If you're going to hang a man's print on your bedroom wall, the least you can do is go to his festival.
So, for the fifth year in a row, I was at the Jonny Z. Festival on the closed block in front of Joe's Inn.
I know that three things are likely to happen every year at this particular street fest.
Inevitably, I will see all kinds of people I know.
Today, that included a rocker buying a Dave Edmunds album, a former co-worker and friend who informs me I was incapable of being unhappy or bitter, and the only other person I know who goes to (almost, according to her) as many shows as I do.
And that's not even counting the photographer friend who bought a dozen mini-cupcakes and shared one with me.
Secondly, I will hear local music.
Today, that was a performance by Gull, he of the octopus-like arms playing guitar and drums simultaneously (not to mention singing), which surprisingly included several songs done bare-faced.
Gull! Unmasked at the Jonny Z Fest!
Lastly, I will likely return home with a piece of local art to add to my collection.
The first year, it was that print (number 17 of 150) by the reason for the festival, Jonny Zanin himself.
Today it occupies a place of honor above my bed.
One year, it was a Travis Robertson mixed media piece of an old man's face, still one of my favorites today.
And this year it was a Natalie Kay piece discovered in her 50% off collection.
"More than This," was the mixed screen print and intaglio that caught my eye and wouldn't let me go.
An anatomically correct and delicately drawn red heart sits surrounded on three sides by a curving arc of intertwining designs.
Underneath, a black, flat map of the globe drips toward the bottom of the paper.
"The heart desires" is written in pencil at the bottom opposite Natalie's signature and the letters "AP" for artist's print.
After much hand-wringing (I really am too poor to be buying art right now), my companion and I split the difference and bought the print.
So instead of just eating cupcakes and hearing music, I was celebrating Jonny Z's spirit.
By supporting artists in memory of a guy I never knew, but whose legacy will always be a part of the local art scene, I was dong exactly what the buttons say.
"Live your life like Jonny Z."
I am doing my best.
And what better reminder than another piece of local art to do so.
More than this? There's nothing.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Got Me Some Tail
Southern met fantasy tonight, not once, but twice.
The unexpected began at the Roosevelt, where I ran into a friend and heard of her passage to India, got the latest local restaurant scuttlebutt from a cheap food lover and heard of the challenges of composing music for Tic-Tacs.
One of my favorite moments came when I was told that a friend, when asked the source of her recent hangover, had responded, "Karen."
Since I'm not the boss of her, I'm sure I don't know what she's talking about.
We ordered a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris (the one the winemaker calls a "happy mistake") at a mostly empty bar.
Bartender T got as far as telling us the first special - pigs' tails in a bourbon barrel teriyaki sauce - before we ordered it.
The Roosevelt's chef is the one who first introduced me to crispy fried pig's head many moons ago, so if he was offering up tail tonight, I wanted in.
The sauce was finger-licking' good on the outer thick crispy part of the tails while the inner fatty bits were just obscene.
Wisely, there were pickled veggies to balance the palate and no doubt help digest all that fat.
When all was said and done, we left a pile of little round bones on a sticky plate.
And went to the bathroom to wash our hands.
As the room began to fill up, we got our next dish, octopus fried rice.
Clearly the usually southern kitchen was having Asian fantasies tonight.
The fried rice had the freshest-tasting tiny sliced carrots and corn in it while the octopus was perfectly cooked.
And a great, big fried egg sat atop the whole thing, its bright yellow yolk imparting an unbelievable richness to the already-decadent flavors.
But two dishes in and we were already getting stuffed.
No fools, we followed such rich food with a lighter course to clear our arteries while we still had feeling in our left arms.
Roasted beet and watermelon salad with Caramont goat cheese and lemon oil was a refreshing break but it was the avocado mousse on it that took it over the top.
The creaminess of the avocado enhanced both beets and melon in an unexpectedly complementary way.
Over a discussion of noun and verb usage (no, really), we finished our wine while sharing a slice of Coca Cola cake, not because we needed it but because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Three layer cake after pigs' tails, why it's simply how it's done in the south.
That, or the wine was doing the ordering.
Best overheard conversation:
#1: I keep forgetting I'm in this country and want to say bonjour when I talk to people.
#2: Man, don't worry about it. Say whatever you want. This is America!
Honestly, I couldn't make this stuff up.
After losing my dinner companion to the daily grind, I made the cultural shift from Church Hill to the near west end and the Westhampton Theater.
I was there to see "Beasts of the Southern Wild," the Sundance grand jury prize winner and the one all the critics have been raving about.
It wasn't hard to see why.
The beautifully shot story of bayou folks who live on the wrong side of the levee used two first-time actors in the lead roles of father and daughter.
Watching non-actors carry a completely believable story about a Katrina-like storm that all but wipes out their tiny community was mesmerizing.
Mostly a hardscrabble story, at times it had a certain poignant humor.
When the father tells the little girl about her long-missing mother, he says, "She was so pretty, she never had to turn the stove on. She'd just walk in the kitchen and the water would start boiling."
Now that's pretty.
The movie's story of natural devastation and the resulting loss was wrapped around a fantasy element of nature being out of whack (Katrina being proof of that).
As a result, ice caps melt, ancient beasts are released from ice blocks and begin to roman the world, threatening even the bayou.
I'd be the first to admit I'm not much on fantasy, whether in books or movies. I'm more the non-fiction type.
But actually, there was so much honesty about the devotion of the small group of delta dwellers refusing to abandon their homes even after a mandatory evacuation, that I could swallow a few stampeding beasts as part of the plot.
And I'm glad I did. The moving story was unlike anything I've ever seen before.
Sometimes you need a little fiction to remind you of the basic tenets of life and death.
The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece, the whole universe will get busted.
I guess Sundance proves that the talented ones can make this stuff up...beautifully.
The unexpected began at the Roosevelt, where I ran into a friend and heard of her passage to India, got the latest local restaurant scuttlebutt from a cheap food lover and heard of the challenges of composing music for Tic-Tacs.
One of my favorite moments came when I was told that a friend, when asked the source of her recent hangover, had responded, "Karen."
Since I'm not the boss of her, I'm sure I don't know what she's talking about.
We ordered a bottle of Gabriele Rausse Vin de Gris (the one the winemaker calls a "happy mistake") at a mostly empty bar.
Bartender T got as far as telling us the first special - pigs' tails in a bourbon barrel teriyaki sauce - before we ordered it.
The Roosevelt's chef is the one who first introduced me to crispy fried pig's head many moons ago, so if he was offering up tail tonight, I wanted in.
The sauce was finger-licking' good on the outer thick crispy part of the tails while the inner fatty bits were just obscene.
Wisely, there were pickled veggies to balance the palate and no doubt help digest all that fat.
When all was said and done, we left a pile of little round bones on a sticky plate.
And went to the bathroom to wash our hands.
As the room began to fill up, we got our next dish, octopus fried rice.
Clearly the usually southern kitchen was having Asian fantasies tonight.
The fried rice had the freshest-tasting tiny sliced carrots and corn in it while the octopus was perfectly cooked.
And a great, big fried egg sat atop the whole thing, its bright yellow yolk imparting an unbelievable richness to the already-decadent flavors.
But two dishes in and we were already getting stuffed.
No fools, we followed such rich food with a lighter course to clear our arteries while we still had feeling in our left arms.
Roasted beet and watermelon salad with Caramont goat cheese and lemon oil was a refreshing break but it was the avocado mousse on it that took it over the top.
The creaminess of the avocado enhanced both beets and melon in an unexpectedly complementary way.
Over a discussion of noun and verb usage (no, really), we finished our wine while sharing a slice of Coca Cola cake, not because we needed it but because it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Three layer cake after pigs' tails, why it's simply how it's done in the south.
That, or the wine was doing the ordering.
Best overheard conversation:
#1: I keep forgetting I'm in this country and want to say bonjour when I talk to people.
#2: Man, don't worry about it. Say whatever you want. This is America!
Honestly, I couldn't make this stuff up.
After losing my dinner companion to the daily grind, I made the cultural shift from Church Hill to the near west end and the Westhampton Theater.
I was there to see "Beasts of the Southern Wild," the Sundance grand jury prize winner and the one all the critics have been raving about.
It wasn't hard to see why.
The beautifully shot story of bayou folks who live on the wrong side of the levee used two first-time actors in the lead roles of father and daughter.
Watching non-actors carry a completely believable story about a Katrina-like storm that all but wipes out their tiny community was mesmerizing.
Mostly a hardscrabble story, at times it had a certain poignant humor.
When the father tells the little girl about her long-missing mother, he says, "She was so pretty, she never had to turn the stove on. She'd just walk in the kitchen and the water would start boiling."
Now that's pretty.
The movie's story of natural devastation and the resulting loss was wrapped around a fantasy element of nature being out of whack (Katrina being proof of that).
As a result, ice caps melt, ancient beasts are released from ice blocks and begin to roman the world, threatening even the bayou.
I'd be the first to admit I'm not much on fantasy, whether in books or movies. I'm more the non-fiction type.
But actually, there was so much honesty about the devotion of the small group of delta dwellers refusing to abandon their homes even after a mandatory evacuation, that I could swallow a few stampeding beasts as part of the plot.
And I'm glad I did. The moving story was unlike anything I've ever seen before.
Sometimes you need a little fiction to remind you of the basic tenets of life and death.
The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece, the whole universe will get busted.
I guess Sundance proves that the talented ones can make this stuff up...beautifully.
Friday, August 10, 2012
This Kind of Thing Can Happen
Ice cream, it's what's for dinner.
Maybe it was the late lunch, maybe it was the busy day, but when I got to that point in the day, I ended up at Bev's for a double hot fudge sundae and called it a meal.
Honestly, I didn't have a lot of time because I wanted to make it to the Classics in the Courtyard series tonight because they were showing "The King and I" on the big screen in the garden at First Baptist.
Admittedly, I'm a heathen so what do I know about what's inside churches, but my foray inside to go to the bathroom revealed a few surprises.
Like a computer in the vestibule.
A rack of plastic umbrella bags like the kind I've seen in Kroger.
And a sign on the doors to the sanctuary saying "No food, drink pagers or cell phones."
People need to be told that those things are inappropriate in a room where services are held?
Hell, I'm a heathen and I could have guessed that.
Back in my chair in the courtyard, a church official announced that the movie would start at 8:00 or dusk, whichever came later.
"Dusk is going to win tonight," he predicted. It did.
The air was fragrant with the scent of bug spray as the overture finally began playing and people settled down.
I might have seen "The King and I" once, but if so it had been so long that a lot of it seemed new to me, including several of the songs.
Of course, it was 1956 Hollywood's version of Siam, so it was riddled with things like non-Asian actors (the king of Siam played by a Russian and a Burmese princess played by a Puerto Rican, for instance) and African elephants.
But I wasn't there for historical or geographical accuracy, I was there for songs by Rodgers and Hammerstein and Technicolor sets and costumes.
The blatant sexism of the king's character was an unexpectedly funny bonus, even given an 1862 setting.
Anna: Then how do you explain, your majesty, that many men remain faithful to only one wife?
King: They are sick.
Anna: Oh, but you do expect women to be faithful.
King; Naturally.
That's one way to look at it.
A woman is designed for pleasing a man. That is all. A man is designed to be pleased by many women.
It was a convenient philosophy for a man who had a harem of wives (and the resultant 104 children).
Why should I discuss what matters with a woman?
Um, because we're smart?
I don't think I was the only one surprised when the screen changed to say "Intermission" with part of the score once again being played.
The line, "We danced to that once in Richmond, remember?" got a big reaction from the audience, even given that it was a Richmond on Thames reference.
Of course there was all kinds of implied romance.
A man, even a king, doesn't say, "You are very difficult woman!" unless he's seriously attracted to you, whether it's 1862 or 2012.
And "Shall We Dance?" has to be one of the most rousing acts of foreplay ever committed to film.
Polka-ing with bare shoulders, bare feet and a man's hand on a corseted waist had enough sexual tension to elevate the whole story suddenly to a romance.
And if this heathen is going to sit in a church courtyard on a summer night, the least I can hope for is a little romance to go with the rustling treetops and flitting fireflies.
Or perchance
When the last little star has left the sky
Shall we still be together
And shall you be my new romance?
On the clear understanding
That this kind of thing can happen
Shall we dance?
Maybe it was the late lunch, maybe it was the busy day, but when I got to that point in the day, I ended up at Bev's for a double hot fudge sundae and called it a meal.
Honestly, I didn't have a lot of time because I wanted to make it to the Classics in the Courtyard series tonight because they were showing "The King and I" on the big screen in the garden at First Baptist.
Admittedly, I'm a heathen so what do I know about what's inside churches, but my foray inside to go to the bathroom revealed a few surprises.
Like a computer in the vestibule.
A rack of plastic umbrella bags like the kind I've seen in Kroger.
And a sign on the doors to the sanctuary saying "No food, drink pagers or cell phones."
People need to be told that those things are inappropriate in a room where services are held?
Hell, I'm a heathen and I could have guessed that.
Back in my chair in the courtyard, a church official announced that the movie would start at 8:00 or dusk, whichever came later.
"Dusk is going to win tonight," he predicted. It did.
The air was fragrant with the scent of bug spray as the overture finally began playing and people settled down.
I might have seen "The King and I" once, but if so it had been so long that a lot of it seemed new to me, including several of the songs.
Of course, it was 1956 Hollywood's version of Siam, so it was riddled with things like non-Asian actors (the king of Siam played by a Russian and a Burmese princess played by a Puerto Rican, for instance) and African elephants.
But I wasn't there for historical or geographical accuracy, I was there for songs by Rodgers and Hammerstein and Technicolor sets and costumes.
The blatant sexism of the king's character was an unexpectedly funny bonus, even given an 1862 setting.
Anna: Then how do you explain, your majesty, that many men remain faithful to only one wife?
King: They are sick.
Anna: Oh, but you do expect women to be faithful.
King; Naturally.
That's one way to look at it.
A woman is designed for pleasing a man. That is all. A man is designed to be pleased by many women.
It was a convenient philosophy for a man who had a harem of wives (and the resultant 104 children).
Why should I discuss what matters with a woman?
Um, because we're smart?
I don't think I was the only one surprised when the screen changed to say "Intermission" with part of the score once again being played.
The line, "We danced to that once in Richmond, remember?" got a big reaction from the audience, even given that it was a Richmond on Thames reference.
Of course there was all kinds of implied romance.
A man, even a king, doesn't say, "You are very difficult woman!" unless he's seriously attracted to you, whether it's 1862 or 2012.
And "Shall We Dance?" has to be one of the most rousing acts of foreplay ever committed to film.
Polka-ing with bare shoulders, bare feet and a man's hand on a corseted waist had enough sexual tension to elevate the whole story suddenly to a romance.
