Good times never seemed so good as a Sunday with nothing more than music on the menu.
Not willing to wait for today's date to get ready, I showed up all but unannounced with a bottle of Kuentz-Bas Riesling and a good attitude.
On the agenda for today was brunch with Diamond Heist at Cary Street Cafe and I intended to catch as much of the band as possible. Except that once we cracked the bottle of spicy and lush mouth-watering Riesling, the "dressing drink" period took away some of the urgency, if you know what I mean.
Eventually, we made it to Cary Street Cafe where an almost full house was swinging to the sounds of classic Neil Diamond songs, which I'm totally into.
I could blame it on my parents who took me to a Neil Diamond concert in 1979 or I could just admit that I appreciate the man's Tin Pan Alley talent and leave it at that.
We found seats at the bar, right in front of the "I See Drunk People" sign and to the right of the ice cold Jagermiester shots tap, appropriating a stool from a nearby table where it was being wasted as a purse holder.
"This is a song about a chair," lead singer Will joked before I began sipping my 1800 to "I Am, I Said."
I think it was while I was eating my Brazilian black bean soup that a photographer appeared and began shooting pictures of people at the bar, saying, "I wait till food gets near the mouth." You know, because few things are as attractive as people chewing.
Nudging me, my date whispered, "See, I told you it was a Dead bar," pointing at a skull behind the bar. Do I care about the Dead when "Sweet Caroline" is being sung? Or ever? I do not.
Unfortunately, we'd arrived not long before the band's break and while it gave us an opportunity to eat, the bonus was that Will (aka Neil) was working the room and stopped by to chat.
His "diamond"-encrusted collar and initial applique didn't go half as far at establishing his Neil credibility as his voice did, with the same distinctive low, gravel-filled sound that defined all those hits.
Once Diamond Heist took the stage again, we heard "Hello Again" and "Holly, Holy," two classics.
But, as Will pointed out, one thing Neil was known for was writing for other singers, so they then did "Red, Red Wine."
After the melancholy "Solitary Man," Will quipped, "If you didn't notice Rebecca's vibraslap solo, she'll do it again." What's key there is that I now know what that thing is called.
Introducing "If You Know What I Mean," off the "Beautiful Noise" album (yep, have it on vinyl), he called it "an oddly arranged album produced by Robbie Robertson." Afterwards, the drummer cracked, "We're going to call a mulligan on that one. Who wrote the set list?"
"Music is hard," Will told us before doing "Shiloh" (dubbing it afterwards, "Success with an awkward moment there"). Meanwhile, a girl came in, sat down at the bar and was handed a copy of a crossword puzzle with no words exchanged.
She worked diligently on it for 15 minutes, slid it across the bar and then turned to watch the band as if her work here was now finished.
"If anyone knows how to polka, this is the standard Neil Diamond polka song," he said about the song, "Beautiful Noise,"
And with what is probably the finest band solicitation I've ever heard, Will announced, "Like most fourteen year olds, we're on Facebook, so if you're ready to commit, we have a page."
How did we commit before the Facebook era anyway?
I'd have to say my only regret of the afternoon was not dancing to "I'm a Believer," but you can be sure that'll never happen again. We live, we learn.
During "Coming to America," the crowd got seriously into it (or perhaps were sufficiently drunk by then) to shout "today!" along with the band. "You are too kind," the drummer said at the end. "Because I f*cked that last one up."
The guy was hysterical.
The final offering, "Song Sung Blue," was a full-on singalong but the crowd was unwilling to accept that the fun was over.
"We literally know one more Neil Diamond song," Will said, half apologetically and they tore into "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show," a killer closer.
I mean, really. Who else on earth could sell a line such as, "Pack up the babies and grab the old ladies"? Who? No one but Neil, that's who.
After I saw a few songs of a Diamond Heist show a few weeks ago, I was telling a friend how much I'd enjoyed it and how I intended to go back and see them again. She was incredulous.
"You? You, Miss Must Have New Music, Miss Hates Classic Rock likes a Neil Diamond cover band? Who are you and what have you done with Karen?"
Please. The songs are classic '60s and '70s pop and, as far as I'm concerned, a blast to hear played live.
My parents would be so proud.
Once the band was finished there, so were we. With a couple hours to kill before the next band I wanted to go see, we decided a bottle of Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose and a cheese plate in the garden were in order.
Besides investigating the four kinds of mint - apple, pepper, spear and lemon - growing back there (a regular mojito garden) we got into a philosophical discussion of the proper length of time in a relationship before a man should propose.
My friend had some real life experience to back up her opinion about the danger of a man waiting too long to ask. You snooze, you lose, according to her.
When we left for Commercial Taphouse, we detoured through an alley where I was enchanted to see the most magnificent alley garden I've ever witnessed. And this town has some doozies.
This guy's beds, containers and trellises were breathtaking, with lisianthus (which I've always found tough to grow), stargazer lilies, bougainvillea, orchids, and the first artichoke plants I'd ever seen. Oh, yes, and zinnia,s gourds, tomatoes, herbs and who knows what all.
He had it all - topiary, bee hives, statuary, a koi pond, espaliered fruit trees- and apparently the time to maintain it all because everything looked lush and beautiful, as if we weren't in the middle of a dry spell.
Tearing ourselves away from his wonderland, we continued on, coming across two guys sitting at a table behind McCormack's Whisky Grill who wanted to know where we were headed.
Luckily for us, they approved of us going to Commercial for music and let us pass.
We managed to nab the last table inside (after two grown men apparently raised by wolves snatched the table we were headed for) where Loversville was already breaking hearts and twanging hard, the pedal steel just wringing out every aching note as lead singer Cassandra and her beehive held down the vintage look.
Having seen them before, I was more than ready for old school country music a la Patsy Cline, George Jones, and Everly Brothers. You know, gems like "It's the Bottle Talking,""I'll Do My Crying in the Rain" and the always popular "Pick Me Up On Your Way Down."
They just don't write 'em like that anymore, do they?
"We got an accordion in the house," Cassandra said and we were treated to a drop-in accordion player on the next few songs. Next thing we knew, the pedal steel player switched to fiddle and it was practically a jamboree.
In tribute to Tommy Ramone's recent demise, they even did a Ramones song, at which point my friend told me she'd seen them at the Boathouse in Norfolk in 1993. I had no idea.
The things you find out about a person when you spend seven hours with them.
Or maybe that was just the bottle talking.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Cranked Up Really High
I always get a kick out of waking up to a request for the pleasure of my company.
Wondering what you are up to tonight. I was thinking of going to Hardywood for the show. I could most certainly dance to a little funky soul this evening.
Best of all, it came from a wine seller friend who'd never suggested a rendezvous before. So with no evening plans until 8, I was more than agreeable to meeting up at the brewery despite no interest in beer.
A breezy evening, another new (to me) thrift store dress so why pass up a chance to see Photosynthesizers, Richmond's exemplars of live soul/rock hip hop?
Hardly surprising was that the Hardywood crowd was far more diverse than usual, a testament to the band's fan base.
Waiting for my friend, I spotted one of RVA's best singers headed toward me, so we chatted about a favorite country band and the fabulous beehive hairdo the lead singer wears.
Not long after, I found my friend along with two others and the party was on. We took up spots near enough the outdoor stage (my first outdoor show at Hardywood) to have a terrific view of the band members.
Not a one of my companions had seen Photosynthesizers (how that's possible, I don't know but I try not to judge) so they were immediately impressed by singer SamSun, a vision with her gorgeous Afro, black midriff top and body-hugging, calf-length, leopard skin skirt.
I think it was during the very first song that the wine rep leaned over and asked, "Would it be wrong to ask her out after the show?" Go for it, honey.
What's unique about Photosynthesizers is that they're a band who focuses on live performances rather than recordings. I think they put out one EP a few years ago, but the songs you hear at any given show are not available for home listening.
Personally, I love that because it only makes their performances that much more compelling knowing it's the only way you can hear it.
With a drummer, guitarist, DJ, rapper and singer, their sound spans genres and makes fans of people sure they don't like hip hop, probably because they've never seen it done with live instruments before.
The only disappointment was that there was no dancing, except in place, but there was plenty of that because it was impossible to stand still while listening to them.
Afterwards, we all chatted, trading "how I met Jimmy Sneed" stories, dating details and comparing notes on the new Metzger.
They were off in search of food when we split up while I left to go meet a friend at River City Classic Bar and Grill to see a couple of music documentaries.
Grabbing my favorite booth (it only took one visit for me to determine which had the best views of both screens), I barely had time to order before my girlfriend, looking adorable as always in a dress and sweater, showed up to join me with her cute photographer husband.
While early music performances played - Gene Vincent, Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry - the photographer brought up the topic of local music and why it isn't played more in between sets at local clubs and in restaurants. He had a valid point.
Finally, the first short began and the fun was on. "The Cramps at Napa Mental Hospital" was an unlikely free show in 1978 for a bunch of mental patients, an idea which begs the question, who in the world thought this would be a good idea?
The 20-minute film was chaotic with the band's innovative psychobilly (crazy rockabilly) sound inciting the patients to levels of frenzy probably not good for them.
Every time one of the patients tried to dance with singer Lux Interior, he'd shove them back off of the stage roughly. In one case, a patient grabbed the microphone from Lux and began shrieking into it like a, well, crazy person.
Maybe it was the madness on the screens or maybe the crowd at the diner just didn't care, but unlike Tuesday's film, people talked right through this one.
At one point, the old couple next to me got into a loud discussion of how warm she was and how comfortable he was.
"I don't know how you have that sweater on," the large woman wearing a sundress said to her scrap of a date.
"I don't have much meat on my bones," the old guy said, pointing out the obvious, something surely she already knew. "No, you don't!" she sniffed.
After the Cramps, we got the main attraction, "The Punk Rock Movie" from 1978 and shot on Super 8, so black and white mostly and grainy as all get out, only adding to the punk feel of it.
My friend was as excited to see it as I was but for different reasons. "I'm looking for fashion inspiration," she told me, impressed right away by the tie-over-the-t-shirt look we saw.
A lot of the footage was shot at London's punk-focused Roxy Club in 1978 during the mere 100 days that it was open.
Here's one tidbit I'd like to share with every person who wasn't alive in 1978 and thinks they know what punk bands dressed like: you haven't got a clue.
Every band we saw was dressed in button-up shirts, sometimes jackets, often ties and always slacks. The perception of punk bands as always clad in ratty, torn t-shirts is a figment of revisionist history.
We saw show footage of a 23-year old Billy Idol as a member of Generation X, along with backstage footage, including one scene of a band member pulling down his briefs and flashing his junk at the camera. No doubt that was considered punk at the time.
Female British punk band The Slits were shown alternately practicing music and teasing their hair ("I used to do that to my hair," my cute friend shared. "Maybe I'll start doing that again") but it was the drummer Palmolive's hard-hitting energy that was hard to look away from.
The Clash were shown playing and then on a day off, horsing around, on a kid's playground ride, looking young and carefree.
When band Subway Sect came on, my friend and I agreed that lead singer Vic Goddard was positively dreamy and her friend at the bar turned around and gestured the same. Oh, Vic!
Some of the most interesting scenes were of London cops investigating window displays at a punk shop called Sex. Apparently, they'd gotten complaints about the severed finger and plastic ears on display.
"Go home and jerk off and think of me!" yelled the transgender lead singer of Wayne County and the Electric Chairs before a woman leaned over and said, "You may not want to watch this" as the members of Eater bludgeoned a pig's head onstage before tossing it out to the crowd.
I know my friend was tickled pink when Siouxie (of the Banshees) came out in a tie over a jacket, yet another '70s fashion statement.
My only complaint by this time was how loud the diner crowd was, all but shouting over the movie as if it didn't matter because so much of it was music. Friend and I agreed we missed most of the dialogue because of the incessant chatter.
We saw a flier for a Slits show at - of all the unlikely places - a school's great hall at 5 p.m., not an especially punk time of day.
Then there was Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers (with a pink drum set) doing "Born to Lose," the lead singer sporting one long sleeve and one short t-shirt sleeve (plus a tie, natch), as well as them on the tour bus kidding around with Siouxie and the Banshees.
And speaking of, because it was 1978, there was footage of Siouxie backstage drinking vodka and popping pills (after the third vial, she asks, "How many of this one should I take? Oh, what the hell, I'll take two").
But I'll give her credit where credit was due. The woman could put on liquid eyeliner on a moving tour bus, no easy feat.
A film geek friend walked by about then and whispered, "Are you keeping track of all the dead punk rockers? Quite a few!" True that. Not a lifestyle that promotes longevity.
When the Sex Pistols start playing, we saw Debbie Juvenile sum up many people's feelings. "Oh, some decent fucking music at last!"
You could tell the movie had been made in another galaxy far away because gratuitous sexy close-ups were de rigueur. Often the camera lingered on a girl's breasts or the crotch of a girl in fishnets and panties, apropos of nothing.
The Pistols' show footage was notable for two reasons: it was Syd Viscious' first public gig with the band and Johnny Rotten is dapperly dressed in a jacket (granted he removes it early on), shirt and bow tie. Yes, bow tie.
And that, kids, is tonight's history lesson. You think you know what punk was about but you probably have no idea. Go back and do some research, maybe even watch "The Punk Rock Movie" and you'll learn a hell of a lot.
Maybe not how to tease your hair or apply liquid eyeliner on a moving bus, but enough to understand what punk was.
Hard and fast. People pogoing. And the best stage names ever. Drew Blood? Positively brilliant.
Just like my evening.
Wondering what you are up to tonight. I was thinking of going to Hardywood for the show. I could most certainly dance to a little funky soul this evening.
Best of all, it came from a wine seller friend who'd never suggested a rendezvous before. So with no evening plans until 8, I was more than agreeable to meeting up at the brewery despite no interest in beer.
A breezy evening, another new (to me) thrift store dress so why pass up a chance to see Photosynthesizers, Richmond's exemplars of live soul/rock hip hop?
Hardly surprising was that the Hardywood crowd was far more diverse than usual, a testament to the band's fan base.
Waiting for my friend, I spotted one of RVA's best singers headed toward me, so we chatted about a favorite country band and the fabulous beehive hairdo the lead singer wears.
Not long after, I found my friend along with two others and the party was on. We took up spots near enough the outdoor stage (my first outdoor show at Hardywood) to have a terrific view of the band members.
Not a one of my companions had seen Photosynthesizers (how that's possible, I don't know but I try not to judge) so they were immediately impressed by singer SamSun, a vision with her gorgeous Afro, black midriff top and body-hugging, calf-length, leopard skin skirt.
I think it was during the very first song that the wine rep leaned over and asked, "Would it be wrong to ask her out after the show?" Go for it, honey.
What's unique about Photosynthesizers is that they're a band who focuses on live performances rather than recordings. I think they put out one EP a few years ago, but the songs you hear at any given show are not available for home listening.
Personally, I love that because it only makes their performances that much more compelling knowing it's the only way you can hear it.
With a drummer, guitarist, DJ, rapper and singer, their sound spans genres and makes fans of people sure they don't like hip hop, probably because they've never seen it done with live instruments before.
The only disappointment was that there was no dancing, except in place, but there was plenty of that because it was impossible to stand still while listening to them.
Afterwards, we all chatted, trading "how I met Jimmy Sneed" stories, dating details and comparing notes on the new Metzger.
They were off in search of food when we split up while I left to go meet a friend at River City Classic Bar and Grill to see a couple of music documentaries.
Grabbing my favorite booth (it only took one visit for me to determine which had the best views of both screens), I barely had time to order before my girlfriend, looking adorable as always in a dress and sweater, showed up to join me with her cute photographer husband.
While early music performances played - Gene Vincent, Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry - the photographer brought up the topic of local music and why it isn't played more in between sets at local clubs and in restaurants. He had a valid point.
Finally, the first short began and the fun was on. "The Cramps at Napa Mental Hospital" was an unlikely free show in 1978 for a bunch of mental patients, an idea which begs the question, who in the world thought this would be a good idea?
The 20-minute film was chaotic with the band's innovative psychobilly (crazy rockabilly) sound inciting the patients to levels of frenzy probably not good for them.
Every time one of the patients tried to dance with singer Lux Interior, he'd shove them back off of the stage roughly. In one case, a patient grabbed the microphone from Lux and began shrieking into it like a, well, crazy person.
Maybe it was the madness on the screens or maybe the crowd at the diner just didn't care, but unlike Tuesday's film, people talked right through this one.
At one point, the old couple next to me got into a loud discussion of how warm she was and how comfortable he was.
"I don't know how you have that sweater on," the large woman wearing a sundress said to her scrap of a date.
"I don't have much meat on my bones," the old guy said, pointing out the obvious, something surely she already knew. "No, you don't!" she sniffed.
After the Cramps, we got the main attraction, "The Punk Rock Movie" from 1978 and shot on Super 8, so black and white mostly and grainy as all get out, only adding to the punk feel of it.
My friend was as excited to see it as I was but for different reasons. "I'm looking for fashion inspiration," she told me, impressed right away by the tie-over-the-t-shirt look we saw.
A lot of the footage was shot at London's punk-focused Roxy Club in 1978 during the mere 100 days that it was open.
Here's one tidbit I'd like to share with every person who wasn't alive in 1978 and thinks they know what punk bands dressed like: you haven't got a clue.
Every band we saw was dressed in button-up shirts, sometimes jackets, often ties and always slacks. The perception of punk bands as always clad in ratty, torn t-shirts is a figment of revisionist history.
We saw show footage of a 23-year old Billy Idol as a member of Generation X, along with backstage footage, including one scene of a band member pulling down his briefs and flashing his junk at the camera. No doubt that was considered punk at the time.
