I am not and never have been a weather wimp.
So, despite a forecast of sunny and 90 degrees, I found a willing partner to go to King Family Winery for a polo match on Sunday afternoon.
Although we arrived after the match had begun, we found an ideal spot under the shade of a large tree not far from the stables.
Yes, there was a trio already in place under the tree, but they gave us permission to join.
With a view of the action, the shade of the tree, the breeze across the field and a picnic, we were almost all set.
A detour to the tasting room yielded a bottle of Crose, a refreshing rose tasting of grapefruit and cranberry in an ice-filled bucket, and finally we wanted for nothing.
With the satisfying sound of horse hooves on the field, we opened our picnic and immediately had a guest.
The winery's corgi showed up the second I unwrapped a baguette with soprasetta on it.
And not just showed up, but sat so close that its hair tickled my bare legs.
Soon a couple with a beagle walked by and the girl called, "Love your dog!" as if this rogue corgi was mine.
I told her I was just going to say how much I liked her beagle.
Later a guy walked over to pet "my" corgi and I had to correct him, too.
I'm a beagle person, not a corgi person, just for the record. Can't you tell just by looking at me?
Polo has a certain thrilling aspect because of the presence of large animals galloping towards the edge of the field where small people sit.
But it's also because of the sense of history that comes with polo playing, as I'd been reminded more than once at the "Maharaja" exhibit yesterday.
I'm just happy somebody's playing polo regularly so I can watch the pageantry. Who wins is of no real interest to me.
Oh, this is a competition and not just spectacle?
Once the match ended, the field was fair game for the visitors so soccer balls and kites came out.
I'll take kite-flying at the beach over kite-flying anywhere else, but I have to admit they were pretty in the sky against the nearby mountains.
Many people bolted the moment the match ended, but we were not among them.
Our picnic lunch took some time to eat and who wants to rush through a bottle of rose, even when it is ridiculously quaffable on a warm day?
Once it got to be close to winery-closing time, though, we finally packed up and headed east for music.
Tonight was the first of the Fan's Meadow Park concerts (I try to make them every year), so we arrived early enough to secure a partially shaded bench for the show, no easy feat given the setting sun and the park's western orientation.
But there is a distinct pleasure to early evening summer sun. A little sweat should be par for the course in mid-June.
The park was especially pretty tonight because of the presence of dozens of paper cranes, origami-folded constructs of various pastel colors, hanging from trees and in bushes.
Young families with children were everywhere and Susan Greenbaum was playing a mix of covers and originals.
Beginning with Paul Simon, she then did a song called "Fireworks," her own "Everything But You" and even some Norah Jones.
"As long as I'm playing songs in minor keys," she said before doing a fine cover of Sting's "Fragile," and satisfying us minor key lovers.
Greenbaum reminded us from the stage that there was free ice cream courtesy of the Fan District Association and she only had to tell us once before we high-tailed it over to score some.
I chose a cone of chocolate royale and my companion got strawberry which we enjoyed back on our bench.
When we finally went to leave, we heard our names being called.
Going in to Garnett's was a friend and her beau, so we crossed the street to join them on the colorful park chairs outside the restaurant.
We heard stories of kayaking, temper tantrums (no, they don't have kids) and scalpings before he started dropping hints about pie.
Once his words sunk in and we all agreed that wine and pie were just through the nearby blue door, we got up to get some.
"I made that happen," he said under his breath, in a most satisfied tone.
And he had.
Companion and I had just had ice cream, so we weren't particularly thinking of pie then, but within moments, there was a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris on the table and pear with mixed berry pie and coconut cream pie followed in short order.
Pie and wine put us all in mind of a future time when we don't have to do anything we don't want to do.
Someone mentioned running a bed and breakfast because of the amount of free time that would allow for pie at any given moment.
Call me lucky, but I'm pretty open to pie (and wine) just about any time already.
And if they present themselves on a sunny day with the dust of the polo field and the sweat of a warm picnic already on me, all the better.
Only a weather wimp would hold that against me.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
It's Enlightenment, Man
If you think you hear fingers snapping, it's just beatnik applause for the evening.
Some friends just need to be scooped up and made to go out sometimes and tonight was one of those sometimes.
I took her to Lunch for dinner because she hadn't been and I knew she'd love it.
Make no mistake, it was a little warm in Lunch, but, to be fair, it was a warm day, it's a small place and I'm already sick of over-air conditioned buildings (and it's only June).
Let's just say that I was pleased I didn't need the sweater that I'd brought (just in case).
Seeing as how it was still happy hour, what winos could resist $3.50 glasses when everything on their short list is fair game?
Not us, that's for sure.
I admit, I fell victim to the siren song of Lunch's pulled pork. Yet again.
It was my fifth time there and I never seem to stray far from the pig that dominates the menu.
Why would I?
Bacon and corn griddle cakes loaded with pulled pork and cole slaw delighted as much as they had the first time I'd had the dish.
My friend chose the pecanwood-smoked bacon-wrapped shrimp over stone ground grits once I rhapsodized about the last time I'd had it.
Our server was sweetly attentive, even letting us know ten minutes before happy hour was to end in case we needed more well-priced wine.
We did.
What we didn't have room for was dessert, but that's been the case every time I've been there.
Fat and happy, we left to get some culture and snap ourselves out of the food coma that had descended.
The James River Filmmakers Forum was playing at the Visual Arts Center tonight, which meant five filmmakers were going to show us what they've been up to.
Bruce Spivey's film about the VSU gospel chorale and musician Larry Bland showed the energy and passion of a gospel performance as well as the spiritual awakening such shows represent for some people.
"Asleep in the Chapel" by Mike Buchbauer was a gorgeously-shot film showing a girl showering, dressing and waiting.
When it ended, film teacher Ted Salins commented, "Great film, but it would have been better if you'd picked a more attractive woman."
General laughter ensued since the girl in the film had been lovely.
"Can we see it again?" he said salaciously and hilariously.
Salins was introducing a film made with his first-year film students, "Beatnik Party."
After the third week of classes, he has the students dress and talk like beatniks.
Obviously for college freshmen, this involves a fair amount of research to even discover what a beatnik was.
Lots of sunglasses and nonchalance.
The film began with snapping fingers applauding a performance and went on to use appropriate beatnik slang.
"Blow my top," one said with the indifference of a Beat. "Like wow."
I wasn't in the least surprised that once they got into it, some of the students began to adopt Beat fashion and language outside of class.
Only a square wouldn't get the attraction.
We were told that "Singularium" by Joey Tran and Sean Hambright was shot in a week and took eighteen months to do the special effects.
That tells me that filmmakers have a special kind of patience. But also humor.
The program clarified, "Shawn would like to punch Joey Tran in the kidneys when he isn't looking, then kick him about the had and chest. Joey has it coming."
The story centered on the collapse of the universe and one guy's problem with his girlfriend, who kept clarifying that they weren't getting back together.
Once you break up, there's really no point, even with doom staring you in the face.
The movie's music caught my ear and I found out in the credits that it was done by Prabir, he of Goldrush renown.
Hunter Brumfield's "Biosolid" got played last because, we were told, "It was being redone in the back room at the last minute."
The experimental film left the girls behind us whining,"I don't get it."
But that's the beauty of the James River Filmmakers Forum.
You don't have to "get" all of the films. Or even some of them.
You don't have to like them, either.
It's just a fine opportunity to see what's going on in the local filmmaking community.
From what I saw, praising and dancing. Soaping up of a belly. Repeating girlfriends. A girl eating laundry detergent.
And bongo playing.
Because some things will always be worth snapping your fingers about on a Saturday night.
Dinner at Lunch was one. Local film was another.
And bongo playing, always.
Dig it.
Some friends just need to be scooped up and made to go out sometimes and tonight was one of those sometimes.
I took her to Lunch for dinner because she hadn't been and I knew she'd love it.
Make no mistake, it was a little warm in Lunch, but, to be fair, it was a warm day, it's a small place and I'm already sick of over-air conditioned buildings (and it's only June).
Let's just say that I was pleased I didn't need the sweater that I'd brought (just in case).
Seeing as how it was still happy hour, what winos could resist $3.50 glasses when everything on their short list is fair game?
Not us, that's for sure.
I admit, I fell victim to the siren song of Lunch's pulled pork. Yet again.
It was my fifth time there and I never seem to stray far from the pig that dominates the menu.
Why would I?
Bacon and corn griddle cakes loaded with pulled pork and cole slaw delighted as much as they had the first time I'd had the dish.
My friend chose the pecanwood-smoked bacon-wrapped shrimp over stone ground grits once I rhapsodized about the last time I'd had it.
Our server was sweetly attentive, even letting us know ten minutes before happy hour was to end in case we needed more well-priced wine.
We did.
What we didn't have room for was dessert, but that's been the case every time I've been there.
Fat and happy, we left to get some culture and snap ourselves out of the food coma that had descended.
The James River Filmmakers Forum was playing at the Visual Arts Center tonight, which meant five filmmakers were going to show us what they've been up to.
Bruce Spivey's film about the VSU gospel chorale and musician Larry Bland showed the energy and passion of a gospel performance as well as the spiritual awakening such shows represent for some people.
"Asleep in the Chapel" by Mike Buchbauer was a gorgeously-shot film showing a girl showering, dressing and waiting.
When it ended, film teacher Ted Salins commented, "Great film, but it would have been better if you'd picked a more attractive woman."
General laughter ensued since the girl in the film had been lovely.
"Can we see it again?" he said salaciously and hilariously.
Salins was introducing a film made with his first-year film students, "Beatnik Party."
After the third week of classes, he has the students dress and talk like beatniks.
Obviously for college freshmen, this involves a fair amount of research to even discover what a beatnik was.
Lots of sunglasses and nonchalance.
The film began with snapping fingers applauding a performance and went on to use appropriate beatnik slang.
"Blow my top," one said with the indifference of a Beat. "Like wow."
I wasn't in the least surprised that once they got into it, some of the students began to adopt Beat fashion and language outside of class.
Only a square wouldn't get the attraction.
We were told that "Singularium" by Joey Tran and Sean Hambright was shot in a week and took eighteen months to do the special effects.
That tells me that filmmakers have a special kind of patience. But also humor.
The program clarified, "Shawn would like to punch Joey Tran in the kidneys when he isn't looking, then kick him about the had and chest. Joey has it coming."
The story centered on the collapse of the universe and one guy's problem with his girlfriend, who kept clarifying that they weren't getting back together.
Once you break up, there's really no point, even with doom staring you in the face.
The movie's music caught my ear and I found out in the credits that it was done by Prabir, he of Goldrush renown.
Hunter Brumfield's "Biosolid" got played last because, we were told, "It was being redone in the back room at the last minute."
The experimental film left the girls behind us whining,"I don't get it."
But that's the beauty of the James River Filmmakers Forum.
You don't have to "get" all of the films. Or even some of them.
You don't have to like them, either.
It's just a fine opportunity to see what's going on in the local filmmaking community.
From what I saw, praising and dancing. Soaping up of a belly. Repeating girlfriends. A girl eating laundry detergent.
And bongo playing.
Because some things will always be worth snapping your fingers about on a Saturday night.
Dinner at Lunch was one. Local film was another.
And bongo playing, always.
Dig it.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Art in the Afternoon.
It was about time to give the Indians a second chance.
Having been bested by VMFA's new show "Maharaja: The Splendors of India's Great Kings," here, it was time to finish seeing the rest of the magnificent exhibit.
Because I'd already seen the first three galleries, today's foray centered on more recent times.
Not so recent (1790) that Indian emperors didn't still have enormous households.
In "Process of the Mughal Emperor," the imperial household crossed the plane of the canvas left to right no less than five times.
That's a lot of people and elephants.
One thing that fascinated me in the images I saw today was how frequently the paintings portrayed a false reality.
Rulers and families were shown with higher status, more authority, greater power than what they had at the time they were painted.
Wishful thinking or delusions of grandeur?
I was appalled at a metal "tiger claw," a sort of brass knuckles with ferocious looking hooks attached.
It was a handy device when you wanted to disembowel your enemy.
The ostentation of these royals was clear with the palanquin pole handles of gilded silver shaped to look like tiger heads.
It wasn't enough to use a human-carried conveyance to move royals around, the handles had to be elaborately decorated, too?
Oh, that's right, money was no object.
Everyone takes in art differently and obviously there are no right and wrong reactions, but, one visitor's made me laugh.
As I walked into a gallery to see the enormous (I'm going to guess 10' by 18') "The Delhi Durbar of 1903," a monumental oil on canvas showing the week-long Indian celebration marking Edward VII's ascent to the British throne (and thus ruler of India), I overheard a woman's take on it.
"This is a nice picture," she said after three seconds of scrutiny. She then moved on.
It was such an epic work that you could look at it for an hour and still be discovering things. And yet...
As the British influence in India grew stronger, the effect on Indian art became clear.
Indians looked less, well, Indian and more like Europeans with brown skin and black mustaches.
Conversely, as their taste for Western objects and lifestyles grew, it showed in their objects, like an elaborate pair of cut glass and steel occasional tables.
Cut glass tables?
Probably my favorite items were the Reverso wristwatches, notable for their ability to flip the watch face180 degrees (thus revealing a beautiful image) to protect the mechanics of the watch from being damaged during polo play.
The ultimate rich man's accessory.
When we got to the 20th century in India, there was film showing marriages and celebrations and, best of all, inspections of the camel corps.
Of course there was a camel corps.
Once we got to the Jazz Age Maharaja, Yeshwant Rao II Holkar, things got opulently modernistic.
His Art Deco desk was almost as long as my car. And then there was his red library chair.
Fit for a king, it boasted a neck roll, a silver ashtray set into the arm of the chair and two built-in reading lights on either side of the chair's back.
Nearby, a series of three photographs of Holkar and his wife were absolutely stunning.
It's impossible for me not to be taken with photographs of a man so obviously in love.
Showing him and his beloved wife, they oozed with his affection for her.
In one, a sideways glance was longing (and telling), but the most striking was with her head backwards on his shoulder as he was shown in profile looking at her.
Had there been a thought bubble coming out of his mouth, it would have said, "How did I get so lucky?"
One of the descriptions of an Indian ruler said that he should be a "patron of the arts and possessor of the rare and wonderful."
From what I could see in the pictures of Holkar, no material possession (and he had the best of everything) compared to this woman whom he so clearly found rare and wonderful.
Forget tiger claws and palanquin handles.
It looked like she qualified as a splendor of one of India's great kings.
That's romance.
Having been bested by VMFA's new show "Maharaja: The Splendors of India's Great Kings," here, it was time to finish seeing the rest of the magnificent exhibit.
Because I'd already seen the first three galleries, today's foray centered on more recent times.
Not so recent (1790) that Indian emperors didn't still have enormous households.
In "Process of the Mughal Emperor," the imperial household crossed the plane of the canvas left to right no less than five times.
That's a lot of people and elephants.
One thing that fascinated me in the images I saw today was how frequently the paintings portrayed a false reality.
Rulers and families were shown with higher status, more authority, greater power than what they had at the time they were painted.
Wishful thinking or delusions of grandeur?
I was appalled at a metal "tiger claw," a sort of brass knuckles with ferocious looking hooks attached.
It was a handy device when you wanted to disembowel your enemy.
The ostentation of these royals was clear with the palanquin pole handles of gilded silver shaped to look like tiger heads.
It wasn't enough to use a human-carried conveyance to move royals around, the handles had to be elaborately decorated, too?
Oh, that's right, money was no object.
