My walk turned into a history lesson, my snack a reminder of my childhood.
It began when I walked down Fifth Street and picked up the Canal Walk from there, something I'd never done before, usually sticking to the area around the turning basin near 14th Street.
Despite the chill in the air, it turned out to be a perfectly lovely morning along the Canal Walk, with sunlight playing on the water and reflecting onto the underside of bridges. I stopped to read all the historical medallions in the sidewalk, gathering new facts about the area as I went.
Coming back through downtown, I decided to make a stop at the Library of Virginia to see "To Be Sold: Virginia and the American Slave Trade," a look at the role Richmond played in the domestic slave trade.
The exhibit begins with a jolt with the fact that between 1500 and 1866, over 12 million Africans were forcibly enslaved and brought to the New world. That's a staggering number of human beings to wrap your head around.
I was fascinated with the part of the exhibit that dealt with the book "Uncle Tom's Cabin," learning that it was the best-selling book of the 19th century. Just as surprising was that it had been translated, re-illustrated and printed ad infinitum all over the world.
One version was called "Uncle Robin in his Cabin in Virginia and Tom Without One in Boston." Another was the Classics Illustrated comic book version (25 cents). There was even a pro-slavery book written by a Virginian called "Aunt Phillis's Cabin: Southern Life as it Is." Despite the title, I doubt it seriously reflected the reality of a slave's life.
And the merchandise! Uncle Tom playing cards, pitchers, plates and figures abounded.
Hung from floor to ceiling was an enlarged photograph of Richmond from Church Hill, the view all but unrecognizable except for the State Capital.
As far as I was concerned, the most compelling part of the show was artist Eyre Crowe's drawings, illustrations and paintings of the slave trade. A Brit who was touring the country with author William Thackeray, Crowe documented aspects of human trafficking seldom scene, such as the moving painting "Slaves Waiting for Sale," an image of nicely-dressed Africans awaiting their fate while white men behind them held their destiny in their hands.
One, "Slave Auction, Charleston, South Carolina," had been thought to be lost, with only copies surviving until recently it had been discovered in the Museo della Belle Artes in Havava, Cuba. I have to say, it seems like an unlikely painting for a Cuban museum to have acquired.
Where the exhibition was especially strong was in telling individual stories of people on both sides of the slave trade. It was sickening to read about how some of Richmond's major slave traders kept black mistresses, sometimes even marrying them. Such hypocrisy.
When I left the Library of Virginia, the morning's sun had been obliterated with a leaden gray sky, appropriate to the story I'd just taken in.
Lesson over, it was time for lunch, or at least a good snack so I set out for Early Bird Biscuit in Lakeside, eager to see what the biscuit of the day might be. I couldn't have had better luck because it was crabby cheddar, a buttery biscuit made with Old Bay and cheese. Perfect, in other words, for someone with Maryland roots.
The shop was just as appealing as the smells coming from the oven. A rolling pin collection on the wall, a vintage flour sifter, white with cherries like my grandmother's and an old school electric mixer in the case and the colored glass bowls every grandmother used to have lined up on a shelf.
I was completely entranced when I spotted "Betty Crocker's New Boys and Girls Cookbook," a classic I still have to this day. The one in their case looked pristine while mine has crusty pages stained from so much use as a kid.
Asking what my favorite recipe in it was, I went with meat loaf a la mode and fudge, two of the crustiest and most stained pages in my copy. He said they'd recently made the molasses cookies from it. My childhood was unfolding in a biscuit shop.
They also had copies of the new book by my latest chef crush, John Currence, "Pickles, Pigs and Whiskey." It's tough not to be impressed with the man who threw the Big Gay Mississippi Welcome table in NYC to protest pending outmoded legislation.
All of Early Bird Biscuit was impressive, though, with a cozy and welcoming feel, including the guy behind the counter. After I swooned over the sound of today's biscuit, he admitted it was his favorite of all the daily biscuits they've made so far.
Apparently, what they do is alternate sweet and savory for biscuit of the day, so I'd randomly lucked into the crabby cheddar. When he asked if I wanted butter with mine, I asked if that was a rhetorical question. "Why not gild the lily?" he asked with a grin. Amen.
He suggested I return on a Saturday where the line may be out the door, but, "It moves quickly and there's more choices." Sounds like a plan to me, although since they close at noon on Saturday, it'll have to be after one of my infrequent early Friday nights.
As for the biscuit, it was heavenly, laden with butter and piquant with the spices of Old Bay studded with shredded Cheddar. I savored it like the biscuit hound my biscuit-making grandmother raised, my only regret that I should have asked for even more butter.
I can't wait to go back for another kind of biscuit. I'm only grateful that Early Bird is located in Lakeside and not Jackson Ward where I couldn't guarantee showing any restraint.
Grandma Bessie, I thought of you with every bite.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Cold as Ice
This kind of winter weather is good for two things I've been told. Good books and bad boys.