Female British punk band The Slits were shown alternately practicing music and teasing their hair ("I used to do that to my hair," my cute friend shared. "Maybe I'll start doing that again") but it was the drummer Palmolive's hard-hitting energy that was hard to look away from.
The Clash were shown playing and then on a day off, horsing around, on a kid's playground ride, looking young and carefree.
When band Subway Sect came on, my friend and I agreed that lead singer Vic Goddard was positively dreamy and her friend at the bar turned around and gestured the same. Oh, Vic!
Some of the most interesting scenes were of London cops investigating window displays at a punk shop called Sex. Apparently, they'd gotten complaints about the severed finger and plastic ears on display.
"Go home and jerk off and think of me!" yelled the transgender lead singer of Wayne County and the Electric Chairs before a woman leaned over and said, "You may not want to watch this" as the members of Eater bludgeoned a pig's head onstage before tossing it out to the crowd.
I know my friend was tickled pink when Siouxie (of the Banshees) came out in a tie over a jacket, yet another '70s fashion statement.
My only complaint by this time was how loud the diner crowd was, all but shouting over the movie as if it didn't matter because so much of it was music. Friend and I agreed we missed most of the dialogue because of the incessant chatter.
We saw a flier for a Slits show at - of all the unlikely places - a school's great hall at 5 p.m., not an especially punk time of day.
Then there was Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers (with a pink drum set) doing "Born to Lose," the lead singer sporting one long sleeve and one short t-shirt sleeve (plus a tie, natch), as well as them on the tour bus kidding around with Siouxie and the Banshees.
And speaking of, because it was 1978, there was footage of Siouxie backstage drinking vodka and popping pills (after the third vial, she asks, "How many of this one should I take? Oh, what the hell, I'll take two").
But I'll give her credit where credit was due. The woman could put on liquid eyeliner on a moving tour bus, no easy feat.
A film geek friend walked by about then and whispered, "Are you keeping track of all the dead punk rockers? Quite a few!" True that. Not a lifestyle that promotes longevity.
When the Sex Pistols start playing, we saw Debbie Juvenile sum up many people's feelings. "Oh, some decent fucking music at last!"
You could tell the movie had been made in another galaxy far away because gratuitous sexy close-ups were de rigueur. Often the camera lingered on a girl's breasts or the crotch of a girl in fishnets and panties, apropos of nothing.
The Pistols' show footage was notable for two reasons: it was Syd Viscious' first public gig with the band and Johnny Rotten is dapperly dressed in a jacket (granted he removes it early on), shirt and bow tie. Yes, bow tie.
And that, kids, is tonight's history lesson. You think you know what punk was about but you probably have no idea. Go back and do some research, maybe even watch "The Punk Rock Movie" and you'll learn a hell of a lot.
Maybe not how to tease your hair or apply liquid eyeliner on a moving bus, but enough to understand what punk was.
Hard and fast. People pogoing. And the best stage names ever. Drew Blood? Positively brilliant.
Just like my evening.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Geeks Like Me
Looking for something fun to do this afternoon, I succumbed to a man in a uniform.
Fort Brady (nope, never heard of it, either) was offering a combo walking tour and photography talk led by the reliably hilarious Mike Gorman, a photo historian and park ranger, who'd won me over as a fan three years ago at a photography lecture at the Museum of the Confederacy.
That time, he hadn't even been wearing his uniform, much less the Dudley Doright hat he sported today.
I was that person who hadn't allowed enough time to get to the Fort, although in my own defense, I was delayed when a Mama deer and her young 'un suddenly appeared as I was driving through the park.
We'd played "chicken" with each other for several minutes, both of us afraid of what the other might do before I buzzed along, joining the group a tad late.
While the group had to wait, I was given my packet (maps, reports and locations) and, most importantly, my 3-D glasses. What?! This was going to be even better than I'd anticipated.
People roaming around a fort in paper glasses? Count me in.
Mike began by explaining that the photographs we'd be seeing were all taken by northern photographers who'd hoped to capture images and see them back home to people eager for a look-see at the war.
Apparently, no one made a dime because they were shooting stereo images (two negatives meant to be seen through a viewer) that cost $1.50 each, incredibly pricey at a time when soldiers made $16 a month.
"That's good for us," Mike said, "Because all these images ended up in the National Archives and the Library of Congress." As in, digitized and available to all.
Instructing us to put on our 3-D glasses, he brought out large format copies of photos of the very place we were standing, Fort Brady, a place where federal troops spent six months and where 5,000 rounds of ammunition were expended.
The photographs were fabulous. We saw images of the fort and stockade, a view of Fort Brady from the Confederate side and earthworks, the latter easy to match up to what remained of them nearby.
It was after he told us about how the 206th Pennsylvania unit had built Fort Brady (and named it after commander Hugh Brady) that more stragglers showed up for the tour.
Phew, I wasn't the only tardy student.
Ever the good ranger, he paused the talk, reached into his bag again and provided them with packets and glasses. "Souvenirs!" he said. "Gotta love 'em. Who says the government is broke?"
Hysterical.
Moving to near the fort's property line, he showed us photos of the winter quarters built by the USCT - United States Colored Troops- who were also cropped out of the photographs so that it appeared that the white soldiers had built them.
Racism's roots run so deep in this country and we've got the photos to prove it.
It was the 1st Connecticut Heavy Artillery Unit-Company C who took up residence at Fort Brady, firing at the Confederacy's Battery Wood across the James.
Walking to our next stop, Mike asked, "Any questions? I love 'em, by the way!"
His enthusiasm for the first ever 3-D photography tour was infectious - he had found the old sets of stereo images and used software to make them 3-D again - and he encouraged us to go looking online ourselves to find interesting stuff.
"There are two discoveries to be made here. You don't have to be a geek like me, although your certainly can be. Don't think that all this is anything but one geek with time on his hands."
When he led us under some trees, we were standing exactly where the next photo we saw had been taken and the resemblance between the 150 year old photograph and the live view was startling.
Frequently he made the point that the photos were not just documentation but art, as in soldiers took time out of the war to have their pictures taken. The process then took 30 minutes, so there was no pointing and shooting. And, lest we forget, shells were constantly flying.
One of the most impressive images he brought out was a panoramic shot of Fort Brady in its entirety. "Any questions about that awesome panorama I just showed you?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye, clearly pleased at having shared his discovery.
On to our final stop, he took a dip in a divot and in his best ranger voice warned us, "Don't do what I just did. There's a hole right there!" Not just funny but safety-conscious.
Of course, his finish was spectacular. He took us to a place in the earthworks where guns were once lined up to fire at the enemy and showed us a shot of a massive 100-pound gun, a testament to 19th century firepower.
But then the photographer seemed to be inspired. He brought in two soldiers, one to pretend he was abut to fire, another on the ground.
Then another was taken, this one with dozens more soldiers, including a man with a flag on top of the fortification for sheer effect. By the final shot, it appeared that the entire fort had decided to get into the act with men milling about everywhere.
I guess the war was on a break right about then.
"Images tell us something," Mike said, summing up. "These photographs were taken to show people that we were winning the war."
To close out the tour, Mike made a pitch for all of us to follow our curiosity about history to the online archives to see what we might find ourselves.
"If you Google the Library of Congress, kiss your free time good-bye," he warned us with the assurance of one who had kissed. "I'm not kidding."
An older guy near me chimed in, "He's right. I Googled Library of Congress one day at 5:00 and when I looked up it was 11:00 and I had no idea."
I admit, as a photography lover, I'd be curious to see what's in the archives. But honestly, I'd rather wait for the next of Ranger Mike's tours to see what he's dug up and hear him crack wise for an hour.
When someone asked him about his work with Richmond Battlefield Park, the liberal arts major quipped, "The Park Service, employing the unemployable for decades."
Asked if Richmond was where he wanted to work, he answered,"Always. Sure Gettysburg is cool, but that was just three days. Here, it was four years!"
Like images, the Summer Ranger series teaches us something. I now know not only where Fort Brady is, but what went on there. But on a Saturday afternoon, it's about more than a lesson.
It's about thanking the war gods that the government isn't so broke that it can't employ witty rangers to share their geeky finds.
Fort Brady (nope, never heard of it, either) was offering a combo walking tour and photography talk led by the reliably hilarious Mike Gorman, a photo historian and park ranger, who'd won me over as a fan three years ago at a photography lecture at the Museum of the Confederacy.
That time, he hadn't even been wearing his uniform, much less the Dudley Doright hat he sported today.
I was that person who hadn't allowed enough time to get to the Fort, although in my own defense, I was delayed when a Mama deer and her young 'un suddenly appeared as I was driving through the park.
We'd played "chicken" with each other for several minutes, both of us afraid of what the other might do before I buzzed along, joining the group a tad late.
While the group had to wait, I was given my packet (maps, reports and locations) and, most importantly, my 3-D glasses. What?! This was going to be even better than I'd anticipated.
People roaming around a fort in paper glasses? Count me in.
Mike began by explaining that the photographs we'd be seeing were all taken by northern photographers who'd hoped to capture images and see them back home to people eager for a look-see at the war.
Apparently, no one made a dime because they were shooting stereo images (two negatives meant to be seen through a viewer) that cost $1.50 each, incredibly pricey at a time when soldiers made $16 a month.
"That's good for us," Mike said, "Because all these images ended up in the National Archives and the Library of Congress." As in, digitized and available to all.
Instructing us to put on our 3-D glasses, he brought out large format copies of photos of the very place we were standing, Fort Brady, a place where federal troops spent six months and where 5,000 rounds of ammunition were expended.
The photographs were fabulous. We saw images of the fort and stockade, a view of Fort Brady from the Confederate side and earthworks, the latter easy to match up to what remained of them nearby.
It was after he told us about how the 206th Pennsylvania unit had built Fort Brady (and named it after commander Hugh Brady) that more stragglers showed up for the tour.
Phew, I wasn't the only tardy student.
Ever the good ranger, he paused the talk, reached into his bag again and provided them with packets and glasses. "Souvenirs!" he said. "Gotta love 'em. Who says the government is broke?"
Hysterical.
Moving to near the fort's property line, he showed us photos of the winter quarters built by the USCT - United States Colored Troops- who were also cropped out of the photographs so that it appeared that the white soldiers had built them.
Racism's roots run so deep in this country and we've got the photos to prove it.
It was the 1st Connecticut Heavy Artillery Unit-Company C who took up residence at Fort Brady, firing at the Confederacy's Battery Wood across the James.
Walking to our next stop, Mike asked, "Any questions? I love 'em, by the way!"
His enthusiasm for the first ever 3-D photography tour was infectious - he had found the old sets of stereo images and used software to make them 3-D again - and he encouraged us to go looking online ourselves to find interesting stuff.
"There are two discoveries to be made here. You don't have to be a geek like me, although your certainly can be. Don't think that all this is anything but one geek with time on his hands."
When he led us under some trees, we were standing exactly where the next photo we saw had been taken and the resemblance between the 150 year old photograph and the live view was startling.
Frequently he made the point that the photos were not just documentation but art, as in soldiers took time out of the war to have their pictures taken. The process then took 30 minutes, so there was no pointing and shooting. And, lest we forget, shells were constantly flying.
One of the most impressive images he brought out was a panoramic shot of Fort Brady in its entirety. "Any questions about that awesome panorama I just showed you?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye, clearly pleased at having shared his discovery.
On to our final stop, he took a dip in a divot and in his best ranger voice warned us, "Don't do what I just did. There's a hole right there!" Not just funny but safety-conscious.
Of course, his finish was spectacular. He took us to a place in the earthworks where guns were once lined up to fire at the enemy and showed us a shot of a massive 100-pound gun, a testament to 19th century firepower.
But then the photographer seemed to be inspired. He brought in two soldiers, one to pretend he was abut to fire, another on the ground.
Then another was taken, this one with dozens more soldiers, including a man with a flag on top of the fortification for sheer effect. By the final shot, it appeared that the entire fort had decided to get into the act with men milling about everywhere.
I guess the war was on a break right about then.
"Images tell us something," Mike said, summing up. "These photographs were taken to show people that we were winning the war."
To close out the tour, Mike made a pitch for all of us to follow our curiosity about history to the online archives to see what we might find ourselves.
"If you Google the Library of Congress, kiss your free time good-bye," he warned us with the assurance of one who had kissed. "I'm not kidding."
An older guy near me chimed in, "He's right. I Googled Library of Congress one day at 5:00 and when I looked up it was 11:00 and I had no idea."
I admit, as a photography lover, I'd be curious to see what's in the archives. But honestly, I'd rather wait for the next of Ranger Mike's tours to see what he's dug up and hear him crack wise for an hour.
When someone asked him about his work with Richmond Battlefield Park, the liberal arts major quipped, "The Park Service, employing the unemployable for decades."
Asked if Richmond was where he wanted to work, he answered,"Always. Sure Gettysburg is cool, but that was just three days. Here, it was four years!"
Like images, the Summer Ranger series teaches us something. I now know not only where Fort Brady is, but what went on there. But on a Saturday afternoon, it's about more than a lesson.
It's about thanking the war gods that the government isn't so broke that it can't employ witty rangers to share their geeky finds.
Do the Hustle
All work and no play makes Karen a very dull girl.
So with my new thrift store dress on, I took my hired mouth out to eat, leaving me full but eager to engage the other senses.
Enter Gigi, my willing partner in crime for tonight.
Priority one was chilling some Rose, followed by a stroll to Broad Street and the Arts District, past bicycle cops and assorted cop cars for what amounted to the second Friday art walk. Because here's the thing: if they'd done it on first Friday- July 4th - who would have come?
Stop #1 was Ghostprint Gallery for Gene Coffey's "Ghosts," a fascinating show of works based on tombstone images gathered in Italy and transferred to canvas, over which vertical lines and drips of paint gave the impression of the past peering into the present.
Without even knowing that, it took me exactly two paintings to observe to my friend that the faces looked European rather than American. Right I was, as it turned out.
The second series was of skeleton images over scores of music with areas of color, images completely abstract up close and clearly showing skulls from a distance. We marveled at how challenging it must have been to create. Very cool.
Next door at stop #2, Candela Gallery, we saw "Unbound 3," the annual group show of an eclectic assortment of photography.
Some photographs were notable for their materials - handmade paper or photographs printed on plywood- while with others, it was the subject matter - a bird at rest close up, an odd-looking fat , freckled child, a shepherd's daughter with an animals head coming out of her back.
As always, I was pleased to see that some pieces had already sold. I only wish I had the funds to purchase.
Walking out of Candela, we abandoned plans to further gallery hop when a few fat raindrops hit us, choosing instead to return to my apartment and see if the Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose had achieved sufficient coolness to quench our thirst.
Oh, happy day, it had.
That was our cue to take glasses of the strawberry-tasting gem and sprawl out in my living room, music blaring - Jeremy Messersmith, Future Islands, Champs.
Sipping and looking outside, we couldn't help but marvel at the dusky light just outside the window, illuminating the roof and trees across the street in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of day.
I told Gigi that my favorite part of summer dusk is that when it happens, it's just the prelude to another 5 or 6 hours of evening entertainment.
It was some time after we opened another bottle of Rose that I suggested that we move on to Balliceaux for music. Playing tonight was Brooklyn's trans-global soul band Karikatura, touted as producers of life-affirming, body-shaking music.
Because who doesn't want to shake their body on a warm, Friday night?
I felt like Gigi and I not only only needed our bodies shaken, but our lives affirmed, but it was her response to my suggestion that we go out that had me rolling on the floor. "Now I wish I'd worn underwear," she said nonsensically since she was wearing a skort.
The place was already hopping when we arrived, so we slid into place a few people back from the stage and were immediately captivated by Karikatura's melange of influences: reggae, Cuban, funk and soul, shaking our groove things in a way only enhanced by a couple of bottles of pink.
But because we're both short women, within ten minutes, a tall, well-dressed man took up position directly in front of us.
I let it go for half a song before tapping him gently on the shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to stand behind you," he announced with a smile. Good thinking, Paul Bunyan.
With him out of the way, we had no problem moving forward on to the dance floor, unable to resist so much rhythm.
I have to say, "New York Hustle" was killer, a riff on all things Latin and disco, making us just part of the sweaty masses dancing our asses off.
Most nights I'm in Balliceaux, it's overly cold, the air conditioning blasting frigid air, but tonight's Latin beats and non-stop dancing crowd made for a very warm room and lots of glistening faces.
Gigi and I solved that by moving closer to the stage where a vent poured out cooler air and we could dance without sticking to those around us.
Occasionally we'd slip off the dance floor long enough to down a glass of water before returning to where the action was.
Finally, she cried uncle, saying, "Okay, one more song and that's it."
As it happened, synchronicity ensued with the band then announcing that it was their last song and launching into a slow groove of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the perfect cover because it didn't mimic the original but paid homage to it while making it something uniquely new.
Choosing to bring the bump to the grind right through the introductions of the sax and trombone players, we hung on dancing until the band called it quits.
Sharing a final cup of water as we walked out, Gigi raved about how good the band had been and I told her I almost hadn't mentioned it, planning to go alone, knowing she'd had a long day at work.
"Why would you do that?" she challenged. "Why wouldn't I want to go hear a great band and dance?"
Truthfully - and maybe this is a personal flaw - I couldn't think of a single good reason.
So with my new thrift store dress on, I took my hired mouth out to eat, leaving me full but eager to engage the other senses.
Enter Gigi, my willing partner in crime for tonight.
Priority one was chilling some Rose, followed by a stroll to Broad Street and the Arts District, past bicycle cops and assorted cop cars for what amounted to the second Friday art walk. Because here's the thing: if they'd done it on first Friday- July 4th - who would have come?