Everyone takes in art differently and obviously there are no right and wrong reactions, but, one visitor's made me laugh.
As I walked into a gallery to see the enormous (I'm going to guess 10' by 18') "The Delhi Durbar of 1903," a monumental oil on canvas showing the week-long Indian celebration marking Edward VII's ascent to the British throne (and thus ruler of India), I overheard a woman's take on it.
"This is a nice picture," she said after three seconds of scrutiny. She then moved on.
It was such an epic work that you could look at it for an hour and still be discovering things. And yet...
As the British influence in India grew stronger, the effect on Indian art became clear.
Indians looked less, well, Indian and more like Europeans with brown skin and black mustaches.
Conversely, as their taste for Western objects and lifestyles grew, it showed in their objects, like an elaborate pair of cut glass and steel occasional tables.
Cut glass tables?
Probably my favorite items were the Reverso wristwatches, notable for their ability to flip the watch face180 degrees (thus revealing a beautiful image) to protect the mechanics of the watch from being damaged during polo play.
The ultimate rich man's accessory.
When we got to the 20th century in India, there was film showing marriages and celebrations and, best of all, inspections of the camel corps.
Of course there was a camel corps.
Once we got to the Jazz Age Maharaja, Yeshwant Rao II Holkar, things got opulently modernistic.
His Art Deco desk was almost as long as my car. And then there was his red library chair.
Fit for a king, it boasted a neck roll, a silver ashtray set into the arm of the chair and two built-in reading lights on either side of the chair's back.
Nearby, a series of three photographs of Holkar and his wife were absolutely stunning.
It's impossible for me not to be taken with photographs of a man so obviously in love.
Showing him and his beloved wife, they oozed with his affection for her.
In one, a sideways glance was longing (and telling), but the most striking was with her head backwards on his shoulder as he was shown in profile looking at her.
Had there been a thought bubble coming out of his mouth, it would have said, "How did I get so lucky?"
One of the descriptions of an Indian ruler said that he should be a "patron of the arts and possessor of the rare and wonderful."
From what I could see in the pictures of Holkar, no material possession (and he had the best of everything) compared to this woman whom he so clearly found rare and wonderful.
Forget tiger claws and palanquin handles.
It looked like she qualified as a splendor of one of India's great kings.
That's romance.
Zombie Appetites at 6B
Never underestimate the power of free.
Six Burner was doing their relaunch party and since I've been a regular there for, oh, I don't know, five years, I was curious.
I wanted to see the renovation (new linoleum! new light-filled back area! new menu and price point!) and see what a new menu meant.
Gotta admit, my first surprise was that my end of the bar (under the hydrangeas) was free.
We took it.
Getting glasses of Gavi from the bartender/cabaret singer allowed for discussion of the upcoming 80s extravaganza at RTP.
He was absolutely delighted to hear that I'm already listening to the "Immaculate Collection" just to prepare myself.
I will not, despite his expectation however, be wearing a banana clip or shoulder pads.
Done it, over it.
Six Burner was busy and getting busier by the minute, so we were very fortunate to have scored any bar space at all.
Enjoying our Gavi, we were thrilled when a server placed the remains of a plate of fried oysters with spicy tartar sauce at our elbows.
And while I'm happy to eat well-prepared oysters whenever they're offered, I've had them enough at Six Burner to know that the kitchen is quite good with bi-valves.
After numerous conversational tangents and a man named Thalhimer showing up, we learned that the secret to trying the new menu was hovering around the food tables.
It wouldn't have been our choice, but it was the only way to reliably taste the food since the menu was not being served tonight.
With enough time spent near the tables, we were able to score several dishes.
Bacon-wrapped dates with bleu cheese sauce, while ubiquitous these days, were succulent and flavorful.
Sugar snaps. English cucumber, watermelon radish and Jean Marc citron vinegar delivered the appropriate crunch and freshness to accompany richer dishes.
Rustic polenta, olive oil and Parmesan was properly toothsome and cheesy.
Red quinoa tabbouleh was hearty.
Potato gnocchi and seasonal mushrooms was to-die-for rich and earthy.
Tempura-fried shrimp with spicy guacamole was unexpected but satisfying.
48-hour sous vide short rib wrapped in dandelion greens was as wonderfully fatty and slow-cooked as expected.
The problem was that there was no way the kitchen could keep up with the hungry masses.
As a friend and experienced server observed, "People are reacting to us like zombies. It's insane."
The insanity was so many eager eaters and a kitchen that couldn't begin to supply the hordes with enough food. Although they tried valiantly.
The new space does look different. The linoleum gives a more casual feel to the entryway. So much light in the back (via the new glass door) makes the restaurant seem bigger.
The removal of the side booths makes for a more open feel, even when all the center tables return from the sidewalk, where they resided tonight.
Even the back-lighting of the booze bottles on the bar was a welcome change.
Did the music alter with the decor? I have no idea, since the conversation volume negated any possibility of hearing what the musical vibe was now.
The new menu is far more extensive and this eater is very happy with the small plate focus, assuming the small plates are a portion commensurate with the price.
I wouldn't know since tonight was a sampling and not divided into portions.
After a few hours, the volume of people was feeling fire marshall-worthy, so companion and I cut bait and went our separate ways.
My final destination was Bistro 27 for a recent addition, a Portuguese wine, and dessert (as long as I was there).
The luck was in running into a friend and his new squeeze, so I got plenty of good company.
In short order we covered Charlie Palmer's in Washington, the pleasures of the National Botanical Gardens and wild sex on weekends away.
We were pleasantly interrupted by a restaurant employee who stopped in for a drink and provided endless alternate viewpoints.
Besides building a sailboat in his backyard, he was adamant about restaurant bosses making time for themselves.
His drinking was a prelude to going to a nearby club to dance to rap music, not because he liked it but because he was comfortable doing it.
Sometimes I fear future generations are already lost.
Even so, I don't hesitate to suggest that he seek out music he truly wants to dance to and stop merely "making do."
Never underestimate the power of doing exactly what you want to do.
I've been told you can know the rules and still choose not to play the game.
I do...and I don't. It's actually pretty easy.
Not to mention wildly satisfying.
Six Burner was doing their relaunch party and since I've been a regular there for, oh, I don't know, five years, I was curious.
I wanted to see the renovation (new linoleum! new light-filled back area! new menu and price point!) and see what a new menu meant.
Gotta admit, my first surprise was that my end of the bar (under the hydrangeas) was free.
We took it.
Getting glasses of Gavi from the bartender/cabaret singer allowed for discussion of the upcoming 80s extravaganza at RTP.
He was absolutely delighted to hear that I'm already listening to the "Immaculate Collection" just to prepare myself.
I will not, despite his expectation however, be wearing a banana clip or shoulder pads.
Done it, over it.
Six Burner was busy and getting busier by the minute, so we were very fortunate to have scored any bar space at all.
Enjoying our Gavi, we were thrilled when a server placed the remains of a plate of fried oysters with spicy tartar sauce at our elbows.
And while I'm happy to eat well-prepared oysters whenever they're offered, I've had them enough at Six Burner to know that the kitchen is quite good with bi-valves.
After numerous conversational tangents and a man named Thalhimer showing up, we learned that the secret to trying the new menu was hovering around the food tables.
It wouldn't have been our choice, but it was the only way to reliably taste the food since the menu was not being served tonight.
With enough time spent near the tables, we were able to score several dishes.
Bacon-wrapped dates with bleu cheese sauce, while ubiquitous these days, were succulent and flavorful.
Sugar snaps. English cucumber, watermelon radish and Jean Marc citron vinegar delivered the appropriate crunch and freshness to accompany richer dishes.
Rustic polenta, olive oil and Parmesan was properly toothsome and cheesy.
Red quinoa tabbouleh was hearty.
Potato gnocchi and seasonal mushrooms was to-die-for rich and earthy.
Tempura-fried shrimp with spicy guacamole was unexpected but satisfying.
48-hour sous vide short rib wrapped in dandelion greens was as wonderfully fatty and slow-cooked as expected.
The problem was that there was no way the kitchen could keep up with the hungry masses.
As a friend and experienced server observed, "People are reacting to us like zombies. It's insane."
The insanity was so many eager eaters and a kitchen that couldn't begin to supply the hordes with enough food. Although they tried valiantly.
The new space does look different. The linoleum gives a more casual feel to the entryway. So much light in the back (via the new glass door) makes the restaurant seem bigger.
The removal of the side booths makes for a more open feel, even when all the center tables return from the sidewalk, where they resided tonight.
Even the back-lighting of the booze bottles on the bar was a welcome change.
Did the music alter with the decor? I have no idea, since the conversation volume negated any possibility of hearing what the musical vibe was now.
The new menu is far more extensive and this eater is very happy with the small plate focus, assuming the small plates are a portion commensurate with the price.
I wouldn't know since tonight was a sampling and not divided into portions.
After a few hours, the volume of people was feeling fire marshall-worthy, so companion and I cut bait and went our separate ways.
My final destination was Bistro 27 for a recent addition, a Portuguese wine, and dessert (as long as I was there).
The luck was in running into a friend and his new squeeze, so I got plenty of good company.
In short order we covered Charlie Palmer's in Washington, the pleasures of the National Botanical Gardens and wild sex on weekends away.
We were pleasantly interrupted by a restaurant employee who stopped in for a drink and provided endless alternate viewpoints.
Besides building a sailboat in his backyard, he was adamant about restaurant bosses making time for themselves.
His drinking was a prelude to going to a nearby club to dance to rap music, not because he liked it but because he was comfortable doing it.
Sometimes I fear future generations are already lost.
Even so, I don't hesitate to suggest that he seek out music he truly wants to dance to and stop merely "making do."
Never underestimate the power of doing exactly what you want to do.
I've been told you can know the rules and still choose not to play the game.
I do...and I don't. It's actually pretty easy.
Not to mention wildly satisfying.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Fun and Fantasy Walk into a Bar...
It was my first penis straw. Green.
Also my first bridal shower since the last millennium.
The two intersected at Aziza's tonight where a very good friend was being celebrated for her upcoming nuptials to (and I quote her when she first met him), "A good looking hunk of man meat."
The surprised guest of honor was particularly tickled because it was the first time all her good female friends, half married, half single, had been gathered in one place.
Sort of a seven worlds collide situation, if you will. Like me, she has a tendency to keep her female friends compartmentalized.
Tonight, she put on the tiara provided and proceeded to hold court.
Over vodka limeades and endless bottles of vinho verde, we got to know each other while we listened to stories about the upcoming wedding, the groom not yet having purchased a suit to be married in and the bride's fondness for his cooking skills.
The theme for the shower had been risque nightwear, which sounded like the opposite of what I know my friend wears at night.
Nevertheless, I made my first foray today to Priscilla McCall's on Broad Street ("Where fun and fantasy meet!"), a place I'd passed many times but never so much as given a second glance.
Let's just say I've done it now and leave it at that.
My lingerie gift had not been particularly wild with the exception of the dental floss-like piece that passed for matching panties.
On the other hand, some of the gifts (nipple stimulants, glow-in-the-dark condoms) encouraged one guest to note, "Edible panties have a tacky feel, so you end up sticking to the sheets."
This was something I hadn't known until tonight.
The gift of a book, "Make Your Own Sex Toys" provided fascinating reading for one who had never made her own (yes, me).
There were basics like the strap-on salami (with a plant-based version for vegetarians), but also instructions on how to use your cell phone (in a condom, of course) as a vibrator.
I don't have a cell phone, so that's one I won't be using.
As a non-crafter, I also can't knit, so I won't be making the willy warmer, either.
Dinner was delightful, basically one long string of endless dishes arriving and being consumed.
Beet salad with mint, pickled onions and whipped mascarpone was positively decadent.
Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and sunny side up egg was as plate-licking good as when I'd had it last night.
I only got one bite of whole grilled quail with gnocchi, wild mushrooms, spinach and lemon butter, but it was a damn fine bite.
Smoked Arctic char with butter bean mash, citrus and cucumber was the most ordered dish and disappeared off of every plate in short order.
A pizza of shitake and crimini mushrooms, caramelized onion and cow mozzarella was so tasty that it won over even those who prefer white pizza (namely, me).
With all women at the table, the conversation got pretty lively, even before we got to the word-to-the-wise portion of the evening.
"What advice for a good marriage do I need?" the bride inquired innocently enough.
"Never go to bed mad!" one wife said.
"Make sure you have your own blankets," said another, providing anecdotal evidence why.
"Horny rules!" said our hostess, coincidentally also named Karen.
You can imagine the floodgates that opened up.
Before you can say "what's for dessert?" we were having a round table discussion about the Museum of Sex in NYC, morning sex and ben wa balls.
Fortunately, that was when the baked Alaska arrived.
The party planner had arranged for the chef to do individual baked Alaskas using peach ice cream and gluten-free cake.
Some at the table had never even had the vintage dessert before, but I wasn't among them.
Still, this version, and each was enormous, was especially delicate and the meringue perfectly browned, no doubt in that monster of a wood-burning oven in the back.
I admit, I couldn't finish mine. That was part fullness and part laughing so hard.
Once you start hearing a woman you just met saying that if her husband dies,"No more husbands. I'll just be happy with eighteen to twenty one year olds."
Another, younger and married a shorter time, differed. "I'll marry someone who's 60 and be done with it."
What about sex, we asked.
"Pool boy!" she said as if it were obvious.
"I'll check back with you in fifteen years and see if you still feel that way," laughed an older and wiser woman.
Check back with me then too, and let's see where I fall.
I'm guessing the older and wiser one would say it all depends on the quality of the man meat.
Also my first bridal shower since the last millennium.
The two intersected at Aziza's tonight where a very good friend was being celebrated for her upcoming nuptials to (and I quote her when she first met him), "A good looking hunk of man meat."
The surprised guest of honor was particularly tickled because it was the first time all her good female friends, half married, half single, had been gathered in one place.
Sort of a seven worlds collide situation, if you will. Like me, she has a tendency to keep her female friends compartmentalized.
Tonight, she put on the tiara provided and proceeded to hold court.
Over vodka limeades and endless bottles of vinho verde, we got to know each other while we listened to stories about the upcoming wedding, the groom not yet having purchased a suit to be married in and the bride's fondness for his cooking skills.
The theme for the shower had been risque nightwear, which sounded like the opposite of what I know my friend wears at night.
Nevertheless, I made my first foray today to Priscilla McCall's on Broad Street ("Where fun and fantasy meet!"), a place I'd passed many times but never so much as given a second glance.
Let's just say I've done it now and leave it at that.
My lingerie gift had not been particularly wild with the exception of the dental floss-like piece that passed for matching panties.
On the other hand, some of the gifts (nipple stimulants, glow-in-the-dark condoms) encouraged one guest to note, "Edible panties have a tacky feel, so you end up sticking to the sheets."
This was something I hadn't known until tonight.
The gift of a book, "Make Your Own Sex Toys" provided fascinating reading for one who had never made her own (yes, me).
There were basics like the strap-on salami (with a plant-based version for vegetarians), but also instructions on how to use your cell phone (in a condom, of course) as a vibrator.
I don't have a cell phone, so that's one I won't be using.
As a non-crafter, I also can't knit, so I won't be making the willy warmer, either.
Dinner was delightful, basically one long string of endless dishes arriving and being consumed.
Beet salad with mint, pickled onions and whipped mascarpone was positively decadent.
Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and sunny side up egg was as plate-licking good as when I'd had it last night.
I only got one bite of whole grilled quail with gnocchi, wild mushrooms, spinach and lemon butter, but it was a damn fine bite.