With half of that in mind, before I even left to go out tonight, I sat down with my latest book, "Sophie's Choice," and read 80 pages. Only then did I layer up to face the wrath of January and find some dinner.
While the roads were mostly dry, sidewalks were still icy and I just knew that it was going to be the kind of evening where restaurants were slow and bars busy. But it's also cassoulet week, so a French restaurant was in order. Walking into Amour, I saw one occupied table and a full bar. Bingo.
Taking a seat at the far end appropriately near the "Je suis Charlie" sign, I found myself next to a charming couple who teach during the school year and summer in the Loire Valley. At the far end were the restaurant owner and the local Fire Chief, busy discussing an upcoming February fundraiser for the fire department. It'll be a one year-ish anniversary thank you to the department that saved Amour.
While sipping a glass of Willm Cremant d'Alsace, the teachers and I chatted about their exalted status at Amour. It had been his duck that had been in the oven when Amour's kitchen caught fire last January. Some would worry about tempting fate, but he'd ordered duck again tonight. Daredevil.
As I was tucking into a bowl of exquisite shiitake mushroom bisque - the ideal warmer-upper on a night like this - a couple of familiar faces came through the front door and I heard, "Is that Karen?" Somehow, a favorite couple had also chosen Amour on this unlikely winter evening.
It was Holmes and Beloved, recently returned from a trip to Fort Lauderdale and full of stories (they'd met a man who claimed to only drink Missouri wine) and show and tell (menu, postcard). Since they were at one end of the bar and I another, we chose to include the teachers in our conversation rather than just talk over them.
Using his lifelong knowledge of Richmond and its inhabitants, Holmes was soon interrogating them on mutual acquaintances, of which they had several. I managed to slide in my usual question (his first concert was the Commodores in 1979, she couldn't recall having one), only to have Holmes demand to know whether I knew his first.
Strangely, I didn't. He informed me that it had been Strawberry Alarm Clock, Buffalo Springfield and the Beach Boys at the Arena, which meant nothing to me. Apparently it was a venue where the Sportbackers stadium now sits. More importantly, now I knew.
As I nibbled a small plate of decadent butter-poached lobster, the entire bar discussed the best seasons to visit the Loire Valley (fall and spring) and why the blues festival there had finally been discontinued (gotten too big for the town). Holmes inquired if the couple rented out their house (yes, but not during summer because they're there) and suggested they invite him and his beloved because they're fun people.
Braised rabbit over Byrd Mill polenta was my final small plate, a comforting dish on a cold evening, but by then I was approaching full and only managed half of it before sharing with Holmes.
Not long after, the teachers had to head home - it was a school night after all - so I moved closer to my friends to share desserts of swoon-worthy raspberry sorbet (made in house, natch) and Amour's classic chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee. I love my chocolate, but that sorbet was the kind of thing you dream about long after finishing.
Because it wouldn't be an evening with Holmes if he didn't lecture me, I was given a stern talking to about missing important information (because I don't watch TV) and about the folly of walking on ice (which I'd done today). Some friends just have to give you a hard time about who you are. On the plus side, he didn't say a word about my bangs for a change.
But we all walked out together with hugs all around as they headed home and I made tracks for Balliceaux to see New Orleans band The Naughty Professor.
Walking in, the door guy was busy checking IDs but he waved me in, more than familiar by now with me. But when I glanced at the couple in front of me, I realized it was my photographer friend and the love of his life. Here again was unexpected couple company.
Sort of anyway. They only got back together a month ago, so they're still pretty busy making goo-goo eyes at each other all the time (not that there's anything wrong with that). I admired her adorable bag, a small, hard black purse with gold studs and brass knuckles (with rings) for the handle. You know, just in case.
Tonight's entertainment, the Naughty Professor, turned out to be incredibly young-looking guys: a guitarist, bassist, drummer and three horns playing all instrumental New Orleans funk/jazz. The horns would step off the short stage whenever it was time for the others to shine (the drummer gave me "Whiplash" flashbacks) before ambling back up for the horn parts.
The band was surprisingly good for being so young and it didn't take long for some people to start dancing. The challenge was how often the band changed up the rhythm and tempo, but even so, it soon felt like a good time in the back room.
A guy standing in front of me knocked into me twice before apologizing and then saying, "Wanna dance? If you decide you do, just let me know and I'll twirl and dip you and we'll clear out the floor." That's not an offer I get every day.
I ran into a bartender friend who's doing a one-night gig in Seattle, saw the long tall drink of water bassist wearing a hat his mother made him (complete with yarn braid), chatted with Mr. Can't Stop, Won't Stop about this weather and got a bear hug from the DJ who told me he had just discovered go-go. He was there because he'd been told that this was going to be the show of the week.