And if this heathen is going to sit in a church courtyard on a summer night, the least I can hope for is a little romance to go with the rustling treetops and flitting fireflies.
Or perchance
When the last little star has left the sky
Shall we still be together
And shall you be my new romance?
On the clear understanding
That this kind of thing can happen
Shall we dance?
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Afternoon with a Water View
As far as water views go, today's were both superb.
The first came courtesy of a woman I was interviewing at her home in Windsor Farms. "I thought it might be nice to do it here," she said, indicating two leather chairs in an alcove. "So you can enjoy the view."
Given the magnificence of the view, only a blind person or an idiot wouldn't have been thrilled. A curved window looked over the canal running at the edge of her property line. Behind that ran a train track and just to the left of the tracks was the James River.
People live like this?
Let's just say I took my time with the interview and after we finished, we sat there chatting about solving the world's problems while I admired the scenery. Much as I hated to leave, I knew I was in for another treat at the VMFA.
Today is the second day of the Chihuly installation of "Red Reeds" in the reflecting pool by the sculpture garden. After choosing lunch at Best Cafe, I took my tray outside for a front row seat for the installation.
Looking like red cattails, the varying heights of the red glass had been positioned between water lilies and lotus growing in the pool. The tips of the reeds varied from clear to dark. A steady procession of people walked up to the rail next to my ringside table to snap photos of the reeds.
As I sat there eating my turkey and swiss on herbed focaccia and Sprecher root beer, I was a little disappointed that no work was being done at the moment. Biting into a potato chip, it occurred to me that surely the workers, like me, were having lunch now.
So I decided to wait it out.
Sure enough, within half an hour, two men crossed into the cordoned-off area and began pulling on chest-high waders. Now we were talking.
With one female, straw-hatted member of Team Chihuly on the deck and two rubber-clad guys in the water, they proceeded to meticulously adjust the angle of the errant reeds. She would tell them which one was askew and they would painstakingly adjust it to her eye.
Since she was right there and I was right there, it wasn't long before we ended up talking. I learned that the glass is blown in Finland because of the enormous ovens that allow them to make bigger pieces.
Some of the reeds are ten feet tall.
What surprised me the most was that technically the reeds were all the same color, despite the fact that they seemed to vary from bright red to dark red. Turns out they all come from the same vat of color but it's the pulling of the material over a period that results in variations in the shades.
So they weren't all the same color, just all made from the same color of red glass. And that red is apparently a color not made in this country.
From my vantage point on the deck, I found the complementary colors of red glass against a background of green grass to be stunning. From my take as visitor to the VMFA, I found the installation of columns of red reeds in the reflecting pool to be inspired.
From my perspective of an art lover in Richmond, I found the continuing brilliance of the museum's choices to be world class.
Truly fine art at its finest.
The first came courtesy of a woman I was interviewing at her home in Windsor Farms. "I thought it might be nice to do it here," she said, indicating two leather chairs in an alcove. "So you can enjoy the view."
Given the magnificence of the view, only a blind person or an idiot wouldn't have been thrilled. A curved window looked over the canal running at the edge of her property line. Behind that ran a train track and just to the left of the tracks was the James River.
People live like this?
Let's just say I took my time with the interview and after we finished, we sat there chatting about solving the world's problems while I admired the scenery. Much as I hated to leave, I knew I was in for another treat at the VMFA.
Today is the second day of the Chihuly installation of "Red Reeds" in the reflecting pool by the sculpture garden. After choosing lunch at Best Cafe, I took my tray outside for a front row seat for the installation.
Looking like red cattails, the varying heights of the red glass had been positioned between water lilies and lotus growing in the pool. The tips of the reeds varied from clear to dark. A steady procession of people walked up to the rail next to my ringside table to snap photos of the reeds.
As I sat there eating my turkey and swiss on herbed focaccia and Sprecher root beer, I was a little disappointed that no work was being done at the moment. Biting into a potato chip, it occurred to me that surely the workers, like me, were having lunch now.
So I decided to wait it out.
Sure enough, within half an hour, two men crossed into the cordoned-off area and began pulling on chest-high waders. Now we were talking.
With one female, straw-hatted member of Team Chihuly on the deck and two rubber-clad guys in the water, they proceeded to meticulously adjust the angle of the errant reeds. She would tell them which one was askew and they would painstakingly adjust it to her eye.
Since she was right there and I was right there, it wasn't long before we ended up talking. I learned that the glass is blown in Finland because of the enormous ovens that allow them to make bigger pieces.
Some of the reeds are ten feet tall.
What surprised me the most was that technically the reeds were all the same color, despite the fact that they seemed to vary from bright red to dark red. Turns out they all come from the same vat of color but it's the pulling of the material over a period that results in variations in the shades.
So they weren't all the same color, just all made from the same color of red glass. And that red is apparently a color not made in this country.
From my vantage point on the deck, I found the complementary colors of red glass against a background of green grass to be stunning. From my take as visitor to the VMFA, I found the installation of columns of red reeds in the reflecting pool to be inspired.
From my perspective of an art lover in Richmond, I found the continuing brilliance of the museum's choices to be world class.
Truly fine art at its finest.
Look What the Cat Dragged In
Some people are trouble.
Like the friend you haven't been out with at night for a couple of years.
You know the kind.
When her husband dropped her off at my house for an evening of debauchery, I asked when I should have her home.
Without missing a beat, he said, "Sun-up."
Well, that certainly gave us some wiggle room.
After much back and forth about where to spend our evening, we started fairly early at C'est le Vin since she'd never been there.
Given the choice of a table on the dining room side or on the bar side, we opted for the latter, taking a high wooden table near the bar.
Our affable server set the tone for the evening by telling us to take our time and order at our own pace.
We didn't need to be told twice.
It had been ages since we'd had a girls' night out and we only had about a hundred things to discuss.
Like who's opening new restaurants where. And why beagles are the best dogs ever. And how satisfying it is to make a mix CD and have people hear a song they love on it.
The Verdejo we ordered was out of stock until Friday, so we settled on a Spanish blend to whet our whistles and began ordering.
Since it was small plates, we justified ordering an endless stream of them.
Stuffed poquillo peppers with herbed goat cheese and toasted pine nuts, a dish I've had several times, were an immediate hit with my friend.
Peppered crab with asparagus and roasted corn delivered summer flavors.
Shrimp with roasted garlic aioli was as good as I remembered from my last visit.
Mid-meal, a train lumbered by on the track right behind Havana, making a picture-perfect view from where we sat.
The seared polenta with poblano peppers was crispy on the outside and creamy inside.
Sirloin and Chorizo meatballs with shaved Parmesan were so good we ended up ordering a second plate of them.
Broiled endive with Gorgonzola, orange candied walnuts and blueberry vinaigrette managed to be both light and rich at the same time.
As we sat there blathering away about men, day trips and exes, a gallery-owning friend came in with an antiques dealer.
Not long after, the tango crowd arrived and lessons were being given while other couples tangoed up and down the room.
Watching them tango almost made me want to try to learn but I'm not sure I could have talked my friend into dancing cheek to cheek with me.
I did mention to our server that I thought he looked like Luther Vandross in his young, skinny phase (coincidentally, not long before our server was born) and he was so intrigued that he immediately asked the owner to Google pictures of the singer so he could see.
As we walked out, he thanked us for coming in and gave me the thumbs up for the comparison.
Since we'd missed the Purple Martin Festival by four days, we decided to do a little bird watching on our own.
Heading down 17th Street toward the Bradford pear trees where the martins roost, we reluctantly admitted to ourselves that we should have come out at dusk to see their swooping sky maneuvers.
But although they were no longer airborne, they were still wide awake and the chattering of hundreds of birds in the trees above us made clear that no one had settled down for the night yet.
So we weren't the only ones.
Every branch was alive with purple martins nearly as numerous as leaves on the pear trees against the midnight-blue sky.
It was our own mini-martin festival.
Leaving the the birds in the Bottom, we headed back to Jackson Ward for a nightcap.
At the Belvidere at Broad, we found a full nearly full bar with two seats available.
Sliding into them, bartender Matt introduced a new bartender, saying, "This is Karen. She's been here longer than I have."
What do you expect for a place two blocks from my house?
While music from the '80s blared, we chatted with the owner about sailing (which I haven't done), painting (I can't imagine going home after a night out and getting out my brushes) and his new digs (not far from my own).
By the time we finished our drinks and conversation, we were the sole occupants of the restaurant.
Reluctantly, we ended our evening.
And it wasn't even sun-up.
But now that I look outside, I'm seeing a different story.
Debauching takes time. I'm thinking we shouldn't wait so long next time.
Like the friend you haven't been out with at night for a couple of years.
You know the kind.
When her husband dropped her off at my house for an evening of debauchery, I asked when I should have her home.
Without missing a beat, he said, "Sun-up."
Well, that certainly gave us some wiggle room.
After much back and forth about where to spend our evening, we started fairly early at C'est le Vin since she'd never been there.
Given the choice of a table on the dining room side or on the bar side, we opted for the latter, taking a high wooden table near the bar.
Our affable server set the tone for the evening by telling us to take our time and order at our own pace.
We didn't need to be told twice.
It had been ages since we'd had a girls' night out and we only had about a hundred things to discuss.
Like who's opening new restaurants where. And why beagles are the best dogs ever. And how satisfying it is to make a mix CD and have people hear a song they love on it.
The Verdejo we ordered was out of stock until Friday, so we settled on a Spanish blend to whet our whistles and began ordering.
Since it was small plates, we justified ordering an endless stream of them.
Stuffed poquillo peppers with herbed goat cheese and toasted pine nuts, a dish I've had several times, were an immediate hit with my friend.
Peppered crab with asparagus and roasted corn delivered summer flavors.
Shrimp with roasted garlic aioli was as good as I remembered from my last visit.
Mid-meal, a train lumbered by on the track right behind Havana, making a picture-perfect view from where we sat.
The seared polenta with poblano peppers was crispy on the outside and creamy inside.
Sirloin and Chorizo meatballs with shaved Parmesan were so good we ended up ordering a second plate of them.
Broiled endive with Gorgonzola, orange candied walnuts and blueberry vinaigrette managed to be both light and rich at the same time.
As we sat there blathering away about men, day trips and exes, a gallery-owning friend came in with an antiques dealer.
Not long after, the tango crowd arrived and lessons were being given while other couples tangoed up and down the room.
Watching them tango almost made me want to try to learn but I'm not sure I could have talked my friend into dancing cheek to cheek with me.
I did mention to our server that I thought he looked like Luther Vandross in his young, skinny phase (coincidentally, not long before our server was born) and he was so intrigued that he immediately asked the owner to Google pictures of the singer so he could see.
As we walked out, he thanked us for coming in and gave me the thumbs up for the comparison.
Since we'd missed the Purple Martin Festival by four days, we decided to do a little bird watching on our own.
Heading down 17th Street toward the Bradford pear trees where the martins roost, we reluctantly admitted to ourselves that we should have come out at dusk to see their swooping sky maneuvers.
But although they were no longer airborne, they were still wide awake and the chattering of hundreds of birds in the trees above us made clear that no one had settled down for the night yet.
So we weren't the only ones.
Every branch was alive with purple martins nearly as numerous as leaves on the pear trees against the midnight-blue sky.
It was our own mini-martin festival.
Leaving the the birds in the Bottom, we headed back to Jackson Ward for a nightcap.
At the Belvidere at Broad, we found a full nearly full bar with two seats available.
Sliding into them, bartender Matt introduced a new bartender, saying, "This is Karen. She's been here longer than I have."
What do you expect for a place two blocks from my house?
While music from the '80s blared, we chatted with the owner about sailing (which I haven't done), painting (I can't imagine going home after a night out and getting out my brushes) and his new digs (not far from my own).
By the time we finished our drinks and conversation, we were the sole occupants of the restaurant.
Reluctantly, we ended our evening.
And it wasn't even sun-up.
But now that I look outside, I'm seeing a different story.
Debauching takes time. I'm thinking we shouldn't wait so long next time.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
This Charming Man
Sometimes you just need to have dinner with someone you've never had dinner with before.
As lovely as lunch can be, there just isn't as much time to hear restaurant gossip, talk to the staff and introduce me to a millionaire over a mid-day meal.
Obviously the gossip is unrepeatable, but I had to laugh about the staff chats.
Not once, but twice, my dinner companion guessed where the person went to high school based on the same information I heard and I had no idea where they'd been schooled.
To make it even more unbelievable, he knew people at both those schools.
And one of them wasn't even in central Virginia.
I don't even know where my own friends went to high school, much less guessing where strangers went.
But the staff was less interesting than the millionaire in shorts who came over to say hello to my companion.
It's not like I knew his financial status as we were being introduced and since I'm friendly to practically anybody (some would say overly friendly), I just smiled, shook hands and made witty banter.
But now I can say I've met a millionaire.
"And he's the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet," my friend told me when he left, as if he had to convince me that the charming man was indeed nice.
After stuffing ourselves silly, we walked up the block together before going our separate ways.
He's an early riser (like 5 a.am. early) so while I was going out, he wasn't.
When I got to the Nile, a crowd was already forming for the "86 Reality" premiere after party show.
The new cable series "86 Reality" had aired at 10 and afterwards, the bands who had been featured on the show were playing live.
I ran into some friends, talked for a while and, like the others there, patiently waited for the show to start.
Only it didn't.
Finally Michael of Canary, oh, Canary, tonight's headliner, told me that the opening band was waiting for P.A.
That band was Charlottesville's Manorlady, a band I'd seen and liked very much at Sprout back in March 2011.
"We could do our set a cappella," Manorlady's guitarist Aaron says. "We started that way."
But when your sound is based on synths, guitar and bass with two vocalists, microphones are helpful.
So there was an indefinite pause until the equipment arrived.
It didn't bother me.
I heard about a friend's Scandinavian vacation and how several seemingly unfortunate events had led to wonderful things happening to him.
From another friend, I got his take on friendship and how he thinks we are similar.
A girl I met tonight who'd just come from stuffing herself at Mama Zu explained how after a filling meal she likes to go home and lay on the floor before going out to a show.
Good to know because I hadn't.
When the mics finally arrived and were being set up, I noticed that we were going to have a light show with the music.
Except that instead of using a computer, this guy was kicking it old school.
He had an overhead projector, the kind I remember from school.
On the light table were four glass plates of varying sizes, between which he put oil and food coloring.
Then once the set started, he proceeded to lift and drop the plates, sometimes twirling them, sometimes twisting them in time to the music.
The effect on the wall behind Manorlady was very groovy and certainly more labor intensive than using technology.
Finally the band began, with Aaron saying, "This is very D.I.Y., so let us know if something doesn't sound good."
I would have put bass player Melissa's vocals a bit higher in the mix, but overall, their funky take on shoegaze, which segued from song to song in many cases without pause, was sounding just fine.