Stop #1 was Ghostprint Gallery for Gene Coffey's "Ghosts," a fascinating show of works based on tombstone images gathered in Italy and transferred to canvas, over which vertical lines and drips of paint gave the impression of the past peering into the present.
Without even knowing that, it took me exactly two paintings to observe to my friend that the faces looked European rather than American. Right I was, as it turned out.
The second series was of skeleton images over scores of music with areas of color, images completely abstract up close and clearly showing skulls from a distance. We marveled at how challenging it must have been to create. Very cool.
Next door at stop #2, Candela Gallery, we saw "Unbound 3," the annual group show of an eclectic assortment of photography.
Some photographs were notable for their materials - handmade paper or photographs printed on plywood- while with others, it was the subject matter - a bird at rest close up, an odd-looking fat , freckled child, a shepherd's daughter with an animals head coming out of her back.
As always, I was pleased to see that some pieces had already sold. I only wish I had the funds to purchase.
Walking out of Candela, we abandoned plans to further gallery hop when a few fat raindrops hit us, choosing instead to return to my apartment and see if the Domaine du Pere Caboche Rose had achieved sufficient coolness to quench our thirst.
Oh, happy day, it had.
That was our cue to take glasses of the strawberry-tasting gem and sprawl out in my living room, music blaring - Jeremy Messersmith, Future Islands, Champs.
Sipping and looking outside, we couldn't help but marvel at the dusky light just outside the window, illuminating the roof and trees across the street in a way that doesn't happen at any other time of day.
I told Gigi that my favorite part of summer dusk is that when it happens, it's just the prelude to another 5 or 6 hours of evening entertainment.
It was some time after we opened another bottle of Rose that I suggested that we move on to Balliceaux for music. Playing tonight was Brooklyn's trans-global soul band Karikatura, touted as producers of life-affirming, body-shaking music.
Because who doesn't want to shake their body on a warm, Friday night?
I felt like Gigi and I not only only needed our bodies shaken, but our lives affirmed, but it was her response to my suggestion that we go out that had me rolling on the floor. "Now I wish I'd worn underwear," she said nonsensically since she was wearing a skort.
The place was already hopping when we arrived, so we slid into place a few people back from the stage and were immediately captivated by Karikatura's melange of influences: reggae, Cuban, funk and soul, shaking our groove things in a way only enhanced by a couple of bottles of pink.
But because we're both short women, within ten minutes, a tall, well-dressed man took up position directly in front of us.
I let it go for half a song before tapping him gently on the shoulder and raising an eyebrow. "I'm going to stand behind you," he announced with a smile. Good thinking, Paul Bunyan.
With him out of the way, we had no problem moving forward on to the dance floor, unable to resist so much rhythm.
I have to say, "New York Hustle" was killer, a riff on all things Latin and disco, making us just part of the sweaty masses dancing our asses off.
Most nights I'm in Balliceaux, it's overly cold, the air conditioning blasting frigid air, but tonight's Latin beats and non-stop dancing crowd made for a very warm room and lots of glistening faces.
Gigi and I solved that by moving closer to the stage where a vent poured out cooler air and we could dance without sticking to those around us.
Occasionally we'd slip off the dance floor long enough to down a glass of water before returning to where the action was.
Finally, she cried uncle, saying, "Okay, one more song and that's it."
As it happened, synchronicity ensued with the band then announcing that it was their last song and launching into a slow groove of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone," the perfect cover because it didn't mimic the original but paid homage to it while making it something uniquely new.
Choosing to bring the bump to the grind right through the introductions of the sax and trombone players, we hung on dancing until the band called it quits.
Sharing a final cup of water as we walked out, Gigi raved about how good the band had been and I told her I almost hadn't mentioned it, planning to go alone, knowing she'd had a long day at work.
"Why would you do that?" she challenged. "Why wouldn't I want to go hear a great band and dance?"
Truthfully - and maybe this is a personal flaw - I couldn't think of a single good reason.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Not Staying Inside the Lines
You know I'm feeling the pride of the 'hood when I open up the Washington Post and see a piece about J-Ward.
There it was, larger than life, a wordy spread about the new GWAR Bar coming to Clay Street, two blocks from where I live. Not to brag, but we are becoming such a hot spot.
Likewise, it's terrific to see an old neighborhood favorite get a face-lift.
I'm talking about Bistro 27, relaunching with a big crowd tonight after a renovation of the dining room and a reworking of the menu (more of a Mediterranean emphasis).
There was air-kissing, there were friends to dish restaurant gossip with, and there was plenty of food to be tried.
Some people were two-fisting grown-up nuggets of thinly pounded chicken, Serrano ham, truffle oil and herbs coated in housemade breadcrumbs while others (Rich, I'm looking at you) stacked five and six tzatziki- topped lamb on pita on their plates.
A pretty girl in a green dress was trying not to inhale too much orecchiette bolognese ("We just got back from New Orleans so my dress already feels tight") while people filled cups with vichyssoise and hunks of crusty housemade bread and loosened their belts.
While assembling a cheese and fruit plate - Brie, creamy bleu, blueberry goat, pineapple, watermelon and figs - a woman began staring at me. When I turned to say hello, she said, "I know I know you."
Turns out we'd met once 20 years ago when I worked downtown and she'd somehow remembered my face. "I'm glad we figured that out because it would have driven me crazy!" she said when we parted.
And, no, I had no memory of her whatsoever when I saw her. Who remembers somebody they meet once and then don't see for two decades? Kudos to you, my dear.
Back at my table, our trio discussed recent theater productions we'd seen (Cabaret, Hair), the challenges of using a decorator (I wouldn't know) and a friend's recent eating and walking vacation in Charleston and Savannah (my kind of trip).
All of us admired Bistro 27's new look, with the newly refinished floors looking much warmer than before but also far more stylish.
The bar's new mosaic-looking front, trendy lighting, fresh art, studded leather chairs and sheer curtains made for a major improvement in the look of the place.
For me, part of the thrill also came from the absence of the TV near the bar (a buzz kill if ever there was one and now replaced with a painting), and the thumping techno music that made it feel like a happening.
My neighborhood joint had finally joined the 21st century. Wait till the neighbors see it now.
I think it was some time after our second wine and cheese plate that I got up to leave for an art opening, inviting my friends to join me, only one of whom did.
Walking outside, I couldn't help but notice that while the sky had been cloudless and blue when I'd arrived, now it was gray and so muggy you had to practically swim through the air.
It didn't matter because we were soon in the air-conditioned environs of Reynolds Gallery for the opening of "Hense: Drawings, Paintings and Shapes."
The artist Alex Brewer, who went by Hense when he'd been a graffiti artist, had done a two-wall installation in the gallery, using graphite, spray paint and large washes and rolls of clear-toned pinks, yellows, oranges and sky blues.
Savoring how it felt to be in that small gallery surrounded by these vibrant, colorful expressionist walls, I mentioned to my girlfriend what a shame it was that it would all eventually be painted over.
"I was just thinking the same thing!" a stranger said, turning to me with a look of consternation on her face. "What a shame that it will go away."
No doubt starting out as a graffiti artist prepares you to let go of your work the moment you finish it.
But there were also 21 paintings of myriad colors, mediums and moods arranged on the front gallery wall so Friend and I amused ourselves by discussing which ones appealed to us, which we could never live with as well as the inter-connectedness of certain recurring themes such as the pink circle.
Naturally, being a spray paint master, he made creative use of drips and in one work, the long,blue drips gave the piece a dense, underwater quality.
Often there was thick over-painting with small areas left showing through, giving the impression that you were being offered a glimpse into an inner world.
And then for something completely different, we headed to the other side of the wall.
One gallery space over was "Vacation Days," a group show full of familiar names and Richmond talent: Sally Bowring, Richard Roth, Sally Mann, Richard Carlyon, Gerry Donato, Jack Wax.
It was the best kind of group show with widely ranging styles and, in many cases, artists represented by two or three pieces. I counted myself as odd that I could be so attracted to one piece by an artist and find nothing to like about another of his. Call me fickle.
One thing Friend and I knew for certain was that our taste in art reflected our taste in attire.
She was drawn to pieces with the dark neutrals - black, brown, navy, gray - that she always wears while I was inevitably captured by color - if it was vibrant in hue, the painting more likely spoke to me.
Not sure what it is about me and color, but recently I bartered with an artist I know, trading him my writing for an upcoming painting of his.
Once he got started working on it, he sent me a picture of the work in progress with a note.
Here's what I have. I was experimenting a bit and wanted something with a lot of colors. Reminded me of you, I think.
Nothing wrong with being the colorful type, right? I should fit in perfectly in a neighborhood with a GWAR Bar.
There it was, larger than life, a wordy spread about the new GWAR Bar coming to Clay Street, two blocks from where I live. Not to brag, but we are becoming such a hot spot.
Likewise, it's terrific to see an old neighborhood favorite get a face-lift.
I'm talking about Bistro 27, relaunching with a big crowd tonight after a renovation of the dining room and a reworking of the menu (more of a Mediterranean emphasis).
There was air-kissing, there were friends to dish restaurant gossip with, and there was plenty of food to be tried.
Some people were two-fisting grown-up nuggets of thinly pounded chicken, Serrano ham, truffle oil and herbs coated in housemade breadcrumbs while others (Rich, I'm looking at you) stacked five and six tzatziki- topped lamb on pita on their plates.
A pretty girl in a green dress was trying not to inhale too much orecchiette bolognese ("We just got back from New Orleans so my dress already feels tight") while people filled cups with vichyssoise and hunks of crusty housemade bread and loosened their belts.
While assembling a cheese and fruit plate - Brie, creamy bleu, blueberry goat, pineapple, watermelon and figs - a woman began staring at me. When I turned to say hello, she said, "I know I know you."
Turns out we'd met once 20 years ago when I worked downtown and she'd somehow remembered my face. "I'm glad we figured that out because it would have driven me crazy!" she said when we parted.
And, no, I had no memory of her whatsoever when I saw her. Who remembers somebody they meet once and then don't see for two decades? Kudos to you, my dear.
Back at my table, our trio discussed recent theater productions we'd seen (Cabaret, Hair), the challenges of using a decorator (I wouldn't know) and a friend's recent eating and walking vacation in Charleston and Savannah (my kind of trip).
All of us admired Bistro 27's new look, with the newly refinished floors looking much warmer than before but also far more stylish.
The bar's new mosaic-looking front, trendy lighting, fresh art, studded leather chairs and sheer curtains made for a major improvement in the look of the place.
For me, part of the thrill also came from the absence of the TV near the bar (a buzz kill if ever there was one and now replaced with a painting), and the thumping techno music that made it feel like a happening.
My neighborhood joint had finally joined the 21st century. Wait till the neighbors see it now.
I think it was some time after our second wine and cheese plate that I got up to leave for an art opening, inviting my friends to join me, only one of whom did.
Walking outside, I couldn't help but notice that while the sky had been cloudless and blue when I'd arrived, now it was gray and so muggy you had to practically swim through the air.
It didn't matter because we were soon in the air-conditioned environs of Reynolds Gallery for the opening of "Hense: Drawings, Paintings and Shapes."
The artist Alex Brewer, who went by Hense when he'd been a graffiti artist, had done a two-wall installation in the gallery, using graphite, spray paint and large washes and rolls of clear-toned pinks, yellows, oranges and sky blues.
Savoring how it felt to be in that small gallery surrounded by these vibrant, colorful expressionist walls, I mentioned to my girlfriend what a shame it was that it would all eventually be painted over.
"I was just thinking the same thing!" a stranger said, turning to me with a look of consternation on her face. "What a shame that it will go away."
No doubt starting out as a graffiti artist prepares you to let go of your work the moment you finish it.
But there were also 21 paintings of myriad colors, mediums and moods arranged on the front gallery wall so Friend and I amused ourselves by discussing which ones appealed to us, which we could never live with as well as the inter-connectedness of certain recurring themes such as the pink circle.
Naturally, being a spray paint master, he made creative use of drips and in one work, the long,blue drips gave the piece a dense, underwater quality.
Often there was thick over-painting with small areas left showing through, giving the impression that you were being offered a glimpse into an inner world.
And then for something completely different, we headed to the other side of the wall.
One gallery space over was "Vacation Days," a group show full of familiar names and Richmond talent: Sally Bowring, Richard Roth, Sally Mann, Richard Carlyon, Gerry Donato, Jack Wax.
It was the best kind of group show with widely ranging styles and, in many cases, artists represented by two or three pieces. I counted myself as odd that I could be so attracted to one piece by an artist and find nothing to like about another of his. Call me fickle.
One thing Friend and I knew for certain was that our taste in art reflected our taste in attire.
She was drawn to pieces with the dark neutrals - black, brown, navy, gray - that she always wears while I was inevitably captured by color - if it was vibrant in hue, the painting more likely spoke to me.
Not sure what it is about me and color, but recently I bartered with an artist I know, trading him my writing for an upcoming painting of his.
Once he got started working on it, he sent me a picture of the work in progress with a note.
Here's what I have. I was experimenting a bit and wanted something with a lot of colors. Reminded me of you, I think.
Nothing wrong with being the colorful type, right? I should fit in perfectly in a neighborhood with a GWAR Bar.
Cowcatchers on Clay
Give me a rainy day and some old photographs and I'm in heaven. Just don't make me choose between the two.
As it happened, today I didn't have to.
The Virginia Historical Society's banner lecture, given by author Kitty Snow, was entitled From a Richmond Streetcar: Life through the Lens of Harris Stilson.
I was intrigued because my Richmond grandmother had taken the streetcar to get to her job as an operator at C & P Telephone Company and as a kid, I'd been fascinated with her stories of riding them.
Suspecting that the topic would be a popular one, I arrived early and was soon joined by an older couple who arrived holding hands.
Before long I was chatting with the woman who told me that she'd been married 27 years to a Vietnam vet and then alone for ten years, before meeting her current husband, an engineer now sitting next to her (and looking up directions to a Bon Air store on his phone), who'd been married 52 years.
Of course I had to ask how they'd met. Seems before his first wife died she'd suggested he join the church choir and once she was gone, he did.
There he'd met the woman I was talking to, who'd been a member of the choir her entire adult life.
At that point, the husband leaned over his wife with a smile and whispered to me, "She needed a lot of retraining!"
The wife was just as funny, responding, "So did he! He told me he'd be good for five years and we've been together ten."
How cute is that?
The lecture began with the VHS president telling us, "If you have a cell phone, please grind it under your heel," easily the wittiest way to remind people to silence their devices I've ever heard.
Kitty Snow turned out to be the great-granddaughter of Harris Stilson, a Richmond streetcar driver (she said he always referred to himself as a "carman") and amateur photographer in the early 1900s, and the recipient of his archives.
Best of all for me, he'd driven the West Clay line, so I was guaranteed to see familiar sights given that that's where I live.
She'd only brought a small fraction of the fabulous collection of pictures and negatives he'd taken, but even so we were treated to an hour of Richmond's places and people a hundred years ago.
Apparently Harris' talent with a camera was well known enough that people would flag him down when he was driving the streetcar and ask him to take their picture. He charged 15-20 cents for whites and, admirably, a nickel less for blacks.
I'd come to the lecture because of my grandmother, but it was my grandfather who first came to mind when we saw a picture of a milkman on his Richmond Dairy horse and wagon because my grandfather had been a milkman for Richmond dairy his entire working life, both with horse and wagons then later milk trucks
Harris took plenty of self-portraits at a time when cameras didn't do that on their own, employing string, wire and other devices to capture his own image.
We saw First Union Church at Moore and Elizabeth Streets and while the original church is gone, the location is one I walk by often.
He'd taken many photographs of Jewish shops and shopkeepers; I was surprised to learn that Eric Cantor's grandfather had once owned a store in Jackson Ward.
One thing Harris liked to document was accidents like the streetcar collision with a cow, a horse and two goats on the first day of the streetcars running in 1888.
The picture showed the cow under a streetcar, but Kitty said the horse died when it stepped on the live electric line and no one knew how the goats had perished, but they had. It wasn't long before cow catchers were attached to the front of the cars.
Another accident photo showed a wagon with a bull in it toppled at Norton and Clay, again only a few blocks from my house.
When Kitty mentioned how at the end of the street car lines, all the seats had to be reversed for the return trip, many white and gray haired heads in the audience nodded in acknowledgement of the memory.
We saw peddlers on Leigh Street, kids jumping off the high dive into Shields' Lake, and the Piggly Wiggly on the Boulevard with a circus parade going by.
A shot of Hartshorn College, a women's teaching school then and where Maggie Walker Governor's School is now, captured a man climbing out of a women's dorm window. Pretty racy for the time.
I was tickled to see a shot of Hurdles Drug Store at Hancock and Clay (also very close to me), looking very old fashioned, right down to the spittoon by the counter.
There were many pictures of Leigh Street as a dirt road, one with a herd of cattle moseying down the middle.
Somehow I'd never heard or read about the stockyards here, but Harris had been to them so we saw his photograph of a pig in a slaughterhouse dead from heat with workers standing nearby.
That's just it. Harris - the poor man's photographer- took pictures for the masses. Blacks, Jews, immigrants, laborers, maids, slaughterhouse workers, Girl Scouts, businessmen, the St. Luke's Bank marching band.
Basically, anyone who asked or anyone who caught his eye.
The hour of looking at his photographs passed in what seemed like five minutes and I'd have happily stayed for another hour or two if she'd been willing to show us more.
Sometimes you sign on for a short time and happily stay much longer because you're enjoying yourself so much. Marriage, a noon-time lecture, they're not that far apart.