As the music unfolded, I had to agree that he'd been given good information. Although not stereotypically New Orleans (it was as much jazz as funk), the horn section was tight and the rhythm section clearly knew each other well. Songs took tangents but always came back around and the band members' energy never flagged during an hour and a half long set.
Even when the room filled up, I could see my lovebird friends over on the side dancing and rubbing up against each other. The band finished with the epic song "Chef's Special" and a cold Wednesday night closed out on a high note.
Bad boys will have to wait till another cold night.
With half of that in mind, before I even left to go out tonight, I sat down with my latest book, "Sophie's Choice," and read 80 pages. Only then did I layer up to face the wrath of January and find some dinner.
While the roads were mostly dry, sidewalks were still icy and I just knew that it was going to be the kind of evening where restaurants were slow and bars busy. But it's also cassoulet week, so a French restaurant was in order. Walking into Amour, I saw one occupied table and a full bar. Bingo.
Taking a seat at the far end appropriately near the "Je suis Charlie" sign, I found myself next to a charming couple who teach during the school year and summer in the Loire Valley. At the far end were the restaurant owner and the local Fire Chief, busy discussing an upcoming February fundraiser for the fire department. It'll be a one year-ish anniversary thank you to the department that saved Amour.
While sipping a glass of Willm Cremant d'Alsace, the teachers and I chatted about their exalted status at Amour. It had been his duck that had been in the oven when Amour's kitchen caught fire last January. Some would worry about tempting fate, but he'd ordered duck again tonight. Daredevil.
As I was tucking into a bowl of exquisite shiitake mushroom bisque - the ideal warmer-upper on a night like this - a couple of familiar faces came through the front door and I heard, "Is that Karen?" Somehow, a favorite couple had also chosen Amour on this unlikely winter evening.
It was Holmes and Beloved, recently returned from a trip to Fort Lauderdale and full of stories (they'd met a man who claimed to only drink Missouri wine) and show and tell (menu, postcard). Since they were at one end of the bar and I another, we chose to include the teachers in our conversation rather than just talk over them.
Using his lifelong knowledge of Richmond and its inhabitants, Holmes was soon interrogating them on mutual acquaintances, of which they had several. I managed to slide in my usual question (his first concert was the Commodores in 1979, she couldn't recall having one), only to have Holmes demand to know whether I knew his first.
Strangely, I didn't. He informed me that it had been Strawberry Alarm Clock, Buffalo Springfield and the Beach Boys at the Arena, which meant nothing to me. Apparently it was a venue where the Sportbackers stadium now sits. More importantly, now I knew.
As I nibbled a small plate of decadent butter-poached lobster, the entire bar discussed the best seasons to visit the Loire Valley (fall and spring) and why the blues festival there had finally been discontinued (gotten too big for the town). Holmes inquired if the couple rented out their house (yes, but not during summer because they're there) and suggested they invite him and his beloved because they're fun people.
Braised rabbit over Byrd Mill polenta was my final small plate, a comforting dish on a cold evening, but by then I was approaching full and only managed half of it before sharing with Holmes.
Not long after, the teachers had to head home - it was a school night after all - so I moved closer to my friends to share desserts of swoon-worthy raspberry sorbet (made in house, natch) and Amour's classic chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee. I love my chocolate, but that sorbet was the kind of thing you dream about long after finishing.
Because it wouldn't be an evening with Holmes if he didn't lecture me, I was given a stern talking to about missing important information (because I don't watch TV) and about the folly of walking on ice (which I'd done today). Some friends just have to give you a hard time about who you are. On the plus side, he didn't say a word about my bangs for a change.
But we all walked out together with hugs all around as they headed home and I made tracks for Balliceaux to see New Orleans band The Naughty Professor.
Walking in, the door guy was busy checking IDs but he waved me in, more than familiar by now with me. But when I glanced at the couple in front of me, I realized it was my photographer friend and the love of his life. Here again was unexpected couple company.
Sort of anyway. They only got back together a month ago, so they're still pretty busy making goo-goo eyes at each other all the time (not that there's anything wrong with that). I admired her adorable bag, a small, hard black purse with gold studs and brass knuckles (with rings) for the handle. You know, just in case.
Tonight's entertainment, the Naughty Professor, turned out to be incredibly young-looking guys: a guitarist, bassist, drummer and three horns playing all instrumental New Orleans funk/jazz. The horns would step off the short stage whenever it was time for the others to shine (the drummer gave me "Whiplash" flashbacks) before ambling back up for the horn parts.
The band was surprisingly good for being so young and it didn't take long for some people to start dancing. The challenge was how often the band changed up the rhythm and tempo, but even so, it soon felt like a good time in the back room.
A guy standing in front of me knocked into me twice before apologizing and then saying, "Wanna dance? If you decide you do, just let me know and I'll twirl and dip you and we'll clear out the floor." That's not an offer I get every day.