No surprise that having liked them a year and a half ago, I liked them still now.
They said they'd just come back from tour ("our best ever") and that they have a new CD coming out.
Because they'd started an hour late, their set seemed too short.
Because I was stuffed and hadn't laid on the floor before the show, I said my good nights knowing the other two bands were going to have to do even shorter sets to end by a legal time.
Sometimes you just need to hear a little shoegaze after meeting a millionaire.
That much I'd done.
As lovely as lunch can be, there just isn't as much time to hear restaurant gossip, talk to the staff and introduce me to a millionaire over a mid-day meal.
Obviously the gossip is unrepeatable, but I had to laugh about the staff chats.
Not once, but twice, my dinner companion guessed where the person went to high school based on the same information I heard and I had no idea where they'd been schooled.
To make it even more unbelievable, he knew people at both those schools.
And one of them wasn't even in central Virginia.
I don't even know where my own friends went to high school, much less guessing where strangers went.
But the staff was less interesting than the millionaire in shorts who came over to say hello to my companion.
It's not like I knew his financial status as we were being introduced and since I'm friendly to practically anybody (some would say overly friendly), I just smiled, shook hands and made witty banter.
But now I can say I've met a millionaire.
"And he's the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet," my friend told me when he left, as if he had to convince me that the charming man was indeed nice.
After stuffing ourselves silly, we walked up the block together before going our separate ways.
He's an early riser (like 5 a.am. early) so while I was going out, he wasn't.
When I got to the Nile, a crowd was already forming for the "86 Reality" premiere after party show.
The new cable series "86 Reality" had aired at 10 and afterwards, the bands who had been featured on the show were playing live.
I ran into some friends, talked for a while and, like the others there, patiently waited for the show to start.
Only it didn't.
Finally Michael of Canary, oh, Canary, tonight's headliner, told me that the opening band was waiting for P.A.
That band was Charlottesville's Manorlady, a band I'd seen and liked very much at Sprout back in March 2011.
"We could do our set a cappella," Manorlady's guitarist Aaron says. "We started that way."
But when your sound is based on synths, guitar and bass with two vocalists, microphones are helpful.
So there was an indefinite pause until the equipment arrived.
It didn't bother me.
I heard about a friend's Scandinavian vacation and how several seemingly unfortunate events had led to wonderful things happening to him.
From another friend, I got his take on friendship and how he thinks we are similar.
A girl I met tonight who'd just come from stuffing herself at Mama Zu explained how after a filling meal she likes to go home and lay on the floor before going out to a show.
Good to know because I hadn't.
When the mics finally arrived and were being set up, I noticed that we were going to have a light show with the music.
Except that instead of using a computer, this guy was kicking it old school.
He had an overhead projector, the kind I remember from school.
On the light table were four glass plates of varying sizes, between which he put oil and food coloring.
Then once the set started, he proceeded to lift and drop the plates, sometimes twirling them, sometimes twisting them in time to the music.
The effect on the wall behind Manorlady was very groovy and certainly more labor intensive than using technology.
Finally the band began, with Aaron saying, "This is very D.I.Y., so let us know if something doesn't sound good."
I would have put bass player Melissa's vocals a bit higher in the mix, but overall, their funky take on shoegaze, which segued from song to song in many cases without pause, was sounding just fine.
No surprise that having liked them a year and a half ago, I liked them still now.
They said they'd just come back from tour ("our best ever") and that they have a new CD coming out.
Because they'd started an hour late, their set seemed too short.
Because I was stuffed and hadn't laid on the floor before the show, I said my good nights knowing the other two bands were going to have to do even shorter sets to end by a legal time.
Sometimes you just need to hear a little shoegaze after meeting a millionaire.
That much I'd done.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Of Tingas, Ties and Trains
When shall we do something, a friend inquires.
I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.
What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.
Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.
I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."
He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.
If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.
Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.
I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.
Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.
Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.
I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.
By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.
Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.
When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."
My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."
His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.
With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.
No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.
On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.
I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.
With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.
He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.
We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.
And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.
About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.
This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.
We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.
When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.
After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.
There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.
A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.
The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.
"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.
The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.
The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."
Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.
Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?
I vote for tonight and suggest Pasture because it's Mexican Monday.
What that means is that Sergio ("He's not the king for nothing") has concocted a dish remembered from his homeland.
Sitting at the bar, I sip Santa Julia Torrontes until my friend arrives looking especially dapper, right down to his tie.
I learn he has a date later tonight with a roller girl and joke, "I hope she doesn't beat you up."
He is nonplussed about the impending date, a good thing in my opinion.
If she is unimpressed by him, the loss is hers.
Agreeably, he orders the same wine and when I order two of tonight's special, he does the same.
I suggest he look at the menu, but, like me, he wants something we can only get this one night.
Chef Sergio is offering chicken tinga tostadas and they arrive looking brightly-colored fresh and smelling like smokey chipotle.
Two crispy tostadas hold a mound of braised chicken cooked with onions, garlic, chipotle chilis and tomato and topped with cheese and house-made pico de gallo.
I dive in while he shares the story of another recent date (an architect) for whom he ate goat cheese (which he detests) who deservedly didn't make the cut.
By the time his story ended, I am on my second tostada and he has yet to start his first.
Meanwhile, the bartender has overheard part of our conversation and inquires about tonight's date.
When he tells her, she responds, "She might beat you up. And lose the tie."
My clever friend hits it right back. "There's a bat in the tie."
His appetite is more delicate than mine, so he doesn't finish his second tostada.
With no shame whatsoever, I eat all but the last bite of mine.
No one is ever going to accuse me of having a feminine appetite.
On the other hand, I can attest to the fact that Sergio is king and his chicken tinga tostadas rule.
I am very glad I hadn't missed Mexican Monday.
With this particular friend, our conversations are always satisfying and tonight's particularly so.
He teases me with tidbits from Henry Miller's "The Rosy Crucifixion," promising to lend it to me when he finishes reading it.
We talk about dancing the way it was done in the twenties, when a couple talked as they danced.
And about how only novels written in an era can successfully capture period details accurately.
About one of the pleasures of reading Miller being the unfamiliar words necessitating a dictionary.
This, of course, leads to talk of the Oxford English Dictionary.
We are nerds of the highest order sitting at a bar sipping wine.
When he leaves for his date, I leave for Balliceaux to hear the RVA Big Band.
After scoring a prime bar stool in a crowded room, I am joined by another swing lover and his out-of-town guest.
There are lots of familiar faces in the band tonight, including Bob Miller on trumpet along with the usual suspects.
A couple of faces missing from last week are back in place this time.
The bandleader says his Dad is in the room and when I ask him during intermission if he made any mistakes in front of his father, he says yes.
"But he wouldn't notice," he winked.
The band starts swinging and the crowd is fully appreciative, feet tapping and heads bobbing.
The essence of the magic that is Monday nights at Balliceaux is fully apparent when the band launches into the Duke Ellington Orchestra's signature song, "Take the A-Train."
Sophisticated and swinging, it is a showcase for the trombones, trumpets and saxophones and solos abound.
Who knew Mexican Monday would lead me straight to Harlem?
Monday, August 6, 2012
Glowing a Golden Haze of Sweat
It's a damn shame when you can't even find your way to a party.
A friend had provided directions, but after multiple trips up and down the street, his house was nowhere to be found.
In my own defense, I don't know southside very well.
So, we abandoned Plan A and moved on to Plan B, which involved barbecue at Alamo.
After ordering a pig and slaw sandwich and a sampler platter (brisket, barbecued chicken, cornbread, cowboy beans and collard greens), we headed up the hill to the park.
There was a lovely breeze blowing, a welcome contrast to the late afternoon sun and heat.
There, from our lofty perch atop Chimborazo, we poured Adega de Pegoes, a Portuguese blend made for barbecue.
It was a meal eaten with sporks and fingers and a couple of dog visitors, no doubt attracted by the mounds of meat.
We took our sticky fingers directly to Strange Matter, where the perennial latecomer greeted me as I got my wristband by making sure I knew he'd arrived first.
Since he's usually the late or later type, I ceded the victory to him. This time.
Super Vacations were already playing and it was barely 8:10 and still light outside.
Such is the nature of an all ages show. Get 'em in early and get 'em out to their parents early.
I'd seen Super Vacations before, so knew what to expect with their psych-surf, albeit a dark and sometimes aggressive sound.
As their energetic set progressed, I began to feel as hot and sweaty as they looked.
And the night was young.
White Laces played next and they continue to sound tighter with every show I hear them.
Their set was essentially a preview of their soon-to-be released album, "Moves," which promises to be a game-changer for them.
Since I first saw them play at Fridays in the Courtyard back in May 2010, I have watched in amazement as they have grown as a band and developed their distinctive sound.
I remember the drummer breaking a drumstick that breezy May night (and bandleader Landis imploring the crowd, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?" No one did) and tonight's set ended with the drummer sending a stick flying out into the crowd.
Afterwards, I grabbed some hot people and headed outside in search of oxygen and a chance to cool my core.
It was hot as hell inside Strange Matter, so you take your breaks where you can.
But I made sure to be back in my spot by the sound booth when Wild Nothing took the stage.
This is a band I was turned on to by a new friend last year.
Listening to his album of bedroom pop, I remember being awed at how one guy had created so much sound all by himself.
And now that he was touring, he'd necessarily had to assemble a band around him to recreate what he'd once done solo.
I wasn't even sure how many musicians it would take to do that.
The answer was five (all very young and earnest looking) and the sound was spot-on.
Jack, who was once all of Wild Nothing, acknowledged the show as like a homecoming, since he went to college at Tech and recorded the CD that won my heart there.
Did I mention it was called "Gemini," also this fan's astrological sign?
In fact, his parents were at the show along with other relatives, he said.
From the first guitar strains that proclaimed "I love the '80s" to the final sweaty song, I was thrilled to be as impressed with the sound live as I had been with the record.
My date, who knew nothing of the band, turned to me four songs in and said, "Well, he's certainly done his Cure homework."
And for those of us who loved the Cure the first time around, it was a real pleasure to hear it being reinterpreted by a younger generation.
Another WRIR DJ made his opinion known by pantomiming "83" to indicate the year of the sound we were hearing.
Frankly, I don't care how derivative a band is when they're delivering catchy choruses, longing dreamgaze and jangly guitars with an unabashed nod to their predecessors.
The crowd seemed to agree with me no matter the age, dancing in place and sometimes even singing along to lyrics no doubt learned in their own bedrooms.
By the final sweaty song (the one with the riff reminiscent of Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart"), Jack looked justifiably well pleased with himself and his band.
"You could start a Slip 'n Slide with my body," he joked.
By that point, every body in the room had that potential because all the oxygen in the room was long gone and sweat was running down everyone's neck, face and any other exposed body parts.
Perhaps my date put it best.
"You should call your post "Sweating to the Oldies," he cracked.
Considering my penchant for twenty somethings interpreting music I liked the first time around, I'd rather call it "When Bedroom Pop Goes Live."
No, no. Check that.
"When Young Man's Music Made Me Hot." That's it.
A friend had provided directions, but after multiple trips up and down the street, his house was nowhere to be found.
In my own defense, I don't know southside very well.
So, we abandoned Plan A and moved on to Plan B, which involved barbecue at Alamo.
After ordering a pig and slaw sandwich and a sampler platter (brisket, barbecued chicken, cornbread, cowboy beans and collard greens), we headed up the hill to the park.
There was a lovely breeze blowing, a welcome contrast to the late afternoon sun and heat.
There, from our lofty perch atop Chimborazo, we poured Adega de Pegoes, a Portuguese blend made for barbecue.
It was a meal eaten with sporks and fingers and a couple of dog visitors, no doubt attracted by the mounds of meat.
We took our sticky fingers directly to Strange Matter, where the perennial latecomer greeted me as I got my wristband by making sure I knew he'd arrived first.
Since he's usually the late or later type, I ceded the victory to him. This time.
Super Vacations were already playing and it was barely 8:10 and still light outside.
Such is the nature of an all ages show. Get 'em in early and get 'em out to their parents early.
I'd seen Super Vacations before, so knew what to expect with their psych-surf, albeit a dark and sometimes aggressive sound.
As their energetic set progressed, I began to feel as hot and sweaty as they looked.
And the night was young.
White Laces played next and they continue to sound tighter with every show I hear them.
Their set was essentially a preview of their soon-to-be released album, "Moves," which promises to be a game-changer for them.
Since I first saw them play at Fridays in the Courtyard back in May 2010, I have watched in amazement as they have grown as a band and developed their distinctive sound.
I remember the drummer breaking a drumstick that breezy May night (and bandleader Landis imploring the crowd, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?" No one did) and tonight's set ended with the drummer sending a stick flying out into the crowd.
Afterwards, I grabbed some hot people and headed outside in search of oxygen and a chance to cool my core.
It was hot as hell inside Strange Matter, so you take your breaks where you can.
But I made sure to be back in my spot by the sound booth when Wild Nothing took the stage.
This is a band I was turned on to by a new friend last year.
Listening to his album of bedroom pop, I remember being awed at how one guy had created so much sound all by himself.
And now that he was touring, he'd necessarily had to assemble a band around him to recreate what he'd once done solo.
I wasn't even sure how many musicians it would take to do that.
The answer was five (all very young and earnest looking) and the sound was spot-on.
Jack, who was once all of Wild Nothing, acknowledged the show as like a homecoming, since he went to college at Tech and recorded the CD that won my heart there.
Did I mention it was called "Gemini," also this fan's astrological sign?
In fact, his parents were at the show along with other relatives, he said.
From the first guitar strains that proclaimed "I love the '80s" to the final sweaty song, I was thrilled to be as impressed with the sound live as I had been with the record.
My date, who knew nothing of the band, turned to me four songs in and said, "Well, he's certainly done his Cure homework."
And for those of us who loved the Cure the first time around, it was a real pleasure to hear it being reinterpreted by a younger generation.
Another WRIR DJ made his opinion known by pantomiming "83" to indicate the year of the sound we were hearing.
Frankly, I don't care how derivative a band is when they're delivering catchy choruses, longing dreamgaze and jangly guitars with an unabashed nod to their predecessors.
The crowd seemed to agree with me no matter the age, dancing in place and sometimes even singing along to lyrics no doubt learned in their own bedrooms.
By the final sweaty song (the one with the riff reminiscent of Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart"), Jack looked justifiably well pleased with himself and his band.
"You could start a Slip 'n Slide with my body," he joked.
By that point, every body in the room had that potential because all the oxygen in the room was long gone and sweat was running down everyone's neck, face and any other exposed body parts.
Perhaps my date put it best.
"You should call your post "Sweating to the Oldies," he cracked.
Considering my penchant for twenty somethings interpreting music I liked the first time around, I'd rather call it "When Bedroom Pop Goes Live."
No, no. Check that.
