who wants to talk beef) and new developments in my friend's dating life.
What do you do when your boyfriend says exactly what you want to hear?
Besides freak out, which is what she'd done and what she wanted to discuss.
That kind of girl talk requires dessert and we went with chocolate gateaux with a thick layer of ganache on top to settle her down.
And, yes, we went back to her place for more bubbles and bay sounds.
But when it's time to leave Annapolis and make my way back to a place better suited to me, the sad fact is I have to get on soul-sucking I-95.
And that's after I have to get on soul-sucking Route 50, a road I used to know by heart from endless trips to the beach in my Maryland youth.
But that was before it was eight lanes and 70 mph and not a two-lane blacktop to sun and fun.
Even when there's no road construction, I find 95 soulless and depressing.
With endless delays, like today, it can be insufferable.
Except.
Early on in the northern Virginia back-up, as I sat in my barely-moving car with all the windows down and Pinback blaring, I smelled the unmistakable scent of something wonderful.
Honeysuckle was nearby.
I turned down the music to smell it better.
If the day ever comes where smelling honeysuckle doesn't make everything at least a little bit better, just shoot me.
Fact: I can't care about stopped traffic or rude drivers or even being late for my lunch date when I'm surrounded by the scent of hot, sweet summer.
It may be the first time that I-95 restored rather than stole from my soul.
And I'd never have experienced it without a construction delay.
Thank you, VDOT. You made my day.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
The Middle of all the Karens
The best thing about European movies is not knowing what's next.
They mock us.
"You sound like an American. That's a bad sign."
They admire us.
"It's as if Liechtenstein were walking with the U.S."
They cook differently.
"I brought ratatouille. I cooked each vegetable separately."
They woo differently.
"I love your hair. I could go on holiday in your hair."
They end their movies differently.
"I am happy to sit in the middle of all the Nathalies and just hide."
The movie in question was French and at the Westhampton.
"Delicacy" was the story of how a man wooed a woman named Nathalie who didn't even realize she wanted to be wooed.
In simplest terms, anyway.
Oh sure, her husband died and she grieved and her boss hit on her and her friends worried about her.
All with great panache because she was French.
And eventually she initiates a kiss with a coworker and begins the slow descent out of her cocoon of the past.
The pleasure was in being treated like an intelligent audience, so we weren't shown everything.
Some things went unexplained and we put two and two together ourselves.
It wasn't difficult; it was an early show and we were a small but smart bunch.
Hell, when a character's Swedish parents visited, we didn't even get subtitles. What they were saying was irrelevant but we got the point of the scene.
How do you go back to your prior life once you've met that someone who changes everything?
Bonuses to seeing a movie full of nuances of behavior and thoughtful dialog?
Lots of things to discuss when you get to Beauregard's Thai Room and my favorite outdoor eating space in Richmond.
Case in point: a pot of purple Canterbury Bells next to our secluded table near the fountain.
Two colors of calla lilies behind us -mauve and white- and a night sky low overhead.
It wasn't France, but it didn't feel like Richmond, either.
Squid over salad with lime, red onions, coriander and chilies was followed by shrimp with baby corn, straw mushrooms and scallions.
Meanwhile our first server got distracted and forgot all about us, our second server did research for us on the date of the building, and the Thai dance music got suddenly loud enough to dance to.
Reason number two that Beauregard's gets points?
Their housemade ice creams. Trying to choose a flavor, humor won us over.
Banana walnut was described as "mainly banana; the walnuts impede gulping."
Who wouldn't have to taste that?
Just for good measure, we got a scoop of black walnut on top of the banana walnut and washed it down with a glass of Prosecco.
Sitting in the emptying garden was like being hidden away from the rest of the city on a warm night.
Gulp. It almost felt like the ending of a French movie.
But with only one Karen.
They mock us.
"You sound like an American. That's a bad sign."
They admire us.
"It's as if Liechtenstein were walking with the U.S."