As it happened, today I didn't have to.
The Virginia Historical Society's banner lecture, given by author Kitty Snow, was entitled From a Richmond Streetcar: Life through the Lens of Harris Stilson.
I was intrigued because my Richmond grandmother had taken the streetcar to get to her job as an operator at C & P Telephone Company and as a kid, I'd been fascinated with her stories of riding them.
Suspecting that the topic would be a popular one, I arrived early and was soon joined by an older couple who arrived holding hands.
Before long I was chatting with the woman who told me that she'd been married 27 years to a Vietnam vet and then alone for ten years, before meeting her current husband, an engineer now sitting next to her (and looking up directions to a Bon Air store on his phone), who'd been married 52 years.
Of course I had to ask how they'd met. Seems before his first wife died she'd suggested he join the church choir and once she was gone, he did.
There he'd met the woman I was talking to, who'd been a member of the choir her entire adult life.
At that point, the husband leaned over his wife with a smile and whispered to me, "She needed a lot of retraining!"
The wife was just as funny, responding, "So did he! He told me he'd be good for five years and we've been together ten."
How cute is that?
The lecture began with the VHS president telling us, "If you have a cell phone, please grind it under your heel," easily the wittiest way to remind people to silence their devices I've ever heard.
Kitty Snow turned out to be the great-granddaughter of Harris Stilson, a Richmond streetcar driver (she said he always referred to himself as a "carman") and amateur photographer in the early 1900s, and the recipient of his archives.
Best of all for me, he'd driven the West Clay line, so I was guaranteed to see familiar sights given that that's where I live.
She'd only brought a small fraction of the fabulous collection of pictures and negatives he'd taken, but even so we were treated to an hour of Richmond's places and people a hundred years ago.
Apparently Harris' talent with a camera was well known enough that people would flag him down when he was driving the streetcar and ask him to take their picture. He charged 15-20 cents for whites and, admirably, a nickel less for blacks.
I'd come to the lecture because of my grandmother, but it was my grandfather who first came to mind when we saw a picture of a milkman on his Richmond Dairy horse and wagon because my grandfather had been a milkman for Richmond dairy his entire working life, both with horse and wagons then later milk trucks
Harris took plenty of self-portraits at a time when cameras didn't do that on their own, employing string, wire and other devices to capture his own image.
We saw First Union Church at Moore and Elizabeth Streets and while the original church is gone, the location is one I walk by often.
He'd taken many photographs of Jewish shops and shopkeepers; I was surprised to learn that Eric Cantor's grandfather had once owned a store in Jackson Ward.
One thing Harris liked to document was accidents like the streetcar collision with a cow, a horse and two goats on the first day of the streetcars running in 1888.
The picture showed the cow under a streetcar, but Kitty said the horse died when it stepped on the live electric line and no one knew how the goats had perished, but they had. It wasn't long before cow catchers were attached to the front of the cars.
Another accident photo showed a wagon with a bull in it toppled at Norton and Clay, again only a few blocks from my house.
When Kitty mentioned how at the end of the street car lines, all the seats had to be reversed for the return trip, many white and gray haired heads in the audience nodded in acknowledgement of the memory.
We saw peddlers on Leigh Street, kids jumping off the high dive into Shields' Lake, and the Piggly Wiggly on the Boulevard with a circus parade going by.
A shot of Hartshorn College, a women's teaching school then and where Maggie Walker Governor's School is now, captured a man climbing out of a women's dorm window. Pretty racy for the time.
I was tickled to see a shot of Hurdles Drug Store at Hancock and Clay (also very close to me), looking very old fashioned, right down to the spittoon by the counter.
There were many pictures of Leigh Street as a dirt road, one with a herd of cattle moseying down the middle.
Somehow I'd never heard or read about the stockyards here, but Harris had been to them so we saw his photograph of a pig in a slaughterhouse dead from heat with workers standing nearby.
That's just it. Harris - the poor man's photographer- took pictures for the masses. Blacks, Jews, immigrants, laborers, maids, slaughterhouse workers, Girl Scouts, businessmen, the St. Luke's Bank marching band.
Basically, anyone who asked or anyone who caught his eye.
The hour of looking at his photographs passed in what seemed like five minutes and I'd have happily stayed for another hour or two if she'd been willing to show us more.
Sometimes you sign on for a short time and happily stay much longer because you're enjoying yourself so much. Marriage, a noon-time lecture, they're not that far apart.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Not at My Dive Bar You Don't
It was time for vacation debriefing.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Steppin' on My Starter
I'm the kind of girl who loves a movie with a negligee and lingerie credit.
For a while now I've been seeing weekly listings for River City Classic Not So Classic Movie nights, intrigued at the concept of showing nothing but cheesy "B" movies in a diner, albeit one not exactly close to home.
But once I looked it up, I saw that River City Classic Bar & Grill was right across from the Amtrack station, a place I know well. Hey, I can do this.
Walking in, I liked it right away because one of the owners was friendly and funny and because amongst the variety of seating at the bar were two leopard print bar stools. Leopard! Now that's something you don't see everywhere.
I sat down at a booth directly in front of the screen and ordered an antipasto salad, pleased when they began showing previews to other cheesy movies on two screens.
Stuff like "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" "Humanoids from the Deep" and "Blackula." Good times, bad movies.
Meanwhile, a four top arrived, announcing to no one in particular, "The Johnny Cash fans have arrived." It was a practically full house for 1961's "Five Seconds to Live" starring the man in black and Ronny Howard (touted in the preview trailer as "the delightful new child star").
As we listened to Johnny sing the theme song he penned (and not for the last time) to the black and white movie, I spotted the negligee credit. That must be some major lingerie to get its own listing.
Johnny is a guitar-playing fugitive who hides out in suburbia, which he hates ("This suburb life ain't for me") where he meets a fellow bad guy at a bowling alley (where boys reset the bowling pins, not a machine) and they decide to rob a bank with Johnny holding the bank man's wife hostage.
When little Ronny made his first appearance on screen, everyone in the diner let out a collective "aww." Before long he tells his Mom that he's lost his bite plate. Apparently that's '60s speak for retainer, which he scooped off the rug and returned to his mouth without rinsing, causing some in the room to groan in disgust.
There was lots of commentary from the peanut gallery during the movie as we took in the Hollywood version of what suburban life was like circa 1961. Family breakfast. Hungover Dad telling Mom what was best. Kid focused on baseball.
We got our first taste of lingerie when the suburban Dad left for the bank but stopped by his mistress' house on the way. She was wearing an elaborate dressing gown to eat breakfast, the kind people never wear in real life to eat breakfast.
Once he and the kid are gone, Johnny insinuates his way into the house and takes the Mrs. hostage, strumming his guitar in between terrorizing her. He's just killing time waiting for his partner in crime to call and tell him whether or not he has to kill her.
But Johnny's a real man and he gets annoyed by how frumpy she looks, directing her to, "Remove the artillery," meaning the clips in her hair. "I like my broad to look sharp," he snarls.
And that's the thing. At no point in this film did Johnny Cash play anyone except Johnny Cash. Did he even pretend to play a two-bit thug? He did not.
When he forces her into the bedroom, she tries to make up the bed until he stops her saying, "I like a messy bed," and instructs her to put on the negligee he finds in the closet.
Of course, she's never actually worn it. Hubby bought it as a joke for her ten years ago (so pre-little Ronny) and it's been hanging there ever since.
That's when she decides to use her wily, womanly ways and play along with his amorous advances, letting him kiss and maul her without complaint, so he won't off her.
"I guess you girls are all alike when Johnny steps on your starter," he says in his most predatory tone. But he's right, we girls do like to have our starters stepped on.
Over at the bank, the other bad guy is trying to convince her husband that if he doesn't cash the bogus $70,000 check, Johnny will kill his wife at home.
The husband explains to the guy that he has a girlfriend and was planning to run away to Vegas with her that night. "Then I'll be doing you a favor," Bad Guy retorts.
Oh, no, will Hubs let Wifey be Johnny's next victim?
"Now we got a movie," the guy in the booth next to me cackled.
Back in suburbia, Johnny is alternating breaking decorative household pieces to upset his hostage ("I saved for a year to buy that!" she shrieks when he shatters a vase on the mantle) and strumming on the ole guitar.
"Johnny Cash, killing 'em with chords," a guy at the bar observed as Johnny sang "I've Come to Kill," another of his own upbeat compositions, to his victim.
I wouldn't think of ruining the big ending because everybody needs to see "Five Minutes to Live" once but I will tease you by saying that people get shot (and die) and Johnny wears a vest the entire movie.
Before going to see this not so classic movie, I'd messaged a film buff friend who said he'd seen it and that it had been fun.
Fun doesn't begin to describe it. Talking to some people I met tonight about the movie, the best they could do was, in one guy's words "awesome" and in another's," way better than I expected."
Are you guys word-challenged or what? That movie managed to skewer 1960s America's growing white middle class ennui and titillate with negligees while providing copious screen time for Johnny Cash to snarl and sing!
Translation: I will be back for another cheeseball, not so classic film as part of the weekly descent into the bottomless pit under the basement of the crypt of forgotten and forlorn "B" movies.
How can I not? The bar was set sohigh low tonight, I've got to go back and see what else they have.
Now we got a movie series.
For a while now I've been seeing weekly listings for River City Classic Not So Classic Movie nights, intrigued at the concept of showing nothing but cheesy "B" movies in a diner, albeit one not exactly close to home.
But once I looked it up, I saw that River City Classic Bar & Grill was right across from the Amtrack station, a place I know well. Hey, I can do this.
Walking in, I liked it right away because one of the owners was friendly and funny and because amongst the variety of seating at the bar were two leopard print bar stools. Leopard! Now that's something you don't see everywhere.
I sat down at a booth directly in front of the screen and ordered an antipasto salad, pleased when they began showing previews to other cheesy movies on two screens.
Stuff like "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" "Humanoids from the Deep" and "Blackula." Good times, bad movies.
Meanwhile, a four top arrived, announcing to no one in particular, "The Johnny Cash fans have arrived." It was a practically full house for 1961's "Five Seconds to Live" starring the man in black and Ronny Howard (touted in the preview trailer as "the delightful new child star").
As we listened to Johnny sing the theme song he penned (and not for the last time) to the black and white movie, I spotted the negligee credit. That must be some major lingerie to get its own listing.
Johnny is a guitar-playing fugitive who hides out in suburbia, which he hates ("This suburb life ain't for me") where he meets a fellow bad guy at a bowling alley (where boys reset the bowling pins, not a machine) and they decide to rob a bank with Johnny holding the bank man's wife hostage.
When little Ronny made his first appearance on screen, everyone in the diner let out a collective "aww." Before long he tells his Mom that he's lost his bite plate. Apparently that's '60s speak for retainer, which he scooped off the rug and returned to his mouth without rinsing, causing some in the room to groan in disgust.
There was lots of commentary from the peanut gallery during the movie as we took in the Hollywood version of what suburban life was like circa 1961. Family breakfast. Hungover Dad telling Mom what was best. Kid focused on baseball.
We got our first taste of lingerie when the suburban Dad left for the bank but stopped by his mistress' house on the way. She was wearing an elaborate dressing gown to eat breakfast, the kind people never wear in real life to eat breakfast.
Once he and the kid are gone, Johnny insinuates his way into the house and takes the Mrs. hostage, strumming his guitar in between terrorizing her. He's just killing time waiting for his partner in crime to call and tell him whether or not he has to kill her.
But Johnny's a real man and he gets annoyed by how frumpy she looks, directing her to, "Remove the artillery," meaning the clips in her hair. "I like my broad to look sharp," he snarls.
And that's the thing. At no point in this film did Johnny Cash play anyone except Johnny Cash. Did he even pretend to play a two-bit thug? He did not.
When he forces her into the bedroom, she tries to make up the bed until he stops her saying, "I like a messy bed," and instructs her to put on the negligee he finds in the closet.
Of course, she's never actually worn it. Hubby bought it as a joke for her ten years ago (so pre-little Ronny) and it's been hanging there ever since.
That's when she decides to use her wily, womanly ways and play along with his amorous advances, letting him kiss and maul her without complaint, so he won't off her.
"I guess you girls are all alike when Johnny steps on your starter," he says in his most predatory tone. But he's right, we girls do like to have our starters stepped on.
Over at the bank, the other bad guy is trying to convince her husband that if he doesn't cash the bogus $70,000 check, Johnny will kill his wife at home.
The husband explains to the guy that he has a girlfriend and was planning to run away to Vegas with her that night. "Then I'll be doing you a favor," Bad Guy retorts.
Oh, no, will Hubs let Wifey be Johnny's next victim?
"Now we got a movie," the guy in the booth next to me cackled.
Back in suburbia, Johnny is alternating breaking decorative household pieces to upset his hostage ("I saved for a year to buy that!" she shrieks when he shatters a vase on the mantle) and strumming on the ole guitar.
"Johnny Cash, killing 'em with chords," a guy at the bar observed as Johnny sang "I've Come to Kill," another of his own upbeat compositions, to his victim.
I wouldn't think of ruining the big ending because everybody needs to see "Five Minutes to Live" once but I will tease you by saying that people get shot (and die) and Johnny wears a vest the entire movie.
Before going to see this not so classic movie, I'd messaged a film buff friend who said he'd seen it and that it had been fun.
Fun doesn't begin to describe it. Talking to some people I met tonight about the movie, the best they could do was, in one guy's words "awesome" and in another's," way better than I expected."
Are you guys word-challenged or what? That movie managed to skewer 1960s America's growing white middle class ennui and titillate with negligees while providing copious screen time for Johnny Cash to snarl and sing!
Translation: I will be back for another cheeseball, not so classic film as part of the weekly descent into the bottomless pit under the basement of the crypt of forgotten and forlorn "B" movies.
How can I not? The bar was set so
Now we got a movie series.
Take Me to the River
So if I can't have the ocean, at least there's the river.
It's high summer in the south, meaning it was already 90 degrees when I left the house at 10:15, but there was a fine breeze as I zig-zagged my way to Brown's Island trying to stick mostly to shady streets.
Once on Brown's Island, I saw a crew working on the stage but it was hard to tell if they were dismantling it or setting it up. I know Friday Cheers is over, so perhaps there's something else on the horizon. One guy was singing at the top of his lungs as he hammered.
Of course, the best part of being on the island was that I was that much closer to the cooler breezes coming off the water as I made a bee-line for the pipeline walkway.
The first thing to catch my eye as I trudged down the sandy path to the river was a full-size tent set up under the trestle. I've noticed people living under some of the concrete overhangs further on before, so maybe this is their summer home.
Given how dry it's been, I had no fear that the pipeline walkway would be underwater and it wasn't; in fact, it was exposed as much as I've seen it in a year. And the walkway was uncrowded so I didn't pass any other people until I got near the beachy stretch and saw two men, one on the sand, another on the walkway.
Just past them, I slid down off the walkway to the little sandy beach intending to stick my feet in the water.
First thing I saw was pure Richmond: a girl's red underwear and a guy's black briefs hanging from a tree branch at the water's edge. Only thing missing were crushed PBR cans.
Just as I was removing my shoes, the guy on the walkway called down to warn me that he'd seen a snake down where I was. I appreciate the information but don't be harshing my mellow, sir.
The guy on the beach meanwhile was moving around looking for the varmint and eventually called over to me saying there was no sign of it so it was probably long gone.
Good thing because I intended to put my legs in the water anyway, despite how unnaturally warm it was. It was sure no ocean, but it was wet.
Trekking back over the pipeline, I came face to face with a small group who looked terrified that we had to pass each other on the narrow, rounded pipe. They decided to stand stock-still and I breezed by as one said, "I didn't expect other people to be here!"
When I heard rushing water near the rapids I climbed out on a series of rocks for a better view, waving to friends on the southside working hard this morning on the other side of the river and completely unaware of me.
As I made my way back across Brown's Island, I saw a couple doing push-ups and sit-ups on the steps in the sun, no doubt sweating buckets to get fit.
Bless their hearts. When it's this kind of hot, a walk by the river is more than enough exercise for some of us.
It's high summer in the south, meaning it was already 90 degrees when I left the house at 10:15, but there was a fine breeze as I zig-zagged my way to Brown's Island trying to stick mostly to shady streets.
Once on Brown's Island, I saw a crew working on the stage but it was hard to tell if they were dismantling it or setting it up. I know Friday Cheers is over, so perhaps there's something else on the horizon. One guy was singing at the top of his lungs as he hammered.
Of course, the best part of being on the island was that I was that much closer to the cooler breezes coming off the water as I made a bee-line for the pipeline walkway.
The first thing to catch my eye as I trudged down the sandy path to the river was a full-size tent set up under the trestle. I've noticed people living under some of the concrete overhangs further on before, so maybe this is their summer home.
Given how dry it's been, I had no fear that the pipeline walkway would be underwater and it wasn't; in fact, it was exposed as much as I've seen it in a year. And the walkway was uncrowded so I didn't pass any other people until I got near the beachy stretch and saw two men, one on the sand, another on the walkway.
Just past them, I slid down off the walkway to the little sandy beach intending to stick my feet in the water.
First thing I saw was pure Richmond: a girl's red underwear and a guy's black briefs hanging from a tree branch at the water's edge. Only thing missing were crushed PBR cans.
Just as I was removing my shoes, the guy on the walkway called down to warn me that he'd seen a snake down where I was. I appreciate the information but don't be harshing my mellow, sir.
The guy on the beach meanwhile was moving around looking for the varmint and eventually called over to me saying there was no sign of it so it was probably long gone.