Smoked Arctic char with butter bean mash, citrus and cucumber was the most ordered dish and disappeared off of every plate in short order.
A pizza of shitake and crimini mushrooms, caramelized onion and cow mozzarella was so tasty that it won over even those who prefer white pizza (namely, me).
With all women at the table, the conversation got pretty lively, even before we got to the word-to-the-wise portion of the evening.
"What advice for a good marriage do I need?" the bride inquired innocently enough.
"Never go to bed mad!" one wife said.
"Make sure you have your own blankets," said another, providing anecdotal evidence why.
"Horny rules!" said our hostess, coincidentally also named Karen.
You can imagine the floodgates that opened up.
Before you can say "what's for dessert?" we were having a round table discussion about the Museum of Sex in NYC, morning sex and ben wa balls.
Fortunately, that was when the baked Alaska arrived.
The party planner had arranged for the chef to do individual baked Alaskas using peach ice cream and gluten-free cake.
Some at the table had never even had the vintage dessert before, but I wasn't among them.
Still, this version, and each was enormous, was especially delicate and the meringue perfectly browned, no doubt in that monster of a wood-burning oven in the back.
I admit, I couldn't finish mine. That was part fullness and part laughing so hard.
Once you start hearing a woman you just met saying that if her husband dies,"No more husbands. I'll just be happy with eighteen to twenty one year olds."
Another, younger and married a shorter time, differed. "I'll marry someone who's 60 and be done with it."
What about sex, we asked.
"Pool boy!" she said as if it were obvious.
"I'll check back with you in fifteen years and see if you still feel that way," laughed an older and wiser woman.
Check back with me then too, and let's see where I fall.
I'm guessing the older and wiser one would say it all depends on the quality of the man meat.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Mexicali Ghosts
The summer officially began for me tonight with the kickoff of Anderson Gallery's Happy Hour series.
I had a ball at it last year, here, so I was more than ready to start it all up again and see what fresh fun they'd concocted.
Answer: dessert and music. It was an ice cream social with two bands playing and two new exhibits to see.
They might as well have called it the Happy Karen Hour series.
When we arrived Sweet Fern was playing, which meant Allison Self's big, beautiful voice and Josh Bearman's guitar and harmonies.
A diverse crowd (a neighbor, the man about town, WRIR folks, the beekeeper) was already in place, all tuned into what was being played.
I always enjoy watching people experience Allison singing for the first time because she just doesn't sound like anyone else in these parts.
Sometimes the songs were innuendo-filled (although I noticed that with young 'uns in the room, she didn't do her most ribald material) and sometimes straight up.
"I'm Just Here to Get my Baby Out of Jail," pretty much lays it out.
Josh used his quick wit to announce the finale, "I'm Leaving You This Lonesome Song."
Then they did just that.
I scored some Bev's Mexicali chocolate ice cream (the ice cream portion of the social) and took advantage of chocolate sauce and peanuts to top it.
When I returned inside to eat it, I had to explain to several confused guys what the "Mexicali" portion of the ice cream's name meant.
To a man, they were shocked when they tasted the heat behind the chocolate ("What is in this ice cream?" one confused looking guy wailed to me).
I also used the break to check out the tiny show "Summer Mixer," a collection of 1920s to 1970s household appliances and ephemera from the Eclectic Electric collection, which I'd seen in a larger form, here.
Call me mid-century modern, but I love those old Cool Spot fans and Havana shakers, all but emblems of happy housewives and glamorous partygoers of another era.
After satisfying my inner domestic goddess (for I don't have much of an outer one), I jumped ship upstairs to see Rosemarie Fiore's "Fireworks."
The large scale works made by setting off fireworks with dyes were unique, but it was her smoke domes that captured my attention.
Smoke bombs are set off inside molten glass for jellyfish looking creations defined by swirls and embellishments.
They really have to be seen to be understood, much less appreciated. But see them.
Back on the ground floor, River City Band was playing and I've seen them enough to know what good pickers they are.
Meanwhile, audience members looked for seats, many holding both a glass of wine and a dish of ice cream.
That's my kind of cocktail hour.
Guitarist Grant began by addressing Josh and Allison about their mutual admiration, saying. "We should have a Carter Family Festival this summer and sing all Carter Family songs. Maybe August?"
Reason number 85296 I love this town. There are people who think that way.
Seamlessly winding their way through the likes of Bill Munroe and the late, great Earl Scruggs, they dazzled with fast pickin' and strong harmonies.
When they finished, we took off for Aziza's and some chow.
The place was lively when we arrived but we were the only ones at the bar.
Catching the end of happy hour, obviously our second of the night, we chose a bottle of Santa Julia Viognier, which hit the spot with our small plate choices.
Sea bean salad was a must since who's ever heard of sea beans (we asked and were assured they grew in the sea)?
Served with marinated shrimp and tarragon vinaigrette, the dish had a briny crunch from the very slender bean stalks that complemented the zesty shrimp.
Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and a sunny side up egg had an underpinning of lemon and overtones of a rich yolk. Yum.
When our server came to check on us, I mentioned how hard it was to hear the music.
"Want me to turn it up?" she genially offered. "What music? 40s, 50s, 60s?"
I chose sixties and while it wouldn't have been my first choice (no reverb! no horns!), now I could at least hear it.
And while I didn't particularly need to hear "Last Train to Clarksville" again, I definitely got a kick out of hearing "Only the String Survive."
I remember my first love affair
Somehow or another the whole darn thing went wrong
My mama had some great advice
So I thought I'd put it into words of this song
The only way to top that was with Three Dog Night's "Old Fashioned Love Song."
Hey, I couldn't blame anyone but myself. I'd said yes to the sixties.
When she returned later to see if we wanted dessert, all of a sudden the music returned to 40s and then 50s music as we all looked dumbfounded.
After checking to make sure the other server hadn't changed the station, she shrugged it off as, "We have ghosts here."
In buildings that old that have seen that much? I'm not surprised in the least.
Putting aside paranormal activity, we declined a cream puff since we'd begun with Bev's at the Anderson hours ago.
And speaking of early ice cream, I think they should serve Bev's at that Carter Family Festival later this summer.
It'll be the perfect bookend to tonight's start of the season.
And reason 85297.
I had a ball at it last year, here, so I was more than ready to start it all up again and see what fresh fun they'd concocted.
Answer: dessert and music. It was an ice cream social with two bands playing and two new exhibits to see.
They might as well have called it the Happy Karen Hour series.
When we arrived Sweet Fern was playing, which meant Allison Self's big, beautiful voice and Josh Bearman's guitar and harmonies.
A diverse crowd (a neighbor, the man about town, WRIR folks, the beekeeper) was already in place, all tuned into what was being played.
I always enjoy watching people experience Allison singing for the first time because she just doesn't sound like anyone else in these parts.
Sometimes the songs were innuendo-filled (although I noticed that with young 'uns in the room, she didn't do her most ribald material) and sometimes straight up.
"I'm Just Here to Get my Baby Out of Jail," pretty much lays it out.
Josh used his quick wit to announce the finale, "I'm Leaving You This Lonesome Song."
Then they did just that.
I scored some Bev's Mexicali chocolate ice cream (the ice cream portion of the social) and took advantage of chocolate sauce and peanuts to top it.
When I returned inside to eat it, I had to explain to several confused guys what the "Mexicali" portion of the ice cream's name meant.
To a man, they were shocked when they tasted the heat behind the chocolate ("What is in this ice cream?" one confused looking guy wailed to me).
I also used the break to check out the tiny show "Summer Mixer," a collection of 1920s to 1970s household appliances and ephemera from the Eclectic Electric collection, which I'd seen in a larger form, here.
Call me mid-century modern, but I love those old Cool Spot fans and Havana shakers, all but emblems of happy housewives and glamorous partygoers of another era.
After satisfying my inner domestic goddess (for I don't have much of an outer one), I jumped ship upstairs to see Rosemarie Fiore's "Fireworks."
The large scale works made by setting off fireworks with dyes were unique, but it was her smoke domes that captured my attention.
Smoke bombs are set off inside molten glass for jellyfish looking creations defined by swirls and embellishments.
They really have to be seen to be understood, much less appreciated. But see them.
Back on the ground floor, River City Band was playing and I've seen them enough to know what good pickers they are.
Meanwhile, audience members looked for seats, many holding both a glass of wine and a dish of ice cream.
That's my kind of cocktail hour.
Guitarist Grant began by addressing Josh and Allison about their mutual admiration, saying. "We should have a Carter Family Festival this summer and sing all Carter Family songs. Maybe August?"
Reason number 85296 I love this town. There are people who think that way.
Seamlessly winding their way through the likes of Bill Munroe and the late, great Earl Scruggs, they dazzled with fast pickin' and strong harmonies.
When they finished, we took off for Aziza's and some chow.
The place was lively when we arrived but we were the only ones at the bar.
Catching the end of happy hour, obviously our second of the night, we chose a bottle of Santa Julia Viognier, which hit the spot with our small plate choices.
Sea bean salad was a must since who's ever heard of sea beans (we asked and were assured they grew in the sea)?
Served with marinated shrimp and tarragon vinaigrette, the dish had a briny crunch from the very slender bean stalks that complemented the zesty shrimp.
Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and a sunny side up egg had an underpinning of lemon and overtones of a rich yolk. Yum.
When our server came to check on us, I mentioned how hard it was to hear the music.
"Want me to turn it up?" she genially offered. "What music? 40s, 50s, 60s?"
I chose sixties and while it wouldn't have been my first choice (no reverb! no horns!), now I could at least hear it.
And while I didn't particularly need to hear "Last Train to Clarksville" again, I definitely got a kick out of hearing "Only the String Survive."
I remember my first love affair
Somehow or another the whole darn thing went wrong
My mama had some great advice
So I thought I'd put it into words of this song
The only way to top that was with Three Dog Night's "Old Fashioned Love Song."
Hey, I couldn't blame anyone but myself. I'd said yes to the sixties.
When she returned later to see if we wanted dessert, all of a sudden the music returned to 40s and then 50s music as we all looked dumbfounded.
After checking to make sure the other server hadn't changed the station, she shrugged it off as, "We have ghosts here."
In buildings that old that have seen that much? I'm not surprised in the least.
Putting aside paranormal activity, we declined a cream puff since we'd begun with Bev's at the Anderson hours ago.
And speaking of early ice cream, I think they should serve Bev's at that Carter Family Festival later this summer.
It'll be the perfect bookend to tonight's start of the season.
And reason 85297.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Think Pink, Remember Little
It was baptism by fire for pink lovers.
The goal was tasting 101 roses, everyone brought a bottle or a dish and we were required to wear pink.
I can't swear that there were 101 roses present, but after the first two dozen or so, who really notices?
Since I'd been on the Northern Neck all day, I'd stopped and bought shrimp to take to the party, leaving the bottle-bringing to those more qualified.
My three pounds of spiced crustaceans joined an overflowing table with pork belly, fried chicken, stuffed tomatoes and lots more edibles put out to protect us from ourselves and our pink excesses.
Walking in, I said hello to a fried chicken muncher before heading out the back door to the yard full of pink-dressed people.
That's where the serious fun began.
Naturally I began by checking in with my pink-shirted hostess, who approved of my pink dress and then attempted to one-up me by pulling out her pink bra strap.
Never one to be outdone when it comes to pink, I displayed my pink strap and offered to lift my hem and show her my pink underwear.
It wasn't necessary; she patted her backside, confirming that she, too, was pink below.
Is it any wonder this woman knows how to throw a pink party?
I only knew a fraction of the people in the backyard, not that that stopped me from having plenty of people to talk to.
Multiple coolers housed dozens of bottles of pink, including a few familiar bottles, but I made a point to try ones I hadn't.
Not surprisingly, at this point in my post-Rose memory, an Austrian Zweigelt is about all I filed away.
I don't think it's realistic to ply people with pink and expect them to retain much of anything.
After on and off again rain all day, it turned out to be a fine night for a backyard party, with people sharing Venus and moon stories about the recent skies.
Music blared from a window speaker and, for the most part, I liked what I heard.
(sound of record scratching)
Until Washed Out was followed by the Pretenders and then I had to find my charming hostess and talk music.
The starting point for the soundtrack had been Spoon, a band I'm quite fond of, but even Britt Daniel himself would have shuddered a bit at that train wreck of a musical combination.
A few swipes at a device and the music was righted to both our satisfaction.
Like any good party, people came and went throughout the night, so I gave out my phone number, updated a few people I hadn't seen in a while and just generally tried to be a worthy guest.
When I got home, it was to friend requests from new people I'd met and to pictures online from whence I'd just come.
I do recall being gathered for a mass group shot at one point. I can only hope that picture won't be used against any of the attendees.
Fact is, when you're quaffing an evening's worth of assorted roses, I don't think you're necessarily at your photogenic best.
Unless you count the pink undies and fortunately it never got to the point where they were photographed.
I think. But with so much pink, I can't be certain.
The goal was tasting 101 roses, everyone brought a bottle or a dish and we were required to wear pink.
I can't swear that there were 101 roses present, but after the first two dozen or so, who really notices?
Since I'd been on the Northern Neck all day, I'd stopped and bought shrimp to take to the party, leaving the bottle-bringing to those more qualified.
My three pounds of spiced crustaceans joined an overflowing table with pork belly, fried chicken, stuffed tomatoes and lots more edibles put out to protect us from ourselves and our pink excesses.
Walking in, I said hello to a fried chicken muncher before heading out the back door to the yard full of pink-dressed people.
That's where the serious fun began.
Naturally I began by checking in with my pink-shirted hostess, who approved of my pink dress and then attempted to one-up me by pulling out her pink bra strap.
Never one to be outdone when it comes to pink, I displayed my pink strap and offered to lift my hem and show her my pink underwear.
It wasn't necessary; she patted her backside, confirming that she, too, was pink below.
Is it any wonder this woman knows how to throw a pink party?
I only knew a fraction of the people in the backyard, not that that stopped me from having plenty of people to talk to.
Multiple coolers housed dozens of bottles of pink, including a few familiar bottles, but I made a point to try ones I hadn't.
Not surprisingly, at this point in my post-Rose memory, an Austrian Zweigelt is about all I filed away.
I don't think it's realistic to ply people with pink and expect them to retain much of anything.
After on and off again rain all day, it turned out to be a fine night for a backyard party, with people sharing Venus and moon stories about the recent skies.
Music blared from a window speaker and, for the most part, I liked what I heard.
(sound of record scratching)
Until Washed Out was followed by the Pretenders and then I had to find my charming hostess and talk music.
The starting point for the soundtrack had been Spoon, a band I'm quite fond of, but even Britt Daniel himself would have shuddered a bit at that train wreck of a musical combination.
A few swipes at a device and the music was righted to both our satisfaction.
Like any good party, people came and went throughout the night, so I gave out my phone number, updated a few people I hadn't seen in a while and just generally tried to be a worthy guest.
When I got home, it was to friend requests from new people I'd met and to pictures online from whence I'd just come.
I do recall being gathered for a mass group shot at one point. I can only hope that picture won't be used against any of the attendees.
Fact is, when you're quaffing an evening's worth of assorted roses, I don't think you're necessarily at your photogenic best.
Unless you count the pink undies and fortunately it never got to the point where they were photographed.
I think. But with so much pink, I can't be certain.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Full Moon over Phantogram
What happened was I won.
One minute I was listening to public radio and then I was caller number five and got two tickets to Phantogram.
I then traded one of those tickets for a ride to Charlottesville and the pleasure of my company.
When you're suddenly gifted with tickets to a show you were considering seeing anyway, you have to make the most of it.