They cook differently.
"I brought ratatouille. I cooked each vegetable separately."
They woo differently.
"I love your hair. I could go on holiday in your hair."
They end their movies differently.
"I am happy to sit in the middle of all the Nathalies and just hide."
The movie in question was French and at the Westhampton.
"Delicacy" was the story of how a man wooed a woman named Nathalie who didn't even realize she wanted to be wooed.
In simplest terms, anyway.
Oh sure, her husband died and she grieved and her boss hit on her and her friends worried about her.
All with great panache because she was French.
And eventually she initiates a kiss with a coworker and begins the slow descent out of her cocoon of the past.
The pleasure was in being treated like an intelligent audience, so we weren't shown everything.
Some things went unexplained and we put two and two together ourselves.
It wasn't difficult; it was an early show and we were a small but smart bunch.
Hell, when a character's Swedish parents visited, we didn't even get subtitles. What they were saying was irrelevant but we got the point of the scene.
How do you go back to your prior life once you've met that someone who changes everything?
Bonuses to seeing a movie full of nuances of behavior and thoughtful dialog?
Lots of things to discuss when you get to Beauregard's Thai Room and my favorite outdoor eating space in Richmond.
Case in point: a pot of purple Canterbury Bells next to our secluded table near the fountain.
Two colors of calla lilies behind us -mauve and white- and a night sky low overhead.
It wasn't France, but it didn't feel like Richmond, either.
Squid over salad with lime, red onions, coriander and chilies was followed by shrimp with baby corn, straw mushrooms and scallions.
Meanwhile our first server got distracted and forgot all about us, our second server did research for us on the date of the building, and the Thai dance music got suddenly loud enough to dance to.
Reason number two that Beauregard's gets points?
Their housemade ice creams. Trying to choose a flavor, humor won us over.
Banana walnut was described as "mainly banana; the walnuts impede gulping."
Who wouldn't have to taste that?
Just for good measure, we got a scoop of black walnut on top of the banana walnut and washed it down with a glass of Prosecco.
Sitting in the emptying garden was like being hidden away from the rest of the city on a warm night.
Gulp. It almost felt like the ending of a French movie.
But with only one Karen.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Slow Eggs al Fresco
"Also, lunch. It's been too long."
When a friend has to point out the obvious, it's time to make time.
He deferred to me for destination and I chose The Citizen, knowing we'd be able to eat in the shaded courtyard.
Inside, the place was packed, causing my friend to note, "So this isn't a place you come when you have a limited lunch hour?"
Actually, it was the busiest I'd ever seen it, made even livelier by Chef Greg calling out things like "Eggs are slow today" to amuse himself.
Since all my previous Citizen lunches had involved sandwiches, I decided to try a salad for a change.
Tuna in olive oil over tarragon white beans and mesclun were topped with a fried local egg and a celery salsa and sounded like a great place to start on the salad menu.
While we waited for our food, the girl at the counter offered me a cup of water to tide me over, but I declined, thanking her for being so considerate.
The chef jumped right in, noting that that's why he kept her around. "That and she rubs my feet at the end of the shift," he joked as she winced.
"She takes care of Old Yeller, if you know what I mean," he said, raising an eyebrow and cracking me up.
Once our names were called (I mistakenly tried to claim the food of a girl named Kara before Chef told me it wasn't mine), we couldn't wait to begin our al fresco lunch.
Outside in the shade, I broke the yolk on my egg and dug into a flavorful mixture of tuna, beans and greens, using the accompanying toasted bread to sop yolk.
My companion had high praise for his pulled pork torta which I'd recommended to him, having had it before.
The way I see it, one can always use pig to measure the worth of a place and I had nothing but fond pig memories here.
As we sat chatting about upcoming shows, people we'd seen in Citizen came up from below and several saw us.
"We could have eaten out here," a couple of them noted. Yes, you sure could have.