Good thing because I intended to put my legs in the water anyway, despite how unnaturally warm it was. It was sure no ocean, but it was wet.
Trekking back over the pipeline, I came face to face with a small group who looked terrified that we had to pass each other on the narrow, rounded pipe. They decided to stand stock-still and I breezed by as one said, "I didn't expect other people to be here!"
When I heard rushing water near the rapids I climbed out on a series of rocks for a better view, waving to friends on the southside working hard this morning on the other side of the river and completely unaware of me.
As I made my way back across Brown's Island, I saw a couple doing push-ups and sit-ups on the steps in the sun, no doubt sweating buckets to get fit.
Bless their hearts. When it's this kind of hot, a walk by the river is more than enough exercise for some of us.
Seduced by a Breeze
It's always a challenge settling back in after vacation.
Oh, I don't mean the conscious un-vacationing part - the loads of laundry, the putting away of beach gear, the housecleaning to restore some order, the grocery shopping - I mean the adaptation to life back in the city after a week of endless reading and napping, the soothing sound of the ocean, of all leisure all the time.
Sound of brakes screeching.
That meant after a full day attending to the minutiae of life, there was no walking on the beach or sitting on the porch swing transfixed by the surf to cap it off.
Come on, Karen, make lemonade out of lemons here.
So what didn't I have at the beach? A good foreign film (and, yes, Canada counts), that was it, so it was off to the Westhampton Theater I went to see "The Grand Seduction." Me and six other people, so it wasn't a big crowd needing to be seduced.
Set in a former fishing village in Newfoundland, the sweet story of a harbor community trying to woo a young doctor to their remote location so they can qualify to have a much-needed factory built and provide jobs for the town's out of work former fishermen, unfolded gently and engagingly.
How the town seduces him is the funny part - tapping his phone to learn about his passion for jazz, his dead father and favorite food (which the town restaurant then duplicates) - and even leaving money around for him to happen upon because "finding money makes people happy."
It's true. While I was in the ocean last week, I looked up to see a $10 bill floating by and nabbed it, feeling inordinately pleased with my find. The good doctor was no different.
One of the funniest lines came when the doctor shows up at the home of the town's eligible, young postmistress. "I've been drinking," he says.
"Just what every girl wants to hear when she opens her door to a man at night," she deadpans before closing the door in his face.
My kind of humor.
The movie was charming, chock full of stunning island landscapes with a cast of wonderfully oddball characters such as you'd expect in such a remote location, a gentle reminder that seduction isn't always about sex.
Not that there's anything wrong with seduction when it is about sex.
Not ready to go home after the movie, I went instead to Balliceaux for the RVA Big Band, immediately running into a bartender friend, who, like me, was wondering how our mutual friends seem to be on vacation every other week (currently they're in Aruba).
In the back room, the big band was getting set up and tuning, so I took a table near where a sax player was unpacking his instrument. He said hello and smiled.
Shouldn't you be up there blowing? I inquired of him.
"There will be a lot of blowing tonight," he said with a grin. "You may even feel a breeze." I was okay with that. Maybe a brass breeze could substitute for the absent sea breeze.
Sitting in with the band tonight were three horn players from Charlottesville, including the guy I'd just met, and after introducing them, the band leader said, "They grow some really green grass there." Non-sequitur or inside information?
The first song began with nothing but the upright bass and within seconds, everyone in the room was snapping their fingers along with the beat, a very good start.
From there, they did some testifying, swung hard and took the band in just about every direction they could as the crowd continued to grow. One group of eight or so pretty young things arrived, all sundress-clad, pulled out their phones and shot footage of the band briefly before exiting, stage right.
At the end of the first set, I got up to leave and was stopped by the music-loving science writer I'd met there a few months ago.
"I was just coming over to join you at your table," he explained. "I was getting tired of standing. Do you have to go already?"
Actually, yes, I do. You see, I had some surprisingly early nights - 10:25 one night!- while I was at the beach and my body hasn't fully adjusted back to RVA time.
Give it a few days and it'll be there. But for now, the ocean is still sorely missed.
Oh, I don't mean the conscious un-vacationing part - the loads of laundry, the putting away of beach gear, the housecleaning to restore some order, the grocery shopping - I mean the adaptation to life back in the city after a week of endless reading and napping, the soothing sound of the ocean, of all leisure all the time.
Sound of brakes screeching.
That meant after a full day attending to the minutiae of life, there was no walking on the beach or sitting on the porch swing transfixed by the surf to cap it off.
Come on, Karen, make lemonade out of lemons here.
So what didn't I have at the beach? A good foreign film (and, yes, Canada counts), that was it, so it was off to the Westhampton Theater I went to see "The Grand Seduction." Me and six other people, so it wasn't a big crowd needing to be seduced.
Set in a former fishing village in Newfoundland, the sweet story of a harbor community trying to woo a young doctor to their remote location so they can qualify to have a much-needed factory built and provide jobs for the town's out of work former fishermen, unfolded gently and engagingly.
How the town seduces him is the funny part - tapping his phone to learn about his passion for jazz, his dead father and favorite food (which the town restaurant then duplicates) - and even leaving money around for him to happen upon because "finding money makes people happy."
It's true. While I was in the ocean last week, I looked up to see a $10 bill floating by and nabbed it, feeling inordinately pleased with my find. The good doctor was no different.
One of the funniest lines came when the doctor shows up at the home of the town's eligible, young postmistress. "I've been drinking," he says.
"Just what every girl wants to hear when she opens her door to a man at night," she deadpans before closing the door in his face.
My kind of humor.
The movie was charming, chock full of stunning island landscapes with a cast of wonderfully oddball characters such as you'd expect in such a remote location, a gentle reminder that seduction isn't always about sex.
Not that there's anything wrong with seduction when it is about sex.
Not ready to go home after the movie, I went instead to Balliceaux for the RVA Big Band, immediately running into a bartender friend, who, like me, was wondering how our mutual friends seem to be on vacation every other week (currently they're in Aruba).
In the back room, the big band was getting set up and tuning, so I took a table near where a sax player was unpacking his instrument. He said hello and smiled.
Shouldn't you be up there blowing? I inquired of him.
"There will be a lot of blowing tonight," he said with a grin. "You may even feel a breeze." I was okay with that. Maybe a brass breeze could substitute for the absent sea breeze.
Sitting in with the band tonight were three horn players from Charlottesville, including the guy I'd just met, and after introducing them, the band leader said, "They grow some really green grass there." Non-sequitur or inside information?
The first song began with nothing but the upright bass and within seconds, everyone in the room was snapping their fingers along with the beat, a very good start.
From there, they did some testifying, swung hard and took the band in just about every direction they could as the crowd continued to grow. One group of eight or so pretty young things arrived, all sundress-clad, pulled out their phones and shot footage of the band briefly before exiting, stage right.
At the end of the first set, I got up to leave and was stopped by the music-loving science writer I'd met there a few months ago.
"I was just coming over to join you at your table," he explained. "I was getting tired of standing. Do you have to go already?"
Actually, yes, I do. You see, I had some surprisingly early nights - 10:25 one night!- while I was at the beach and my body hasn't fully adjusted back to RVA time.
Give it a few days and it'll be there. But for now, the ocean is still sorely missed.
Monday, July 7, 2014
Bring It, Art!!
When you're talking about a week at the beach, do you focus on what you did or didn't do?
Sunday: Arrived at the same little oceanfront cottage I've been renting for 20 years to find the ocean an incredibly warm 77 degrees, a drastic improvement over last year when the water was so cold we couldn't go in all week. I wasn't in the water half an hour before the surf knocked me over, earning me incredulous looks from my crew when I emerged.
"Is that blood on your leg?" Given the missing skin over my kneecap, I just assume it's a rhetorical question and let it bleed. Sure, my legs are the moneymaker, but ocean cred has been established early on. As the fireman has been known to say, YOLO (you only live once). We are resolved to drink a Rose a day all week long.
First beach read of the week: Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone.
Monday: Our morning walk on the beach reveals that Southern Shores, the beach just north of us, has lost considerable width over the past year. Morning tides are high, so shell collecting is abundant. After a day of nothing more than sitting on the beach reading, forays into the now 78-degree ocean and napping, we clean up and head south to Outer Banks Brewing Station where locally caught steamed shrimp and fat hushpuppies are just the ticket to soak up our extended Monday happy hour on the porch.
Tuesday: While I've yet to check my e-mail since we arrived, the male members of the household are keenly attuned to the outside world and today's World Cup match between U.S. and Belgium. They're not going to watch it anywhere that serves mussels, so I decline to join and spend a happy afternoon with the womenfolk, reading 1913: The Year Before the Storm, full of anecdotes about Stravinsky, Freud, Franz Kafka and Thomas Mann.
We stay in the ocean so long that our fingers resemble prunes when we make it back to the house to shower off the briny water. Already, my skinned knee is healing thanks to the salt. Once the balance of the sexes has been restored (after the U.S. team's heartbreaking loss), two of us take to the beach and walk up to Art's Place ("Locals welcomed, tourists tolerated...sometimes") for burgers and more N.C. shrimp.
When I ask about the sign outside touting "Live music tonight 7 p.m." our server, Courtney, looks abashed and says, "Oops, I was supposed to change that. Live music was last night." We're happy enough to spend the rest of the evening sitting on the porch swing listening to the black ocean, the whitecaps the only visible indications of the sound's source.
Wednesday: In addition to the four decades of music (heavy on the '90s) that the local radio station plays (the playlist varies so little from year to year that we could practically write it out ourselves...and therein lies part of the charm), today's patter is full of talk of Arthur, the tropical storm gathering force and heading directly for us.
Interestingly, in a quarter century of vacationing during this week, we have never had a hurricane. As one of the pithy members of the household noted, "hashtag Al Gore." Indeed. The DJ says the ocean needs to be 82 degrees for a storm to form and since we have been in the upper '70s for days, we plan accordingly.
That means it's date night and we start with a drive down Collington Road, where we end up at a little locals bar called the Blue Crab ("the crab" to those in the know) where we take our libations out to the soundside deck when a man looks at me and calls out, "I was waiting for you! I knew you'd come."
Once again, it has been proven that I carry the gene that causes strangers to talk to me. My date chooses the furthest table, albeit with only one in between us and my new admirer, and we observe bird life on the sound while a foosball game goes on nearby.
Our dinner destination, the Brine and the Bottle, is on the causeway and new to us both, although we're into its slogan - get pickled! We sit on the deck, the pre-Arthur wind whipping my hair around non-stop but also bringing a sense of weather excitement to the evening. Mortified when I drop my knife and it neatly slides between the wide-set boards of the decking, our server assures me it happens all the time. "Periodically we just send someone underwater to retrieve all the dropped stuff." Don't sweat the small stuff, I get it.
To start, quail and pickled anaheim chili waffles and fried green tomatoes with S.C. peaches, candied bacon and buttermilk chive dressing before I move on to a soft shell crab with pickled ramp tartar sauce while my date has olive oil-poached mahi mahi. After moving to the other side of the deck, we finish with two desserts - one chocolate, one blueberry and peach - and bubbly to toast vacation.
Not that the evening needed to get any better, but we make a final stop at Kelly's to hear the Deloreans, an '80s cover band that eschews the hair bands of Sweet Justice for pop. Cyndi Lauper, the Go-Gos, Prince (oh, yes, we partied like it was 1999), performed by a female lead singer who played a bass with day-glo strings, a snarling guy mimicking Billy Idol and another who looked like David Byrne. It was a blast.
Thursday: Arthur becomes official and Hatteras Island was being evacuated, but not us, so people began preparing for the storm, battening down hurricane shutters on the few houses that still have them. Food Lion puts up corrugated metal sheeting over their windows. Awful Arthur's changed their sign to read, "We had the name first!" and homeowners boarded up windows with plywood spray painted, "Go away, Arthur" and, three houses down from us, the cocky, "Bring it, Art!"
You can call Kitty Hawk the "ghetto of the Outer Banks," but I like its attitude.
With the ocean suddenly a chilly 59 degrees, swimming was out, but not eating. Lunch of fried rockfish strips, fried okra and cole slaw plus chocolate milkshakes at John's drive-in was interrupted only when a John's employee came to take away our table umbrella, sure that Arthur was imminent. We didn't have the heart to tell him it was 12 hours away.
A cop stopped by the house to suggest we move our cars to higher ground (which we did) but didn't warn us to leave, in fact reassured us they'd be around all night if we needed anything. Fog rolled in so heavy toward early evening that the Kitty Hawk pier, barely a third of a mile away, was invisible in the mist. Visibility on the ocean kept diminishing. Many of the vacationers in nearby houses packed up and left.
We did the only sensible thing: had a long happy hour on the porch and then ate crabs, corn and cole slaw on the picnic table. Everyone wanted to get in bed early so we could get up once the storm arrived and watch.
Today's beach read: When French Women Cook
By 2:30 a.m., Arthur was overhead and the wind was a pretty continuous high-pitched whine while the surf pounded just outside. We all got up to watch and discuss before going back to bed and re-emerging at 5:30 once the wind had shifted from off the ocean to off the sound. It was then that Arthur began ripping off siding and insulation from the house across the street and eventually ours, leaving pieces to beat against the house until the wind died finally down. My first hurricane at close range: a rousing success and great entertainment.
Friday: The "no swimming" flags were up when we awoke and the surf was rough enough (and only 65 degrees) to ensure no one would flaunt the flags except surfers, so we called the Nags Head pier to see if they were serving and then drove south to survey the damage and eat.
Like our house, many had taken more than a few blows on the north and eastern sides and there was a lot of sand on the road in places, but all in all, the beach looked pretty good. We ate our pancakes, eggs and sausage gravy watching throngs of vacationers milling about on the beach, like sightseers at a train crash.
It was a fine, sunny afternoon for reading and talking to strangers. Our house's scarred look meant that we were part of the beach gawker tour that afternoon and more than a few people stopped to take photos or ask about the damage. One woman asked to come all the way up on the porch, concerned because her mother spends two weeks in that cottage every May, "So it feels like home to us." Tell me about it, toots.
With all the fireworks rescheduled, dinner was served at Ocean Boulevard where we had the same bartender we've had for ten years. After the OBX skillet with pork shoulder, goat cheese, and tomato chutney, I went for a bistro salad and pan-seared scallops while next to me, a one-pound veal chop was my date's choice and my, but it was tasty. We were leaving just as fans of the Hound Dogs family band were arriving, but after so much hurricane-watching last night, we needed a rest.
Beach read: VCU professor Tom De Haven's Dugan Under Ground.
Saturday: Glorious weather for our last full day. No swimming flags still up, but water warming up nicely. I took my morning walk in both directions to see what there was to see. Between those who evacuated and those whose cottage terms ended on Saturday, it was not particularly crowded anywhere. Not ashamed to say I did some serious beach napping all afternoon and burnt my buns.
And then the day trippers began arriving. Fortunately, without ocean access, many left before long and we had our beach back. Finally, at 5:00, the no swimming flags came down and most of us hit the water, now a lovely 72 degrees, immediately. I only had one knockdown, luckily not on the healing knee, although my sunburnned back end didn't deserve it, either.
Best of all, we had happy hour standing knee-deep at the ocean's edge, a first but most certainly not a last. If you can balance your Rose while all around you post-hurricane waves are crashing on you, then you are truly beach-worthy.
Dinner was in-house and pitch perfect: bacon cheeseburgers, succotash made from butterbeans, corn and onions procured at the Grandy Market farm stand on the way to the beach, and salad of mesclun with Grandy peaches and radishes bathed in a goat cheese dressing. Yum.
Full as ticks, we dragged blankets (and bubbly) to the beach for the fireworks, all of which were south of us this year. Usually it's like a tennis match, heads swiveling to see both north and south, but this year we could focus all our attention to the Avalon pier.
As a bonus, there was a fire-twirler performing on the beach next to us and we watched him in between explosions. Happy birthday, America.
Sunday: To keep it fresh, we did the morning walk down in Nags Head where plenty of people were surfing but we were happy just strolling. Cowabunga. Then after a stop to get a N.C. map, it was on to Manteo for a walk around the waterfront admiring schooners, pirate ships and tycoon-type yachts until Avenue Waterfront Grille opened and we commandeered a table overlooking the sound and marina to eat, drink and map out a course.
Then heading west on Roanoke Island, we glided over multiple bridges (including waiting on one swung open for a boat to clear), through lots of swamps, past signs warning of bears and red foxes, when we unexpectedly saw a sign for "Vineyards on the Scuppernong" and pulled into a visitors' center to get the scoop.
A short boardwalk from the nature center (no bears or foxes spotted), we came upon the former firehouse and Columbia town hall turned winery. A surprise wine tasting in the afternoon? Thanks, I think I will. The grapes were all sourced from New York and many were fruit wines (the peach which was blended with Chardonnay being particularly winning, a refreshing light summer wine) but there were two dry ones and we had a glass of the Armadas made with 100% Viognier after we finished the tasting.
Wandering up Route 17, we eventually decided on Norfolk for dinner, enjoying steak frites and our final Rose of the week on the patio of the Green Onion. "Way to stretch out vacation as long as possible," my companion observed, clearly as satisfied as I was about our marathon trip back.
Why limit happy to only an hour? Why keep a week at the beach to a mere seven days? Why do birds suddenly appear?
Only checked my e-mail once all week. Didn't listen to the dire predictions about weather. Didn't always take a buddy in the ocean with me despite rip tides. Didn't blog.
Arthur? Just part of the fun. Next trip to the beach can't come soon enough. Bring it.