I ran into a bartender friend who's doing a one-night gig in Seattle, saw the long tall drink of water bassist wearing a hat his mother made him (complete with yarn braid), chatted with Mr. Can't Stop, Won't Stop about this weather and got a bear hug from the DJ who told me he had just discovered go-go. He was there because he'd been told that this was going to be the show of the week.
As the music unfolded, I had to agree that he'd been given good information. Although not stereotypically New Orleans (it was as much jazz as funk), the horn section was tight and the rhythm section clearly knew each other well. Songs took tangents but always came back around and the band members' energy never flagged during an hour and a half long set.
Even when the room filled up, I could see my lovebird friends over on the side dancing and rubbing up against each other. The band finished with the epic song "Chef's Special" and a cold Wednesday night closed out on a high note.
Bad boys will have to wait till another cold night.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Saddam a Go-Go
I should have known that in these situations, reading material is not required.
After spending the day on the northern neck helping my parents "un-Christmas," an endeavor that also entailed my first trip to the wood yard (with Dad) and baking a cake for Mom (marble with chocolate fudge frosting), it was early evening by the time I got home.
What to do? Music, movie, friend, what? After the drive back, I was in no hurry to get back in the car (that's a whole different story), so my decision was made. Time to check out the new neighborhood bar.
It's only two blocks to GWAR Bar, where there's already always a clutch of people outside smoking. Sidling past them, I made my way to the one bar stool directly under the TV screen so I wouldn't have to look at it. Seriously, TV in the GWAR bar? How very un-metal.
The guy in the stool next to me was just getting his leftovers boxed up, so I figured he was on his way out soon, but he was gracious enough to greet me anyway. When I inquired as to what he'd eaten (it was my first time, after all, so why not seek out the advice of someone who's tested the waters?), he flipped the box open, revealing GWAR's chicken McDuckets.
Except, of course, it wasn't that simple. The crispy rounds were actually a pastiche of duck confit, chicken thigh, truffle and smoked mozzarella with GWARbq sauce (which he insisted I dunk mine in). Curious as to why so many were left, he explained that he and a coworker had gotten two orders because he already knew how good they were.
Two minutes in and I was already talking to a two-time GWAR Bar regular. Of course I took him up on his kind offer and nibbled his McDuckets. When he went to introduce himself, my hands were full of nuggets and sauce, so we tapped elbows in greeting instead.
The place (which holds 59) was busy, whether because of its newness or because of the sheer novelty of it, I don't know but what I do know is that the music - appropriately Slayer, Pantera, Metallica, Megadeth and the like - was playing at the absolute perfect volume: loud enough that you couldn't miss it but not so loud you couldn't hear someone talking to you.
Even if it was a stranger.
Since he was already a GWAR Bar pro, I solicited menu recommendations from him. He had nothing but high praise for the Scum Dog, but they were out of it tonight. He also had fond memories of several of the bar snacks. "Anything with GWARbq sauce," he recommended.
So when the bartender asked what I wanted, I promptly ordered the chicken wangs, eschewing the buffalo and habanero sauces for the GWARbq sauce variety.
This seemed to incense the pro. "You just had GWARbq sauce!" he said as if I'd made a grievous faux pas. Not that I needed to, but I politely explained to him (while the bartender waited patiently) that I've had Buffalo sauce before and knew I didn't want habanero sauce, so I was going to get more GWARbq sauce on my wings.
He rolled his eyes and I told the bartender that this guy was a stranger and I wasn't about to let him choose which sauce I ate.
Once we established that he was not the boss of me, we chatted, first about rum because that's what he was drinking, which led to the fact that he lived in Puerto Rico for three years. Pluses: great rum, excellent surfing.
He was appalled to learn I'd never been to Nashville, regaling me with stories of why it's such a bad music town ("They only get A+ shows or B- shows where no one shows up"), as if that was some kind of incentive to visit.
When my wangs arrived, I let him do all the talking while I gorged on the meaty wings doused in the sweet/hot GWARbq sauce, which resulted in a rant about how Richmond is not a friendly town (oh, really?), how Richmond has a superiority complex with nothing to back it up (sure, some of the old guard) and how impossible it is to break into any of the local scenes (a point made to the wrong person).
One of his chief complaints with our fair city was that he can't find someone competent to clean his house. Asking if I had that problem, I said I didn't because I clean my own.
"My grandmother always said no one on earth should have to change their own sheets." He thought that was a brilliant line but it made me wonder about his grandma.
After using a half dozen napkins to wipe sauce from my fingers, I went about countering his brittle points, suggesting that Richmond has far more to offer than he'd found. As I pointed out, hanging out at Can Can or the near West End is a surefire route to interesting social failure, in my humble opinion.
He was fascinated to learn that I was a native Washingtonian ("Who knew such people existed?"), even more so when he threw out a quip about "the plane going into the bridge," an event with which I am well familiar since I'd been working in Southwest, right on the river that snowy day the Air Florida plane hit the 14th Street Bridge.