A man entered the courtyard but instead of heading to Citizen, he went to the other side where we both noticed a barbershop, complete with pole, for the first time.
"It says hair styling," my friend observed, but it looked like a place where old guys go get their limited hairs cut, not styled.
When we went to leave, I couldn't resist getting a better view of the barbershop, peering over the railing down into the subterranean space where a man was getting a trim.
Next thing I knew, the barber spotted me, smiled and waved into his mirror in acknowledgement.
If I knew an old guy who needed to get his hairs trimmed, that's where I'd send him.
And then to the other side for a heaping helping of humor and lunch.
Especially if it had been too long.
When a friend has to point out the obvious, it's time to make time.
He deferred to me for destination and I chose The Citizen, knowing we'd be able to eat in the shaded courtyard.
Inside, the place was packed, causing my friend to note, "So this isn't a place you come when you have a limited lunch hour?"
Actually, it was the busiest I'd ever seen it, made even livelier by Chef Greg calling out things like "Eggs are slow today" to amuse himself.
Since all my previous Citizen lunches had involved sandwiches, I decided to try a salad for a change.
Tuna in olive oil over tarragon white beans and mesclun were topped with a fried local egg and a celery salsa and sounded like a great place to start on the salad menu.
While we waited for our food, the girl at the counter offered me a cup of water to tide me over, but I declined, thanking her for being so considerate.
The chef jumped right in, noting that that's why he kept her around. "That and she rubs my feet at the end of the shift," he joked as she winced.
"She takes care of Old Yeller, if you know what I mean," he said, raising an eyebrow and cracking me up.
Once our names were called (I mistakenly tried to claim the food of a girl named Kara before Chef told me it wasn't mine), we couldn't wait to begin our al fresco lunch.
Outside in the shade, I broke the yolk on my egg and dug into a flavorful mixture of tuna, beans and greens, using the accompanying toasted bread to sop yolk.
My companion had high praise for his pulled pork torta which I'd recommended to him, having had it before.
The way I see it, one can always use pig to measure the worth of a place and I had nothing but fond pig memories here.
As we sat chatting about upcoming shows, people we'd seen in Citizen came up from below and several saw us.
"We could have eaten out here," a couple of them noted. Yes, you sure could have.
A man entered the courtyard but instead of heading to Citizen, he went to the other side where we both noticed a barbershop, complete with pole, for the first time.
"It says hair styling," my friend observed, but it looked like a place where old guys go get their limited hairs cut, not styled.
When we went to leave, I couldn't resist getting a better view of the barbershop, peering over the railing down into the subterranean space where a man was getting a trim.
Next thing I knew, the barber spotted me, smiled and waved into his mirror in acknowledgement.
If I knew an old guy who needed to get his hairs trimmed, that's where I'd send him.
And then to the other side for a heaping helping of humor and lunch.
Especially if it had been too long.
Yes, You May
Tra la! It's May!
The lusty month of May!
That lovely month when ev'ryone goes blissfully astray.
The best reason to spend a May evening with a wine seller is because he'll talk music to me all evening.
I could stand to learn a lot more about music, it's true, but I could also stand to learn a lot more about wine.
We met at Bistro 27 so he could get the scoop ("You were very coy on the blog") and I could hear about his recent shows.
With a little prodding (and a notable absence of overwhelming grapefruit and grass), I chose a French Sauvignon Blanc (Domaine de Bellemare) instead of my usual Gavi.
Even the mixologist extraordinaire had to acknowledge French superiority when it comes to restraint.
Even though I'd be the first to admit that May is not a month for restraint.
An unexpected bonus requiring no restraint was eating what the Brazilian cattlemen eat when they're moving herds.
Had I known what that was when I'd walked in? I had not.
Am I now wishing I could eat like a cattleman every day? I am.
A crispy mixture of red beans, collard greens, potatoes, bacon and sausage with a quail egg atop it all, the satisfying combination had a stick-to-the-ribs quality that would no doubt serve a hard-working man well as he moved bovine.