Sunday: Arrived at the same little oceanfront cottage I've been renting for 20 years to find the ocean an incredibly warm 77 degrees, a drastic improvement over last year when the water was so cold we couldn't go in all week. I wasn't in the water half an hour before the surf knocked me over, earning me incredulous looks from my crew when I emerged.
"Is that blood on your leg?" Given the missing skin over my kneecap, I just assume it's a rhetorical question and let it bleed. Sure, my legs are the moneymaker, but ocean cred has been established early on. As the fireman has been known to say, YOLO (you only live once). We are resolved to drink a Rose a day all week long.
First beach read of the week: Ruth Reichl's Tender at the Bone.
Monday: Our morning walk on the beach reveals that Southern Shores, the beach just north of us, has lost considerable width over the past year. Morning tides are high, so shell collecting is abundant. After a day of nothing more than sitting on the beach reading, forays into the now 78-degree ocean and napping, we clean up and head south to Outer Banks Brewing Station where locally caught steamed shrimp and fat hushpuppies are just the ticket to soak up our extended Monday happy hour on the porch.
Tuesday: While I've yet to check my e-mail since we arrived, the male members of the household are keenly attuned to the outside world and today's World Cup match between U.S. and Belgium. They're not going to watch it anywhere that serves mussels, so I decline to join and spend a happy afternoon with the womenfolk, reading 1913: The Year Before the Storm, full of anecdotes about Stravinsky, Freud, Franz Kafka and Thomas Mann.
We stay in the ocean so long that our fingers resemble prunes when we make it back to the house to shower off the briny water. Already, my skinned knee is healing thanks to the salt. Once the balance of the sexes has been restored (after the U.S. team's heartbreaking loss), two of us take to the beach and walk up to Art's Place ("Locals welcomed, tourists tolerated...sometimes") for burgers and more N.C. shrimp.
When I ask about the sign outside touting "Live music tonight 7 p.m." our server, Courtney, looks abashed and says, "Oops, I was supposed to change that. Live music was last night." We're happy enough to spend the rest of the evening sitting on the porch swing listening to the black ocean, the whitecaps the only visible indications of the sound's source.
Wednesday: In addition to the four decades of music (heavy on the '90s) that the local radio station plays (the playlist varies so little from year to year that we could practically write it out ourselves...and therein lies part of the charm), today's patter is full of talk of Arthur, the tropical storm gathering force and heading directly for us.
Interestingly, in a quarter century of vacationing during this week, we have never had a hurricane. As one of the pithy members of the household noted, "hashtag Al Gore." Indeed. The DJ says the ocean needs to be 82 degrees for a storm to form and since we have been in the upper '70s for days, we plan accordingly.
That means it's date night and we start with a drive down Collington Road, where we end up at a little locals bar called the Blue Crab ("the crab" to those in the know) where we take our libations out to the soundside deck when a man looks at me and calls out, "I was waiting for you! I knew you'd come."
Once again, it has been proven that I carry the gene that causes strangers to talk to me. My date chooses the furthest table, albeit with only one in between us and my new admirer, and we observe bird life on the sound while a foosball game goes on nearby.
Our dinner destination, the Brine and the Bottle, is on the causeway and new to us both, although we're into its slogan - get pickled! We sit on the deck, the pre-Arthur wind whipping my hair around non-stop but also bringing a sense of weather excitement to the evening. Mortified when I drop my knife and it neatly slides between the wide-set boards of the decking, our server assures me it happens all the time. "Periodically we just send someone underwater to retrieve all the dropped stuff." Don't sweat the small stuff, I get it.
To start, quail and pickled anaheim chili waffles and fried green tomatoes with S.C. peaches, candied bacon and buttermilk chive dressing before I move on to a soft shell crab with pickled ramp tartar sauce while my date has olive oil-poached mahi mahi. After moving to the other side of the deck, we finish with two desserts - one chocolate, one blueberry and peach - and bubbly to toast vacation.
Not that the evening needed to get any better, but we make a final stop at Kelly's to hear the Deloreans, an '80s cover band that eschews the hair bands of Sweet Justice for pop. Cyndi Lauper, the Go-Gos, Prince (oh, yes, we partied like it was 1999), performed by a female lead singer who played a bass with day-glo strings, a snarling guy mimicking Billy Idol and another who looked like David Byrne. It was a blast.
Thursday: Arthur becomes official and Hatteras Island was being evacuated, but not us, so people began preparing for the storm, battening down hurricane shutters on the few houses that still have them. Food Lion puts up corrugated metal sheeting over their windows. Awful Arthur's changed their sign to read, "We had the name first!" and homeowners boarded up windows with plywood spray painted, "Go away, Arthur" and, three houses down from us, the cocky, "Bring it, Art!"
You can call Kitty Hawk the "ghetto of the Outer Banks," but I like its attitude.
With the ocean suddenly a chilly 59 degrees, swimming was out, but not eating. Lunch of fried rockfish strips, fried okra and cole slaw plus chocolate milkshakes at John's drive-in was interrupted only when a John's employee came to take away our table umbrella, sure that Arthur was imminent. We didn't have the heart to tell him it was 12 hours away.
A cop stopped by the house to suggest we move our cars to higher ground (which we did) but didn't warn us to leave, in fact reassured us they'd be around all night if we needed anything. Fog rolled in so heavy toward early evening that the Kitty Hawk pier, barely a third of a mile away, was invisible in the mist. Visibility on the ocean kept diminishing. Many of the vacationers in nearby houses packed up and left.
We did the only sensible thing: had a long happy hour on the porch and then ate crabs, corn and cole slaw on the picnic table. Everyone wanted to get in bed early so we could get up once the storm arrived and watch.
Today's beach read: When French Women Cook
By 2:30 a.m., Arthur was overhead and the wind was a pretty continuous high-pitched whine while the surf pounded just outside. We all got up to watch and discuss before going back to bed and re-emerging at 5:30 once the wind had shifted from off the ocean to off the sound. It was then that Arthur began ripping off siding and insulation from the house across the street and eventually ours, leaving pieces to beat against the house until the wind died finally down. My first hurricane at close range: a rousing success and great entertainment.
Friday: The "no swimming" flags were up when we awoke and the surf was rough enough (and only 65 degrees) to ensure no one would flaunt the flags except surfers, so we called the Nags Head pier to see if they were serving and then drove south to survey the damage and eat.
Like our house, many had taken more than a few blows on the north and eastern sides and there was a lot of sand on the road in places, but all in all, the beach looked pretty good. We ate our pancakes, eggs and sausage gravy watching throngs of vacationers milling about on the beach, like sightseers at a train crash.
It was a fine, sunny afternoon for reading and talking to strangers. Our house's scarred look meant that we were part of the beach gawker tour that afternoon and more than a few people stopped to take photos or ask about the damage. One woman asked to come all the way up on the porch, concerned because her mother spends two weeks in that cottage every May, "So it feels like home to us." Tell me about it, toots.
With all the fireworks rescheduled, dinner was served at Ocean Boulevard where we had the same bartender we've had for ten years. After the OBX skillet with pork shoulder, goat cheese, and tomato chutney, I went for a bistro salad and pan-seared scallops while next to me, a one-pound veal chop was my date's choice and my, but it was tasty. We were leaving just as fans of the Hound Dogs family band were arriving, but after so much hurricane-watching last night, we needed a rest.
Beach read: VCU professor Tom De Haven's Dugan Under Ground.
Saturday: Glorious weather for our last full day. No swimming flags still up, but water warming up nicely. I took my morning walk in both directions to see what there was to see. Between those who evacuated and those whose cottage terms ended on Saturday, it was not particularly crowded anywhere. Not ashamed to say I did some serious beach napping all afternoon and burnt my buns.
And then the day trippers began arriving. Fortunately, without ocean access, many left before long and we had our beach back. Finally, at 5:00, the no swimming flags came down and most of us hit the water, now a lovely 72 degrees, immediately. I only had one knockdown, luckily not on the healing knee, although my sunburnned back end didn't deserve it, either.
Best of all, we had happy hour standing knee-deep at the ocean's edge, a first but most certainly not a last. If you can balance your Rose while all around you post-hurricane waves are crashing on you, then you are truly beach-worthy.
Dinner was in-house and pitch perfect: bacon cheeseburgers, succotash made from butterbeans, corn and onions procured at the Grandy Market farm stand on the way to the beach, and salad of mesclun with Grandy peaches and radishes bathed in a goat cheese dressing. Yum.
Full as ticks, we dragged blankets (and bubbly) to the beach for the fireworks, all of which were south of us this year. Usually it's like a tennis match, heads swiveling to see both north and south, but this year we could focus all our attention to the Avalon pier.
As a bonus, there was a fire-twirler performing on the beach next to us and we watched him in between explosions. Happy birthday, America.
Sunday: To keep it fresh, we did the morning walk down in Nags Head where plenty of people were surfing but we were happy just strolling. Cowabunga. Then after a stop to get a N.C. map, it was on to Manteo for a walk around the waterfront admiring schooners, pirate ships and tycoon-type yachts until Avenue Waterfront Grille opened and we commandeered a table overlooking the sound and marina to eat, drink and map out a course.
Then heading west on Roanoke Island, we glided over multiple bridges (including waiting on one swung open for a boat to clear), through lots of swamps, past signs warning of bears and red foxes, when we unexpectedly saw a sign for "Vineyards on the Scuppernong" and pulled into a visitors' center to get the scoop.
A short boardwalk from the nature center (no bears or foxes spotted), we came upon the former firehouse and Columbia town hall turned winery. A surprise wine tasting in the afternoon? Thanks, I think I will. The grapes were all sourced from New York and many were fruit wines (the peach which was blended with Chardonnay being particularly winning, a refreshing light summer wine) but there were two dry ones and we had a glass of the Armadas made with 100% Viognier after we finished the tasting.
Wandering up Route 17, we eventually decided on Norfolk for dinner, enjoying steak frites and our final Rose of the week on the patio of the Green Onion. "Way to stretch out vacation as long as possible," my companion observed, clearly as satisfied as I was about our marathon trip back.
Why limit happy to only an hour? Why keep a week at the beach to a mere seven days? Why do birds suddenly appear?
Only checked my e-mail once all week. Didn't listen to the dire predictions about weather. Didn't always take a buddy in the ocean with me despite rip tides. Didn't blog.
Arthur? Just part of the fun. Next trip to the beach can't come soon enough. Bring it.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Kiss on My List
What a vacation send-off!
A wine rep friend's annual Rose party is always a stellar afternoon/evening devoted to the three dozen or so pink wines and a feast of monumental proportions. Fried chicken, cured meats, ribs, cheese, too many salads and dips to name, spiced shrimp, savory shortbread, caprese and who knows what else.
The party couldn't have begun better because I arrived and deposited my food and wine and went to find my hostess, who looked at me as if she'd never seen me before.
"Your hair!" she exclaimed, staring at me. "You look like a rock star! It looks great!" Any party that begins with someone complimenting my hair - especially while it's growing out - is off to a fine start.
It didn't hurt that the weather was ideal - low humidity, breezy and on the shady side of her house- where in addition to a wagon full of pink wines they had plenty of chairs, cornhole (yes, I played, pathetically, but it's just a game) and surprise, surprise, some Jackson Ward neighbors.
In a perfect world, I would catalog all the impressive pinks I drank, but that's not going to happen, so I'll settle for saying that the variety ranged from Sancerre Rose to Gruet Brut Rose to what tasted and smelled like strawberry KoolAid...in the best possible way.
I talked to a friend about switching from an Outer Banks vacation to Topsail, to another about the distinct pleasures of an outdoor shower (the polar vortex being the only fly in that ointment) and another about how lucky the neighborhood is to have Lucy's.
With Hall & Oates playing in the background, a bottle of pink bubbly got sabered, but I was too busy talking to a friend about the first chef she ever worked with to see the demonstration, although we caught the cheers afterward.
At a party like this, you just can't do it all, though god knows I tried.
All of a sudden I looked up and four hours had passed and I had places to be.
Today is a friend's birthday and we were meeting at the Broadberry to hear Boston's Debo Band, whom I'd last seen at Balliceaux back in Fall of 2010, do their take on Ethiopian funk music.
The wait for the band to start gave us time to chat about all kinds of things- strange men putting their arm around me, the records she'd bought today, a funny ex story - while I sipped Hornitos and admired the birthday girl's cute outfit.
Another friend showed up and joined the party, bringing with her a clutch of friends, all eager to hear the band.
Finally the Debo Band took the stage and we moved up to the front to enjoy them. Playing a lot of new material off their upcoming record, they had the small crowd dancing in no time.
With guitar, bass, five horns including sousaphone, violin, drums and an African singer, they would slip into a groove and just ride it. Sometimes it was as unique as Duke Ellington meets North African folk music, while other times, it got downright funky, even a bit psychedelic when you listened to the guitar.
What that meant was that the birthday girl, our friend and I wasted no time in letting the music move our hips and feet, even while we didn't understand a word of the language the songs were sung in.
Didn't need to. Music is the universal language and whether it was a birthday celebration or pre-vacation revelry, tonight was a night to just go with it.
And tomorrow at this time, as someone at the party pointed out, I'll be doing the same thing (drinking pink) except it'll be with a view of the ocean. Can. Not. Wait.
A wine rep friend's annual Rose party is always a stellar afternoon/evening devoted to the three dozen or so pink wines and a feast of monumental proportions. Fried chicken, cured meats, ribs, cheese, too many salads and dips to name, spiced shrimp, savory shortbread, caprese and who knows what else.
The party couldn't have begun better because I arrived and deposited my food and wine and went to find my hostess, who looked at me as if she'd never seen me before.
"Your hair!" she exclaimed, staring at me. "You look like a rock star! It looks great!" Any party that begins with someone complimenting my hair - especially while it's growing out - is off to a fine start.
It didn't hurt that the weather was ideal - low humidity, breezy and on the shady side of her house- where in addition to a wagon full of pink wines they had plenty of chairs, cornhole (yes, I played, pathetically, but it's just a game) and surprise, surprise, some Jackson Ward neighbors.
In a perfect world, I would catalog all the impressive pinks I drank, but that's not going to happen, so I'll settle for saying that the variety ranged from Sancerre Rose to Gruet Brut Rose to what tasted and smelled like strawberry KoolAid...in the best possible way.
I talked to a friend about switching from an Outer Banks vacation to Topsail, to another about the distinct pleasures of an outdoor shower (the polar vortex being the only fly in that ointment) and another about how lucky the neighborhood is to have Lucy's.
With Hall & Oates playing in the background, a bottle of pink bubbly got sabered, but I was too busy talking to a friend about the first chef she ever worked with to see the demonstration, although we caught the cheers afterward.
At a party like this, you just can't do it all, though god knows I tried.
All of a sudden I looked up and four hours had passed and I had places to be.
Today is a friend's birthday and we were meeting at the Broadberry to hear Boston's Debo Band, whom I'd last seen at Balliceaux back in Fall of 2010, do their take on Ethiopian funk music.
The wait for the band to start gave us time to chat about all kinds of things- strange men putting their arm around me, the records she'd bought today, a funny ex story - while I sipped Hornitos and admired the birthday girl's cute outfit.
Another friend showed up and joined the party, bringing with her a clutch of friends, all eager to hear the band.
Finally the Debo Band took the stage and we moved up to the front to enjoy them. Playing a lot of new material off their upcoming record, they had the small crowd dancing in no time.
With guitar, bass, five horns including sousaphone, violin, drums and an African singer, they would slip into a groove and just ride it. Sometimes it was as unique as Duke Ellington meets North African folk music, while other times, it got downright funky, even a bit psychedelic when you listened to the guitar.
What that meant was that the birthday girl, our friend and I wasted no time in letting the music move our hips and feet, even while we didn't understand a word of the language the songs were sung in.
Didn't need to. Music is the universal language and whether it was a birthday celebration or pre-vacation revelry, tonight was a night to just go with it.
And tomorrow at this time, as someone at the party pointed out, I'll be doing the same thing (drinking pink) except it'll be with a view of the ocean. Can. Not. Wait.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
People Got a Lotta Nerve
Two weeks in a row for me at Friday Cheers. It may be a signal of the coming apocalypse.
Actually, I'd bought my ticket for tonight's Neko Case show months ago, thrilled at a chance to see her for only ten bucks.
J-Ward friends invited me to walk down to Brown's Island with them, but we couldn't align our schedules so I went alone.
Once on the island, I gravitated to a group of familiar faces, WRIR DJs mostly, but within moments, my neighbors appeared and I got to hear about her escapades last week as part of the James River Batteau Festival.
Let's just say now I know how those women pee off the sides of the boats.
We were in the middle of a discussion about the musical "Hair," which I'd seen last night and knew they'd love when I felt a shadow across me and there stood one of my favorite people, a guitarist and terrific conversationalist I hadn't seen in ages.
I accompanied him to get a beer bracelet and beer while we caught up with each other's lives.
By then Laura Viers had begun playing, sans band, so we parted ways and I found a spot under a tree with plenty of shade to watch her.
After a drummer joined her onstage, she brought up a discussion they'd had about the early modern English phrase "believe you me," which she didn't understand, nor did he. Come on, you two, it's verb-subject-object, as any language geek knows.
She did the lovely "Sun Song" and "July Flame," appropriate given how imminent July is.
July flame
ashes of a secret heart
falling in my lemonade
Unslakable thirsting in the back yard
Can I call you mine?
How does a woman who uses the word "unslakable" not get "believe you me"?
Kelly Hogan, Neko case's back-up singer, came out to join Laura, bringing her a cloth to wipe her sweat ("She's a true southern woman," Laura said) and they did a fabulous job on Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."
I'm counting on it.