His amazement turned to scorn when I told him that I'd had to walk home in the snow that day. "You didn't stop at the Ritz Carlton bar?" he asked incredulously. Nope, walked straight home like an idiot. My only defense is that I was young and inexperienced.
As we talked, bar activity swirled around us with people coming and going, the place constantly lively and full of music. There was a quintessential 21st century GWAR moment when a girl came in to order a drink and was asked for her ID. I didn't blame the bartender; she looked like she was 16.
The funny part was that he looked at her license, squinting trying to read the date, moving along the back bar trying to get more light so he could read it with certainty and eventually going to the back where he finally managed to decipher that she was legal.
What a drag it is getting old.
During the music part of my conversation with the rum drinker, he shared that earlier, I'd missed hearing Metallica doing a Queen cover ("Stone Cold Crazy," no doubt), that his first show had involved Pantera and that he was terribly impressed that I'd seen McCartney in his early years.
"Since you were in D.C. in the '80s, did you ever see Black Flag?" he wanted to know. Sure didn't, not for lack of opportunity just lack of interest. Only then did he admit that Black Flag wasn't all that. I did cop to seeing Henry Rollins on one of his speaking tours and he agreed that he's a ridiculously intelligent, informed man and that listening to his brain work is a pleasure.
We even talked about books ("What's your favorite book and you can't say 'Superfudge'?"), although I didn't buy that John Grisham is an author I must read or that "Wuthering Heights" is the most boring book ever written. I learned that he was a huge Hunter S. Thompson fan when technology reared its head and he pulled out his phone to show me his two latest art acquisitions, both paintings of Chewbaca, one as Hunter S. Thompson and the other as the Dude. They will be hung in his media room.
That wasn't all. He's read all Thompson's books except "The Rum Diary." Why? "I'm saving that one for when I'm in prison," he explained. For what, I had to ask? "Taxes or killing a man who deserved it." His words, not mine.
They were topped only by a later comment about my tights as I was leaving. "How does a woman your age get away with wearing such hot tights?" First it should be noted that I had on the most conservative pair of tights I own (because they're warm and it's below freezing out there). I explained that left-handed insulting comments such as that weren't likely to help him in breaking into Richmond's social scene.
I didn't see a light bulb go off, but he did accept the critique.
We tapped elbows good-bye and then it was out onto the frigid streets of Jackson Ward for my brief walk home.
Pulling out my gloves as I left, I spotted the Washington Post stashed in my purse as a precautionary measure before I left for the bar in case I needed distraction while there.
It might as well have been the most boring book ever written (and just as unnecessary) compared to the colorful character I'd wound up next to. Since the bar can't very well spew bodily fluids and blood like the band did, perhaps the plan is to attract over-the-top customers to provide the unexpected moments.
Brilliantly executed, guys. I'll be back for more, so save a Scum Dog for me.
After spending the day on the northern neck helping my parents "un-Christmas," an endeavor that also entailed my first trip to the wood yard (with Dad) and baking a cake for Mom (marble with chocolate fudge frosting), it was early evening by the time I got home.
What to do? Music, movie, friend, what? After the drive back, I was in no hurry to get back in the car (that's a whole different story), so my decision was made. Time to check out the new neighborhood bar.
It's only two blocks to GWAR Bar, where there's already always a clutch of people outside smoking. Sidling past them, I made my way to the one bar stool directly under the TV screen so I wouldn't have to look at it. Seriously, TV in the GWAR bar? How very un-metal.
The guy in the stool next to me was just getting his leftovers boxed up, so I figured he was on his way out soon, but he was gracious enough to greet me anyway. When I inquired as to what he'd eaten (it was my first time, after all, so why not seek out the advice of someone who's tested the waters?), he flipped the box open, revealing GWAR's chicken McDuckets.
Except, of course, it wasn't that simple. The crispy rounds were actually a pastiche of duck confit, chicken thigh, truffle and smoked mozzarella with GWARbq sauce (which he insisted I dunk mine in). Curious as to why so many were left, he explained that he and a coworker had gotten two orders because he already knew how good they were.
Two minutes in and I was already talking to a two-time GWAR Bar regular. Of course I took him up on his kind offer and nibbled his McDuckets. When he went to introduce himself, my hands were full of nuggets and sauce, so we tapped elbows in greeting instead.
The place (which holds 59) was busy, whether because of its newness or because of the sheer novelty of it, I don't know but what I do know is that the music - appropriately Slayer, Pantera, Metallica, Megadeth and the like - was playing at the absolute perfect volume: loud enough that you couldn't miss it but not so loud you couldn't hear someone talking to you.
Even if it was a stranger.
Since he was already a GWAR Bar pro, I solicited menu recommendations from him. He had nothing but high praise for the Scum Dog, but they were out of it tonight. He also had fond memories of several of the bar snacks. "Anything with GWARbq sauce," he recommended.