Personally, I'm all about any dish that has both bacon and sausage.
And all I move is words.
While we chatted, the annual May Day parade walked down Broad Street and, having participated in it several times, I could answer questions about what was going on to the uninitiated.
The real question was whether I'd sold out by being inside drinking wine when I could have been carrying a sign and marching for workers' rights.
Luckily for me, no one pressed me on that issue.
Instead we talked about Michael Hedges and e-bows, so that should tell you it was a learning experience for me.
We both got a lesson in Italian peasants and espressos via the lemon peel that accompanied my friend's caffeine fix.
I took mental notes while he told me about the difference in his basses and hopefully he did the same when he asked my opinion of Ashland Coffee & Tea.
I was fascinated by his story of how breaking up a band resembles breaking up a relationship.
Let's just say he's till not talking to those former bandmates and I get that.
Before we realized it, nearly four hours had passed, he still had an hour-plus drive ahead of him and I had places to be.
Therein lies the problem with May.
Tra-la! It's May!
That darling month
When ev'ryone throws self-control away.
Did I mention that May is my favorite month?
The lusty month of May!
That lovely month when ev'ryone goes blissfully astray.
The best reason to spend a May evening with a wine seller is because he'll talk music to me all evening.
I could stand to learn a lot more about music, it's true, but I could also stand to learn a lot more about wine.
We met at Bistro 27 so he could get the scoop ("You were very coy on the blog") and I could hear about his recent shows.
With a little prodding (and a notable absence of overwhelming grapefruit and grass), I chose a French Sauvignon Blanc (Domaine de Bellemare) instead of my usual Gavi.
Even the mixologist extraordinaire had to acknowledge French superiority when it comes to restraint.
Even though I'd be the first to admit that May is not a month for restraint.
An unexpected bonus requiring no restraint was eating what the Brazilian cattlemen eat when they're moving herds.
Had I known what that was when I'd walked in? I had not.
Am I now wishing I could eat like a cattleman every day? I am.
A crispy mixture of red beans, collard greens, potatoes, bacon and sausage with a quail egg atop it all, the satisfying combination had a stick-to-the-ribs quality that would no doubt serve a hard-working man well as he moved bovine.
Personally, I'm all about any dish that has both bacon and sausage.
And all I move is words.
While we chatted, the annual May Day parade walked down Broad Street and, having participated in it several times, I could answer questions about what was going on to the uninitiated.
The real question was whether I'd sold out by being inside drinking wine when I could have been carrying a sign and marching for workers' rights.
Luckily for me, no one pressed me on that issue.
Instead we talked about Michael Hedges and e-bows, so that should tell you it was a learning experience for me.
We both got a lesson in Italian peasants and espressos via the lemon peel that accompanied my friend's caffeine fix.
I took mental notes while he told me about the difference in his basses and hopefully he did the same when he asked my opinion of Ashland Coffee & Tea.
I was fascinated by his story of how breaking up a band resembles breaking up a relationship.
Let's just say he's till not talking to those former bandmates and I get that.
Before we realized it, nearly four hours had passed, he still had an hour-plus drive ahead of him and I had places to be.
Therein lies the problem with May.
Tra-la! It's May!
That darling month
When ev'ryone throws self-control away.
Did I mention that May is my favorite month?
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Dancing in the Dark
Beach blanket bingo for a couple of days.
Best reason to go to the beach yesterday:
Biker week
Let the record show that the last bike I was taken for a ride on was a Yamaha.
Most succinct church sign passed:
"If your God is dead, try mine."
For that matter, if your God is (stupid, sneaky, condescending, mean), try mine.
Best business sign seen:
"Bikers serving bikers!" (courtesy American Pie Ice Cream shop)
That way, you know where their hands have been.
Biggest disappointment this morning:
Missing breakfast at the Nags Head Pier.