"When Young Man's Music Made Me Hot." That's it.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Happy Birthday Hovering
In a way, I went to two birthday parties tonight.
The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.
At least at first.
Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.
As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.
Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.
You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.
Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.
Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.
Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.
We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.
The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.
He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.
After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.
"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.
Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.
The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.
Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.
During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."
Ba-dum bum.
Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.
I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."
We all know there's a difference.
Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.
Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.
The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.
From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.
Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.
Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."
Illusion or not, I did, too.
Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply
Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.
"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."
That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.
Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.
Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.
The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.
After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.
"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."
Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."
"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."
He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."
Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.
Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.
Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.
Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?
It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.
The first was at Bistro 27 for a friend's beloved and they were the only two people I knew at the party.
At least at first.
Before it was all over, I met a wine rep who used to have waist-length hair, a TV personality (current or former, I have no clue since I have no TV) and a lawyer who said she always wears "big girl shoes" because she's short.
As I was being the good party guest and mingling, the chef came up, exhorting me to eat.
Since no one else was, I figured he wanted me to get the ball rolling.
You don't have to tell me twice to load up at the buffet.
Mini-crab cakes everyone raved about, jumbo shrimp (an oxymoron, I know) with house-made cocktail sauce, spoonfuls of lobster salad, lamb sausage with walnuts and tzatziki and spanikopita were loaded onto my plate.
Since I'd come alone, I took a seat at a table adorned with a low vase of red roses (the birthday boy's favorite color) and began to eat.
Almost immediately, a guest swooped in and invited me to join them at the bar.
We bonded over our memories of certain distant decades and our concern about subsequent disillusioned and socially inept generations.
The birthday boy and I compared theater notes and I insisted he go see TheaterLAB's production of "Trojans" this week.
He promised me a full discussion of it afterwards, which was exactly what I was seeking.
After a few hours, I said my farewells so I could leave for a show.
"Call me when you get out," the host suggested.
Clearly he'd had one too many Cosmos if he was suggesting I call anyone, but he also had the luxury of walking home when all was said and done.
The vibe was decidedly warmer at Cellar Door where the first of four bands was attracting a crowd.
Herschel Stratego, he of the clever songwriting and intermittent ukulele playing (he forgot the chords on a Randy Newman cover), began his set with "Shake That Ass," a crowd-pleaser if ever there was one.
During one of his between-song tangents, he talked about self-esteem, cracking, "I always thought mock chicken was a really mean name for a dish."
Ba-dum bum.
Further in, he apologized for having allergies and proceeded to chug from a quart bottle of honey.
I laughed out loud when he went on another tangent, saying, "He's not a dog person. He's a cat person. And we'll leave it at that."
We all know there's a difference.
Philly's Southwork was up next and they turned out to be a seven-piece with three horns (including baritone sax), bass, guitar, keys and drums.
Sometimes sounding like they had aspirations to be Chicago and sometimes sounding like they wanted to go in a Motown direction, they played a sweaty set as the room got progressively warmer.
The Green Hearts were third and whether you hear '60s in their sound or '80s influences, they were the ones who got the crowd dancing.
From a Buddy Holly cover to their own "Baby, Baby," they rocked hard and fast in three-minute bursts and skinny ties.
Just before their last song, all but a couple of small lights went off.
Immediately a friend turned and said, "I feel cooler already."
Illusion or not, I did, too.
Every time the door opened, I welcomes the breeze that drifted in because oxygen was starting to feel in short supply
Tonight was the record release show for Paul Ivey and the Rubes so Paul appropriately wore his Buzzcocks t-shirt, the threadbare one (I didn't notice but his beloved mentioned it) that looks properly rock and roll.
"This is a record release party, so buy a record," he commanded. "If you don't have a record player, it doesn't matter. Buy it and e-mail me and I'll send you an mp3 so you can listen to it on your damn computer."
That's the good thing about Paul; you never have to wonder what he really thinks about anything.
Let's just say I left the show with a record, hand-numbered #61 of 300, and one of the glorious green vinyl copies.
Black were also available (but black, it's so overdone) and I heard there were a scant six blue ones not available to the public.
The band sounded great and their sound has clearly become much tighter in the past few months.
After a few songs, I turned to a friend and observed that listening to Paul's songs was a lesson in New Wave for the uninformed.
"Yea," he chuckled, himself a musician. "On that last one, I thought I heard a whole lot of history."
Never was that more evident than when we heard their new song, "Casual Wayne."
"This is the single," Paul announced. "This song is about you because you are out at a rock show like Casual Wayne."
He denied us the pleasure of hearing the flip side, "Skinless," but I consoled myself with the knowledge that I already knew it from another of his well -crafted CDs which I have, "This is the Hovercraft."
Others were told that that should make them want to buy the record so they could hear it.
Honestly, after a stellar set in a room so hot Paul had to stop and re-tune his guitar mid-set, everyone should have already decided to buy one.
Considering tonight was the equivalent of a birthday party for the record, it only made sense to take home a party favor.
Did I mention mine was green and had my name written on the front by the chief Rube himself?
It was worth every drop of sweat I left on the Cellar Door floor.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Off the Rack
As a female who doesn't like to shop, I am a bit of a traitor to my sex.
But sometimes a companion needs to go to Diversity Thrift and why would I not at least browse through the dress choices?
It's not like the pants hold any interest for me.
Among a lot of school marm-looking dresses, I found a couple of things worth trying on because you never really know until you see something on your own body.
The first, a black and red print dress had a vaguely European peasant look to it, not my usual style.
On the other hand, I'd look right at home in Italy in it.
The other was more of a dressing gown with a prairie look. Again, not my style.
So now I can look right at home on the prairie, too.
Maybe it was the heat that had me imagining myself in different ways.
Lunch followed at Lunch where, conveniently, it was happy hour.
The Wolf Trap White Blend from South Africa jumped out at us both for its grapes: viognier, chenin blanc and grenache blanc.
It had everything: floral notes, a woody nose and nicely balanced acidity, making it a fine August afternoon indulgence.
While revisiting the '80s via the restaurant's soundtrack, we tried new-to-us sandwiches like the Parker Field and the 10K.
I know from my Richmond-born father that Parker Field disappeared long before I arrived and I did once walk a 10K, so that was enough justification for our choices.
A few other tables joined us in our late afternoon meal, although no one seemed to be enjoying Men at Work and Depeche Mode quite as much as we were.
We opted out of dessert only because I had homemade peach ice cream in the freezer at home.
With my peach allergy, I shouldn't be eating it in the first place, but the richness of peaches and cream is too alluring.
After the amount I dared to eat, I could have one of two problems.
One, my tongue will swell and my mouth will itch in reaction.
Two, my fitted little peasant dress will display a slightly more well-rounded peasant in it.
Sometimes a woman's just got to take those chances.
But sometimes a companion needs to go to Diversity Thrift and why would I not at least browse through the dress choices?
It's not like the pants hold any interest for me.
Among a lot of school marm-looking dresses, I found a couple of things worth trying on because you never really know until you see something on your own body.
The first, a black and red print dress had a vaguely European peasant look to it, not my usual style.
On the other hand, I'd look right at home in Italy in it.
The other was more of a dressing gown with a prairie look. Again, not my style.
So now I can look right at home on the prairie, too.
Maybe it was the heat that had me imagining myself in different ways.
Lunch followed at Lunch where, conveniently, it was happy hour.
The Wolf Trap White Blend from South Africa jumped out at us both for its grapes: viognier, chenin blanc and grenache blanc.
It had everything: floral notes, a woody nose and nicely balanced acidity, making it a fine August afternoon indulgence.
While revisiting the '80s via the restaurant's soundtrack, we tried new-to-us sandwiches like the Parker Field and the 10K.
I know from my Richmond-born father that Parker Field disappeared long before I arrived and I did once walk a 10K, so that was enough justification for our choices.
A few other tables joined us in our late afternoon meal, although no one seemed to be enjoying Men at Work and Depeche Mode quite as much as we were.
We opted out of dessert only because I had homemade peach ice cream in the freezer at home.
With my peach allergy, I shouldn't be eating it in the first place, but the richness of peaches and cream is too alluring.
After the amount I dared to eat, I could have one of two problems.
One, my tongue will swell and my mouth will itch in reaction.
Two, my fitted little peasant dress will display a slightly more well-rounded peasant in it.
Sometimes a woman's just got to take those chances.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Hip Shaking Hindi Hits
Alright, so nobody asked me to dance.
Still, I wouldn't have missed DJ Carlito's Bollywood dance party at VMFA for anything.
By the time we arrived, the dance floor was mobbed with people moving to an Indian techno beat while clips of Bollywood films showed on the screen.
The energy was electric.
Best of all, there were more Indian people there than I've ever seen at a Bollywood dance party, much less at the VMFA.
Chalk it up to beats per minute, but I think the upbeat Indian dance music was irresistible to anyone, white or brown.
The best part was seeing so many Indians singing (while they danced) along to every song.
I only wished I knew the words.
The smell of sweat emanated from the dance floor in the best possible way while Hindu and Punjabi beats raged on.
My date went for wine while my hips wished I was dancing.
I ran into a friend who now works at the VMFA and is working on bringing the new Replacements documentary, "Color Me Obsessed" to Richmond.
Even better, he's organizing an evening of bands covering Repalcements songs to lead off the screening.
You know I'll be there.
Should anyone be looking for some input (hint, hint), I'd like to suggest "The Last," even though it's from their very last album, "All Shook Down," which is no one's favorite Replacements album.
Would it hurt to fall in love a little slower
I know it hurts at any speed
So you have another drink
And get down on your knees
You been swearing to god
Now maybe if you'd ask
That this one be your last
Cause this one, child, is killing you
This one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last
It's gotta last for always
So while I didn't dance, I thoroughly enjoyed standing at the edge of the dance floor watching so many people getting their Punjabi groove on.
The tough part was that it ended not long after 8:00, long before most people wanted to stop dancing.
A girl read my eyes and asked if I'd enjoyed the evening.
I had, but maybe not to the degree I could have and she seemed to sense that.
My date invited me upstairs to Amuse to finish off the evening.
With Boxwood Rose in hand (and Virginia roots attended to), we ordered a couple of dishes to, one of which also had a local connection.
Potato patties of green peas and cilantro with tamarind chutney were uniquely flavorful with a divine consistency.
We also went for the mussels with Surry sausage in wine and fresh herb broth with Pecorino and toasted bread because it never disappoints.
The evening had been anything but a disappointment and ended especially strong with two absinthe drips to put the loveliest finishing touch on it.
It's too early to run to Momma
It's too late to run like hell
I guess I will tell you
Cause I don't want to ask
That this one be your last
And this one, child, is killing you
But this one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last
By that point, everyone involved knew it was too late to run like hell.
Still, it had been a hell of a Hindi evening.
I only hope there'll be another before the Maharajah exhibit departs.
One last chance to make this last one really the last.
Still, I wouldn't have missed DJ Carlito's Bollywood dance party at VMFA for anything.
By the time we arrived, the dance floor was mobbed with people moving to an Indian techno beat while clips of Bollywood films showed on the screen.
The energy was electric.
Best of all, there were more Indian people there than I've ever seen at a Bollywood dance party, much less at the VMFA.
Chalk it up to beats per minute, but I think the upbeat Indian dance music was irresistible to anyone, white or brown.
The best part was seeing so many Indians singing (while they danced) along to every song.
I only wished I knew the words.
The smell of sweat emanated from the dance floor in the best possible way while Hindu and Punjabi beats raged on.
My date went for wine while my hips wished I was dancing.
I ran into a friend who now works at the VMFA and is working on bringing the new Replacements documentary, "Color Me Obsessed" to Richmond.
Even better, he's organizing an evening of bands covering Repalcements songs to lead off the screening.
You know I'll be there.
Should anyone be looking for some input (hint, hint), I'd like to suggest "The Last," even though it's from their very last album, "All Shook Down," which is no one's favorite Replacements album.
Would it hurt to fall in love a little slower
I know it hurts at any speed
So you have another drink
And get down on your knees
You been swearing to god
Now maybe if you'd ask
That this one be your last
Cause this one, child, is killing you
This one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last
It's gotta last for always
So while I didn't dance, I thoroughly enjoyed standing at the edge of the dance floor watching so many people getting their Punjabi groove on.
The tough part was that it ended not long after 8:00, long before most people wanted to stop dancing.
A girl read my eyes and asked if I'd enjoyed the evening.
I had, but maybe not to the degree I could have and she seemed to sense that.
My date invited me upstairs to Amuse to finish off the evening.
With Boxwood Rose in hand (and Virginia roots attended to), we ordered a couple of dishes to, one of which also had a local connection.
Potato patties of green peas and cilantro with tamarind chutney were uniquely flavorful with a divine consistency.
We also went for the mussels with Surry sausage in wine and fresh herb broth with Pecorino and toasted bread because it never disappoints.
The evening had been anything but a disappointment and ended especially strong with two absinthe drips to put the loveliest finishing touch on it.
It's too early to run to Momma
It's too late to run like hell
I guess I will tell you
Cause I don't want to ask
That this one be your last
And this one, child, is killing you
But this one's your last chance
To make this last one really the last
By that point, everyone involved knew it was too late to run like hell.
Still, it had been a hell of a Hindi evening.
I only hope there'll be another before the Maharajah exhibit departs.
One last chance to make this last one really the last.
Church Popcorn for Beginners
Firsts abounded tonight.
At the preview opening of "Beyond Skin: A New Vision of Tattooing," I saw tattoo art like I'd never seen it before.
Amanda Wachob's abstract expressionist-inspired tattoos were on oranges, acrylic paintings and leather.
The latter were my favorite for their textural quality as well as the warm beauty of the material.
Actually, one of her tattoos was also on curator Thea's arm, but it was so fresh that it still had a bandage on it, so I couldn't actually see it.
And, really, that was perfect since the whole point of the show was to see her non-skin work.
Considering Richmond is the third most tattooed city in the country, the unique show will undoubtedly be a popular one.
Besides, I can't possibly be the only un-inked one curious about non-skin tattoos.
It's enough that I'm one of the very few with unadorned flesh.
Leaving the gallery, I saw a clutch of actors in period costumes down the block.
Honestly, we've become Lincoln-filming central and no one is even surprised anymore to see guys in breeches and beards in the 'hood.
And in most cases, probably tattoos underneath.
Dinner followed at Don't Look Back, which was mobbed on my arrival, but there was one bar stool open at the end.
The Man About Town was at the far end of the bar, but stopped to talk theater with me before crossing the street to "The Hunger Games."
To each his own.
Claiming the stool, I ordered a Frito pie and scarfed it down while listening to the three women next to me discuss how they didn't think their lives were proceeding at the same rate as friends of a comparable age.
Had I not had places to be, I might have insinuated myself into that conversation and suggested that they measure themselves by their own yardsticks and not that of anyone else's life.