So when the bartender asked what I wanted, I promptly ordered the chicken wangs, eschewing the buffalo and habanero sauces for the GWARbq sauce variety.
This seemed to incense the pro. "You just had GWARbq sauce!" he said as if I'd made a grievous faux pas. Not that I needed to, but I politely explained to him (while the bartender waited patiently) that I've had Buffalo sauce before and knew I didn't want habanero sauce, so I was going to get more GWARbq sauce on my wings.
He rolled his eyes and I told the bartender that this guy was a stranger and I wasn't about to let him choose which sauce I ate.
Once we established that he was not the boss of me, we chatted, first about rum because that's what he was drinking, which led to the fact that he lived in Puerto Rico for three years. Pluses: great rum, excellent surfing.
He was appalled to learn I'd never been to Nashville, regaling me with stories of why it's such a bad music town ("They only get A+ shows or B- shows where no one shows up"), as if that was some kind of incentive to visit.
When my wangs arrived, I let him do all the talking while I gorged on the meaty wings doused in the sweet/hot GWARbq sauce, which resulted in a rant about how Richmond is not a friendly town (oh, really?), how Richmond has a superiority complex with nothing to back it up (sure, some of the old guard) and how impossible it is to break into any of the local scenes (a point made to the wrong person).
One of his chief complaints with our fair city was that he can't find someone competent to clean his house. Asking if I had that problem, I said I didn't because I clean my own.
"My grandmother always said no one on earth should have to change their own sheets." He thought that was a brilliant line but it made me wonder about his grandma.
After using a half dozen napkins to wipe sauce from my fingers, I went about countering his brittle points, suggesting that Richmond has far more to offer than he'd found. As I pointed out, hanging out at Can Can or the near West End is a surefire route to interesting social failure, in my humble opinion.
He was fascinated to learn that I was a native Washingtonian ("Who knew such people existed?"), even more so when he threw out a quip about "the plane going into the bridge," an event with which I am well familiar since I'd been working in Southwest, right on the river that snowy day the Air Florida plane hit the 14th Street Bridge.
His amazement turned to scorn when I told him that I'd had to walk home in the snow that day. "You didn't stop at the Ritz Carlton bar?" he asked incredulously. Nope, walked straight home like an idiot. My only defense is that I was young and inexperienced.
As we talked, bar activity swirled around us with people coming and going, the place constantly lively and full of music. There was a quintessential 21st century GWAR moment when a girl came in to order a drink and was asked for her ID. I didn't blame the bartender; she looked like she was 16.
The funny part was that he looked at her license, squinting trying to read the date, moving along the back bar trying to get more light so he could read it with certainty and eventually going to the back where he finally managed to decipher that she was legal.
What a drag it is getting old.
During the music part of my conversation with the rum drinker, he shared that earlier, I'd missed hearing Metallica doing a Queen cover ("Stone Cold Crazy," no doubt), that his first show had involved Pantera and that he was terribly impressed that I'd seen McCartney in his early years.
"Since you were in D.C. in the '80s, did you ever see Black Flag?" he wanted to know. Sure didn't, not for lack of opportunity just lack of interest. Only then did he admit that Black Flag wasn't all that. I did cop to seeing Henry Rollins on one of his speaking tours and he agreed that he's a ridiculously intelligent, informed man and that listening to his brain work is a pleasure.
We even talked about books ("What's your favorite book and you can't say 'Superfudge'?"), although I didn't buy that John Grisham is an author I must read or that "Wuthering Heights" is the most boring book ever written. I learned that he was a huge Hunter S. Thompson fan when technology reared its head and he pulled out his phone to show me his two latest art acquisitions, both paintings of Chewbaca, one as Hunter S. Thompson and the other as the Dude. They will be hung in his media room.
That wasn't all. He's read all Thompson's books except "The Rum Diary." Why? "I'm saving that one for when I'm in prison," he explained. For what, I had to ask? "Taxes or killing a man who deserved it." His words, not mine.
They were topped only by a later comment about my tights as I was leaving. "How does a woman your age get away with wearing such hot tights?" First it should be noted that I had on the most conservative pair of tights I own (because they're warm and it's below freezing out there). I explained that left-handed insulting comments such as that weren't likely to help him in breaking into Richmond's social scene.
I didn't see a light bulb go off, but he did accept the critique.
We tapped elbows good-bye and then it was out onto the frigid streets of Jackson Ward for my brief walk home.
Pulling out my gloves as I left, I spotted the Washington Post stashed in my purse as a precautionary measure before I left for the bar in case I needed distraction while there.
It might as well have been the most boring book ever written (and just as unnecessary) compared to the colorful character I'd wound up next to. Since the bar can't very well spew bodily fluids and blood like the band did, perhaps the plan is to attract over-the-top customers to provide the unexpected moments.
Brilliantly executed, guys. I'll be back for more, so save a Scum Dog for me.