A tardy arrival meant lunch was the only option, but eating a fried flounder sandwich on the pier with the windows open almost made up for not getting pancakes.
Funniest overheard line at hotel:
Biker girl: "How long does the bar stay open?"
Hotel clerk: "As long as you're drinking."
No way that bar beat a balcony overlooking the ocean with a bottle of King Family Viognier.
Closet thing to religion:
Flat on the sand, looking up at a late afternoon blue sky and partial moon with not a soul in sight on the beach.
Only heathens say things like that.
Most flavorful Sunday dish (courtesy Ocean Boulevard):
Octopus confit over arugula, olive salad, peperoncini, preserved lemon zest and (rectangular!) chickpea fritter.
Haven't you heard? Rectangular fritters have more crunchy outside parts than round ones.
Least likely thing to see on a beach walk:
Three people pulling organs from a huge, dead overturned sea turtle.
Suspicious as it looked (they're a protected species), the volunteer said it had washed up with its head missing. Being scientific types, they had then measured the parts, returned them to the carcass and left it by the shore to be pulled out to sea.
Finest Monday pig (courtesy Red Sky Cafe):
Pork in pastry (citrus-roasted pulled pork in wood-fired pastry with southern slaw finished with Wasabi-spiked Thai barbecue drizzle).
Hello sweet pig, I say when it arrives. "That's what the servers call it," the bartender says, amazed. "You must have the inside scoop." No, I just recognize sweet pig when I taste it.
Most important rule of thumb on a beach weekend:
Never ask anyone to do something you wouldn't do yourself.
It's an ocean, You're bound to get wet.
Least likely thing to happen on a beach holiday:
Dancing to Foreigner to celebrate a wedding anniversary and yet I know it's happened.
But if you're not at the ocean to listen to the surf and get wet, you may as well leave your beach towel at home.
Bingo.
Best reason to go to the beach yesterday:
Biker week
Let the record show that the last bike I was taken for a ride on was a Yamaha.
Most succinct church sign passed:
"If your God is dead, try mine."
For that matter, if your God is (stupid, sneaky, condescending, mean), try mine.
Best business sign seen:
"Bikers serving bikers!" (courtesy American Pie Ice Cream shop)
That way, you know where their hands have been.
Biggest disappointment this morning:
Missing breakfast at the Nags Head Pier.
A tardy arrival meant lunch was the only option, but eating a fried flounder sandwich on the pier with the windows open almost made up for not getting pancakes.
Funniest overheard line at hotel:
Biker girl: "How long does the bar stay open?"
Hotel clerk: "As long as you're drinking."
No way that bar beat a balcony overlooking the ocean with a bottle of King Family Viognier.
Closet thing to religion:
Flat on the sand, looking up at a late afternoon blue sky and partial moon with not a soul in sight on the beach.
Only heathens say things like that.
Most flavorful Sunday dish (courtesy Ocean Boulevard):
Octopus confit over arugula, olive salad, peperoncini, preserved lemon zest and (rectangular!) chickpea fritter.
Haven't you heard? Rectangular fritters have more crunchy outside parts than round ones.
Least likely thing to see on a beach walk:
Three people pulling organs from a huge, dead overturned sea turtle.
Suspicious as it looked (they're a protected species), the volunteer said it had washed up with its head missing. Being scientific types, they had then measured the parts, returned them to the carcass and left it by the shore to be pulled out to sea.
Finest Monday pig (courtesy Red Sky Cafe):
Pork in pastry (citrus-roasted pulled pork in wood-fired pastry with southern slaw finished with Wasabi-spiked Thai barbecue drizzle).
Hello sweet pig, I say when it arrives. "That's what the servers call it," the bartender says, amazed. "You must have the inside scoop." No, I just recognize sweet pig when I taste it.
Most important rule of thumb on a beach weekend:
Never ask anyone to do something you wouldn't do yourself.