But there wasn't time because I had to get myself to First Baptist.
I joined dozens of other musical lovers in the courtyard for an outdoor showing of "Oklahoma," a movie I've never seen.
I'm betting it was a first for only me and the two twelve-year olds behind me, but I'm okay with that.
I know, I know. The gaping holes in my film viewing are downright embarrassing sometimes.
What struck me as particularly funny, though, was how many of the songs I knew.
And not just sort of recognized, but actually knew most of.
The evening began with the minister telling us, "If you'd like to sing along, feel free."
Given my singing voice, I wouldn't do that to a group of god-fearing people, one of whom had shared his bug spray with me.
As the movie began with Curly trotting through the cornfield singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," the buzz of the cicadas grew louder.
"Why don't you just grab her and kiss her when she acts like that?"
As night fell, fireflies came out and the moon came up, it became clear that this was a movie choreographed by the legendary Agnes de Mille.
I may not be a dancer, but I've seen "Rodeo" often enough to know a de Mille move when I see one.
"Must be plenty of men trying to spark her."
It was an unexpected treat in what I expected to be a standard Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Me being at church was apparently cause for fireworks because we started hearing them an hour into the film.
Some people looked around nervously, apparently not sure of what they were hearing, but I figured gunshots on Monument Avenue were unlikely at best.
The Diamond, I figured, barely half a mile away.
"You can't just go around kissing every man who asks you."
Like many '50s movies, period details were subject to interpretation.
The interior of the farmhouse looked like something from a big city house and not the simple dwelling a farmer would have had in the Oklahoma territory at the end of the 19th century.
A surprisingly high number of women wore red petticoats (you know, so practical for plains living).
Peddlers were from Persia and had American accents.
One thing I found charming was when Laurey kisses Curly for the first time.
"That's about all a man can stand in public," he warned her after the second kiss.
Oh, my, and what they can stand now!
The minister had warned us that the movie was long at two-plus hours ("Folks used to have plenty of time to sit in air-conditioned theaters and watch long movies." Yea, that and attention spans), but between the exquisite ballet dancing, familiar songs and two very different romances, I agreed with Laurey's sentiment.
Never have I asked an August sky
Where has last July gone?
What do I care about July giving way to August when I'm watching romance under a moonlit sky?
It may have been a first, but I'll risk being a heathen among believers to experience that again.
As Ado Annie said in the movie, "I cain't say no."
And why would I want to?
At the preview opening of "Beyond Skin: A New Vision of Tattooing," I saw tattoo art like I'd never seen it before.
Amanda Wachob's abstract expressionist-inspired tattoos were on oranges, acrylic paintings and leather.
The latter were my favorite for their textural quality as well as the warm beauty of the material.
Actually, one of her tattoos was also on curator Thea's arm, but it was so fresh that it still had a bandage on it, so I couldn't actually see it.
And, really, that was perfect since the whole point of the show was to see her non-skin work.
Considering Richmond is the third most tattooed city in the country, the unique show will undoubtedly be a popular one.
Besides, I can't possibly be the only un-inked one curious about non-skin tattoos.
It's enough that I'm one of the very few with unadorned flesh.
Leaving the gallery, I saw a clutch of actors in period costumes down the block.
Honestly, we've become Lincoln-filming central and no one is even surprised anymore to see guys in breeches and beards in the 'hood.
And in most cases, probably tattoos underneath.
Dinner followed at Don't Look Back, which was mobbed on my arrival, but there was one bar stool open at the end.
The Man About Town was at the far end of the bar, but stopped to talk theater with me before crossing the street to "The Hunger Games."
To each his own.
Claiming the stool, I ordered a Frito pie and scarfed it down while listening to the three women next to me discuss how they didn't think their lives were proceeding at the same rate as friends of a comparable age.
Had I not had places to be, I might have insinuated myself into that conversation and suggested that they measure themselves by their own yardsticks and not that of anyone else's life.
But there wasn't time because I had to get myself to First Baptist.
I joined dozens of other musical lovers in the courtyard for an outdoor showing of "Oklahoma," a movie I've never seen.
I'm betting it was a first for only me and the two twelve-year olds behind me, but I'm okay with that.
I know, I know. The gaping holes in my film viewing are downright embarrassing sometimes.
What struck me as particularly funny, though, was how many of the songs I knew.
And not just sort of recognized, but actually knew most of.
The evening began with the minister telling us, "If you'd like to sing along, feel free."
Given my singing voice, I wouldn't do that to a group of god-fearing people, one of whom had shared his bug spray with me.
As the movie began with Curly trotting through the cornfield singing "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning," the buzz of the cicadas grew louder.
"Why don't you just grab her and kiss her when she acts like that?"
As night fell, fireflies came out and the moon came up, it became clear that this was a movie choreographed by the legendary Agnes de Mille.
I may not be a dancer, but I've seen "Rodeo" often enough to know a de Mille move when I see one.
"Must be plenty of men trying to spark her."
It was an unexpected treat in what I expected to be a standard Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Me being at church was apparently cause for fireworks because we started hearing them an hour into the film.
Some people looked around nervously, apparently not sure of what they were hearing, but I figured gunshots on Monument Avenue were unlikely at best.
The Diamond, I figured, barely half a mile away.
"You can't just go around kissing every man who asks you."
Like many '50s movies, period details were subject to interpretation.
The interior of the farmhouse looked like something from a big city house and not the simple dwelling a farmer would have had in the Oklahoma territory at the end of the 19th century.
A surprisingly high number of women wore red petticoats (you know, so practical for plains living).
Peddlers were from Persia and had American accents.
One thing I found charming was when Laurey kisses Curly for the first time.
"That's about all a man can stand in public," he warned her after the second kiss.
Oh, my, and what they can stand now!
The minister had warned us that the movie was long at two-plus hours ("Folks used to have plenty of time to sit in air-conditioned theaters and watch long movies." Yea, that and attention spans), but between the exquisite ballet dancing, familiar songs and two very different romances, I agreed with Laurey's sentiment.
Never have I asked an August sky
Where has last July gone?
What do I care about July giving way to August when I'm watching romance under a moonlit sky?
It may have been a first, but I'll risk being a heathen among believers to experience that again.
As Ado Annie said in the movie, "I cain't say no."
And why would I want to?
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Dancing on the Balcony Under a Full Moon
With August arrived and with it a full moon, it's time to kick into summer overdrive.
I figured the best way to do that was with Secco's Summer of Riesling.
Let's face it, if anyone can change the popular perception of this grape, it's Secco.
Apparently we weren't the only people needing to do something summery because there were only three bar stools open when we arrived.
We took two next to a wine-loving publisher I know and two flights of Riesling too.
Dr. Fischer Ockfener Bernstein 201 had delicate fruit and a nice acidity. It made clear why Secco is calling their special time "the acid hour."
Food was in order and we chose the arugula salad with dried cherries, Stilton, walnuts and a roasted shallot vinaigrette and the lamb sliders.
If ever there was a stroke of genius, it was the date relish on those sliders.
Our second wine was Dr. Thanisch Berncasteler Doctor 2009, overflowing with peach and mineral notes.
We finished with Munster d'Alsace, fruity and funky and perfect for off-dry drinking, which we just happened to be doing.
Last up was Erbes Urziger Wurzgarten 2010, the most off-dry of the trio and perfectly balanced sweetness and acidity.
My companion was blown away with our lesson in Riesling, surprised to discover that cloying and Riesling are not synonymous.
Properly sated, we got ourselves to the Firehouse Theater.
Tonight was the second showing of "Trojans," a new play by Augustin Correro being produced by the young bucks at TheaterLAB.
Explaining TheaterLAB's mission, Creative Director Deejay Gray explained that, "It's important to produce new theater or else there'll just be a thousand productions of 'Nunsense!"
Thankfully, TheaterLAB is saving us from that.
The play began on a completely dark stage with two men having sex on a bed.
Once the lights came up, we began to learn the unusual circumstances of what was going on.
The play was set in a time after the "Testament Initiative,"when Fundamentalist types had decided that women would only be used for breeding, leaving men to resort to sex clubs where they got their needs serviced.
The main character, Gabriel, so named because everyone was required to have Old Testament names, had been in the underground club since he was thirteen years old.
He had no memory of women at all despite a huge curiosity to know, see, and experience them.
"I think a healthy bit of chat is stimulating."
Because he never got to leave his subterranean chamber, the action revolved around the clients and other men workers who came to see him there.
There was Peter, a shy man who saved his money in order to come to the club and have sex two or three times a year.
There was Bradley, who told him about the "pre-Santa" world before women were taken away, a world Gabe never knew.
"I'm just an old man who likes to make an entrance," he said, dismissing the gift his words had been to Gabe.
There was Helena Troy, resplendent in a pink robe and matching lipstick, a man whose daughter had been killed and who was in the process of having surgeries to make him more women-like.
The only female character was a runaway girl speaking French, meaning Gabe couldn't understand a word she said, but he hid her anyway.
He paid a violent price for touching her when Adam, the man who'd procured her, discovered her in Gabe's room.
The only other visitor in his lonely world was Cleanup, a guy whose name defined his role at the club.
Despite only a week and a half in rehearsals, the cast was strong and the story riveting for its notion of a woman-less world.
At the talk back afterwards, playwright Augustin Correro joined the cast in answering questions about the play.
He said it had been written as a reaction to legislation being proposed in Virginia for pregnant women to have trans-vaginal ultrasounds, legislation proposed by men naturally.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating.
Keep your laws off my body.
And while every women I know shares that opinion, it's always affirming when I hear how strongly some men feel about it, too.
Correro envisioned the legacy of such legislation as this all-male dystopia with women kept in tubes as breeders only.
Let's just say an all-male world is a really bad idea.
Listening to the playwright speak, I was glad we'd come tonight instead of opening night since he hadn't come that night and it seemed special having n his energy in the room.
We learned he had allowed the director, Melissa Rayford, to make many decisions about staging his work.
"My responsibility as a playwright is not to be Arthur Miller," he said, explaining his latitude with how the play was interpreted.
The talk back allowed many women in the audience to express their thoughts on a male-dominated play that was essentially all about females.
It was brought up that playwrights need to write more roles for women (this one had only one) and while I support that idea 100%, this particular play was about an all-male world and it had the potential to be a very strong piece of theater, so I understood the absence of female roles.
There was a fair amount of back and forth on that topic, but as far as I was concerned it was comparing apples and oranges.
Yes, I'd been impressed by the play and yes, we need more female roles written.
And, yes, we need companies like TheaterLAB producing new and provocative work that sheds a light on the what ifs of our society.
"More like a shell in the shape of something vital."
Because we don't want to end up in a world merely in the shape of something vital, but actually vital.
Fortunately, there are still two more nights to catch this arresting new piece of theater, this coming Monday and Tuesday.
I don't know how any theater lover could miss it.
Or honestly, anyone who cares about the direction our society seems to be taking.
I figured the best way to do that was with Secco's Summer of Riesling.
Let's face it, if anyone can change the popular perception of this grape, it's Secco.
Apparently we weren't the only people needing to do something summery because there were only three bar stools open when we arrived.
We took two next to a wine-loving publisher I know and two flights of Riesling too.
Dr. Fischer Ockfener Bernstein 201 had delicate fruit and a nice acidity. It made clear why Secco is calling their special time "the acid hour."
Food was in order and we chose the arugula salad with dried cherries, Stilton, walnuts and a roasted shallot vinaigrette and the lamb sliders.
If ever there was a stroke of genius, it was the date relish on those sliders.
Our second wine was Dr. Thanisch Berncasteler Doctor 2009, overflowing with peach and mineral notes.
We finished with Munster d'Alsace, fruity and funky and perfect for off-dry drinking, which we just happened to be doing.
Last up was Erbes Urziger Wurzgarten 2010, the most off-dry of the trio and perfectly balanced sweetness and acidity.
My companion was blown away with our lesson in Riesling, surprised to discover that cloying and Riesling are not synonymous.
Properly sated, we got ourselves to the Firehouse Theater.
Tonight was the second showing of "Trojans," a new play by Augustin Correro being produced by the young bucks at TheaterLAB.
Explaining TheaterLAB's mission, Creative Director Deejay Gray explained that, "It's important to produce new theater or else there'll just be a thousand productions of 'Nunsense!"
Thankfully, TheaterLAB is saving us from that.
The play began on a completely dark stage with two men having sex on a bed.
Once the lights came up, we began to learn the unusual circumstances of what was going on.
The play was set in a time after the "Testament Initiative,"when Fundamentalist types had decided that women would only be used for breeding, leaving men to resort to sex clubs where they got their needs serviced.
The main character, Gabriel, so named because everyone was required to have Old Testament names, had been in the underground club since he was thirteen years old.
He had no memory of women at all despite a huge curiosity to know, see, and experience them.
"I think a healthy bit of chat is stimulating."
Because he never got to leave his subterranean chamber, the action revolved around the clients and other men workers who came to see him there.
There was Peter, a shy man who saved his money in order to come to the club and have sex two or three times a year.
There was Bradley, who told him about the "pre-Santa" world before women were taken away, a world Gabe never knew.
"I'm just an old man who likes to make an entrance," he said, dismissing the gift his words had been to Gabe.
There was Helena Troy, resplendent in a pink robe and matching lipstick, a man whose daughter had been killed and who was in the process of having surgeries to make him more women-like.
The only female character was a runaway girl speaking French, meaning Gabe couldn't understand a word she said, but he hid her anyway.
He paid a violent price for touching her when Adam, the man who'd procured her, discovered her in Gabe's room.
The only other visitor in his lonely world was Cleanup, a guy whose name defined his role at the club.
Despite only a week and a half in rehearsals, the cast was strong and the story riveting for its notion of a woman-less world.
At the talk back afterwards, playwright Augustin Correro joined the cast in answering questions about the play.
He said it had been written as a reaction to legislation being proposed in Virginia for pregnant women to have trans-vaginal ultrasounds, legislation proposed by men naturally.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating.
Keep your laws off my body.
And while every women I know shares that opinion, it's always affirming when I hear how strongly some men feel about it, too.
Correro envisioned the legacy of such legislation as this all-male dystopia with women kept in tubes as breeders only.
Let's just say an all-male world is a really bad idea.
Listening to the playwright speak, I was glad we'd come tonight instead of opening night since he hadn't come that night and it seemed special having n his energy in the room.
We learned he had allowed the director, Melissa Rayford, to make many decisions about staging his work.
"My responsibility as a playwright is not to be Arthur Miller," he said, explaining his latitude with how the play was interpreted.
The talk back allowed many women in the audience to express their thoughts on a male-dominated play that was essentially all about females.
It was brought up that playwrights need to write more roles for women (this one had only one) and while I support that idea 100%, this particular play was about an all-male world and it had the potential to be a very strong piece of theater, so I understood the absence of female roles.