Monday, January 12, 2015
Better Than Fiction
Tonight was all over the map - from northern England to lower Alabama, Smithfield to Charlottesville. Best of all, I lucked into a front row seat for it all.
In the multiple years I've been going to Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, I've never before encountered a line of people winding from the back room stairs all the way to the front door. Until tonight, that is. It's like, to quote the guy who facilitates the many events at Balliceaux said to me, "Be careful what you wish for."
While my place near the end of the line meant that most of the seats in the back room were already taken, I spotted two empty in the front row. It seemed unlikely they weren't spoken for, but the woman sitting next to them confirmed they were available. Luck was being a lady tonight.
Depositing my bag to hold my place, I made my way through the throngs at the bar to talk to some familiar faces and procure some liquid refreshment. When I finally returned to my chair, I was surprised to see the one next to me still vacant.
It wasn't long before a guy slid into it, observing that it's always easiest to find a seat when you're alone. I told him he was preaching to the choir. Many is the time I've scored a seat while duos and trios stood. Tonight, people were wedged in like sardines, even standing on the stairs, while others sat cross-legged on the floor.
Not a good room for a claustrophobic.
Tonight's theme was "Gotcha: Hi-jinks, Hijacks and Hoodwinks," a mouthful of a theme if ever there was one. As with all their themes, it left a lot of room for interpretation.
Mark kicked off the evening with the suggestively-titled (or is that just me?), "Want Me to Sign Your Balls?" His first surprise was his announcement that he's the third place world champion of four square, the playground game not the app.
Jeez Louise, who knew anyone still played four square? I mean, it was big when I was a kid but that was back in the dark ages. Who knew it had endured?
His amusing tale chronicled how he'd called a sporting goods store in Miami (where he was headed for work) and offered to come autograph playground balls the following Saturday. Needless to say, no one showed up, although he did sign two balls - one for the store's ball collection - before the afternoon was over.
I had to admire the guy's moxie.
Heather worked at one of VCU's cubic farm offices and labeled herself a prankster. You know, the kind of child who wraps the toilet seat in Saran Wrap before her younger sister goes in to use the toilet.
Her story involved back and forth pranking with a cubicle-mate. A full desk drawer of candy corn was answered with aluminum foil wrapped around every object in his cube. Orange jello in her water bottle resulted in sticky notes on every square inch of his office.
She now lives in fear of his next move.
William was a fine storyteller, the kind of guy you pay attention to at a party because he shares with the class so well. His saga, "I Know Who Chicken Man Is" concerned the student who had moved into his dorm room after he left it.
But one of his funniest quips was about how dumb and oblivious he and his college friends were. Apparently Ben Folds lived in their dorm and was always practicing piano, something they never bothered to listen to. "Lame," he proclaimed, explaining that drinking and taunting the new guy in his room were more fun.
First they dug up a boat, then they placed it in the guy's dorm room. When the police came to investigate, blame was spread around among all the guys on the floor, but no one copped to it.
Only after they paid $85 to have the boat removed (a price that seems perfectly reasonable to me), they sent the chief of police a picture of all of them in the boat. As if he didn't already know who the culprits were.
When Brent's name was called, it was the guy sitting next to me, and he opened his mouth to reveal the honey-dripping tones of someone from lower Alabama telling his story, "Me, Myself and Irene and a Hot Glue Gun."
After being surprised by Hurricane Isabel, he was determined to be fully prepped for Irene, laying out supplies on his ping-pong table. The problem was that his daughter didn't care about the impending storm; she wanted to decorate a bulletin board for her friend, so she needed the hot glue gun.
Unable to locate it among the plethora of batteries, flashlights and emergency camping equipment, he set out for Walmart at 2 a.m. to procure a glue gun for her. He talked about the beleaguered Walmart greeter who preemptively told everyone they were out of batteries, flashlights and lanterns.
Told in his distinctive southern accent, it was hilarious.
The funny business came in when he asked the location of glue guns, only to have the crowd behind him follow him to the arts and crafts department (speeding up and slowing down as he did), assuming he knew something they didn't.
Nothing like sheep in hurricane mode.
Taylor's story involved an older brother who delighted in tormenting her with the unseen, scaring her with the unknown and, once a soldier on a visit back from Iraq, surprising her at school by having her called to the office, only to scoop her up for a reunion hug.
Ian got major points for his delivery of "Disabusing Fantasy Land," a tale of attending an anime convention with his then-girlfriend.
I don't think he ever once looked at the audience (or even opened his eyes), but his almost monotone voice delivered pithy, sarcastic commentary about everyone and everything.
He skewered the kind of people who dress up in costumes ("No, Super Mario Brothers is not anime"), the way costumes give men the nerve to fondle strange women's breasts and why an anime rave is a terrible place to buy weed (as opposed to everywhere else on earth being a great place to buy it).