It's an ocean, You're bound to get wet.
Least likely thing to happen on a beach holiday:
Dancing to Foreigner to celebrate a wedding anniversary and yet I know it's happened.
But if you're not at the ocean to listen to the surf and get wet, you may as well leave your beach towel at home.
Bingo.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Going to the Rodeo
If you wear a dress, you will get your man.
And if you plan on going to an outdoor show, the temperature will drop and it will rain.
I passed on my ticket to less of a weather wimp and regrouped.
Plan B was a non-brainer; Richmond Ballet and Richmond Symphony were doing an evening called "Wild Wild West."
Given my limited pocketbook, my seat was in the nosebleed section (also known as the Second Dress Center), notable mainly because the girl behind me had a nosebleed during the performance.
The first piece was "Pops Hoe-Down" and featured dancers from the School of Richmond Ballet and their Minds in Motion program.
It's a piece of music I've heard many times and always get a kick out of, with its racing fiddles and oddball assortment of sounds.
Pop goes the weasel.
When the symphony finished the rousing performance, conductor Steven Smith yelled, "Yee-ha!" making for a spirited way to begin an evening in the west.
That was followed by two pieces without dance, John Williams' rousing Overture to "The Cowboys" and the Copland-inspired "Prairie Morning."
With the Williams piece came the next surprise; we were treated to live video of the symphony members playing projected onto a screen on the stage.
We saw close-ups of musicians in cowboy hats, neckerchiefs and Western shirts, which was fun.
But the treat was seeing things like the bassoon, oboe and all kinds of unusual percussion played close up.
Someone must have figured that if we didn't have dance, we needed a visual.
Stunning was Philip Glass' "Runaway Horses" and the ballet's tour de force interpretation of it for five dancers.
Male and female wore brown costumes, the women tossed their hair like manes, and they all galloped around like colts in a field.
This was not your West End blue hair's ballet.
Introducing Rossini's Finale from "Overture to Guillaume Tell," Smith mentioned how much classical music has infiltrated popular culture.
The moment it began, heads began to nod as people recognized it as the Lone Ranger's theme.
In a similar vein, we heard "Wolf's Fiddle," described as "dueling fiddle sections," a rarely heard pleasure, and one that caused my seatmates to want to talk about the differences in violins and fiddles.
Ending the first half was Bernstein's "Suite from The Magnificent Seven," instantly recognizable to the audience.
With its swelling and soaring score, I wasn't surprised to see many of the musicians smiling broadly as they played.
During intermission I scored dessert downstairs and as I ate my chocolate cupcake, a guy approached me.
"Your husband should have told you that you have chocolate on your chin," he said, as if he was concerned about my dirty face.
Honestly, I don't think he was.
Back in my seat with a clean face, we began with Sunrise from "Grand Canyon Suite" before arriving at the evening's highlight.
Agnes de Mille's "Rodeo" set to Aaron Copland's music is one of my all-time favorite ballets, uniquely American, but I hadn't seen it performed in over a decade.
It's amazing how a Jewish guy who lived in Brooklyn managed to capture the essence of the American West so adeptly.
"Rodeo" is subtitled "The Courting at Burnt Ranch," so there was plenty of lovesickness, boys showing off and endless partner changing, all things wooing related.
It is, in simplest terms, a ballet about how to find the right man.
And Copland's score with traditional folk songs throughout is a distinct pleasure to hear performed live.
Likewise the rambunctious ballet, which oozes with boy/girl tension.
The Cowgirl does everything she can think of to try to get the attention of the Head Wrangler while more feminine girls effortlessly get their cowboys.
But does the big, obvious guy win her? Nope, it's the tap-dancing champion roper who eventually steals her heart, scooping her up at the hoe-down.
And kissing her. First tentatively and then good and hard.
No surprise there. She'd finally ditched her cowgirl duds for a bright red dress.
Truth is, with the right dress, a man won't even notice if you have chocolate on your chin.