There was a fair amount of back and forth on that topic, but as far as I was concerned it was comparing apples and oranges.
Yes, I'd been impressed by the play and yes, we need more female roles written.
And, yes, we need companies like TheaterLAB producing new and provocative work that sheds a light on the what ifs of our society.
"More like a shell in the shape of something vital."
Because we don't want to end up in a world merely in the shape of something vital, but actually vital.
Fortunately, there are still two more nights to catch this arresting new piece of theater, this coming Monday and Tuesday.
I don't know how any theater lover could miss it.
Or honestly, anyone who cares about the direction our society seems to be taking.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Revolving Drummers
I'm a big believer in birthday celebrations.
So since my fabulous friend had had a miserable birthday yesterday, we intended to make up for that today.
Hence our meeting at Six Burner to raise a glass and dish.
Lunetta Prosecco provided the bubbles as we discussed her trip to Boston (modern art, not so much), the Outer Banks (watch out for troughs) and men who don't know how to gift their womenfolk (tragic).
Over fried oysters with a very spicy tartar sauce and bacon-wrapped dates in a blue cheese sauce, I heard about koi-seeking raccoons, blockage and being felt up by a drunk cousin.
Did she just do what I think she did?
We encountered a favorite theater type who jumped into our discussion to explain Kimmy Gibler ("Full House"), Theater Lab ("Trojans") and the beauty of staying put ("You don't have to go to L.A. or NYC to make it in theater").
Dessert was housemade some'ores with toffee, a decadent take on the Girl Scout favorite.
Did I mention it had a burning birthday candle atop it?
She blew it. Out.
We didn't even try to eat the oozy concoction as an entity, preferring to use our fingers to pull out choice bits until it was no more.
In all likelihood, we'd have sat there all night sipping Verdejo and talking about men and beach vacations, but her beloved texted and she had to be off.
One of the distinct pleasures of leading a cell phone-less life is never having to be interrupted when having fun.
So she went off to meet her man and I sallied forth to Ballcieaux.
It was a quadruple bill with some familiar faces, if not bands, on it.
I ran into a fiend's husband who informed me that I was his surrogate wife, meaning I attend his shows on the nights when his cute wife is home in bed.
I do what I can to help out my friends.
The show began with a small crowd and Lynchburg's Asentimentalsong, which is really a guy named Joe paying guitar and looping it.
His sound, aptly described by a friend as "A one-man Explosions in the Sky" was lush and dynamic.
I had it from a reliable source that Joe used the same loop pedal as the inimitable Dave Watkins.
During the break, I had the distinct pleasure of hearing the classic Delphonics tune, "Didn't I Blow Your Mind?"
Matt Northrup from Charlottesville played next, doing fast-paced guitar jams and looping them endlessly.
A friend saw his sound as classic-rock oriented, but he got my attention with his his sharpness and speed.
An audience member clamored for "Small Snacks" and Matt obliged.
Turns out that the audience member suggesting music was Andrew, also a musician.
And, surprise, surprise, next up was Oakland California's The Andrew Weathers Ensemble, doing a sort of ambient folk.
The trio took the stage shoeless and when Joe joined them, he was also exhorted to remove his.
It made for a quartet of three guitars,one concertina/harmonica and forty toes.
Things got very post-rock as one guitarist began playing his instrument with a screwdriver.
A friend arrived, pulled up bar stool and we began dissecting his recent love life.
After a few well-placed questions, he asked if I was like a therapist.
Doubtful, but maybe I could play one on TV.
We were both excited to see the English Majors, comprised of Dave Watkins (Colloquial Orchestra), Matt Klimas (Snowy Owls) and PJ Sykes (Hoax Hunters).
Interestingly, they began with Dave on drums and Matt and PJ on guitars, but for the second song, Matt took drum duties and the other two shredded.
Friend looked at me, marveling, "Did you know Dave could do that?"
No, indeed.
By the third song, it was PJ on drums (and almost as much of a beast as he can be on guitar) with Dave and Matt doing guitar duty.
The sound was without vocals but fast-paced, with the guitars always pushing forward.
And no effects on those guitars, which must have been a challenge for certain members of the Majors.
You know who I'm talking to.
Another friend came over, looking dapper again thanks to his new girlfriend ("Usually I try to date women who don't come to shows with me, but..." and there she was) and asking if he could buy me a drink.
Not necessary.
As it was, the English Majors (and I'm pretty sure none of them were actually English majors) finished their set and Balliceaux wanted us out of there.
Which was fine.
By that time, I'd celebrated a friend, been called a surrogate, heard a favorite musician say "By the time we play, it'll be just Karen and the bartenders," and dispensed relationship advice.
Not sure I blew anyone's mind this time, but then there's always tomorrow night.
So since my fabulous friend had had a miserable birthday yesterday, we intended to make up for that today.
Hence our meeting at Six Burner to raise a glass and dish.
Lunetta Prosecco provided the bubbles as we discussed her trip to Boston (modern art, not so much), the Outer Banks (watch out for troughs) and men who don't know how to gift their womenfolk (tragic).
Over fried oysters with a very spicy tartar sauce and bacon-wrapped dates in a blue cheese sauce, I heard about koi-seeking raccoons, blockage and being felt up by a drunk cousin.
Did she just do what I think she did?
We encountered a favorite theater type who jumped into our discussion to explain Kimmy Gibler ("Full House"), Theater Lab ("Trojans") and the beauty of staying put ("You don't have to go to L.A. or NYC to make it in theater").
Dessert was housemade some'ores with toffee, a decadent take on the Girl Scout favorite.
Did I mention it had a burning birthday candle atop it?
She blew it. Out.
We didn't even try to eat the oozy concoction as an entity, preferring to use our fingers to pull out choice bits until it was no more.
In all likelihood, we'd have sat there all night sipping Verdejo and talking about men and beach vacations, but her beloved texted and she had to be off.
One of the distinct pleasures of leading a cell phone-less life is never having to be interrupted when having fun.
So she went off to meet her man and I sallied forth to Ballcieaux.
It was a quadruple bill with some familiar faces, if not bands, on it.
I ran into a fiend's husband who informed me that I was his surrogate wife, meaning I attend his shows on the nights when his cute wife is home in bed.
I do what I can to help out my friends.
The show began with a small crowd and Lynchburg's Asentimentalsong, which is really a guy named Joe paying guitar and looping it.
His sound, aptly described by a friend as "A one-man Explosions in the Sky" was lush and dynamic.
I had it from a reliable source that Joe used the same loop pedal as the inimitable Dave Watkins.
During the break, I had the distinct pleasure of hearing the classic Delphonics tune, "Didn't I Blow Your Mind?"
Matt Northrup from Charlottesville played next, doing fast-paced guitar jams and looping them endlessly.
A friend saw his sound as classic-rock oriented, but he got my attention with his his sharpness and speed.
An audience member clamored for "Small Snacks" and Matt obliged.
Turns out that the audience member suggesting music was Andrew, also a musician.
And, surprise, surprise, next up was Oakland California's The Andrew Weathers Ensemble, doing a sort of ambient folk.
The trio took the stage shoeless and when Joe joined them, he was also exhorted to remove his.
It made for a quartet of three guitars,one concertina/harmonica and forty toes.
Things got very post-rock as one guitarist began playing his instrument with a screwdriver.
A friend arrived, pulled up bar stool and we began dissecting his recent love life.
After a few well-placed questions, he asked if I was like a therapist.
Doubtful, but maybe I could play one on TV.
We were both excited to see the English Majors, comprised of Dave Watkins (Colloquial Orchestra), Matt Klimas (Snowy Owls) and PJ Sykes (Hoax Hunters).
Interestingly, they began with Dave on drums and Matt and PJ on guitars, but for the second song, Matt took drum duties and the other two shredded.
Friend looked at me, marveling, "Did you know Dave could do that?"
No, indeed.
By the third song, it was PJ on drums (and almost as much of a beast as he can be on guitar) with Dave and Matt doing guitar duty.
The sound was without vocals but fast-paced, with the guitars always pushing forward.
And no effects on those guitars, which must have been a challenge for certain members of the Majors.
You know who I'm talking to.
Another friend came over, looking dapper again thanks to his new girlfriend ("Usually I try to date women who don't come to shows with me, but..." and there she was) and asking if he could buy me a drink.
Not necessary.
As it was, the English Majors (and I'm pretty sure none of them were actually English majors) finished their set and Balliceaux wanted us out of there.
Which was fine.
By that time, I'd celebrated a friend, been called a surrogate, heard a favorite musician say "By the time we play, it'll be just Karen and the bartenders," and dispensed relationship advice.
Not sure I blew anyone's mind this time, but then there's always tomorrow night.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Sir Duke-era Dating
Say it's the late '40s.
You want to take your date out for an evening she'll appreciate without breaking the bank.
Probably you find a good, reasonably-priced restaurant to take her to.
If you're particularly clever, you go to some place like Garnett's, where they have a date night special every night from 6-9:00.
You impress your date with a lovely summer, easy-drinking wine like Gabriele Rause Vin de Gris, which just happens to be part of the date night package.
Both of you choose an entree to enjoy while you listen to appropriately literate, hook-laden music from Jason Collett, he of the uber-talented collective Broken Social Scene.
Needless, to say, your date is enchanted.
You finish the meal with the black and white cake with coffee frosting
It's the kind of frosting that is more fat than sugar, but since it's just after the war years, everyone's still in the habit of not over-using luxuries like sugar.
You linger, finishing the wine until the moon is fully high in the sky.
Wisely, you'd already planned to walk to your next stop, Ballcieaux for the RVA Big Band.
Because, let's face it, the war's over and it's time to celebrate.
Dancing cheek to cheek with a woman is a pleasure you lived without for too long.
You steer your date to the back banquette, which you share with another couple sitting very close.
The bandleader informs the crowd that it's the bass sax player's birthday (she looks impossibly young no matter what her age) and one of the trombone players' last nights with the big band.
Suddenly, you and your date are sharing not just swing music, but a couple of special occasions.
Does she sit a little closer because of it?
All around you, other tables are eating, drinking and watching the band.
This is the norm at a club with a live band in the late '40s.
The bandleader dedicates the next piece to Doug Richards, a local musician who also teaches in the VCU Jazz Studies program.
In all likelihood, most of the musicians in the big band have studied under him at one time or another.
He is the eminence gris. albeit a toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, head-bobbing one in a bar stool.
"This is Far East Suite," the bandleader says. "Doug Richards made sure I heard it a long time before I would have otherwise."
You realize that if your date is not impressed by this exquisite Duke Ellington composition, she's not worthy anyway.
As luck has it, she swoons over it, her legs keeping time with the music.
By the time you walk the five blocks back to the car, you feel certain she'll say yes to another date.
She does, as surely as the Allies beat the enemy.
It's good to be dating circa 1946.
Easy and with a swing beat.
You want to take your date out for an evening she'll appreciate without breaking the bank.
Probably you find a good, reasonably-priced restaurant to take her to.
If you're particularly clever, you go to some place like Garnett's, where they have a date night special every night from 6-9:00.
You impress your date with a lovely summer, easy-drinking wine like Gabriele Rause Vin de Gris, which just happens to be part of the date night package.
Both of you choose an entree to enjoy while you listen to appropriately literate, hook-laden music from Jason Collett, he of the uber-talented collective Broken Social Scene.
Needless, to say, your date is enchanted.
You finish the meal with the black and white cake with coffee frosting
It's the kind of frosting that is more fat than sugar, but since it's just after the war years, everyone's still in the habit of not over-using luxuries like sugar.
You linger, finishing the wine until the moon is fully high in the sky.
Wisely, you'd already planned to walk to your next stop, Ballcieaux for the RVA Big Band.
Because, let's face it, the war's over and it's time to celebrate.
Dancing cheek to cheek with a woman is a pleasure you lived without for too long.
You steer your date to the back banquette, which you share with another couple sitting very close.
The bandleader informs the crowd that it's the bass sax player's birthday (she looks impossibly young no matter what her age) and one of the trombone players' last nights with the big band.
Suddenly, you and your date are sharing not just swing music, but a couple of special occasions.
Does she sit a little closer because of it?
All around you, other tables are eating, drinking and watching the band.
This is the norm at a club with a live band in the late '40s.
The bandleader dedicates the next piece to Doug Richards, a local musician who also teaches in the VCU Jazz Studies program.
In all likelihood, most of the musicians in the big band have studied under him at one time or another.
He is the eminence gris. albeit a toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, head-bobbing one in a bar stool.
"This is Far East Suite," the bandleader says. "Doug Richards made sure I heard it a long time before I would have otherwise."
You realize that if your date is not impressed by this exquisite Duke Ellington composition, she's not worthy anyway.
As luck has it, she swoons over it, her legs keeping time with the music.
By the time you walk the five blocks back to the car, you feel certain she'll say yes to another date.
She does, as surely as the Allies beat the enemy.
It's good to be dating circa 1946.
Easy and with a swing beat.
Monday, July 30, 2012
By Cock and Pie
"Wait till you see me in my doublet sweating my heiney off."
If that isn't an invitation to experience Shakespeare in the courtyard of Agecroft Hall, I don't know what is.
And it wasn't even said to me, merely overheard.
As if I needed more incentive, it was the closing night of "Merry Wives of Windsor," the weather was decidedly less July-like than usual and a friend had been called a standout in the cast.
We picnicked on the grass behind the grand house, with a view of the James and a series of trains chugging along the riverside.
Members of the company's young troupe, calling themselves Lord Moxley's Players, wandered from picnic to picnic, offering to do monologues.
When it was our turn, I chose Kate from "Taming of the Shrew" and heard Kate lament her fate as Petrucchio's soon-to-be wife.
Waiting in line to enter the courtyard, I spoke with some first-timers to Agecroft and Richmond Shakespeare.
When they asked me where the best place to sit was, I didn't hesitate.
The front row is my favorite because it allows me to see the actors spit, both literally and figuratively.
As proof, spit began flying during the first scene,
That's what I'm talking about.
I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation.
Personally, I would be flattered if a man spied entertainment in me.
The story of the large and boastful knight Falstaff wooing two middle-aged wives who in turn trick and degrade him is one of my favorites, mainly for the substance of the characters.
The appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning glass!
The role of Falstaff is key to this play and Todd Schall-Vess nailed it, doing buffoonery and humanity equally well.
It's so easy to overdo the role and leave the audience uncaring about Falstaff, but that wasn't the case.
After he is dumped into the river with the laundry and comes out sputtering and sneezing, a tiny fish comes out of his nose (mouth?) as he blusters about such indignities.
Brilliant.
Can I love her? I hope so.
The entire cast was assured, no doubt partly a function of this being the fourth week of production.
Evan Nasteff as the French Dr. Caius managed to be hysterical and dashing at the same time.
Use your art of wooing. Win her to consent to you.