The drive to Charlottesville took us straight through hard rain and back out in about a minute.
Our destination was Starr Hill State Park, which I'm sure even most of Charlottesville doesn't know about, was positively sylvan.
Tucked away in a neighborhood of the tiniest houses on the narrowest streets, it was a grassy field.
The simplest of parks. A field.
Okay, with a garden including trees, Johnny Jump-ups and weeds near the back. And two benches at the top of the hill where the park sign was.
Benches are for park amateurs.
We spread a blanket facing the little woods for a Spanish/South African culture exchange (Manchego and Mulderbosch Rose).
The sky went from overcast to bright blue to roiling storm clouds while we enjoyed grapes on the grass.
But music called and dinner first, so we made our way to the mall.
We ended up at Bijou, a place I hadn't been since 2001 when I ate there with an old boyfriend during the Virginia Film Festival.
It was the year I heard Gena Rowlands speak.
To be honest, it didn't seem to have changed in a decade.
At the bar we had the distinct pleasure of being served by the host, also known as the owner's son.
It was his first might and he admitted he stumbled a few times. Luckily, not with the Prosecco.
I found his learning curve endearing.
Describing tonight's soup, he said it was a chilled tomato with crab when it was actually a charred tomato with crab.
"I was wrong," he came back soon after saying. "It's hot soup not cold."
We got it anyway, finding tons of crabmeat inside the thick broth,
A blue cheese salad was just that, more stinky cheese than anything (greens, candied walnuts, blueberry vinaigrette), which suited us fine.
Tuna ceviche tacos with ginger cucumber salsa, creme fraiche and baby greens in crispy flatbread taco shells had good crunch and flavor.
"They've been on the menu forever," the bartender said. "We can't take them off."
I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been on the menu last time I was in.
Dessert was a last minute call and two people said it was a house favorite.
Grilled banana bread with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce won't win any novelty awards, but delivered meal-end sweet.
The odyssey ended at the Jefferson Theater where I walked in and the wristband guy immediately began giving me one.
Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I asked, being a good, law-abiding citizen.
"Nah," he said, waving his hand and smiling. "I've seen you in here before."
Frequency makes it easier to flout the law apparently.
Openers Ki: Theory were playing their high energy electronica when we found our places in front of the sound booth.
Known for his remixes, we were treated to his of Ladytron's "Runaway."
In between sets, we were amused to see that coming soon were The Police (Experience) and Squeeze (Us), adequate cover band names perhaps but not in the league of Even Better Than the Real Thing.
And I'm not just saying that because my friend is The Edge.
A couple of WRIR DJs came in and said hello and with the other friend I'd seen earlier, I thought it was a decent RVA representation.
We were (I'm presuming) all there for Phantogram's beat-driven psych/dream pop.
They'd already earned points with me by citing Cocteau Twins, the Beatles and Sonic Youth as influences.
All my limited musical vocabulary can say is, whatever their guitar influences were, I was on board.
Swirling guitars (screaming post-punk like sometimes), spacey keyboards (what everybody's doing these days), lots of echo (Karen lovers her music from a cave) and airy vocals.
They were courtesy of the fishnetted keyboardist/singer Sarah, she of the swinging bob and expressive legs.
Nancy Wilson's legacy will live forever.
Saying,"We haven't played this in a long time," they played "Voices" and the crowd's enthusiasm seemed to please her.
The lights were integral to the set, the patterns and colors making it sometimes feel like a dance party in an abandoned building.
They encored with "Nightlife" and the show was over by 10:42.
Street beat psych pop bands wrap it up early in C-ville on a Monday night.
Fortunately, it left plenty of time to admire that huge, full moon hanging over the mountains on the drive home.
And once in my apartment, I found moonlit-flooded rooms in both the front and back.
We call that a winning evening.
One minute I was listening to public radio and then I was caller number five and got two tickets to Phantogram.
I then traded one of those tickets for a ride to Charlottesville and the pleasure of my company.
When you're suddenly gifted with tickets to a show you were considering seeing anyway, you have to make the most of it.
The drive to Charlottesville took us straight through hard rain and back out in about a minute.
Our destination was Starr Hill State Park, which I'm sure even most of Charlottesville doesn't know about, was positively sylvan.
Tucked away in a neighborhood of the tiniest houses on the narrowest streets, it was a grassy field.
The simplest of parks. A field.
Okay, with a garden including trees, Johnny Jump-ups and weeds near the back. And two benches at the top of the hill where the park sign was.
Benches are for park amateurs.
We spread a blanket facing the little woods for a Spanish/South African culture exchange (Manchego and Mulderbosch Rose).
The sky went from overcast to bright blue to roiling storm clouds while we enjoyed grapes on the grass.
But music called and dinner first, so we made our way to the mall.
We ended up at Bijou, a place I hadn't been since 2001 when I ate there with an old boyfriend during the Virginia Film Festival.
It was the year I heard Gena Rowlands speak.
To be honest, it didn't seem to have changed in a decade.
At the bar we had the distinct pleasure of being served by the host, also known as the owner's son.
It was his first might and he admitted he stumbled a few times. Luckily, not with the Prosecco.
I found his learning curve endearing.
Describing tonight's soup, he said it was a chilled tomato with crab when it was actually a charred tomato with crab.
"I was wrong," he came back soon after saying. "It's hot soup not cold."
We got it anyway, finding tons of crabmeat inside the thick broth,
A blue cheese salad was just that, more stinky cheese than anything (greens, candied walnuts, blueberry vinaigrette), which suited us fine.
Tuna ceviche tacos with ginger cucumber salsa, creme fraiche and baby greens in crispy flatbread taco shells had good crunch and flavor.
"They've been on the menu forever," the bartender said. "We can't take them off."
I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been on the menu last time I was in.
Dessert was a last minute call and two people said it was a house favorite.
Grilled banana bread with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce won't win any novelty awards, but delivered meal-end sweet.
The odyssey ended at the Jefferson Theater where I walked in and the wristband guy immediately began giving me one.
Don't you want to see my I.D.?" I asked, being a good, law-abiding citizen.
"Nah," he said, waving his hand and smiling. "I've seen you in here before."
Frequency makes it easier to flout the law apparently.
Openers Ki: Theory were playing their high energy electronica when we found our places in front of the sound booth.
Known for his remixes, we were treated to his of Ladytron's "Runaway."
In between sets, we were amused to see that coming soon were The Police (Experience) and Squeeze (Us), adequate cover band names perhaps but not in the league of Even Better Than the Real Thing.
And I'm not just saying that because my friend is The Edge.
A couple of WRIR DJs came in and said hello and with the other friend I'd seen earlier, I thought it was a decent RVA representation.
We were (I'm presuming) all there for Phantogram's beat-driven psych/dream pop.
They'd already earned points with me by citing Cocteau Twins, the Beatles and Sonic Youth as influences.
All my limited musical vocabulary can say is, whatever their guitar influences were, I was on board.
Swirling guitars (screaming post-punk like sometimes), spacey keyboards (what everybody's doing these days), lots of echo (Karen lovers her music from a cave) and airy vocals.
They were courtesy of the fishnetted keyboardist/singer Sarah, she of the swinging bob and expressive legs.
Nancy Wilson's legacy will live forever.
Saying,"We haven't played this in a long time," they played "Voices" and the crowd's enthusiasm seemed to please her.
The lights were integral to the set, the patterns and colors making it sometimes feel like a dance party in an abandoned building.
They encored with "Nightlife" and the show was over by 10:42.
Street beat psych pop bands wrap it up early in C-ville on a Monday night.
Fortunately, it left plenty of time to admire that huge, full moon hanging over the mountains on the drive home.
And once in my apartment, I found moonlit-flooded rooms in both the front and back.
We call that a winning evening.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Melancholy, ArrivAdduci and Latecomers
Sunday, that's my fun day, my "I don't have to run day."
Escaping Broad Appetit for the VMFA got me the D'Amore Duo (Yeon Jee Sohn on oboe and William Feasley on guitar) doing a concert called "Leaves of Grass."
It was a tie-in to the new exhibit I saw yesterday, here, "Bold, Cautious, True: Walt Whitman and American Art of the Civil War Era."
As the educator who introduced the musicians said, "This performance will send you running to see the exhibit."
Didn't need to run since I'd already done my homework.
The music was loosely related to themes of sadness, with "And Never the Same Way Twice, Flowing" eliciting Feasley's wry comment, "Very gruesome tuning this one has."
I don't even have a clue what that means and I loved the sound of it.
There was a guitar piece called "Ashokan Farewell" that Ken Burns used in his Civil War documentary and a fantasia and tango on Mile Davis' "So What."
"The Pateroller Sonata" was a world premiere of the piece for oboe and guitar; the second movement, "Behind the Moon" was exquisitely beautiful.
It made me long for tomorrow's full moon.
Most heartbreaking piece went to "Sonata - "To the Sadness of Buenos Aries," taken from a post- World War II Argentinian poet laureate.
On New Year's Eve she wrote this poem, now song, sent it to the national newspaper and then walked into the sea.
As the nation awoke and read her piece, she was drowned.
The sounds of the sea throughout the piece were tragic reminders.
Two sonatas, two tangos, a fantasia and a fantasy, a variation on a variation and four pieces written specifically for the D'Amore Duo.
Not bad for an afternoon's pleasure.
Food followed melancholia at Secco for the final All Sara Sunday.
No longer will there be two Saras on staff on Sundays as cheese whiz Sara Adduci prepares to head westward.
Secco was saluting her with food and wine, like the clever "ArrivAdduci" flight.
Tete a Claques was my poison, all pink and pretty, and much food was consumed along with it.
Gnocchi with sea urchin butter began things delicately and decadently.
Local green beans with speck, walnuts, hard cooked egg and mustard vinaigrette was an impeccable new flavor combination on the menu.
When a man near me saw it arrive, he raved about it, saying he and his wife had finished the same dish earlier.
I didn't realize how much earlier he meant until they went to leave and said they'd been there since 3:00.
It was 8:30 by then. That's a healthy visit to your local wine bar.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
The arugula salad with chicken confit, dried cherries, Stilton and roasted shallot vinaigrette never disappoints with its rich flavors.
The nod to Sara was a Gruyere fondue ("Had to do it," said the sous chef) with asparagus spears and house made pretzel bread sticks for dipping.
With a tribute like that, chances are she won't want to leave.
Dessert was chocolate cream in puff pastry with hazelnut praline and caramel sauce.
On a trip to the bathroom, I met a guy from Nelson County who makes lotion.
He had a tub of it with him, so I sampled it, trying it on my hands and legs, impressed with the rosemary and mint scents and the emollient quality of the beeswax based mixture.
I was quizzed. Would I pay $10 for it at a farmer's market? Yes, I would.
Heard some people talking about a woman with 23 stars tattooed on her chest.
Why 23, I wondered?
Seems 23 was how much pain she could endure from the needle before crying uncle. The actual number was meaningless to her.
Oddly enough, 23 is my favorite number, so it would have been a splendid choice for me, but her, not so much.
And me, zero interest in tattoos, stars or otherwise.
So much had been going on that all of a sudden it was time for us to fly to Balliceaux for music.
We arrived a bit after 9:00 and I waited for the song being played, "Timberline," to be finished before entering the room and finding a seat for Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird.
Once in my barstool, I caught singer Antonia's eyes and she mine.
"We started on time," she said part accusingly and part matter-of-factly.
Gulp. Caught coming in late and called on it. With humor, but called.
I did my best, I told her.
"Andrew was here on time," she teased, pointing at my music buddy across the room.
Yes, the same music buddy who had been introduced to JV&SB by yours truly.
The amusing part, as both Andrew and I knew, was that he's frequently late for shows only to find me already in place.
But that's okay. I can take criticism if it's merited. Mark me tardy.
The band was minus cellist Josh tonight but even without his superb bowing, it was a set of heartfelt Americana and Antonia's warbling vox saw.
When the set ended and the mingling began, I found out why it doesn't pay to be a latecomer.
Although I'd caught the first official song of the set, I'd missed the oddities that proceeded it.
They'd played a composition by their excellent trumpet player Paul Watson as well as a cover of a Sparklehorse song.
There had been been a third rarity, but I didn't even need to know what it had been.
It had been a fine Sunday. Definitely a fun day.
Even if I did have to run day.
Better tardy than absent.
Escaping Broad Appetit for the VMFA got me the D'Amore Duo (Yeon Jee Sohn on oboe and William Feasley on guitar) doing a concert called "Leaves of Grass."
It was a tie-in to the new exhibit I saw yesterday, here, "Bold, Cautious, True: Walt Whitman and American Art of the Civil War Era."
As the educator who introduced the musicians said, "This performance will send you running to see the exhibit."
Didn't need to run since I'd already done my homework.
The music was loosely related to themes of sadness, with "And Never the Same Way Twice, Flowing" eliciting Feasley's wry comment, "Very gruesome tuning this one has."
I don't even have a clue what that means and I loved the sound of it.
There was a guitar piece called "Ashokan Farewell" that Ken Burns used in his Civil War documentary and a fantasia and tango on Mile Davis' "So What."
"The Pateroller Sonata" was a world premiere of the piece for oboe and guitar; the second movement, "Behind the Moon" was exquisitely beautiful.
It made me long for tomorrow's full moon.
Most heartbreaking piece went to "Sonata - "To the Sadness of Buenos Aries," taken from a post- World War II Argentinian poet laureate.
On New Year's Eve she wrote this poem, now song, sent it to the national newspaper and then walked into the sea.
As the nation awoke and read her piece, she was drowned.
The sounds of the sea throughout the piece were tragic reminders.
Two sonatas, two tangos, a fantasia and a fantasy, a variation on a variation and four pieces written specifically for the D'Amore Duo.
Not bad for an afternoon's pleasure.
Food followed melancholia at Secco for the final All Sara Sunday.
No longer will there be two Saras on staff on Sundays as cheese whiz Sara Adduci prepares to head westward.
Secco was saluting her with food and wine, like the clever "ArrivAdduci" flight.
Tete a Claques was my poison, all pink and pretty, and much food was consumed along with it.
Gnocchi with sea urchin butter began things delicately and decadently.
Local green beans with speck, walnuts, hard cooked egg and mustard vinaigrette was an impeccable new flavor combination on the menu.
When a man near me saw it arrive, he raved about it, saying he and his wife had finished the same dish earlier.
I didn't realize how much earlier he meant until they went to leave and said they'd been there since 3:00.
It was 8:30 by then. That's a healthy visit to your local wine bar.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.
The arugula salad with chicken confit, dried cherries, Stilton and roasted shallot vinaigrette never disappoints with its rich flavors.
The nod to Sara was a Gruyere fondue ("Had to do it," said the sous chef) with asparagus spears and house made pretzel bread sticks for dipping.
With a tribute like that, chances are she won't want to leave.
Dessert was chocolate cream in puff pastry with hazelnut praline and caramel sauce.
On a trip to the bathroom, I met a guy from Nelson County who makes lotion.
He had a tub of it with him, so I sampled it, trying it on my hands and legs, impressed with the rosemary and mint scents and the emollient quality of the beeswax based mixture.
I was quizzed. Would I pay $10 for it at a farmer's market? Yes, I would.
Heard some people talking about a woman with 23 stars tattooed on her chest.
Why 23, I wondered?
Seems 23 was how much pain she could endure from the needle before crying uncle. The actual number was meaningless to her.
Oddly enough, 23 is my favorite number, so it would have been a splendid choice for me, but her, not so much.
And me, zero interest in tattoos, stars or otherwise.