During the break, a 20-something guy sitting next to me struck up a conversation, asking me about my musical taste and sharing that he'd driven in from Lynchburg for the show.
A musician, he didn't have much good to say about Lynchburg's scene, meaning he often hit the road for musical reasons.
When he got up to go buy Laura Veirs' record, I made my way to the stage for Neko's set. Not long after it began, he showed up, record in hand to stand nearby.
Neko came out looking fabulous, as always, her red hair recognizable from 100 paces. But it's that distinctively beautiful voice that kills me.
It was during "This Tornado Loves You" that I noticed a guy up on the 7th Street bridge, taking pictures and watching everything from above.
A couple of songs in, she said, "I just want to thank Comfort for not making their cornbread too sweet or putting jalapenos in it. It was so good and now my belly is full," and here she gestured at her flat stomach, "of cornbread with a rice pudding hat on top. I'm like a python who just ate."
Before long she picked up her guitar to play it, the better, she said, to camouflage her "python."
Tonight's weather couldn't have been more different than last week's, the sun hidden behind clouds once she came on and a light breeze blowing over the packed crowd. "Look at that sexy river!" she called out.
"How are you doing, Richmond?" Neko asked. "I'm hot, sweaty and grody!" I was right there with her, especially after having sat on dirt and now sweating in the crowd.
Like the other times I've seen her perform, she'd put her hair up and soon let it down again, catnip to guys in the crowd.
And how's this for odd? I was standing there watching her when all of a sudden, Lynchburg guy puts his arm around my shoulder.
For a minute, I thought it was another friend - I'd seen the Hat, the neighbor, the drummer - approaching me from behind, but when I saw it was him, I whipped around and gave him the have-you-lost-your-mind look.
"I hope she does "People Got a Lotta Nerve," he said in all seriousness. "That song just gets inside my head."
Just keep your head and your hand to yourself, please.
I never tire of hearing "That Teenage Feeling" or the song about her first boyfriend "The Pharaohs" ("Still the best boyfriend I ever had," she said) and the band rocked out hard to "I'm a Man."
It was during that song that a train approached on the overhead track while people waved and the conductor blew the horn.
My high point was probably "Hold On," but at the end of their set, Neko said, "Thank you, Richmond and thank you, railroad train for honking. That may be the best moment of my life!"
I'm not sure about that, but tonight was the sixth time I've seen her in the past decade and easily the most fitting setting for the wild child that is Neko Case. Even she commented on the beauty of the setting multiple times.
After she sent us out into the night, I continued my evening at Holmes' abode for a dinner party, already in full swing when I arrived.
A good guest offers to help and my job was frying corn and tomatoes in rendered bacon fat, an easy enough job to do while sipping Prosecco.
Others manned the grill, steamed shrimp, set the table and changed the music, all with flutes in hand.
Our soundtrack varied from Dylan to a CD of music from the Kennedy White House - "Camelot," Chubby Checkers, Aaron Copland- eventually landing on a CD of the BeeGees number one hits before the night was over, the latter not to everyone's taste.
"None of these songs are in my top five BeeGees songs," Holmes grumbled to no one in particular.
Dinner was a veritable feast: steak, barbecued chicken, fresh North Carolina shrimp, the aforementioned bacon/corn/tomato medley, Asian marinated cucumber salad, two kinds of rice, the ripest sliced tomatoes with balsamic glaze and garlic cheese sticks.
There were toasts to friendship, a tale of private eyes on the divorce trail and stories of boyfriends taking sexy pictures of girlfriends. Dessert was Haagen Daz vanilla with fresh sliced peaches and caramel sauce, the nail in the coffin of the evening for those who'd been up since the crack of dawn today.
I was fine, but we're not talking about me.
Even the usual surefire method of opening a bottle of Graham Beck Brut Rose failed to entice those in a food coma.
And when pink bubbles fail to reignite this group, you'd better believe the apocalypse is nigh.
Actually, I'd bought my ticket for tonight's Neko Case show months ago, thrilled at a chance to see her for only ten bucks.
J-Ward friends invited me to walk down to Brown's Island with them, but we couldn't align our schedules so I went alone.
Once on the island, I gravitated to a group of familiar faces, WRIR DJs mostly, but within moments, my neighbors appeared and I got to hear about her escapades last week as part of the James River Batteau Festival.
Let's just say now I know how those women pee off the sides of the boats.
We were in the middle of a discussion about the musical "Hair," which I'd seen last night and knew they'd love when I felt a shadow across me and there stood one of my favorite people, a guitarist and terrific conversationalist I hadn't seen in ages.
I accompanied him to get a beer bracelet and beer while we caught up with each other's lives.
By then Laura Viers had begun playing, sans band, so we parted ways and I found a spot under a tree with plenty of shade to watch her.
After a drummer joined her onstage, she brought up a discussion they'd had about the early modern English phrase "believe you me," which she didn't understand, nor did he. Come on, you two, it's verb-subject-object, as any language geek knows.
She did the lovely "Sun Song" and "July Flame," appropriate given how imminent July is.
July flame
ashes of a secret heart
falling in my lemonade
Unslakable thirsting in the back yard
Can I call you mine?
How does a woman who uses the word "unslakable" not get "believe you me"?
Kelly Hogan, Neko case's back-up singer, came out to join Laura, bringing her a cloth to wipe her sweat ("She's a true southern woman," Laura said) and they did a fabulous job on Daniel Johnston's "True Love Will Find You in the End."
I'm counting on it.
During the break, a 20-something guy sitting next to me struck up a conversation, asking me about my musical taste and sharing that he'd driven in from Lynchburg for the show.
A musician, he didn't have much good to say about Lynchburg's scene, meaning he often hit the road for musical reasons.
When he got up to go buy Laura Veirs' record, I made my way to the stage for Neko's set. Not long after it began, he showed up, record in hand to stand nearby.
Neko came out looking fabulous, as always, her red hair recognizable from 100 paces. But it's that distinctively beautiful voice that kills me.
It was during "This Tornado Loves You" that I noticed a guy up on the 7th Street bridge, taking pictures and watching everything from above.
A couple of songs in, she said, "I just want to thank Comfort for not making their cornbread too sweet or putting jalapenos in it. It was so good and now my belly is full," and here she gestured at her flat stomach, "of cornbread with a rice pudding hat on top. I'm like a python who just ate."
Before long she picked up her guitar to play it, the better, she said, to camouflage her "python."
Tonight's weather couldn't have been more different than last week's, the sun hidden behind clouds once she came on and a light breeze blowing over the packed crowd. "Look at that sexy river!" she called out.
"How are you doing, Richmond?" Neko asked. "I'm hot, sweaty and grody!" I was right there with her, especially after having sat on dirt and now sweating in the crowd.
Like the other times I've seen her perform, she'd put her hair up and soon let it down again, catnip to guys in the crowd.
And how's this for odd? I was standing there watching her when all of a sudden, Lynchburg guy puts his arm around my shoulder.
For a minute, I thought it was another friend - I'd seen the Hat, the neighbor, the drummer - approaching me from behind, but when I saw it was him, I whipped around and gave him the have-you-lost-your-mind look.
"I hope she does "People Got a Lotta Nerve," he said in all seriousness. "That song just gets inside my head."
Just keep your head and your hand to yourself, please.
I never tire of hearing "That Teenage Feeling" or the song about her first boyfriend "The Pharaohs" ("Still the best boyfriend I ever had," she said) and the band rocked out hard to "I'm a Man."
It was during that song that a train approached on the overhead track while people waved and the conductor blew the horn.
My high point was probably "Hold On," but at the end of their set, Neko said, "Thank you, Richmond and thank you, railroad train for honking. That may be the best moment of my life!"
I'm not sure about that, but tonight was the sixth time I've seen her in the past decade and easily the most fitting setting for the wild child that is Neko Case. Even she commented on the beauty of the setting multiple times.
After she sent us out into the night, I continued my evening at Holmes' abode for a dinner party, already in full swing when I arrived.
A good guest offers to help and my job was frying corn and tomatoes in rendered bacon fat, an easy enough job to do while sipping Prosecco.
Others manned the grill, steamed shrimp, set the table and changed the music, all with flutes in hand.
Our soundtrack varied from Dylan to a CD of music from the Kennedy White House - "Camelot," Chubby Checkers, Aaron Copland- eventually landing on a CD of the BeeGees number one hits before the night was over, the latter not to everyone's taste.
"None of these songs are in my top five BeeGees songs," Holmes grumbled to no one in particular.
Dinner was a veritable feast: steak, barbecued chicken, fresh North Carolina shrimp, the aforementioned bacon/corn/tomato medley, Asian marinated cucumber salad, two kinds of rice, the ripest sliced tomatoes with balsamic glaze and garlic cheese sticks.
There were toasts to friendship, a tale of private eyes on the divorce trail and stories of boyfriends taking sexy pictures of girlfriends. Dessert was Haagen Daz vanilla with fresh sliced peaches and caramel sauce, the nail in the coffin of the evening for those who'd been up since the crack of dawn today.
I was fine, but we're not talking about me.
Even the usual surefire method of opening a bottle of Graham Beck Brut Rose failed to entice those in a food coma.
And when pink bubbles fail to reignite this group, you'd better believe the apocalypse is nigh.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Early Morning Singing Song
"You're the best date ever!" my girlfriend said when I dropped her at her car.
It had been a pretty terrific evening, if I do say so myself.
Our first stop was at Metzger Bar & Butchery in Church Hill where, despite the early hour, almost every seat was taken. And this is only their second night in business.
Looking at the heavily Austrian and German wine list, my eye went right to Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt, as did my mouth after being poured a glass of the crisp, pale pink wine. Pru followed suit despite no familiarity with the grape.
She's a trusting one.
Being book nerds, we couldn't help but try to discern the titles of the books stacked on shelves behind the bar - "The Germans," "Berlin" and, best of all, "The Complete Works of Kafka" while another shelf held more utilitarian subjects such as meat and fish.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and it was a former co-worker, actually two of them, asking for cocktail recommendations. I demurred to the bartender but enjoyed a bit of chit-chat with them anyway.
It was warm in Metzger, probably partly because of the crowd but also because its windows face westward and the late afternoon sun was doing its thing.
Eventually, one of the servers closed the window shades, but that still left the glass door radiating its greenhouse effect, so he taped butcher paper (appropriate, huh?) over the door and scrawled "We are open" on the outside of it.
The music was lost to the din, but the bustling staff kept us hydrated while we chose a few things from the kitchen.
Carrot salad, a standout of whole baby carrots, parsnips, frisee and caraway in a parsnip puree was so good Pru observed, "If someone served that to me every day, I would eat it."
True story.
Like the couple next to us, we ordered the smoked trout rillettes (because they'd already run out of head cheese, an amazing and encouraging thing for Richmond) colorfully adorned with pickled onion and parsley.
When I asked why they'd come in, they said it had been to get a chicken. "Now, four drinks later and two appetizers, we're going to get that chicken and get out of here." When I heard how close they live, I told them I foresaw danger with Metzger for them.
When the former co-worker friend went to leave, he stopped by momentarily. "Stay gorgeous, stay articulate and keep writing!" he said by way of farewell.
Always my goal, friend.
I saw several Church Hill residents come in and have to wait for tables, and while we felt their pain, we just ordered more wine and dessert.
First come, first served is a cliche for a reason.
In our defense, we wasted no time gobbling up small pieces of chocolate doppelbock cake (because you know it had to be chocolate) resting on salted caramel (be still, my heart) aside buttermilk ice cream with pretzel crumb for textural contrast scattered around.
Yes, it was as fabulous as it sounds.
As we went to leave, I saw another former co-worker (what is this, RTD old home night?) waiting for a table and stopped to catch up with her. Pru amused herself by chatting with a couple she didn't know after she heard the woman ask for Chardonnay.
By the time I turned to fetch her, the woman was happily sipping a glass of Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt and Pru, who an hour and a half earlier had no knowledge of this wine, was now clucking with satisfaction at having made a fan of this stranger.
Leaving the hungry masses to an able kitchen (and knowing we'll be back soon), we were westbound to the Firehouse Theater to see the tribal love-rock musical, "Hair."
That's right, it's the dawning of the age of Aquarius and Pru and I had been beyond excited to see this play, me especially because I'd never seen even the film.
For that matter, I'd never seen the Firehouse without a raised stage, but tonight it was just assorted rugs on the floor and pieces of fabric in door openings. Very atmospherically groovy.
Director Jase Smith came out, explaining that he hadn't yet been born in 1967 when "Hair" debuted. Luckily, his parents had been hippie types, so he had a frame of reference. "Are you ready to rock?" he roared and we answered affirmatively.
I'll be honest, I'm a big fan of Nick Aliff's and he did a superb job in the role of Berger the free spirit, his big, beautiful voice singing to the rafters and his playful personality - he dances with abandon, something I love to see -pervading the group.
Plus he took off his pants after the first song and it's hard to argue with a man's partial nudity right off the bat.
One thing I would argue with was that some (not all, some were spot on) of the costumes were wrong, just wrong. As in, they looked like the misconception of someone who wasn't around in the '60s re-imagining the '60s, maybe from bad movies or TV. The belts, for example, some of the women wore were just ridiculous looking.
But patched jeans? Absolutely realistic. Referring to it as pot and not weed? Right on. The Afro on one of the black guys? You bet.
But the story of a tribe of kids trying to figure out life, love, the sexual revolution and Vietnam was fascinating for how many cultural buttons the play's writers made sure to push, like the friendly musical competition of "Black Boys" and then "White Boys."
And maybe it's my age, but the songs held up. "Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In," "Hair," "Easy to Be Hard" and my personal favorite, "Good Morning, Starshine," were thoroughly enjoyable to hear reinterpreted in the 21st century.
The play even ended with a be-in, and the cast inviting members of the audience to join them onstage to dance.
Tonight was preview night, so the cast was looking for audience reaction to help them develop the production. My wish (besides attention to those few awful and incorrect costumes) would be for the cast to project better, as many lyrics were lost to anyone beyond the front row.
I'd love to go back in a couple weeks and see how the young cast settles into their characters and the era. You gotta believe that the earth says hello.
When we left the love fest of "Hair," it was only to head down the block to the Camel, where I immediately ran into a favorite songbird for the second time in four days. "Are you here to see the Hi-Steps?" she asked eagerly.
You bet, I am, sweetheart. What could be better after a rock musical about the '60s than some vintage '60s soul music?
There wasn't much time left in their set, but any time listening to the Hi-Steps is well worth it (see: Curtis Mayfield's "Movin' on Up"). Even Pru, a first-timer, had to marvel at their polished sound and soulful male and female vocalists.
When the band began the slow burn of "Try a Little Tenderness," she didn't even look at me, she just murmured, "Ooh, good song!," smiling all the while.
But they're all good songs and with a three-piece horn section blasting and the bass line thumping, it was a fitting way to end our eventful hot date.
Never let it be said that I don't know how to show a date a good time.
It had been a pretty terrific evening, if I do say so myself.
Our first stop was at Metzger Bar & Butchery in Church Hill where, despite the early hour, almost every seat was taken. And this is only their second night in business.
Looking at the heavily Austrian and German wine list, my eye went right to Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt, as did my mouth after being poured a glass of the crisp, pale pink wine. Pru followed suit despite no familiarity with the grape.
She's a trusting one.
Being book nerds, we couldn't help but try to discern the titles of the books stacked on shelves behind the bar - "The Germans," "Berlin" and, best of all, "The Complete Works of Kafka" while another shelf held more utilitarian subjects such as meat and fish.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and it was a former co-worker, actually two of them, asking for cocktail recommendations. I demurred to the bartender but enjoyed a bit of chit-chat with them anyway.
It was warm in Metzger, probably partly because of the crowd but also because its windows face westward and the late afternoon sun was doing its thing.
Eventually, one of the servers closed the window shades, but that still left the glass door radiating its greenhouse effect, so he taped butcher paper (appropriate, huh?) over the door and scrawled "We are open" on the outside of it.
The music was lost to the din, but the bustling staff kept us hydrated while we chose a few things from the kitchen.
Carrot salad, a standout of whole baby carrots, parsnips, frisee and caraway in a parsnip puree was so good Pru observed, "If someone served that to me every day, I would eat it."
True story.
Like the couple next to us, we ordered the smoked trout rillettes (because they'd already run out of head cheese, an amazing and encouraging thing for Richmond) colorfully adorned with pickled onion and parsley.
When I asked why they'd come in, they said it had been to get a chicken. "Now, four drinks later and two appetizers, we're going to get that chicken and get out of here." When I heard how close they live, I told them I foresaw danger with Metzger for them.
When the former co-worker friend went to leave, he stopped by momentarily. "Stay gorgeous, stay articulate and keep writing!" he said by way of farewell.
Always my goal, friend.
I saw several Church Hill residents come in and have to wait for tables, and while we felt their pain, we just ordered more wine and dessert.
First come, first served is a cliche for a reason.
In our defense, we wasted no time gobbling up small pieces of chocolate doppelbock cake (because you know it had to be chocolate) resting on salted caramel (be still, my heart) aside buttermilk ice cream with pretzel crumb for textural contrast scattered around.
Yes, it was as fabulous as it sounds.
As we went to leave, I saw another former co-worker (what is this, RTD old home night?) waiting for a table and stopped to catch up with her. Pru amused herself by chatting with a couple she didn't know after she heard the woman ask for Chardonnay.
By the time I turned to fetch her, the woman was happily sipping a glass of Anton Bauer Rose Zweitgelt and Pru, who an hour and a half earlier had no knowledge of this wine, was now clucking with satisfaction at having made a fan of this stranger.