That particular line was followed by a flock of geese flying over Agecroft, honking in the dark blue almost-night sky.
It was a sky that eventually changed over to a moonlit one which we enjoyed from the veranda during intermission.
I assure thee, setting the attractions of my good parts aside, I have no other charms.
Guitar and cello music came courtesy of Matt Treacy, whom I've seen at Richmond Shakespeare's staged readings.
He managed to imbue any kind of scene, comical or fighting, with just the right musical emphasis.
I must advance the colours of my love.
If ever a play focused on the art of wooing, it's this one.
Watching men, young and old, try to win the affection of the objects of their affection (or at least, lust) was probably the equivalent of a chick-flick.
And while I don't go see those, I'd happily watch Shakespeare's characters woo and charm any night of the week.
Sure, partly it's the language ("I rather will suspect the sun of cold than you of wantoness"), but also the humor ("I'll no pullet sperm in my brewage").
And all from the front row where twice actors gazed into my eyes to deliver their lines.
No rom-com at a multi-plex is capable of giving me that distinct pleasure.
Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one who makes fritters of English?
Have I lived to savor a talented cast who woo with language on a moonlit night?
I hope so. After all, there is entertainment to be spied in me.
If that isn't an invitation to experience Shakespeare in the courtyard of Agecroft Hall, I don't know what is.
And it wasn't even said to me, merely overheard.
As if I needed more incentive, it was the closing night of "Merry Wives of Windsor," the weather was decidedly less July-like than usual and a friend had been called a standout in the cast.
We picnicked on the grass behind the grand house, with a view of the James and a series of trains chugging along the riverside.
Members of the company's young troupe, calling themselves Lord Moxley's Players, wandered from picnic to picnic, offering to do monologues.
When it was our turn, I chose Kate from "Taming of the Shrew" and heard Kate lament her fate as Petrucchio's soon-to-be wife.
Waiting in line to enter the courtyard, I spoke with some first-timers to Agecroft and Richmond Shakespeare.
When they asked me where the best place to sit was, I didn't hesitate.
The front row is my favorite because it allows me to see the actors spit, both literally and figuratively.
As proof, spit began flying during the first scene,
That's what I'm talking about.
I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation.
Personally, I would be flattered if a man spied entertainment in me.
The story of the large and boastful knight Falstaff wooing two middle-aged wives who in turn trick and degrade him is one of my favorites, mainly for the substance of the characters.
The appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning glass!
The role of Falstaff is key to this play and Todd Schall-Vess nailed it, doing buffoonery and humanity equally well.
It's so easy to overdo the role and leave the audience uncaring about Falstaff, but that wasn't the case.
After he is dumped into the river with the laundry and comes out sputtering and sneezing, a tiny fish comes out of his nose (mouth?) as he blusters about such indignities.
Brilliant.
Can I love her? I hope so.
The entire cast was assured, no doubt partly a function of this being the fourth week of production.
Evan Nasteff as the French Dr. Caius managed to be hysterical and dashing at the same time.
Use your art of wooing. Win her to consent to you.
That particular line was followed by a flock of geese flying over Agecroft, honking in the dark blue almost-night sky.
It was a sky that eventually changed over to a moonlit one which we enjoyed from the veranda during intermission.
I assure thee, setting the attractions of my good parts aside, I have no other charms.
Guitar and cello music came courtesy of Matt Treacy, whom I've seen at Richmond Shakespeare's staged readings.
He managed to imbue any kind of scene, comical or fighting, with just the right musical emphasis.
I must advance the colours of my love.
If ever a play focused on the art of wooing, it's this one.
Watching men, young and old, try to win the affection of the objects of their affection (or at least, lust) was probably the equivalent of a chick-flick.
And while I don't go see those, I'd happily watch Shakespeare's characters woo and charm any night of the week.
Sure, partly it's the language ("I rather will suspect the sun of cold than you of wantoness"), but also the humor ("I'll no pullet sperm in my brewage").
And all from the front row where twice actors gazed into my eyes to deliver their lines.
No rom-com at a multi-plex is capable of giving me that distinct pleasure.
Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one who makes fritters of English?
Have I lived to savor a talented cast who woo with language on a moonlit night?
I hope so. After all, there is entertainment to be spied in me.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Mercy Me!
"Allow yourself to be changed by the experience."
So said the bathroom wall at Pasture where they were doing their first-ever Mercy! Heavy Soul and Funk Dance Party.
I love the idea of restaurants re-purposing themselves after dining hours, so I couldn't resist stopping by for some bubbles and heavy soul.
As I sipped my Vinho Verde, I felt hands squeezing my shoulders and unexpectedly there were two friends.
"We were driving by when I saw you walking down the street and I said, I know that walk! Let's follow her," he said, explaining away their stalking me right into Pasture to say hello.
It seemed only natural to tell them to stay and hear the vinyl stylings of Troy and Marty, knowing that they remembered a world before mp3s.
So they ordered cosmos and we dissected their restaurant experiences tonight (the first was an epic fail and the second not up to usual).
Next thing I knew, the modster walked in (looking groovy, as always) with his girlfriend and we took some time to marvel over the array of DJs spinning around town tonight.
After they moved on, the boys and I went back to full-on attention to the music, which was spot on.
Did I recognize the songs being played? I did not.
Well, except for a brief remix of Hall and Oates' "She's Gone," which also got the attention of chef Jason Alley who asked to see the actual 45 record.
Did I hear classic soul stylings that exactly matched the era of the best soul music? I did.
Next thing I knew, I heard my name being called only to find a friend I'd known years ago who had since moved to Florida.
The last time I'd seen her a couple of years ago, she'd recently been cuckolded by her husband and said she had just reconnected with a Londoner she'd known in college.
They'd set off on a road trip to see if they were compatible.
Looking at her, I knew the answer before I asked the question, but I had to ask anyway.
Yep, living together in Florida and still wildly happy together.
But she had an addendum to the story.
After our last meeting, where I'd heard her fairy tale story of moving on after a disastrous end to her marriage, she'd met up with a friend the next day to tell her the news.
Midway through, the friend stopped her. "I read about this on a blog today," she informed my amazed friend.
While I hadn't used names, the story was easily recognizable, especially for anyone hearing it directly from the source.
My friend was a little amazed at my reach, but not half as much as a few days later when she tried telling a coworker about what had happened and she, too, said she'd read it on my blog.
"So apparently you have a wide readership," my friend laughed.
I was just happy she could laugh about it, but I reminded her that the story she'd told me had been one of the most romantic I'd ever heard
And considering this was back in my heartbroken, no dating period, I remember being bowled over to think that anyone could find such love and luck with someone she had known twenty-some years earlier.
They just hadn't explored it well enough then and now they were, to great success.
What blogger worth her salt wouldn't have shared that kind of romance?
I like to think I'm at least worth my salt.
Once we caught up, I returned to my friends at the bar, both of whom were finding a lot to like about the music being played.
First of all, nothing sounds like vinyl, and if you can't get into vintage soul (lots of horns and harmonies, and, post-disco, string arrangements), part of you is already dead.
I ran into others I knew - a beer rep looking to dance, a local chef looking to share opinions - and we talked about the Richmond restaurant scene ("It's the next wave of new restaurants that'll decide how Richmond goes," he predicted).
A few people were starting to dance in the aisle between the bar and booths, but for the most part, by the time I left, full-on dancing hadn't happened.
But it was the first Pasture dance party attempt after adding the sound baffling to the ceiling, so it was more of a trial run.
I'm looking forward to the next one as much for the excellent music as for the random people I run into there.
After a hot afternoon at the river and a warm evening making ice cream, all I'd set out for was wine and funk.
Instead, I'd followed the advice of the bathroom sage and allowed my evening to be changed by the various experiences delivered by Mercy!
After a busy Saturday, you take your wisdom where ever you find it.
So said the bathroom wall at Pasture where they were doing their first-ever Mercy! Heavy Soul and Funk Dance Party.
I love the idea of restaurants re-purposing themselves after dining hours, so I couldn't resist stopping by for some bubbles and heavy soul.
As I sipped my Vinho Verde, I felt hands squeezing my shoulders and unexpectedly there were two friends.
"We were driving by when I saw you walking down the street and I said, I know that walk! Let's follow her," he said, explaining away their stalking me right into Pasture to say hello.
It seemed only natural to tell them to stay and hear the vinyl stylings of Troy and Marty, knowing that they remembered a world before mp3s.
So they ordered cosmos and we dissected their restaurant experiences tonight (the first was an epic fail and the second not up to usual).
Next thing I knew, the modster walked in (looking groovy, as always) with his girlfriend and we took some time to marvel over the array of DJs spinning around town tonight.
After they moved on, the boys and I went back to full-on attention to the music, which was spot on.
Did I recognize the songs being played? I did not.
Well, except for a brief remix of Hall and Oates' "She's Gone," which also got the attention of chef Jason Alley who asked to see the actual 45 record.
Did I hear classic soul stylings that exactly matched the era of the best soul music? I did.
Next thing I knew, I heard my name being called only to find a friend I'd known years ago who had since moved to Florida.
The last time I'd seen her a couple of years ago, she'd recently been cuckolded by her husband and said she had just reconnected with a Londoner she'd known in college.
They'd set off on a road trip to see if they were compatible.
Looking at her, I knew the answer before I asked the question, but I had to ask anyway.
Yep, living together in Florida and still wildly happy together.
But she had an addendum to the story.
After our last meeting, where I'd heard her fairy tale story of moving on after a disastrous end to her marriage, she'd met up with a friend the next day to tell her the news.
Midway through, the friend stopped her. "I read about this on a blog today," she informed my amazed friend.
While I hadn't used names, the story was easily recognizable, especially for anyone hearing it directly from the source.
My friend was a little amazed at my reach, but not half as much as a few days later when she tried telling a coworker about what had happened and she, too, said she'd read it on my blog.
"So apparently you have a wide readership," my friend laughed.
I was just happy she could laugh about it, but I reminded her that the story she'd told me had been one of the most romantic I'd ever heard
And considering this was back in my heartbroken, no dating period, I remember being bowled over to think that anyone could find such love and luck with someone she had known twenty-some years earlier.
They just hadn't explored it well enough then and now they were, to great success.
What blogger worth her salt wouldn't have shared that kind of romance?
I like to think I'm at least worth my salt.
Once we caught up, I returned to my friends at the bar, both of whom were finding a lot to like about the music being played.
First of all, nothing sounds like vinyl, and if you can't get into vintage soul (lots of horns and harmonies, and, post-disco, string arrangements), part of you is already dead.
I ran into others I knew - a beer rep looking to dance, a local chef looking to share opinions - and we talked about the Richmond restaurant scene ("It's the next wave of new restaurants that'll decide how Richmond goes," he predicted).
A few people were starting to dance in the aisle between the bar and booths, but for the most part, by the time I left, full-on dancing hadn't happened.
But it was the first Pasture dance party attempt after adding the sound baffling to the ceiling, so it was more of a trial run.
I'm looking forward to the next one as much for the excellent music as for the random people I run into there.
After a hot afternoon at the river and a warm evening making ice cream, all I'd set out for was wine and funk.
Instead, I'd followed the advice of the bathroom sage and allowed my evening to be changed by the various experiences delivered by Mercy!
After a busy Saturday, you take your wisdom where ever you find it.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Get Out Your Peeler
Following the instincts of generations of Richmonders since Byrd saw the bend, I spent a July afternoon on Belle Isle.
With sandwiches from Nick's Market ("You don't want mayo, we don't give you mayo"), half of a perfectly ripe cantaloupe and an enormous bunch of red grapes, we found a shady rock and spread a beach towel.
With the burble of the rushing water nearby, we'd scored a sweet oasis away from the families and hardbodies
We'd purposely waited for late afternoon, knowing it would be easier parking and less competition for good rocks.
The people watching as we ate was superb.
It's a lot like the Folk Festival. Everybody comes to Belle Isle.
There was drama: two hat boys facing off in overly loud and inane obscenities, like "You Church Hill, pregnant f**k-off!" said to a guy.
Physical comedy: the guy walking slowly into the river with a cup of beer in his hand, only to go head over heels in a slippery spot. Bye bye, beer.
Adventure: rafting parties going earnestly by only to take a rock break a few yards ahead.
Curious: two guys walking their bikes through the river's edge, carefully staying in the water.
And heartwarming: a young mom sitting herself down in shallow water with her baby on her lap and doing endless water play to his great delight.
Since I'd been at the Rappahannock just this week and recalled how warm it had been, I was eager to compare the temperature of the James.
Right about the same, which is to say mighty warm.
We moved closer to rushing water, hoping it would be cooler, but mostly it just knocked into us, making us lose our footing.
Current aside, we stayed in for a good long while just enjoying being immersed in the wet.
Meanwhile, the crowds continued to disperse as the sun moved lower.
Eventually I put my shorts back on over my bathing suit and we ambled back over the footbridge, emitting that damp essence of summertime wet bodies.
I got asked about my evening's plans but hadn't decided yet. We'll see, I said.
Coming home, I was greeted by the pile of peaches I'd recently picked, here.
It was like being figuratively hit over the head by the back of my Richmond grandmother's hand (not that she ever did such a thing).
And just like that, instinct kicked in and I peeled off my shorts and began peeling peaches for ice cream.
They were so perfectly ripe that the skins came off almost in one piece, all but begging to be peeled.
It was 7:53 and there was still enough light in in the kitchen window to make peach ice cream.
And people ask me how I can love summer?
Until you've stood in your kitchen making peach ice cream wearing a bathing suit and covered in sticky peaches and cream plus sweat and river water from an afternoon at Belle Isle, you haven't experienced one of a Richmonder's distinct summer pleasures.
Who needs an apron?
And how many generations of Richmond woman have used a warm Saturday evening in July to make peach ice cream?
I think I may have figuratively proved my southern woman chops to my long-gone grandmother today.
But I also happen to think that if she had a choice of feeling boastful about my practicality or having a bowl of my peach ice cream, no one would ever hear about me from her lips.
Never underestimate the power of peach ice cream. Or how much of it will end up on your bathing suit.
With sandwiches from Nick's Market ("You don't want mayo, we don't give you mayo"), half of a perfectly ripe cantaloupe and an enormous bunch of red grapes, we found a shady rock and spread a beach towel.
With the burble of the rushing water nearby, we'd scored a sweet oasis away from the families and hardbodies
We'd purposely waited for late afternoon, knowing it would be easier parking and less competition for good rocks.
The people watching as we ate was superb.
It's a lot like the Folk Festival. Everybody comes to Belle Isle.
There was drama: two hat boys facing off in overly loud and inane obscenities, like "You Church Hill, pregnant f**k-off!" said to a guy.
Physical comedy: the guy walking slowly into the river with a cup of beer in his hand, only to go head over heels in a slippery spot. Bye bye, beer.