Or, if he's the right one, he'll just wipe it off and go right on kissing you.
That's how they do it in the wild, wild west.
I know. I saw it at the ballet.
And if you plan on going to an outdoor show, the temperature will drop and it will rain.
I passed on my ticket to less of a weather wimp and regrouped.
Plan B was a non-brainer; Richmond Ballet and Richmond Symphony were doing an evening called "Wild Wild West."
Given my limited pocketbook, my seat was in the nosebleed section (also known as the Second Dress Center), notable mainly because the girl behind me had a nosebleed during the performance.
The first piece was "Pops Hoe-Down" and featured dancers from the School of Richmond Ballet and their Minds in Motion program.
It's a piece of music I've heard many times and always get a kick out of, with its racing fiddles and oddball assortment of sounds.
Pop goes the weasel.
When the symphony finished the rousing performance, conductor Steven Smith yelled, "Yee-ha!" making for a spirited way to begin an evening in the west.
That was followed by two pieces without dance, John Williams' rousing Overture to "The Cowboys" and the Copland-inspired "Prairie Morning."
With the Williams piece came the next surprise; we were treated to live video of the symphony members playing projected onto a screen on the stage.
We saw close-ups of musicians in cowboy hats, neckerchiefs and Western shirts, which was fun.
But the treat was seeing things like the bassoon, oboe and all kinds of unusual percussion played close up.
Someone must have figured that if we didn't have dance, we needed a visual.
Stunning was Philip Glass' "Runaway Horses" and the ballet's tour de force interpretation of it for five dancers.
Male and female wore brown costumes, the women tossed their hair like manes, and they all galloped around like colts in a field.
This was not your West End blue hair's ballet.
Introducing Rossini's Finale from "Overture to Guillaume Tell," Smith mentioned how much classical music has infiltrated popular culture.
The moment it began, heads began to nod as people recognized it as the Lone Ranger's theme.
In a similar vein, we heard "Wolf's Fiddle," described as "dueling fiddle sections," a rarely heard pleasure, and one that caused my seatmates to want to talk about the differences in violins and fiddles.
Ending the first half was Bernstein's "Suite from The Magnificent Seven," instantly recognizable to the audience.
With its swelling and soaring score, I wasn't surprised to see many of the musicians smiling broadly as they played.
During intermission I scored dessert downstairs and as I ate my chocolate cupcake, a guy approached me.
"Your husband should have told you that you have chocolate on your chin," he said, as if he was concerned about my dirty face.
Honestly, I don't think he was.
Back in my seat with a clean face, we began with Sunrise from "Grand Canyon Suite" before arriving at the evening's highlight.
Agnes de Mille's "Rodeo" set to Aaron Copland's music is one of my all-time favorite ballets, uniquely American, but I hadn't seen it performed in over a decade.
It's amazing how a Jewish guy who lived in Brooklyn managed to capture the essence of the American West so adeptly.
"Rodeo" is subtitled "The Courting at Burnt Ranch," so there was plenty of lovesickness, boys showing off and endless partner changing, all things wooing related.
It is, in simplest terms, a ballet about how to find the right man.
And Copland's score with traditional folk songs throughout is a distinct pleasure to hear performed live.
Likewise the rambunctious ballet, which oozes with boy/girl tension.
The Cowgirl does everything she can think of to try to get the attention of the Head Wrangler while more feminine girls effortlessly get their cowboys.
But does the big, obvious guy win her? Nope, it's the tap-dancing champion roper who eventually steals her heart, scooping her up at the hoe-down.
And kissing her. First tentatively and then good and hard.
No surprise there. She'd finally ditched her cowgirl duds for a bright red dress.
Truth is, with the right dress, a man won't even notice if you have chocolate on your chin.
Or, if he's the right one, he'll just wipe it off and go right on kissing you.
That's how they do it in the wild, wild west.
I know. I saw it at the ballet.
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