Leaving the hungry masses to an able kitchen (and knowing we'll be back soon), we were westbound to the Firehouse Theater to see the tribal love-rock musical, "Hair."
That's right, it's the dawning of the age of Aquarius and Pru and I had been beyond excited to see this play, me especially because I'd never seen even the film.
For that matter, I'd never seen the Firehouse without a raised stage, but tonight it was just assorted rugs on the floor and pieces of fabric in door openings. Very atmospherically groovy.
Director Jase Smith came out, explaining that he hadn't yet been born in 1967 when "Hair" debuted. Luckily, his parents had been hippie types, so he had a frame of reference. "Are you ready to rock?" he roared and we answered affirmatively.
I'll be honest, I'm a big fan of Nick Aliff's and he did a superb job in the role of Berger the free spirit, his big, beautiful voice singing to the rafters and his playful personality - he dances with abandon, something I love to see -pervading the group.
Plus he took off his pants after the first song and it's hard to argue with a man's partial nudity right off the bat.
One thing I would argue with was that some (not all, some were spot on) of the costumes were wrong, just wrong. As in, they looked like the misconception of someone who wasn't around in the '60s re-imagining the '60s, maybe from bad movies or TV. The belts, for example, some of the women wore were just ridiculous looking.
But patched jeans? Absolutely realistic. Referring to it as pot and not weed? Right on. The Afro on one of the black guys? You bet.
But the story of a tribe of kids trying to figure out life, love, the sexual revolution and Vietnam was fascinating for how many cultural buttons the play's writers made sure to push, like the friendly musical competition of "Black Boys" and then "White Boys."
And maybe it's my age, but the songs held up. "Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In," "Hair," "Easy to Be Hard" and my personal favorite, "Good Morning, Starshine," were thoroughly enjoyable to hear reinterpreted in the 21st century.
The play even ended with a be-in, and the cast inviting members of the audience to join them onstage to dance.
Tonight was preview night, so the cast was looking for audience reaction to help them develop the production. My wish (besides attention to those few awful and incorrect costumes) would be for the cast to project better, as many lyrics were lost to anyone beyond the front row.
I'd love to go back in a couple weeks and see how the young cast settles into their characters and the era. You gotta believe that the earth says hello.
When we left the love fest of "Hair," it was only to head down the block to the Camel, where I immediately ran into a favorite songbird for the second time in four days. "Are you here to see the Hi-Steps?" she asked eagerly.
You bet, I am, sweetheart. What could be better after a rock musical about the '60s than some vintage '60s soul music?
There wasn't much time left in their set, but any time listening to the Hi-Steps is well worth it (see: Curtis Mayfield's "Movin' on Up"). Even Pru, a first-timer, had to marvel at their polished sound and soulful male and female vocalists.
When the band began the slow burn of "Try a Little Tenderness," she didn't even look at me, she just murmured, "Ooh, good song!," smiling all the while.
But they're all good songs and with a three-piece horn section blasting and the bass line thumping, it was a fitting way to end our eventful hot date.
Never let it be said that I don't know how to show a date a good time.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Confederate History with Breasts
Imagine a woman choosing writing over domesticity and it being a big deal.
I didn't have to imagine because today's Banner lecture at the Virginia Historical Society was "Winnie Davis: Daughter of the Lost Cause," addressing just that.
The last open seat in my favorite row was handed to me when the woman next to it (Style Weekly in hand) offered it up because her friend hadn't shown up.
She looked like the cultured type and once we got to talking, I learned that her husband had been Leslie Cheek's assistant. Yes, that Leslie Cheek who was director of the VMFA and for whom the theater is named.
We enjoyed conversation about the VMFA's "Posing Beauty" exhibit right up until author Heath Hardage Lee took the stage to tell us about her new book about Winnie Davis, Jefferson and Varina's daughter.
Lee was a lively speaker who'd brought some wonderful old photographs, many culled from the collection of the Museum of the Confederacy.
The cover of her book is John P. Walker's exquisite portrait of Winnie done posthumously ("I hope I look that good when I'm dead," Lee cracked) and presenting her in a fitted white dress, the better to represent her as the vestal virgin of the Confederacy.
She told us about Jefferson Davis' first wife, Sarah, who died three months after their marriage thus becoming the ideal wife since, because, according to Lee, "Not enough time to nag him yet."
Davis made the grievous faux pas of idolizing her, even making his second bride, Varina, visit her grave on their honeymoon (hello, red flag?!).
No surprise, there were epic battles for dominance in that marriage and Varina always lost. They lost son Samuel to measles and son Joe fell off the balcony and died while Varina was pregnant with Winnie.
What that meant was that Winnie's role immediately became the all-important replacement child and the all-encompassing focus of Varina's world. Not healthy - think stage mother.
At 12, they sent her off to a German boarding school, ostensibly for her protection (death threats to Jefferson), but also because Varina had had a nervous breakdown and because they were hoping the strict, spartan school would cure the teenager of her stubbornness.
Instead, she became one of the most educated women in the South, fluent in German and French, widely versed in European history and almost completely ignorant of American history and the Civil War.
Didn't matter, she tagged along as her father's secretary (bored out of her educated mind) on an 1886 train trip to dedicate Confederate monuments, even filling in when he got sick. It didn't hurt that she was terribly pretty, too.
Dubbed "the daughter of the Confederacy," they used pictures of her to hawk everything from candy to liver oil.
Lee said it was on a trip north that she met Alfred Wilkinson, not only a northerner but the grandson of an abolitionist, and it was love at first sight. Both were smitten.
Despite the times, they somehow managed a trip to Italy with Joseph Pulitzer (nearly blind) and his wife (embroiled in an affair with one of her husband's employees) acting as chaperones. "I wish they'd chaperoned my beach week in 1988!" Lee joked.
Of course there was an uproar when Winnie's engagement to a Yankee was announced and in the ultimate controlling mother move, Varina broke off the engagement while Winnie was sick in bed upstairs.
Talk about setting up irreversible mother issues.
"I'm not going to tell you about her tragic demise," Lee warned, insisting we could find out by reading her book.
She did share that once Winnie moved to NYC, Pulitzer gave her a job at his "New York World News" and she went on to live in the theater district, write two novels and ride a bike around the city like the modern woman she was.
Lee's hypothesis was that Winnie always wanted to be a writer anyway, that marriage and domesticity were never appealing to her. In other words, she ended up exactly where she wanted to be.
Isn't it lovely when that happens to a modern woman?
I didn't have to imagine because today's Banner lecture at the Virginia Historical Society was "Winnie Davis: Daughter of the Lost Cause," addressing just that.
The last open seat in my favorite row was handed to me when the woman next to it (Style Weekly in hand) offered it up because her friend hadn't shown up.
She looked like the cultured type and once we got to talking, I learned that her husband had been Leslie Cheek's assistant. Yes, that Leslie Cheek who was director of the VMFA and for whom the theater is named.
We enjoyed conversation about the VMFA's "Posing Beauty" exhibit right up until author Heath Hardage Lee took the stage to tell us about her new book about Winnie Davis, Jefferson and Varina's daughter.
Lee was a lively speaker who'd brought some wonderful old photographs, many culled from the collection of the Museum of the Confederacy.
The cover of her book is John P. Walker's exquisite portrait of Winnie done posthumously ("I hope I look that good when I'm dead," Lee cracked) and presenting her in a fitted white dress, the better to represent her as the vestal virgin of the Confederacy.
She told us about Jefferson Davis' first wife, Sarah, who died three months after their marriage thus becoming the ideal wife since, because, according to Lee, "Not enough time to nag him yet."
Davis made the grievous faux pas of idolizing her, even making his second bride, Varina, visit her grave on their honeymoon (hello, red flag?!).
No surprise, there were epic battles for dominance in that marriage and Varina always lost. They lost son Samuel to measles and son Joe fell off the balcony and died while Varina was pregnant with Winnie.
What that meant was that Winnie's role immediately became the all-important replacement child and the all-encompassing focus of Varina's world. Not healthy - think stage mother.
At 12, they sent her off to a German boarding school, ostensibly for her protection (death threats to Jefferson), but also because Varina had had a nervous breakdown and because they were hoping the strict, spartan school would cure the teenager of her stubbornness.
Instead, she became one of the most educated women in the South, fluent in German and French, widely versed in European history and almost completely ignorant of American history and the Civil War.
Didn't matter, she tagged along as her father's secretary (bored out of her educated mind) on an 1886 train trip to dedicate Confederate monuments, even filling in when he got sick. It didn't hurt that she was terribly pretty, too.
Dubbed "the daughter of the Confederacy," they used pictures of her to hawk everything from candy to liver oil.
Lee said it was on a trip north that she met Alfred Wilkinson, not only a northerner but the grandson of an abolitionist, and it was love at first sight. Both were smitten.
Despite the times, they somehow managed a trip to Italy with Joseph Pulitzer (nearly blind) and his wife (embroiled in an affair with one of her husband's employees) acting as chaperones. "I wish they'd chaperoned my beach week in 1988!" Lee joked.
Of course there was an uproar when Winnie's engagement to a Yankee was announced and in the ultimate controlling mother move, Varina broke off the engagement while Winnie was sick in bed upstairs.
Talk about setting up irreversible mother issues.
"I'm not going to tell you about her tragic demise," Lee warned, insisting we could find out by reading her book.
She did share that once Winnie moved to NYC, Pulitzer gave her a job at his "New York World News" and she went on to live in the theater district, write two novels and ride a bike around the city like the modern woman she was.
Lee's hypothesis was that Winnie always wanted to be a writer anyway, that marriage and domesticity were never appealing to her. In other words, she ended up exactly where she wanted to be.
Isn't it lovely when that happens to a modern woman?
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
I Know Which Day
At Saison Market watching a little soccer if you're in the 'hood!
That was the 17-syllable message that popped up minutes after I got home from a trip to an oyster hatchery on the Northern Neck's Coan River.
I cared less about seeing France play Ecuador than I did about seeing my friend, so I showered to remove my road trip funk and joined him at the market.
I might just point out with not a little pride that it was my second soccer game this week and I haven't watched two soccer games total in the last decade.
The big news is that he's bought a house, so I heard all the details as well as his plans to renovate it beginning with the kitchen (he's a good cook and already talking about his first party).
He's at that stage where he's dreaming big about every possible renovation he could make, fully realizing that he'll have to scale back to match his budget.
Yea, reality bites.
Once the scoreless game ended, I invited him to join me and my hired mouth for dinner, even taking a spin by his soon-to-be home on the way back from the restaurant.
It's a mighty handsome house and I only hope he follows through on his intention to turn the converted screened-in porch back into an outdoor room. If you ask me, it's a sin to enclose a perfectly good screened-in porch.
After our drive-by, I invited him to join me for Hand to Hand Haiku at Balliceaux, but he'd thrown out his back (which explained why he was sipping beer and not working during the afternoon game), so I dropped him at home.
The crowd for haiku was small tonight, no doubt because it's summer, but I also heard that they'd had a record crowd last month. Haiku ebbs and flows, you know.
Waiting for the crowd to grow, host Raven Mack came over and asked me if I'd be a judge.
Color me surprised because although tonight was my third Hand to Hand Haiku, I never expected to be asked to hold the flags and weigh in.
But why not? I've got an opinion on practically everything and how difficult could it be deciding which haiku I liked better?
Raven Mack began with a series of sonnets, each about a different direction, concluding with him placing a sheet with the direction - north, south, east and west- in the appropriate part of the room.
My favorite began with "Sonnet of the South, land of big, bouncing asses" and he finished with a sonnet to the center, placing the rock and paper just behind where I was sitting.
"So now we got our space set!" Raven proclaimed. He went on to hold aloft the pink gamecock trophy up for grabs tonight to the best haiku writer.
Lindsay and Rebecca faced off first, each well prepared with haikus to choose from, and tailoring their choices to what their competitor read.
At one of the back tables, a bunch of people applauded after each haiku, so Raven called them the clapping party.
Rebecca won the match with gems like this one:
Man on the drums, I bet
I can rock my hips faster
than you can play
Winning meant that now she went up against Chris, who'd stored her haikus in her phone, an unworthy place for poetry if ever there was one.
Raven reminded us, "If someone reads a haiku that they've read before, even if it was two months ago, boo the shit out of them!" Will do.
Chris kept it topical with one about workplace productivity falling due to the World Cup while Rebecca got more personal.
Late exploration
our first time, we kept it sexy
we kept it safe
That said, Chris won, in part because of haikus like this one.
You never know which
day separates your life
before and after
Isn't that the truth?
As a judge, there were many times where it was truly difficult to choose a winner, often because both were strong haikus, just very different. It's impossible to compare a deep, thoughtful haiku with a risque, cleverly worded one. It's apples and oranges.
Hand to Hand Haiku always ends the evening with a death match where some hapless soul takes on haiku king Raven Mack to try to de-throne him.
Tonight it was Ryan, the DJ also known as Revolt of the Apes, and while I'd heard him spin records, I had no idea all his tweets were done in haiku form, nor that most of them ended with the word "dude."
I"m guessing that means that many of the haikus we heard tonight had been born as Twitter feeds.
Some people may not believe
I met Nell Carter
at a Slayer show
Funny stuff, even more so when read by a deadpan man in sunglasses. But Raven is the master for a reason and he countered with:
White people talking
condescendingly of
white people is so white
Their death match ended with Raven prevailing 13-7 and saying, "I''d like to present this trophy to myself."
Just when we thought all the night's fun was over, Rebecca challenged Raven and a double death match was born on the spot.
It was a close match and Raven trailed for a while but ultimately won, saying, "I want to say thanks to Rebecca and I'll keep my damn trophy!"
And I'll keep my 17-syllable nights, both the public and private ones.
That was the 17-syllable message that popped up minutes after I got home from a trip to an oyster hatchery on the Northern Neck's Coan River.
I cared less about seeing France play Ecuador than I did about seeing my friend, so I showered to remove my road trip funk and joined him at the market.
I might just point out with not a little pride that it was my second soccer game this week and I haven't watched two soccer games total in the last decade.
The big news is that he's bought a house, so I heard all the details as well as his plans to renovate it beginning with the kitchen (he's a good cook and already talking about his first party).
He's at that stage where he's dreaming big about every possible renovation he could make, fully realizing that he'll have to scale back to match his budget.
Yea, reality bites.
Once the scoreless game ended, I invited him to join me and my hired mouth for dinner, even taking a spin by his soon-to-be home on the way back from the restaurant.
It's a mighty handsome house and I only hope he follows through on his intention to turn the converted screened-in porch back into an outdoor room. If you ask me, it's a sin to enclose a perfectly good screened-in porch.
After our drive-by, I invited him to join me for Hand to Hand Haiku at Balliceaux, but he'd thrown out his back (which explained why he was sipping beer and not working during the afternoon game), so I dropped him at home.
The crowd for haiku was small tonight, no doubt because it's summer, but I also heard that they'd had a record crowd last month. Haiku ebbs and flows, you know.
Waiting for the crowd to grow, host Raven Mack came over and asked me if I'd be a judge.
Color me surprised because although tonight was my third Hand to Hand Haiku, I never expected to be asked to hold the flags and weigh in.
But why not? I've got an opinion on practically everything and how difficult could it be deciding which haiku I liked better?
Raven Mack began with a series of sonnets, each about a different direction, concluding with him placing a sheet with the direction - north, south, east and west- in the appropriate part of the room.
My favorite began with "Sonnet of the South, land of big, bouncing asses" and he finished with a sonnet to the center, placing the rock and paper just behind where I was sitting.
"So now we got our space set!" Raven proclaimed. He went on to hold aloft the pink gamecock trophy up for grabs tonight to the best haiku writer.
Lindsay and Rebecca faced off first, each well prepared with haikus to choose from, and tailoring their choices to what their competitor read.
At one of the back tables, a bunch of people applauded after each haiku, so Raven called them the clapping party.
Rebecca won the match with gems like this one:
Man on the drums, I bet
I can rock my hips faster
than you can play
Winning meant that now she went up against Chris, who'd stored her haikus in her phone, an unworthy place for poetry if ever there was one.
Raven reminded us, "If someone reads a haiku that they've read before, even if it was two months ago, boo the shit out of them!" Will do.
Chris kept it topical with one about workplace productivity falling due to the World Cup while Rebecca got more personal.
Late exploration
our first time, we kept it sexy
we kept it safe
That said, Chris won, in part because of haikus like this one.
You never know which
day separates your life
before and after
Isn't that the truth?
As a judge, there were many times where it was truly difficult to choose a winner, often because both were strong haikus, just very different. It's impossible to compare a deep, thoughtful haiku with a risque, cleverly worded one. It's apples and oranges.
Hand to Hand Haiku always ends the evening with a death match where some hapless soul takes on haiku king Raven Mack to try to de-throne him.
Tonight it was Ryan, the DJ also known as Revolt of the Apes, and while I'd heard him spin records, I had no idea all his tweets were done in haiku form, nor that most of them ended with the word "dude."
I"m guessing that means that many of the haikus we heard tonight had been born as Twitter feeds.
Some people may not believe
I met Nell Carter
at a Slayer show
Funny stuff, even more so when read by a deadpan man in sunglasses. But Raven is the master for a reason and he countered with:
White people talking
condescendingly of
white people is so white
Their death match ended with Raven prevailing 13-7 and saying, "I''d like to present this trophy to myself."
Just when we thought all the night's fun was over, Rebecca challenged Raven and a double death match was born on the spot.
It was a close match and Raven trailed for a while but ultimately won, saying, "I want to say thanks to Rebecca and I'll keep my damn trophy!"
And I'll keep my 17-syllable nights, both the public and private ones.
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