Adventure: rafting parties going earnestly by only to take a rock break a few yards ahead.
Curious: two guys walking their bikes through the river's edge, carefully staying in the water.
And heartwarming: a young mom sitting herself down in shallow water with her baby on her lap and doing endless water play to his great delight.
Since I'd been at the Rappahannock just this week and recalled how warm it had been, I was eager to compare the temperature of the James.
Right about the same, which is to say mighty warm.
We moved closer to rushing water, hoping it would be cooler, but mostly it just knocked into us, making us lose our footing.
Current aside, we stayed in for a good long while just enjoying being immersed in the wet.
Meanwhile, the crowds continued to disperse as the sun moved lower.
Eventually I put my shorts back on over my bathing suit and we ambled back over the footbridge, emitting that damp essence of summertime wet bodies.
I got asked about my evening's plans but hadn't decided yet. We'll see, I said.
Coming home, I was greeted by the pile of peaches I'd recently picked, here.
It was like being figuratively hit over the head by the back of my Richmond grandmother's hand (not that she ever did such a thing).
And just like that, instinct kicked in and I peeled off my shorts and began peeling peaches for ice cream.
They were so perfectly ripe that the skins came off almost in one piece, all but begging to be peeled.
It was 7:53 and there was still enough light in in the kitchen window to make peach ice cream.
And people ask me how I can love summer?
Until you've stood in your kitchen making peach ice cream wearing a bathing suit and covered in sticky peaches and cream plus sweat and river water from an afternoon at Belle Isle, you haven't experienced one of a Richmonder's distinct summer pleasures.
Who needs an apron?
And how many generations of Richmond woman have used a warm Saturday evening in July to make peach ice cream?
I think I may have figuratively proved my southern woman chops to my long-gone grandmother today.
But I also happen to think that if she had a choice of feeling boastful about my practicality or having a bowl of my peach ice cream, no one would ever hear about me from her lips.
Never underestimate the power of peach ice cream. Or how much of it will end up on your bathing suit.
My Weekend Opening Ceremonies
If I should have been home watching the Olympics, no one told me that.
So naturally I wasn't spending my Friday night in front of the TV (not that I have one).
Scene 1, in which I watch the chaos that is preparation for a bridal dinner party at 27.
The mother of the groom arrives less than an hour before the dinner with sixty little boxes of chocolates inscribed with the happy couple's name and instructs the staff how and where they are to be placed.
Good luck with a mother-in-law like that, honey.
Meanwhile a friend of the sous chef stops by, making a hell of a fashion statement.
"Anyone ever tell you that you look like an extra from Mad Max?" he is asked to make a point.
Taking it as a compliment, the guy responds, "No, no one, but that's awesome!"
Moral: be careful who you insult obliquely for they may hear a compliment.
Scene 2, in which we take shelter from the storm.
With a fierce-looking storm about to break overhead, we scuttled up to Amuse for their panoramic window views.
Dark clouds loomed, fading sun outlined the windblown trees and rain fell without us even noticing.
The balcony was understandably closed and the bar was three deep. Half of RVA, it seemed, was at Amuse.
We established a beach head at the far end next to the absinthe drip (foreshadowing) and ordered a bottle of Urban Uco Torrontes.
I promised the Viognier lover that it would deliver a floral nose, a hint of sweetness and a refreshing finish and did it ever.
Friends who are leaving for Las Vegas Sunday joined us for spirited discussion of the virtues of Neil Young ("Why doesn't he do Canadicana instead of Americana?"), how the Byrds went country and the eternal question, Rubber Soul or Revolver.
Noshing selection was left to me and I chose rabbit pate with apricot, dill pickle slices and pickled turnip on crostini.
Even he who hadn't had rabbit or turnips was impressed with the earthy pate.
We'd come to say farewell to a friend and favorite bartender who eventually joined us on the fun side of the bar.
Absinthe drips were prepared, arriving unusually dark green, a sure sign that a generous drip had been poured.
There really is nothing like the feel of absinthe as the green fairy winds its way through your veins.
Before long, texts were arriving demanding to know why I wasn't at my next stop so we break camp for new adventures, the bartender and I.
Scene 3, in which we did not sample Shockoe.
The bartender and I drove down to the Bottom to meet a friend at 2113 and between it being a restro-lounge and tonight being part of Sample Shockoe, we expect a Friday night mob scene.
Instead, it is seven people at a bar and dance music pumping loudly.
Our waiting friend glares at me for my tardiness and I order a Don Julio.
Nearby, a trio is discussing ex-wives although they don't look like the ex-wives types. But then, who does?
We talk about the local dining scene until we decide we want some food and exit stage right.
Scene 4, in which we discuss religion on a deserted street.
Arriving in Carytown, we head to Don't Look Back, where I run into a bast from my past.
He sits down next to me with an enormous grin on his face, clearly surprised to see me there.
When I meet his girlfriend, she is full of compliments and already knows things about me.
Moments later, one in our group gives DLB the thumbs down (the bass is loud and thumping) and we proceed up Cary Street.
It's not that late and yet nothing much is open. But the heat is absent and the night feels cool and lovely.
We pass a couple where he is telling her about how awesome the food at the Eatery is and the three of us laugh over the dirty grease smell that defines the Eatery.
Nearly at the end of Carytown, we finally stop at Doner Kebab when we see the vertical spits with meat on them.
It was as if a chorus of angels suddenly began singing hallelujah.
Inside the brightly-lit and tiny restaurant, we order two shawarmas: one chicken, one beef/lamb, both on fresh pita bread with creamy yogurt sauce.
We take the food outside to a table to ravage it.
I taste the intensely-flavored chicken variety my bartender friend has ordered and am an immediate Doner devotee.
The patient one and I share the overstuffed beef/lamb shawarmas, with me handing it back to him with lipstick on it.
It's a good friend who will eat your lipstick prints.
Once our Turkish fast food has hit our stomachs, we all feel full of life again and conversation ensues.
As a group of women in head scarves ate nearby and couples came and went with food, we inexplicably found ourselves knee-deep in a discussion of Catholicism versus Protestantism.
Organized religion versus individual spirituality.
Literal bible reading versus interpretation.
As a card-carrying heathen at a table with a Christian-raised man who's done missionary work and an Indian-born man who labels himself neither an atheist nor an agnostic, but with a profound doubt about a higher being, it was fascinating.
Fortunately for us, Doner is open until 3 a.m. so we sat there in the light of the spit trying to unravel life's mysteries until about 2:15.
Scene 5, in which I hugged a friend not knowing when I will see him again
I knew once we left I had to drop off my departing friend and say one last goodbye. He moves halfway across the country in a week.
But if ever there was a satisfying final night with a friend, this had been it.
Hmm, I wonder how things went with the Olympics.
So naturally I wasn't spending my Friday night in front of the TV (not that I have one).
Scene 1, in which I watch the chaos that is preparation for a bridal dinner party at 27.
The mother of the groom arrives less than an hour before the dinner with sixty little boxes of chocolates inscribed with the happy couple's name and instructs the staff how and where they are to be placed.
Good luck with a mother-in-law like that, honey.
Meanwhile a friend of the sous chef stops by, making a hell of a fashion statement.
"Anyone ever tell you that you look like an extra from Mad Max?" he is asked to make a point.
Taking it as a compliment, the guy responds, "No, no one, but that's awesome!"
Moral: be careful who you insult obliquely for they may hear a compliment.
Scene 2, in which we take shelter from the storm.
With a fierce-looking storm about to break overhead, we scuttled up to Amuse for their panoramic window views.
Dark clouds loomed, fading sun outlined the windblown trees and rain fell without us even noticing.
The balcony was understandably closed and the bar was three deep. Half of RVA, it seemed, was at Amuse.
We established a beach head at the far end next to the absinthe drip (foreshadowing) and ordered a bottle of Urban Uco Torrontes.
I promised the Viognier lover that it would deliver a floral nose, a hint of sweetness and a refreshing finish and did it ever.
Friends who are leaving for Las Vegas Sunday joined us for spirited discussion of the virtues of Neil Young ("Why doesn't he do Canadicana instead of Americana?"), how the Byrds went country and the eternal question, Rubber Soul or Revolver.
Noshing selection was left to me and I chose rabbit pate with apricot, dill pickle slices and pickled turnip on crostini.
Even he who hadn't had rabbit or turnips was impressed with the earthy pate.
We'd come to say farewell to a friend and favorite bartender who eventually joined us on the fun side of the bar.
Absinthe drips were prepared, arriving unusually dark green, a sure sign that a generous drip had been poured.
There really is nothing like the feel of absinthe as the green fairy winds its way through your veins.
Before long, texts were arriving demanding to know why I wasn't at my next stop so we break camp for new adventures, the bartender and I.
Scene 3, in which we did not sample Shockoe.
The bartender and I drove down to the Bottom to meet a friend at 2113 and between it being a restro-lounge and tonight being part of Sample Shockoe, we expect a Friday night mob scene.
Instead, it is seven people at a bar and dance music pumping loudly.
Our waiting friend glares at me for my tardiness and I order a Don Julio.
Nearby, a trio is discussing ex-wives although they don't look like the ex-wives types. But then, who does?
We talk about the local dining scene until we decide we want some food and exit stage right.
Scene 4, in which we discuss religion on a deserted street.
Arriving in Carytown, we head to Don't Look Back, where I run into a bast from my past.
He sits down next to me with an enormous grin on his face, clearly surprised to see me there.
When I meet his girlfriend, she is full of compliments and already knows things about me.
Moments later, one in our group gives DLB the thumbs down (the bass is loud and thumping) and we proceed up Cary Street.
It's not that late and yet nothing much is open. But the heat is absent and the night feels cool and lovely.
We pass a couple where he is telling her about how awesome the food at the Eatery is and the three of us laugh over the dirty grease smell that defines the Eatery.
Nearly at the end of Carytown, we finally stop at Doner Kebab when we see the vertical spits with meat on them.
It was as if a chorus of angels suddenly began singing hallelujah.
Inside the brightly-lit and tiny restaurant, we order two shawarmas: one chicken, one beef/lamb, both on fresh pita bread with creamy yogurt sauce.
We take the food outside to a table to ravage it.
I taste the intensely-flavored chicken variety my bartender friend has ordered and am an immediate Doner devotee.
The patient one and I share the overstuffed beef/lamb shawarmas, with me handing it back to him with lipstick on it.
It's a good friend who will eat your lipstick prints.
Once our Turkish fast food has hit our stomachs, we all feel full of life again and conversation ensues.
As a group of women in head scarves ate nearby and couples came and went with food, we inexplicably found ourselves knee-deep in a discussion of Catholicism versus Protestantism.
Organized religion versus individual spirituality.
Literal bible reading versus interpretation.
As a card-carrying heathen at a table with a Christian-raised man who's done missionary work and an Indian-born man who labels himself neither an atheist nor an agnostic, but with a profound doubt about a higher being, it was fascinating.
Fortunately for us, Doner is open until 3 a.m. so we sat there in the light of the spit trying to unravel life's mysteries until about 2:15.
Scene 5, in which I hugged a friend not knowing when I will see him again
I knew once we left I had to drop off my departing friend and say one last goodbye. He moves halfway across the country in a week.
But if ever there was a satisfying final night with a friend, this had been it.
Hmm, I wonder how things went with the Olympics.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Nerds R Us
You think you know someone and then they show up in a bright yellow Scout to fetch you.
On the other hand, the literary reference on his license plate was so incredibly well-conceived that I felt reassured that he hadn't changed all that much.
It had been ages since we'd seen each other and he had all kinds of new milestones (another degree, turning 40) behind him since we'd last lunched.
I suggested C Street in Carytown since I'd only been in for drinks and he agreed, saying that he knew one of the sous chefs.
Walking by Guitar Works, we saw musicians of various ages playing loudly on the porch while passersby lingered to listen.
Band camp, perhaps?
At C Street, an enormous bridal luncheon of women in flowered dresses was in progress, making us happy for a table down the hall.
"Will you think me a Troglodyte if I order a burger?" he asked.
In fact, I'd expected it. Even at 40, his favorite foods are still burgers and pizza.
And while I love both, he's got six feet and three inches to spread out that kind of eating and I've got less than five and a half feet.
So I chose the shrimp salad spinach wrap which, will not exactly overflowing with shrimp salad, benefited from the marinated cherry tomatoes and dill in it.
He'd recently been going through the hoop jumping of the job interview process, including one with several local steps followed by the company flying him to NYC.
There they said that he didn't have enough experience, a conclusion he said could have been easily reached during any number of conversations here.
Ah, the challenges of seeking work. I remember its frustrations well, here.
In fact, it was part of the reason I finally gave up and opted to work for myself despite the poverty level wages of it.
So I'll never drive anything as cool as a bright yellow '75 Scout with a ragtop, metal framed windows and a shiny silver glovebox.
But even the economically-challenged can appreciate a good literary reference when they see one, albeit on a license plate.
J.L. Finch? On a Scout? Frickin' brilliant.
It takes a certain kind of nerdy mind to think up stuff like that.
Even better, he ordered the sesame soy slaw for its alliteration.
Truly my kind of friend.
On the other hand, the literary reference on his license plate was so incredibly well-conceived that I felt reassured that he hadn't changed all that much.
It had been ages since we'd seen each other and he had all kinds of new milestones (another degree, turning 40) behind him since we'd last lunched.
I suggested C Street in Carytown since I'd only been in for drinks and he agreed, saying that he knew one of the sous chefs.
Walking by Guitar Works, we saw musicians of various ages playing loudly on the porch while passersby lingered to listen.
Band camp, perhaps?
At C Street, an enormous bridal luncheon of women in flowered dresses was in progress, making us happy for a table down the hall.
"Will you think me a Troglodyte if I order a burger?" he asked.
In fact, I'd expected it. Even at 40, his favorite foods are still burgers and pizza.
And while I love both, he's got six feet and three inches to spread out that kind of eating and I've got less than five and a half feet.
So I chose the shrimp salad spinach wrap which, will not exactly overflowing with shrimp salad, benefited from the marinated cherry tomatoes and dill in it.
He'd recently been going through the hoop jumping of the job interview process, including one with several local steps followed by the company flying him to NYC.
There they said that he didn't have enough experience, a conclusion he said could have been easily reached during any number of conversations here.
Ah, the challenges of seeking work. I remember its frustrations well, here.
In fact, it was part of the reason I finally gave up and opted to work for myself despite the poverty level wages of it.
So I'll never drive anything as cool as a bright yellow '75 Scout with a ragtop, metal framed windows and a shiny silver glovebox.
But even the economically-challenged can appreciate a good literary reference when they see one, albeit on a license plate.
J.L. Finch? On a Scout? Frickin' brilliant.
It takes a certain kind of nerdy mind to think up stuff like that.
Even better, he ordered the sesame soy slaw for its alliteration.
Truly my kind of friend.
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