So much had been going on that all of a sudden it was time for us to fly to Balliceaux for music.
We arrived a bit after 9:00 and I waited for the song being played, "Timberline," to be finished before entering the room and finding a seat for Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird.
Once in my barstool, I caught singer Antonia's eyes and she mine.
"We started on time," she said part accusingly and part matter-of-factly.
Gulp. Caught coming in late and called on it. With humor, but called.
I did my best, I told her.
"Andrew was here on time," she teased, pointing at my music buddy across the room.
Yes, the same music buddy who had been introduced to JV&SB by yours truly.
The amusing part, as both Andrew and I knew, was that he's frequently late for shows only to find me already in place.
But that's okay. I can take criticism if it's merited. Mark me tardy.
The band was minus cellist Josh tonight but even without his superb bowing, it was a set of heartfelt Americana and Antonia's warbling vox saw.
When the set ended and the mingling began, I found out why it doesn't pay to be a latecomer.
Although I'd caught the first official song of the set, I'd missed the oddities that proceeded it.
They'd played a composition by their excellent trumpet player Paul Watson as well as a cover of a Sparklehorse song.
There had been been a third rarity, but I didn't even need to know what it had been.
It had been a fine Sunday. Definitely a fun day.
Even if I did have to run day.
Better tardy than absent.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Broad Appetit ISO Virginia Dionysus
Okay, so Broad Appetit.
The good: it brings people to Jackson Ward (not so scary in the daylight, is it, people?), it allows people who dine out infrequently to try restaurants they haven't (on the cheap - $3 a pop) and it's a unique way to eat lunch.
The bad: street stands offering fair fare (cheese fries, really?), not enough room for the lines (would one or two more blocks of Broad kill city officials on a Sunday afternoon?) and the absence of any wineries worth tasting.
For me, being two blocks from the event, there are no parking hassles and I can be there when it opens and is still civilized.
And even if I go alone, which I did, I'm guaranteed to know people.
From the second I got close to Broad Street, I ran into friend after friend.
The boutique owner doing her first Broad Appetit. The man about town in a seersucker suit. The frustrated restaurateur's wife. The favorite couple with their Broad Appetit game plan printed out on multiple sheets of paper.
I spent the first hour with a teenager who shares my love of eating everything odd.
I talked her into trying blowtoads for the first time ("Mmm, fish tail!" she crowed) and she bought me apple cinnamon churros in caramel sauce in return.
An early stop was Bistro 27's table for Moroccan lamb meatballs and one of mixologist's Bobby Kruger's famous watermelon lemonade with a mint leaf smacked into it.
After two years of drinking it as I promenade through the event, I think it should be the official drink of Broad Appetit.
He and I placed bets on when he'd run out of the fifteen gallons he'd made.
I spent the second hour with a BA virgin, trying Magpie's goat curry for the first time and mozzarella ice cream with cherry tomatoes for the second.
At Lehja, we had the ginger curry leaf scented sea bass and the chickpea/potato dish.
I really must make the trek to Short Pump to enjoy Lehja's food to a larger extent.
Amour provided the last course, divine chicken liver mousse with bacon and chive in puff pastry.
We stopped in the Empire Theater for the open rehearsal of "Spring Awakening," a Tony award-winning play I am eager to have open in Richmond.
Let's shock the bluehairs, shall we?
Back on the street, we opted out of the madding crowds and took Marshall Street home, still hearing the bands playing and dodging suburbanites looking for parking spaces in what they no doubt consider "the hood."
The conclusion: I love having so many visitors here in my beautiful, historic neighborhood. It's fun to get to eat from so many different restaurants in one day.
But why in the world can't we make Virginia wineries a viable part of Broad Appetit? Virginia beers were certainly well represented.
Broad Appetit, you're on the right track, but you're not there yet.
You've got a year to get it right. Let me know if you need some suggestions.
As an upstanding local citizen, I'm always eager to help improve things in the 'hood.
Here's to number six, Broad Appetit!
The good: it brings people to Jackson Ward (not so scary in the daylight, is it, people?), it allows people who dine out infrequently to try restaurants they haven't (on the cheap - $3 a pop) and it's a unique way to eat lunch.
The bad: street stands offering fair fare (cheese fries, really?), not enough room for the lines (would one or two more blocks of Broad kill city officials on a Sunday afternoon?) and the absence of any wineries worth tasting.
For me, being two blocks from the event, there are no parking hassles and I can be there when it opens and is still civilized.
And even if I go alone, which I did, I'm guaranteed to know people.
From the second I got close to Broad Street, I ran into friend after friend.
The boutique owner doing her first Broad Appetit. The man about town in a seersucker suit. The frustrated restaurateur's wife. The favorite couple with their Broad Appetit game plan printed out on multiple sheets of paper.
I spent the first hour with a teenager who shares my love of eating everything odd.
I talked her into trying blowtoads for the first time ("Mmm, fish tail!" she crowed) and she bought me apple cinnamon churros in caramel sauce in return.
An early stop was Bistro 27's table for Moroccan lamb meatballs and one of mixologist's Bobby Kruger's famous watermelon lemonade with a mint leaf smacked into it.
After two years of drinking it as I promenade through the event, I think it should be the official drink of Broad Appetit.
He and I placed bets on when he'd run out of the fifteen gallons he'd made.
I spent the second hour with a BA virgin, trying Magpie's goat curry for the first time and mozzarella ice cream with cherry tomatoes for the second.
At Lehja, we had the ginger curry leaf scented sea bass and the chickpea/potato dish.
I really must make the trek to Short Pump to enjoy Lehja's food to a larger extent.
Amour provided the last course, divine chicken liver mousse with bacon and chive in puff pastry.
We stopped in the Empire Theater for the open rehearsal of "Spring Awakening," a Tony award-winning play I am eager to have open in Richmond.
Let's shock the bluehairs, shall we?
Back on the street, we opted out of the madding crowds and took Marshall Street home, still hearing the bands playing and dodging suburbanites looking for parking spaces in what they no doubt consider "the hood."
The conclusion: I love having so many visitors here in my beautiful, historic neighborhood. It's fun to get to eat from so many different restaurants in one day.
But why in the world can't we make Virginia wineries a viable part of Broad Appetit? Virginia beers were certainly well represented.
Broad Appetit, you're on the right track, but you're not there yet.
You've got a year to get it right. Let me know if you need some suggestions.
As an upstanding local citizen, I'm always eager to help improve things in the 'hood.
Here's to number six, Broad Appetit!
Walking on Air
There's something in the air.
As my friend Dave put it around 3 a.m. this morning, "This air tonight is absolutely extraordinary."
It is.
I saw it first hand on my walk down Grace Street, where a man surprised me by saying, "You are incredibly beautiful to me."
Thanking him, he went on. "You have a beautiful walk. Don't ever change that walk!"
Maybe I walk differently in this air.
Coming back towards VCU, a guy came running out of his house at top speed, a silly grin on his face.
From the second story of the house, a female voice sing-songed down to him, "Bye!"
Twirling mid-stride, he jogged backward in place as he called up to the disembodied voice, "I love you!" before righting his direction and tearing around the corner.
So love is in the air, too.
Amen, Dave. Absolutely extraordinary.
As my friend Dave put it around 3 a.m. this morning, "This air tonight is absolutely extraordinary."
It is.
I saw it first hand on my walk down Grace Street, where a man surprised me by saying, "You are incredibly beautiful to me."
Thanking him, he went on. "You have a beautiful walk. Don't ever change that walk!"
Maybe I walk differently in this air.
Coming back towards VCU, a guy came running out of his house at top speed, a silly grin on his face.
From the second story of the house, a female voice sing-songed down to him, "Bye!"
Twirling mid-stride, he jogged backward in place as he called up to the disembodied voice, "I love you!" before righting his direction and tearing around the corner.
So love is in the air, too.
Amen, Dave. Absolutely extraordinary.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Delta Casbah at Dusk
They had me at bongos and congas.
Carytown Bistro was the unlikely location where a musician friend's side project was playing a show tonight.
I arrived shortly after they started, delighted to find that they'd set up on the patio for all the world to hear.
Every table was taken except the one closest to the band and what better position for a musical idiot like me than three feet from the bass player?
The couple next to me had friends join them, making for somewhat tight quarters but it also led to us getting to know each other.
Before long fireflies were flitting around, making for a worthy addition to the evening, while the revving motorcycles and screeching cars were less so.
But there's no reason to nitpick when you're sitting outside listening to live music on a mild June evening.
The band was Chilled Mint, a fairly recent ensemble, consisting of my friend Marshall (keyboard player for Marionette) on sax, Seth on guitar, Jeff on percussion and drums and Jacob on bass.
Although the show poster had called them world jazz, they were, more specifically, Latin-based rhythms of one kind or another.
You know, mambo, samba, rumba kind of songs.
I know that only because Marshall told me that during the set break as he ate a cheese danish and Mexican Coke while I had a diced rooster sandwich.
While ordering, the owner had recognized me, asking, "You're Herschel's friend, right? I remember you."
Funny how people file you away in their mind.
As we ate, Marshall admitted being distracted and of the perils of wearing your heart on your sleeve.
I knew exactly what he meant.
Back outside, I was starting to get a bit chilly in the clear night air but when I mentioned it, Marshall said how much he was digging the cooler temperature.
"But then I have on a polyester shirt," he grinned and indeed his patterned shirt was quite jazzy and no doubt plenty warm.
Chatting around, I learned that the girl next to me had given up on teaching high school and now goes to Tech.
She was amazed when I guessed that she was studying to be a vet.
But really, how many people wear a t-shirt with a woman's hand stuck down a cow's butt?
A smiling woman at that.
She agreed that it was getting cool so we asked the owner if we could temporarily help ourselves to the two sweaters hanging inside on the coat rack.
So it was that I began the second set in some unknown girl's burnt orange cable knit sweater with wooden buttons.
"That looks great on you," the vet's husband told me. "You should keep it."
I didn't. It was enough to use it for the remainder of my outdoor evening.
The set began with "The Girl from Ipanema," particularly appropriate since a girlfriend had messaged me moments before I'd left to suggest I join her at Ipanema.
And while she's great fun, had I gone there I'd have missed so much.
Like my first time seeing an acoustic bass, for instance, and tonight played by the extremely talented bandleader, Jacob ("This is as electrified as I get," he told a fan calling for more effects).
Like drummer Jeff's non-stop hands on those bongos, congas and cymbals, as well as timbale, chimes, cowbell and claves, which he told me he'd purchased ten years ago across the street at Ten Thousand Villages.
Personally, I have to appreciate a musician who supports third world craftsmanship.
They did a combination of music, some older like the Dizzy Gillespie-penned "Night in Tunisia," plus original compositions, such as "Mediterranean" and "Delta Casbah," which I thought brilliantly named.
As the evening wore on, people passed the patio, some stopping to listen for a song or longer and others joining the audience and ordering drinks and food.
Three hours in, the band tried to decide on their last piece, finally agreeing to do "Samba of Orpheus," from the movie "Black Orpheus."
Sitting on a wooden banquette in a borrowed sweater under a waxing gibbous moon listening to sambas on a Saturday night.
If that isn't the way to be distracted wearing your heart on your sleeve, I don't know what is.
Carytown Bistro was the unlikely location where a musician friend's side project was playing a show tonight.
I arrived shortly after they started, delighted to find that they'd set up on the patio for all the world to hear.
Every table was taken except the one closest to the band and what better position for a musical idiot like me than three feet from the bass player?
The couple next to me had friends join them, making for somewhat tight quarters but it also led to us getting to know each other.
Before long fireflies were flitting around, making for a worthy addition to the evening, while the revving motorcycles and screeching cars were less so.
But there's no reason to nitpick when you're sitting outside listening to live music on a mild June evening.
The band was Chilled Mint, a fairly recent ensemble, consisting of my friend Marshall (keyboard player for Marionette) on sax, Seth on guitar, Jeff on percussion and drums and Jacob on bass.
Although the show poster had called them world jazz, they were, more specifically, Latin-based rhythms of one kind or another.
You know, mambo, samba, rumba kind of songs.
I know that only because Marshall told me that during the set break as he ate a cheese danish and Mexican Coke while I had a diced rooster sandwich.
While ordering, the owner had recognized me, asking, "You're Herschel's friend, right? I remember you."
Funny how people file you away in their mind.
As we ate, Marshall admitted being distracted and of the perils of wearing your heart on your sleeve.
I knew exactly what he meant.
Back outside, I was starting to get a bit chilly in the clear night air but when I mentioned it, Marshall said how much he was digging the cooler temperature.
"But then I have on a polyester shirt," he grinned and indeed his patterned shirt was quite jazzy and no doubt plenty warm.
Chatting around, I learned that the girl next to me had given up on teaching high school and now goes to Tech.
She was amazed when I guessed that she was studying to be a vet.
But really, how many people wear a t-shirt with a woman's hand stuck down a cow's butt?
A smiling woman at that.
She agreed that it was getting cool so we asked the owner if we could temporarily help ourselves to the two sweaters hanging inside on the coat rack.
So it was that I began the second set in some unknown girl's burnt orange cable knit sweater with wooden buttons.
"That looks great on you," the vet's husband told me. "You should keep it."
I didn't. It was enough to use it for the remainder of my outdoor evening.
The set began with "The Girl from Ipanema," particularly appropriate since a girlfriend had messaged me moments before I'd left to suggest I join her at Ipanema.
And while she's great fun, had I gone there I'd have missed so much.
Like my first time seeing an acoustic bass, for instance, and tonight played by the extremely talented bandleader, Jacob ("This is as electrified as I get," he told a fan calling for more effects).
Like drummer Jeff's non-stop hands on those bongos, congas and cymbals, as well as timbale, chimes, cowbell and claves, which he told me he'd purchased ten years ago across the street at Ten Thousand Villages.
Personally, I have to appreciate a musician who supports third world craftsmanship.
They did a combination of music, some older like the Dizzy Gillespie-penned "Night in Tunisia," plus original compositions, such as "Mediterranean" and "Delta Casbah," which I thought brilliantly named.
As the evening wore on, people passed the patio, some stopping to listen for a song or longer and others joining the audience and ordering drinks and food.
Three hours in, the band tried to decide on their last piece, finally agreeing to do "Samba of Orpheus," from the movie "Black Orpheus."
Sitting on a wooden banquette in a borrowed sweater under a waxing gibbous moon listening to sambas on a Saturday night.
If that isn't the way to be distracted wearing your heart on your sleeve, I don't know what is.
Wandering Whitman
How fitting that I had to walk through a gauntlet of Confederate flag-waving protesters.
I was on my into the VMFA to see the new exhibition timed to coincide with the sesquicentennial of the Civil War and emancipation.
"Bold, Cautious, True: Walt Whitman and American Art of the Civil War Era" demonstrates how poets and writers dealt with their feelings as the country was torn apart by war.
The show opens with a portrait of Whitman, looking every inch like a Richmond guy: bearded, hatted and chill.
His poem, "As Toilsome I Wander'd Virginia's Wood" sets the tone for the rest of the works to be seen.
Long, long I muse,
Then on my way go wandering
Winslow Homer shows up immediately in two contrasting paintings.
"Skirmish in the Wilderness" was dark and showed more than one battle focus in the scene, with soldiers shown in the tangle of a savage-looking forest.
Wilderness is putting it mildly.
"Army Teamsters" was light-filled with a blue sky and a group of African-American soldiers resting comfortably against a white tent, horses peacefully grazing in the background.
Two sides of the war coin, I suppose.
Eastman Johnson's "The Field Hospital" showed a soldier in a cot bed set in the woods; a woman was writing a letter as he dictated.
Call me uninformed, but it had never occurred to me that wounded soldiers convalesced en plein air.
The exhibit has two original books, Whitman's pre-war "Leaves of Grass," espousing a mistrust of radical agitators on both sides and "Drum Taps," the poems he wrote after the war.
Many a changeful season to follow
And many a scene of life
In a similar vein, even the landscapes done after the war had a mostly melancholy tone. Paintings of actual people almost always wear the saddest of faces.
In an acknowledgement to just how many men served during the war, including artists and writers, notation is made of which unit each artist served in and for how long.
But even when they served the Confederacy, some made their true feelings known on their canvas.
One such artist was Thomas Satterwhite Noble whose "The Price of Blood" showed a wealthy Southern planter (in slippers and smoking jacket, no less) selling his mixed race son to a slave trader with complete nonchalance.
Symbolic bloody coins litter the table as he makes the transaction.
Disturbing as it is, it's clear that Noble abhors the institution of slavery.
Bold, cautious, true and my loving comrade
And that's really the crux of this excellent new exhibit.
Even "delicate men" like artists and writers were forced to take sides, and in many cases, take up arms.
But even when fulfilling their duty, men like that will inevitably share what's in their hearts and minds.
It makes for a truly unique look at a war some Virginians are apparently still fighting.
I know. I passed the flag-wavers on the way out, too.
It was what Whitman called "many a scene of life."
I was on my into the VMFA to see the new exhibition timed to coincide with the sesquicentennial of the Civil War and emancipation.
"Bold, Cautious, True: Walt Whitman and American Art of the Civil War Era" demonstrates how poets and writers dealt with their feelings as the country was torn apart by war.
The show opens with a portrait of Whitman, looking every inch like a Richmond guy: bearded, hatted and chill.
His poem, "As Toilsome I Wander'd Virginia's Wood" sets the tone for the rest of the works to be seen.
Long, long I muse,
Then on my way go wandering
Winslow Homer shows up immediately in two contrasting paintings.
"Skirmish in the Wilderness" was dark and showed more than one battle focus in the scene, with soldiers shown in the tangle of a savage-looking forest.
Wilderness is putting it mildly.
"Army Teamsters" was light-filled with a blue sky and a group of African-American soldiers resting comfortably against a white tent, horses peacefully grazing in the background.
Two sides of the war coin, I suppose.
Eastman Johnson's "The Field Hospital" showed a soldier in a cot bed set in the woods; a woman was writing a letter as he dictated.
Call me uninformed, but it had never occurred to me that wounded soldiers convalesced en plein air.
The exhibit has two original books, Whitman's pre-war "Leaves of Grass," espousing a mistrust of radical agitators on both sides and "Drum Taps," the poems he wrote after the war.
Many a changeful season to follow
And many a scene of life
In a similar vein, even the landscapes done after the war had a mostly melancholy tone. Paintings of actual people almost always wear the saddest of faces.
In an acknowledgement to just how many men served during the war, including artists and writers, notation is made of which unit each artist served in and for how long.
But even when they served the Confederacy, some made their true feelings known on their canvas.
One such artist was Thomas Satterwhite Noble whose "The Price of Blood" showed a wealthy Southern planter (in slippers and smoking jacket, no less) selling his mixed race son to a slave trader with complete nonchalance.
Symbolic bloody coins litter the table as he makes the transaction.
Disturbing as it is, it's clear that Noble abhors the institution of slavery.
Bold, cautious, true and my loving comrade
And that's really the crux of this excellent new exhibit.
Even "delicate men" like artists and writers were forced to take sides, and in many cases, take up arms.
But even when fulfilling their duty, men like that will inevitably share what's in their hearts and minds.
It makes for a truly unique look at a war some Virginians are apparently still fighting.
I know. I passed the flag-wavers on the way out, too.
It was what Whitman called "many a scene of life."
That's Me In the Window
What's past is prologue.
In other words, the back story prepares us for and increases appreciation of the present.
That's where I am, that was a topic of discussion tonight and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Tonight's festivities began on the balcony of the apartment of yours truly where we downed a bottle of Gazela vinho verde while listening to Big Star and dicussing my musical illiteracy.
Additional company arrived and with them, a fruity and floral bottle of Laxas 2010 Albarino (or, as a wine geek friend says, "hay and honeysuckle," which I consider far more poetic) so we moved inside for more companionable chatting.
While listening to music from her youth (Mamas and Papas), they told us about their visit to the country for Memorial Day weekend (champagne glasses broken and much tequila consumed).
At long last we moved on to our true purpose: the first Friday art walk.
Wine is fine, but art makes you smart.
We began at Ghostprint Gallery for the Richmond Illustrators' Show, an annual juried event.
I'll be the first to admit that this is a favorite yearly exhibit of mine, mainly because it gives me a read on the state of the illustrative world.
Especially satisfying was seeing familiar Richmond names, despite the 400 international entries they got for this show.
Bizhan Khodabandeh (satisfyingly, I own one of his illustrations), Barry Bruner (former J-Ward resident), and Will Godwin (multi-talented in both visual art and music) all hung on the walls of the gallery.
Others I know but don't have a personal connection to were there as well: Leslie Herman (his Okkervil River/Wye Oak illustration reminded me of that awesome show at the National) and Holly Camp, whose "Welcome to Iceland" belied the fact that she'd never been.
My friends were bewitched with Wouter Tulp's music related illustrations (Charlie Parker, the Beatles and Madonna) for their authenticity and insight.
I will definitely need to go back and see this show a second time.
Next up was the new show at Candela Gallery, "Unbound," an ideal description of the off-the-wall photographs that defined this show.
Alex Artz's vaguely disturbing photo of a woman and a doe perched on a bed.
I didn't want to know what their relationship was.
The stark "Marine, Hotel near Airport, Richmond, VA" was positively painterly.
Joni Sternbach's three images of people and ocean looked like vintage Hawaiian postcards, right down to the bronzed hardbodies.
"Girl in the Backseat" showed a young thing in platform shoes, held together with duct tape, but still looking expectant about what the night held.
As was I.
I loved "In the Window," which resembled a vintage "naughty" postcard from the turn of the last century.
Joshua Hobson's "Schoolgirls at the Palace" was all young legs and hidden faces sprawling on the steps.
I was quite surprised to see a photograph by a familiar name, Alex Nyerges, called "Rome Streetscape- Villa Barberini," with taxi rooves from an upper window looking like hansom cabs of another era.
Two shows with multiple global talent gathered for us in Richmond, Virginia.
Damn, we have it good.
Dinner followed at Amour, all the more satisfying because it was my friends' first time there,
We began with Luceien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Blan de Blanc because nothing says Friday night post-birthday celebration like bubbles.
And because I can drink sparkling absolutely anytime.
Over discussion of exes, currents and gifts, we savored shitake mushrooms stuffed with chives and comte, a charcuterie plate loaded with Olli meats (the speck was my favorite), salad and crabcakes with remoulade.
My friends are soon off to Las Vegas, so we discussed with the owner where they needed to eat
Dessert was an exact repeat of my birthday dinner a week ago (and, after all, we were still celebrating me), namely the dark chocolate caramel creme brulee with sea salt and the assortment of sorbets (kiwi, grapefruit, orange, strawberry and espresso).
By this time, they were so enamored of Amour as to make a reservation for her upcoming birthday dinner on Bastille Day.
I have no idea where I'll be raising the French flag that day.
But I do hope my past will be a lesson for my future.
With or without bubbles, I know I don't want to repeat the mistakes of the past.
There will be no photograph of me and a doe in bed.
In other words, the back story prepares us for and increases appreciation of the present.
That's where I am, that was a topic of discussion tonight and that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Tonight's festivities began on the balcony of the apartment of yours truly where we downed a bottle of Gazela vinho verde while listening to Big Star and dicussing my musical illiteracy.
Additional company arrived and with them, a fruity and floral bottle of Laxas 2010 Albarino (or, as a wine geek friend says, "hay and honeysuckle," which I consider far more poetic) so we moved inside for more companionable chatting.
While listening to music from her youth (Mamas and Papas), they told us about their visit to the country for Memorial Day weekend (champagne glasses broken and much tequila consumed).
At long last we moved on to our true purpose: the first Friday art walk.
Wine is fine, but art makes you smart.
We began at Ghostprint Gallery for the Richmond Illustrators' Show, an annual juried event.
I'll be the first to admit that this is a favorite yearly exhibit of mine, mainly because it gives me a read on the state of the illustrative world.
Especially satisfying was seeing familiar Richmond names, despite the 400 international entries they got for this show.
Bizhan Khodabandeh (satisfyingly, I own one of his illustrations), Barry Bruner (former J-Ward resident), and Will Godwin (multi-talented in both visual art and music) all hung on the walls of the gallery.
Others I know but don't have a personal connection to were there as well: Leslie Herman (his Okkervil River/Wye Oak illustration reminded me of that awesome show at the National) and Holly Camp, whose "Welcome to Iceland" belied the fact that she'd never been.
My friends were bewitched with Wouter Tulp's music related illustrations (Charlie Parker, the Beatles and Madonna) for their authenticity and insight.
I will definitely need to go back and see this show a second time.
Next up was the new show at Candela Gallery, "Unbound," an ideal description of the off-the-wall photographs that defined this show.
Alex Artz's vaguely disturbing photo of a woman and a doe perched on a bed.
I didn't want to know what their relationship was.
The stark "Marine, Hotel near Airport, Richmond, VA" was positively painterly.
Joni Sternbach's three images of people and ocean looked like vintage Hawaiian postcards, right down to the bronzed hardbodies.
"Girl in the Backseat" showed a young thing in platform shoes, held together with duct tape, but still looking expectant about what the night held.
As was I.
I loved "In the Window," which resembled a vintage "naughty" postcard from the turn of the last century.
Joshua Hobson's "Schoolgirls at the Palace" was all young legs and hidden faces sprawling on the steps.
I was quite surprised to see a photograph by a familiar name, Alex Nyerges, called "Rome Streetscape- Villa Barberini," with taxi rooves from an upper window looking like hansom cabs of another era.
Two shows with multiple global talent gathered for us in Richmond, Virginia.
Damn, we have it good.
Dinner followed at Amour, all the more satisfying because it was my friends' first time there,
We began with Luceien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Blan de Blanc because nothing says Friday night post-birthday celebration like bubbles.
And because I can drink sparkling absolutely anytime.
Over discussion of exes, currents and gifts, we savored shitake mushrooms stuffed with chives and comte, a charcuterie plate loaded with Olli meats (the speck was my favorite), salad and crabcakes with remoulade.
My friends are soon off to Las Vegas, so we discussed with the owner where they needed to eat
Dessert was an exact repeat of my birthday dinner a week ago (and, after all, we were still celebrating me), namely the dark chocolate caramel creme brulee with sea salt and the assortment of sorbets (kiwi, grapefruit, orange, strawberry and espresso).
By this time, they were so enamored of Amour as to make a reservation for her upcoming birthday dinner on Bastille Day.
I have no idea where I'll be raising the French flag that day.
But I do hope my past will be a lesson for my future.
With or without bubbles, I know I don't want to repeat the mistakes of the past.
There will be no photograph of me and a doe in bed.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Female Bonding
Tonight was all about the girlfriends.
The first was a fellow Gemini who just this week celebrated a birthday, which we used as an excuse to meet up for happy hour.
She chose Bistro 27 and I happily agreed because they offer such a good deal on food and drink post-office hours.
Not that either of us keeps office hours.
And although we weren't planning to start with a red, much lees a Portuguese red, we began drinking with the dry and refreshing 100 Marias while we caught up.
Seems we'd missed last night's flight night featuring three Portuguese reds, so we did our best to compensate.
She had stellar stories to share, including one about spider bites and private parts. Fortunately, she didn't bring pictures, because who needs to see the intersection of the two?
Snacking on mussels in white pepper and garlic cream sauce, we switched to Briccodi-dei-Tati rose and chatted with the chef about outdoor oyster eating.
Conclusion: a group field trip is in the offing. And, yes, there will be bubbles.
When I presented her with my gift, musician Patti Smith's new book "Woolgathering," she was thrilled and the bartender was perplexed.
Hello, godmother of punk?
We had great fun chatting with some nearby bar sitters from the near west end who were outspoken about their friends and family's fear of coming into the city to eat.
She told a story of her sister taking her little boy to the Short Pump theaters and when he saw the neon of the multiplex, saying, "Look, it's the lights of the city, Mom!"
"They live in Wellsley, where they have everything they need for life," the man said. "Chain restaurants, Food Lion and, if they want to go to college, Strayer University."
It would have been tragic if it hadn't been so hilarious.
After the second glass of rose, my friend was picked up by her dinner date while I remained in my stool waiting for mine.
No sooner was one girlfriend gone than the next appeared.
Our Portuguese starter was Quinta de Cabriz Reserva, unique and tasting like nothing else I knew.
Damn, why did I miss flight night? Oh, yes, Shakespeare and birthday bands.
It had been close to a year since my friend and I had last met so naturally we had loads to discuss.
She's a year and a half into a new relationship so she had tales of buying a house together, dealing with former (and unhappy) girlfriends and trying to adjust everyone's sex drive to coincide.
Now there's a first world problem.
To sustain me, I chose the lamb kabob over Arabic antipasti (chickpeas, walnuts, red pepper and eggplant) while she dove into the shrimp bobo.
The mayor arrived and took a discreet table in a corner.
One of the city's premiere tattoo artists came in for a bite at the bar.
A bartending friend appeared and joined our conversation as he waited for his friends to arrive.
Unsurprisingly, we got off on a tangent about the craft cocktail trend in Richmond and, conversely, the vital role of simply slinging shots.
My friend, a former restaurant manager, mentioned how different the bar world was before the mixology movement.
"People used to just ask what color the drink would be." she laughed.
Gosh, Grandpa, when was that?
Sonny, that was back in the days when new couples didn't talk about how much sex each one wanted, much less share that information with a girlfriend they hadn't seen in months.
My goodness, what did they talk about then?
Oh, right. Well, we talked about that, too.
The first was a fellow Gemini who just this week celebrated a birthday, which we used as an excuse to meet up for happy hour.
She chose Bistro 27 and I happily agreed because they offer such a good deal on food and drink post-office hours.
Not that either of us keeps office hours.
And although we weren't planning to start with a red, much lees a Portuguese red, we began drinking with the dry and refreshing 100 Marias while we caught up.
Seems we'd missed last night's flight night featuring three Portuguese reds, so we did our best to compensate.
She had stellar stories to share, including one about spider bites and private parts. Fortunately, she didn't bring pictures, because who needs to see the intersection of the two?
Snacking on mussels in white pepper and garlic cream sauce, we switched to Briccodi-dei-Tati rose and chatted with the chef about outdoor oyster eating.
Conclusion: a group field trip is in the offing. And, yes, there will be bubbles.
When I presented her with my gift, musician Patti Smith's new book "Woolgathering," she was thrilled and the bartender was perplexed.
Hello, godmother of punk?
We had great fun chatting with some nearby bar sitters from the near west end who were outspoken about their friends and family's fear of coming into the city to eat.
She told a story of her sister taking her little boy to the Short Pump theaters and when he saw the neon of the multiplex, saying, "Look, it's the lights of the city, Mom!"
"They live in Wellsley, where they have everything they need for life," the man said. "Chain restaurants, Food Lion and, if they want to go to college, Strayer University."
It would have been tragic if it hadn't been so hilarious.
After the second glass of rose, my friend was picked up by her dinner date while I remained in my stool waiting for mine.
No sooner was one girlfriend gone than the next appeared.
Our Portuguese starter was Quinta de Cabriz Reserva, unique and tasting like nothing else I knew.
Damn, why did I miss flight night? Oh, yes, Shakespeare and birthday bands.
It had been close to a year since my friend and I had last met so naturally we had loads to discuss.
She's a year and a half into a new relationship so she had tales of buying a house together, dealing with former (and unhappy) girlfriends and trying to adjust everyone's sex drive to coincide.
Now there's a first world problem.
To sustain me, I chose the lamb kabob over Arabic antipasti (chickpeas, walnuts, red pepper and eggplant) while she dove into the shrimp bobo.
The mayor arrived and took a discreet table in a corner.
One of the city's premiere tattoo artists came in for a bite at the bar.
A bartending friend appeared and joined our conversation as he waited for his friends to arrive.
Unsurprisingly, we got off on a tangent about the craft cocktail trend in Richmond and, conversely, the vital role of simply slinging shots.
My friend, a former restaurant manager, mentioned how different the bar world was before the mixology movement.
"People used to just ask what color the drink would be." she laughed.
Gosh, Grandpa, when was that?
Sonny, that was back in the days when new couples didn't talk about how much sex each one wanted, much less share that information with a girlfriend they hadn't seen in months.
My goodness, what did they talk about then?
Oh, right. Well, we talked about that, too.
Merry and Tragical
Park once, party twice. Sadly, though, I paid the price.
Nay, faith, let me not play a woman, for I have a beard coming.
And that's the beauty of a gender-reversed play. Those actors playing women do have beard potential.
Firehouse Theater was doing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with fifteen women playing the male parts.
As if the pleasure of men playing women wasn't sufficient, there were also actors of a tender age playing believable love-besotted youths (Hermia and Lysander).
There was anachronistic humor, like when the bumbling troupe needed moonlight for their play and decided to check the calendar to see if the moon would be bright for them.
In this version, that calendar was on a smartphone, around which they all gathered to determine that the moon would indeed be shining for their performance.
There was innuendo, like when Bottom (played to perfection by Molly Hood) said, "I could munch your good dry oats."
So that's what the kids were calling it in Shakespeare's time. Munching.
There was physical humor, as when Demetrius says, "Let's follow him and, by the way, let, whoa, us recount our dream."
The "whoa" occurred when she nearly ran into a pole.
Or when Bottom says, "And, most dear actors, eat no onion nor garlic for we are to utter sweet breath," as one of her fellow actors takes a bite of sandwich, leaving onion hanging from her mouth.
There was the most plaintive and unloved Helena imaginable in the always hysterically dour Dean Knight.
There was mad doting by multiple couples not to mention lovers making moan.
The performance was especially timely since I'd just seen Richmond Shakespeare do the very same play at Maymont not three weeks ago.
Of course, in that version Hermia didn't stand up to pee and Theseus didn't have breasts.
Call me a mortal fool, but all shall be well when Firehouse does a gender exploration of anything by the Bard.
In other words, count me in.
From the forest of the fairies to a blog's birthday party we went. Luckily it was on the same block.
RVAPlaylist was celebrating its second birthday, and as I explained to a fellow music lover, it wasn't that I wanted to go, I had to go.
Of course I wanted to as well.
And why not? The show was free, there was a band I'd never seen and was eager to, one of my long-time favorite bands was playing and there would be birthday cake.
Oh, yes, and literally dozens of people I knew would be there.
Happily, I walked into the Camel to a clutch of familiar faces right up front.
Greeting people, hugging friends and hearing my name called, I turned to see a friend with outstretched arms.
"Is this the Karen receiving line?" he asked only half mocking.
Why, yes, it was.
Against Grace were already playing their brand of pop punk (think Jimmy Eat World) to a crowd of rapturous fans exactly like my friend had described them.
Devoted.
Once their set ended, I set out to finish saying hello to everyone I knew, a never-ending attempt, since inevitably I'd see someone else I hadn't yet seen.
Dead Fame played second and brought their 21st-century take on Joy Division (and a different crowd) to life under minimal lighting and a crowd that moved incessantly with the beat of the music.
As a pal noted, the band had done their 80s homework and lead singer Michael was a study of Ian Curtis as he delivered post-punk and staccato dance moves.
Marionette was last and they too had their own fan base, allowing them to take their music in some new directions instead of playing only familiar material.
We die hards love that kind of fan-centric set list.
Guitarist Adam began their set by thanking Andrew, RVAPlaylist's author, for his long-time interest in the band.
The only thing Adam forgot to mention was who had originally introduced Andrew to Marionette's music.
I don't want to name names, but it was the same woman (not played by a man tonight) who was assured that if she came to the birthday party tonight, not only would there be cake, but she was free to lick the icing off the edge of the plate.
That's a pretty sweet enticement.
All in all, the birthday party had been great fun and it's hard to beat free music.
Well, not exactly free.
I walked out to find a $60 ticket on my car. Really? This is what our cops are doing with their time at night?
Although I'd parked in the same space I've parked for years to go to the Firehouse and the Camel, apparently now it's off limits after 11 p.m.
Ah, well. The course of true fun never did run smooth.
Nay, faith, let me not play a woman, for I have a beard coming.
And that's the beauty of a gender-reversed play. Those actors playing women do have beard potential.
Firehouse Theater was doing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with fifteen women playing the male parts.
As if the pleasure of men playing women wasn't sufficient, there were also actors of a tender age playing believable love-besotted youths (Hermia and Lysander).
There was anachronistic humor, like when the bumbling troupe needed moonlight for their play and decided to check the calendar to see if the moon would be bright for them.
In this version, that calendar was on a smartphone, around which they all gathered to determine that the moon would indeed be shining for their performance.
There was innuendo, like when Bottom (played to perfection by Molly Hood) said, "I could munch your good dry oats."
So that's what the kids were calling it in Shakespeare's time. Munching.
There was physical humor, as when Demetrius says, "Let's follow him and, by the way, let, whoa, us recount our dream."
The "whoa" occurred when she nearly ran into a pole.
Or when Bottom says, "And, most dear actors, eat no onion nor garlic for we are to utter sweet breath," as one of her fellow actors takes a bite of sandwich, leaving onion hanging from her mouth.
There was the most plaintive and unloved Helena imaginable in the always hysterically dour Dean Knight.
There was mad doting by multiple couples not to mention lovers making moan.
The performance was especially timely since I'd just seen Richmond Shakespeare do the very same play at Maymont not three weeks ago.
Of course, in that version Hermia didn't stand up to pee and Theseus didn't have breasts.
Call me a mortal fool, but all shall be well when Firehouse does a gender exploration of anything by the Bard.
In other words, count me in.
From the forest of the fairies to a blog's birthday party we went. Luckily it was on the same block.
RVAPlaylist was celebrating its second birthday, and as I explained to a fellow music lover, it wasn't that I wanted to go, I had to go.
Of course I wanted to as well.
And why not? The show was free, there was a band I'd never seen and was eager to, one of my long-time favorite bands was playing and there would be birthday cake.
Oh, yes, and literally dozens of people I knew would be there.
Happily, I walked into the Camel to a clutch of familiar faces right up front.
Greeting people, hugging friends and hearing my name called, I turned to see a friend with outstretched arms.
"Is this the Karen receiving line?" he asked only half mocking.
Why, yes, it was.
Against Grace were already playing their brand of pop punk (think Jimmy Eat World) to a crowd of rapturous fans exactly like my friend had described them.
Devoted.
Once their set ended, I set out to finish saying hello to everyone I knew, a never-ending attempt, since inevitably I'd see someone else I hadn't yet seen.
Dead Fame played second and brought their 21st-century take on Joy Division (and a different crowd) to life under minimal lighting and a crowd that moved incessantly with the beat of the music.
As a pal noted, the band had done their 80s homework and lead singer Michael was a study of Ian Curtis as he delivered post-punk and staccato dance moves.
Marionette was last and they too had their own fan base, allowing them to take their music in some new directions instead of playing only familiar material.
We die hards love that kind of fan-centric set list.
Guitarist Adam began their set by thanking Andrew, RVAPlaylist's author, for his long-time interest in the band.
The only thing Adam forgot to mention was who had originally introduced Andrew to Marionette's music.
I don't want to name names, but it was the same woman (not played by a man tonight) who was assured that if she came to the birthday party tonight, not only would there be cake, but she was free to lick the icing off the edge of the plate.
That's a pretty sweet enticement.
All in all, the birthday party had been great fun and it's hard to beat free music.
Well, not exactly free.
I walked out to find a $60 ticket on my car. Really? This is what our cops are doing with their time at night?
Although I'd parked in the same space I've parked for years to go to the Firehouse and the Camel, apparently now it's off limits after 11 p.m.
Ah, well. The course of true fun never did run smooth.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Something Comes from Nothing
Perhaps I should be concerned.
It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.
But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.
She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).
Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.
Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.
Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.
As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"
Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.
"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.
How did they even know?
Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.
From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).
It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.
Invite us and it's an instant party.
Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.
The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.
Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).
I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.
Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.
I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.
I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.
It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.
TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.
"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.
As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.
"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"
A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?
No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.
A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me
For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."
I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?
Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.
After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.
I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.
Now that's a professional.
Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.
Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.
And consumed in short order.
It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.
Friends, food, wine, music.
What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.
It's a straight line to the good things.
Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.
It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.
But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.
She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).
Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.
Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.
Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.
As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"
Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.
"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.
How did they even know?
Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.
From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).
It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.
Invite us and it's an instant party.
Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.
The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.
Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).
I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.
Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.
I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.
I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.
It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.
TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.
"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.
As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.
"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"
A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?
No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.
A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me
For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."
I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?
Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.
After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.
I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.
Now that's a professional.
Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.
Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.
And consumed in short order.
It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.
Friends, food, wine, music.
What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.
It's a straight line to the good things.
Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Immune to the Stuff
How appropriate that today's birthday lunch had an eighties soundtrack.
Yes, I'm older and yes, the eighties are still all too familiar.
While enjoying a breezy wait on the bench in front of Black Sheep, I saved a woman from falling into the abyss by pointing out the warning painted on the silver grate where she stood.
That would be the one saying not to stand on it. Keep off!
She was a first-timer, so it was understandable that she hadn't known to read the ground where she was standing.
Studying the menu, she sought my advice so I also filled her in on battleships as long as I was mentoring her.
Friend and I were given a table against the wall and pounced on our server when she appeared, having decided on eats while sunning ourselves outside.
Despite Friend having gotten up earlier than I had today, he wanted breakfast.
That meant coffee and the South Anna scramble (eggs scrambled with smoked trout, mushrooms, roasted tomato and bacon with chive and horseradish hollandaise over toast) while I went the lunch route.
At Black Sheep, that always means starting with an Abita root beer (I'll lie and say it's 'cause it's made with pure Louisiana sugar cane) and a salad of strawberries, yellow cherry tomatoes, arugula, fresh mozzarella, pine nuts and basil in a honey balsamic vinaigrette.
As we ate and bobbed our heads to the past, we noticed all the battleships coming out of the kitchen.
Interestingly, they were all going to women not men (not that there's anything wrong with that), including the woman I'd schooled a short time before (patting the wrapped leftover 'ship later, she told me, "It's for my husband." Yea, sure).
Friend's mega-meal arrived on an enormous glass fish-shaped platter, no doubt a nod to the smoked trout buried in the rich concoction.
My salad was pretty in a colorful way, complete with edible purple pea shoot flowers adorning it, with the creamy mozzarella so fresh it melted in my mouth.
Hearing Robert Palmer got us talking about the show we'd seen together last week, why Creed cover bands cause people to leave shows and about the innate human need for companionship.
"Might as well face it," I told him, causing him to laugh out loud. He's known me long enough to know exactly what I meant.
It's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough.
Of birthday celebrations, that is. Yea, right.
Yes, I'm older and yes, the eighties are still all too familiar.
While enjoying a breezy wait on the bench in front of Black Sheep, I saved a woman from falling into the abyss by pointing out the warning painted on the silver grate where she stood.
That would be the one saying not to stand on it. Keep off!
She was a first-timer, so it was understandable that she hadn't known to read the ground where she was standing.
Studying the menu, she sought my advice so I also filled her in on battleships as long as I was mentoring her.
Friend and I were given a table against the wall and pounced on our server when she appeared, having decided on eats while sunning ourselves outside.
Despite Friend having gotten up earlier than I had today, he wanted breakfast.
That meant coffee and the South Anna scramble (eggs scrambled with smoked trout, mushrooms, roasted tomato and bacon with chive and horseradish hollandaise over toast) while I went the lunch route.
At Black Sheep, that always means starting with an Abita root beer (I'll lie and say it's 'cause it's made with pure Louisiana sugar cane) and a salad of strawberries, yellow cherry tomatoes, arugula, fresh mozzarella, pine nuts and basil in a honey balsamic vinaigrette.
As we ate and bobbed our heads to the past, we noticed all the battleships coming out of the kitchen.
Interestingly, they were all going to women not men (not that there's anything wrong with that), including the woman I'd schooled a short time before (patting the wrapped leftover 'ship later, she told me, "It's for my husband." Yea, sure).
Friend's mega-meal arrived on an enormous glass fish-shaped platter, no doubt a nod to the smoked trout buried in the rich concoction.
My salad was pretty in a colorful way, complete with edible purple pea shoot flowers adorning it, with the creamy mozzarella so fresh it melted in my mouth.
Hearing Robert Palmer got us talking about the show we'd seen together last week, why Creed cover bands cause people to leave shows and about the innate human need for companionship.
"Might as well face it," I told him, causing him to laugh out loud. He's known me long enough to know exactly what I meant.
It's closer to the truth to say you can't get enough.
Of birthday celebrations, that is. Yea, right.
Eastward, Ho!
All bases were covered for Memorial Day and all in the east end, it should be noted
First there was the history component which took us down to the river to see the reproductions of the Nina and the Pinta that are here this week.
Floating in the James were the two small, black boats like the ones Columbus used to sail from Spain to this country.
Walking down toward them, the RVA skyline was glistening behind the ropes and lines of the ship.
The view looked like it had been Photo-shopped in.
Shocking was the scale of the Nina which was built for the average male size in 1492, namely 4'8" to 5'3." Even I felt cramped at 5'5".
Honestly, it was a little Alice in Wonderland-like with the low ceilings, short doors and abbreviated sleeping quarters we got to see.
The Pinta was the same as the Nina except at one and a half times the scale, so it seemed less claustrophobic.
One of the guys aboard the Nina scoffed at the over-sized Pinta, saying, "That's why we make fun of them when we're not working. We have fierce Nina pride."
All I can say is you'd have to in order to be willing to be crammed onto such a small boat and sail from port to port like they're doing.
They are on a North American tour, after all. I know; I saw the t-shirts.
But there's more. A sign seeking "Crew Wanted" was very specific.
"If you don't mind working on little sleep, having little privacy, getting some blisters, possibly suffering seasickness, taking orders and sharing in menial tasks, you're our type of candidate."
I accept that I am not.
The best view was from the poop deck of the Pinta where a good breeze and the view from downriver made me forget the cramped heat of the captain's quarters, a veritable sweatbox.
Turns out that they'd even fired the cannon yesterday, bringing scads of local people to their windows and doors to see if the world was coming to an end.
I was sorry to have missed the cannon, but the history nerd part of me was satisfied, so we took off for something more mindless, although certainly holiday-appropriate.
Namely, strawberry picking.
True, I'm not really a hunter/gatherer, but I can play one for an afternoon.
And yes, it's definitely the end of strawberry picking season, but what the hell?
If you can't have fresh-picked strawberries on Memorial Day you may as well hang up your Yankee doodle dandy.
By the time we got to the Berry Patch, it was late in the day and there was only one other person picking.
It didn't matter. One of us had never picked strawberries before and the other was a pro, so as long as we got some berries, everyone would be happy.
The rows were definitely picked over, but with half an eye and a willingness to bend over to find the berries remaining red and plump on the interior of the plants, the pickin's were good.
As we worked our rows to fill a basket, a man started down the driveway and called to us.
"You gotta pick 'em yourself and then you still gotta pay?" he asked incredulously, noting, "I thought they were bigger!"
I could have made a corny joke but didn't. And on some farms they do grow gigantic varieties, but not this place.
Here they grow a smaller, sweeter type (without pesticides, so even better) that take longer to pick but reward with truer strawberry flavor, which I told the guy.
Not persuasively enough apparently, because he eventually left rather than take on the challenge.
What, everyone doesn't want to sweat in the late afternoon sun gathering crops like we did?
The cashier was surprised at how quickly we'd picked almost four pounds and sent us on our way, mentioning that it was the last day for picking there.
Timing is everything, at least in fruit picking and romance.
We made the final stop Osborne boat landing so we could have a waterside picnic.
Settling on a pink spread under the shade of tall trees, we watched boats pass as we dug into roast chicken, legume and olive salad, fruit salad, watermelon (duh, it's Memorial Day) and leftover savory tarts from last night's superb picnic.
After a leisurely repast, we strolled down to the river to see the sunset and the source if all the childish screaming that inevitably accompanies water play.
Sitting on a large piece of driftwood on the sand provided a placid view of the river headed east.
Up on the pier we saw people fishing ("You should see the size of the catfish that guy just caught!" we were told) while we admired the sunset reflecting on the water.
Our final resting place was a bench in a wooded area near the gazebo where a family group had set up their outdoor meal and was now happily splashing in the river, taking turns riding a jet ski.
It was a 21st century Norman Rockwell scene, "Memorial Day in the County."
We headed out, passing Poe's Pub where a sign said, "Sorry, we're open."
Tempting as that was (and it wasn't), we decided to end our day in a most Memorial Day-like fashion.
Warm berries freshly picked were washed and hulled while heavy cream was beaten into submission with a touch of sugar to become whipped cream.
Forget history, watermelon and endless motorcyclists on the road today.
Nothing says summer's practically here like a big bowl of picked strawberries smothered in whipped cream.
I'd even go so far as to say it was as fine a way as any to bring to a close a worthy celebration of Memorial Day.
And definitely worthy of firing a canon.
First there was the history component which took us down to the river to see the reproductions of the Nina and the Pinta that are here this week.
Floating in the James were the two small, black boats like the ones Columbus used to sail from Spain to this country.
Walking down toward them, the RVA skyline was glistening behind the ropes and lines of the ship.
The view looked like it had been Photo-shopped in.
Shocking was the scale of the Nina which was built for the average male size in 1492, namely 4'8" to 5'3." Even I felt cramped at 5'5".
Honestly, it was a little Alice in Wonderland-like with the low ceilings, short doors and abbreviated sleeping quarters we got to see.
The Pinta was the same as the Nina except at one and a half times the scale, so it seemed less claustrophobic.
One of the guys aboard the Nina scoffed at the over-sized Pinta, saying, "That's why we make fun of them when we're not working. We have fierce Nina pride."
All I can say is you'd have to in order to be willing to be crammed onto such a small boat and sail from port to port like they're doing.
They are on a North American tour, after all. I know; I saw the t-shirts.
But there's more. A sign seeking "Crew Wanted" was very specific.
"If you don't mind working on little sleep, having little privacy, getting some blisters, possibly suffering seasickness, taking orders and sharing in menial tasks, you're our type of candidate."
I accept that I am not.
The best view was from the poop deck of the Pinta where a good breeze and the view from downriver made me forget the cramped heat of the captain's quarters, a veritable sweatbox.
Turns out that they'd even fired the cannon yesterday, bringing scads of local people to their windows and doors to see if the world was coming to an end.
I was sorry to have missed the cannon, but the history nerd part of me was satisfied, so we took off for something more mindless, although certainly holiday-appropriate.
Namely, strawberry picking.
True, I'm not really a hunter/gatherer, but I can play one for an afternoon.
And yes, it's definitely the end of strawberry picking season, but what the hell?
If you can't have fresh-picked strawberries on Memorial Day you may as well hang up your Yankee doodle dandy.
By the time we got to the Berry Patch, it was late in the day and there was only one other person picking.
It didn't matter. One of us had never picked strawberries before and the other was a pro, so as long as we got some berries, everyone would be happy.
The rows were definitely picked over, but with half an eye and a willingness to bend over to find the berries remaining red and plump on the interior of the plants, the pickin's were good.
As we worked our rows to fill a basket, a man started down the driveway and called to us.
"You gotta pick 'em yourself and then you still gotta pay?" he asked incredulously, noting, "I thought they were bigger!"
I could have made a corny joke but didn't. And on some farms they do grow gigantic varieties, but not this place.
Here they grow a smaller, sweeter type (without pesticides, so even better) that take longer to pick but reward with truer strawberry flavor, which I told the guy.
Not persuasively enough apparently, because he eventually left rather than take on the challenge.
What, everyone doesn't want to sweat in the late afternoon sun gathering crops like we did?
The cashier was surprised at how quickly we'd picked almost four pounds and sent us on our way, mentioning that it was the last day for picking there.
Timing is everything, at least in fruit picking and romance.
We made the final stop Osborne boat landing so we could have a waterside picnic.
Settling on a pink spread under the shade of tall trees, we watched boats pass as we dug into roast chicken, legume and olive salad, fruit salad, watermelon (duh, it's Memorial Day) and leftover savory tarts from last night's superb picnic.
After a leisurely repast, we strolled down to the river to see the sunset and the source if all the childish screaming that inevitably accompanies water play.
Sitting on a large piece of driftwood on the sand provided a placid view of the river headed east.
Up on the pier we saw people fishing ("You should see the size of the catfish that guy just caught!" we were told) while we admired the sunset reflecting on the water.
Our final resting place was a bench in a wooded area near the gazebo where a family group had set up their outdoor meal and was now happily splashing in the river, taking turns riding a jet ski.
It was a 21st century Norman Rockwell scene, "Memorial Day in the County."
We headed out, passing Poe's Pub where a sign said, "Sorry, we're open."
Tempting as that was (and it wasn't), we decided to end our day in a most Memorial Day-like fashion.
Warm berries freshly picked were washed and hulled while heavy cream was beaten into submission with a touch of sugar to become whipped cream.
Forget history, watermelon and endless motorcyclists on the road today.
Nothing says summer's practically here like a big bowl of picked strawberries smothered in whipped cream.
I'd even go so far as to say it was as fine a way as any to bring to a close a worthy celebration of Memorial Day.
And definitely worthy of firing a canon.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Explosions in the Sky
What do you do on the Sunday night of a three-day weekend?
Well, you could start at the Shockoe Bottom Jazz Fest where the late afternoon sun had the good-sized audience hovering under the shade of the 17th Street Farmers' market shed.
Giving it their all was the Big Payback, a James Brown tribute band with a lead singer who observed, "Heat-wise, it's a hot day."
Considering that he had on all black, including a black blazer, and shades, I'm sure he knew about some sweating going on.
Standing in the refreshingly diverse crowd to watch the band, I smelled musk and watched as couples got their groove on.
Strangers danced with each other, booties were checked out and loose-limbed kids showed off their Michael Jackson moves.
Despite the sun and heat, there was no shortage of dancers of all ages, shapes and colors.
Although I'd heard of the Big Payback, I'd never seen them, so I was pleasantly surprised to see members of both the RVA Big Band and the funky New Belgians as members of the ensemble.
And if I'm going to stand around listening to a cover band, it may as well be one doing James Brown.
When their set ended, we ambled around the Bottom taking note of new restaurants (a tapas one opening Friday) before landing at C'est le Vin for a glass served by a handsome man in a pink button-down shirt, gray scarf, shorts and bossy sunglasses.
You know, the kind where people do what he says when he has them on.
I managed to score the last taste of the salmon-colored Perle de Roseline, a favorite and sadly out of stock, and instead enjoyed the Vina Altaba Rose tasting of rose petals and peach. Very girly.
After losing my jazz companion to northern Virginia, I was picked up by a favorite couple.
"You look adorable!" my girlfriend exclaimed, proving why I am devoted to her.
We were en route to Chimborazo Park for a picnic and viewing of the Rocketts Red Glare fireworks show for Memorial Day.
Yes, the very same one that was canceled due to inclement weather last year. We call this delayed gratification.
Parking right by the grassy hill, my girlfriend and I relaxed as her talented French boyfriend set up camp.
First there was a table on the edge of the overlook, followed by chairs. With cushions, I might add.
Nest came the loveliest yellow tablecloth, adorned with images of olive trees and flowering lavender.
"I bet everybody's watching us," my friend noted drolly as her beau continued to set up the perfect picnic.
He had a citronella candle in a copper pot, multiple bottles of rose, water glasses and a speaker for his iPod.
Once he'd set up and we sat down to eat and drink, we played host to any number of passersby, all fascinated by the spread.
Or perhaps it was the Mozart playing softly.
"That's looking real good," said a man walking his dog. "He wants some."
Safe to say that both man and dog wanted some.
"We wanted to walk by to see," exclaimed one of two girls who'd especially made a trip over to check us out. "Every time we looked over, you'd added more and we just had to come see."
I tried to be friendly and appreciative of the attention, but mainly I wanted to eat the ham and tomato or olive tarts, the salad, the kabobs and rice and the marinated Vidalia onion, cucumber and tomato salad spread out before me.
"You should do this for people and charge," said one of the girls. "I'd tell my husband to hire you!"
Yea, right.
Except that the Frenchman admitted to having set up rogue picnics under the Eiffel Tower and on the Champs Elysee for other al fresco fans, so I guess it would work.
"We just had to come see what was going on here," a stranger said walking by.
By the time we got to the cheese course, the fireworks had begun at Rocketts Landing and, as it turned out, we had a straight-shot view of them across the Bottom.
And our viewing vantage was ideal - far enough away not have our ears assaulted and close enough to have a breathtaking view of each and every explosion.
Non-stop pyrotechnics were accompanied by apricot tarts and more Rose, and before we knew it, the display was winding down.
But not before I saw fireworks I'd never seen before.
There were circles and squares lighting up the night sky, so different than the typical starbursts.
At the end, there were white-hot explosions that just didn't let up.
And with our distance (half a mile, maybe?) we had a bird's eye view of it all.
The moment the fireworks ended, the crowds dispersed and we were left alone on the edge of the valley to linger over our wine while fireflies flickered all around us.
My girlfriend handed me a birthday card with a gift certificate for Chop Suey inside.
The card read, "Time in a Bottle. Pairs nicely with birthdays and a nagging sense of mortality. Cheers!"
Correction: a yellow-tableclothed picnic on a breezy Chimborazo hill with rose and tarts alleviates any nagging sense of mortality.
Next time I'll bring a date to enjoy time in a bottle.
And maybe the French picnic master.
Well, you could start at the Shockoe Bottom Jazz Fest where the late afternoon sun had the good-sized audience hovering under the shade of the 17th Street Farmers' market shed.
Giving it their all was the Big Payback, a James Brown tribute band with a lead singer who observed, "Heat-wise, it's a hot day."
Considering that he had on all black, including a black blazer, and shades, I'm sure he knew about some sweating going on.
Standing in the refreshingly diverse crowd to watch the band, I smelled musk and watched as couples got their groove on.
Strangers danced with each other, booties were checked out and loose-limbed kids showed off their Michael Jackson moves.
Despite the sun and heat, there was no shortage of dancers of all ages, shapes and colors.
Although I'd heard of the Big Payback, I'd never seen them, so I was pleasantly surprised to see members of both the RVA Big Band and the funky New Belgians as members of the ensemble.
And if I'm going to stand around listening to a cover band, it may as well be one doing James Brown.
When their set ended, we ambled around the Bottom taking note of new restaurants (a tapas one opening Friday) before landing at C'est le Vin for a glass served by a handsome man in a pink button-down shirt, gray scarf, shorts and bossy sunglasses.
You know, the kind where people do what he says when he has them on.
I managed to score the last taste of the salmon-colored Perle de Roseline, a favorite and sadly out of stock, and instead enjoyed the Vina Altaba Rose tasting of rose petals and peach. Very girly.
After losing my jazz companion to northern Virginia, I was picked up by a favorite couple.
"You look adorable!" my girlfriend exclaimed, proving why I am devoted to her.
We were en route to Chimborazo Park for a picnic and viewing of the Rocketts Red Glare fireworks show for Memorial Day.
Yes, the very same one that was canceled due to inclement weather last year. We call this delayed gratification.
Parking right by the grassy hill, my girlfriend and I relaxed as her talented French boyfriend set up camp.
First there was a table on the edge of the overlook, followed by chairs. With cushions, I might add.
Nest came the loveliest yellow tablecloth, adorned with images of olive trees and flowering lavender.
"I bet everybody's watching us," my friend noted drolly as her beau continued to set up the perfect picnic.
He had a citronella candle in a copper pot, multiple bottles of rose, water glasses and a speaker for his iPod.
Once he'd set up and we sat down to eat and drink, we played host to any number of passersby, all fascinated by the spread.
Or perhaps it was the Mozart playing softly.
"That's looking real good," said a man walking his dog. "He wants some."
Safe to say that both man and dog wanted some.
"We wanted to walk by to see," exclaimed one of two girls who'd especially made a trip over to check us out. "Every time we looked over, you'd added more and we just had to come see."
I tried to be friendly and appreciative of the attention, but mainly I wanted to eat the ham and tomato or olive tarts, the salad, the kabobs and rice and the marinated Vidalia onion, cucumber and tomato salad spread out before me.
"You should do this for people and charge," said one of the girls. "I'd tell my husband to hire you!"
Yea, right.
Except that the Frenchman admitted to having set up rogue picnics under the Eiffel Tower and on the Champs Elysee for other al fresco fans, so I guess it would work.
"We just had to come see what was going on here," a stranger said walking by.
By the time we got to the cheese course, the fireworks had begun at Rocketts Landing and, as it turned out, we had a straight-shot view of them across the Bottom.
And our viewing vantage was ideal - far enough away not have our ears assaulted and close enough to have a breathtaking view of each and every explosion.
Non-stop pyrotechnics were accompanied by apricot tarts and more Rose, and before we knew it, the display was winding down.
But not before I saw fireworks I'd never seen before.
There were circles and squares lighting up the night sky, so different than the typical starbursts.
At the end, there were white-hot explosions that just didn't let up.
And with our distance (half a mile, maybe?) we had a bird's eye view of it all.
The moment the fireworks ended, the crowds dispersed and we were left alone on the edge of the valley to linger over our wine while fireflies flickered all around us.
My girlfriend handed me a birthday card with a gift certificate for Chop Suey inside.
The card read, "Time in a Bottle. Pairs nicely with birthdays and a nagging sense of mortality. Cheers!"
Correction: a yellow-tableclothed picnic on a breezy Chimborazo hill with rose and tarts alleviates any nagging sense of mortality.
Next time I'll bring a date to enjoy time in a bottle.
And maybe the French picnic master.
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