His humor was nihilistic, uncomfortable and hysterical. After the disaster of the convention and rave experiences, he put his arms around his girlfriend, trying to comfort her in her disappointment. "Life isn't that good," he deadpanned.
It is when you're listening to strangers telling stories.
During the break, we learned that Secretly Y'All has raised over $10K for non-profits and that tonight's admission fee haul was going to...(drum roll, please) Secretly Y'All. The goal is to create a story bike, although the specifics of that haven't exactly been worked out.
Why not? This is a bike town, why not a story bike?
Although a few people left during the break, the record-sized crowd remained strong throughout and the second half of the evening began with pulling names from the hat for the chance to over share.
Dustin King, whom I've seen tell stories before, got things rolling with easily one of the best gotcha stories all night.
After a night of getting his drink on in Charlottesville, he'd passed out on the front porch in just a t-shirt, his manly bits discreetly tucked away. Naturally, a friend took a picture of the absence of his genitalia and sent it out to all their friends.
What else could poor Dustin do but send out a retaliatory picture of his erection to the same group. One of his buddies, responded, saying, "Game, set, match: King." The crowd roared.
When he arrived at his birthday party a few weeks later, it was to find that everyone there was wearing a t-shirt with the picture of his erection on it. Even better, a projection of the sleeping Dustin photo on the wall was used to play "pin the erection on Dustin" with small pictures of it.
A man is only poor if he does not have friends.
Paul's story explained how he got a reputation as a bad ass when he transferred to private school in Minnesota.
On senior skip day, his class organized a bus trip to one kid's family lake house in Wisconsin. Paul was one of the kids doing gin shots on the way there. "A lot of bad decisions were made that day," he cracked.
When he finally woke up after passing out, it took two friends to prop him up, but only one to warn him that a cop had just arrived. He said he did his best to stay cool. When the cop asked him for ID, Paul said, "Nope," and planted face-first on the ground in front of the cop.
Needless to say, his reputation was sealed and the respect of his high school peers ensured.
Phil was particularly proud of his story because it had happened right where we were: in the back room of Balliceaux. Undoubtedly, scores of over-the-top stories have happened there.
His involved friends from Smithfield where he grew up, arriving for a New Year's eve bash at Balliceaux with Black Girls (whom he first called Black Ladies) playing.
A very drunk girl approached his friend and slurred, "I wanna get with you," meaning that they left immediately.
After a while, their friend returned to share his tale of woe: once in her car, she'd begun delivering oral pleasure before vomiting. All over the dashboard, in the cup holder, everywhere. He'd left her passed out to return to the party.
When Balliceaux closed and the Smithfield gang left, it was to wander the streets of the Fan, confused and lost. Imagine their surprise when they happened on a running car with vomit all over the dashboard. Being gentlemen as only Smithfield men can be, they gingerly moved the passed out woman to the back seat and drove themselves to their hotel.
They raise 'em right in ham country.
Our final storyteller turned out to be a Brit from Salford, or as Owen put it, "You know that band Joy Division? They were from Salford. It looks like how they sound. Very depressing."
But his story was hilarious, albeit a sad commentary about the options open to children in northern England. With a choice of R.A.F. or gangs, Owen partook of both, shooting near friends, dropping fish off bridges to hit cars, writing their name in lighter fluid and then setting fire to it. Even at 11, there seemed to be a whole lot of drinking and drugging going on between him and his two best buds.
Because there was no police presence, they had no compunction about breaking windows at school. From there it was skylights giving them a portal into the school and then smashing equipment. "We were going nuts on this school. When we found extra large bricks, we carried them as a team."
Only problem was that cops did show up and they were chased (right through an active funeral) and caught. "I served six hours in a jail cell," he said. "I got fed a baked potato." His friend Ben already had a record, so he insisted on taking full credit for everything, even serving time for it.
When he got out, he visited Owen, whose Mum had something to say to him.
"If you did all that, stay away from my son!" she warned Ben with all the ferocity of a mother tiger. "If he did it, you're a good f*cking friend."
"Ben was a good f*cking friend," Owen said to clamorous applause.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating. It's become a cliche at Secretly Y'All, but somehow that last story is always killer. Maybe it was the glimpse into another world, maybe it was Owen's accent - sometimes very British, other moments all American - or maybe just hearing a mother lay it out so baldly. Helluva great story.
But honestly, pin the erection on the birthday boy? Ignoring Ben Folds' piano playing? Four square championships? Glue gun shopping at 2 a.am.?
I'm just thankful that the first rule at Secretly Y'All is that you have to tell the truth. Not that anyone could make this kind of stuff up.
Life is that good. Or at least that funny.
In the multiple years I've been going to Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story, I've never before encountered a line of people winding from the back room stairs all the way to the front door. Until tonight, that is. It's like, to quote the guy who facilitates the many events at Balliceaux said to me, "Be careful what you wish for."
While my place near the end of the line meant that most of the seats in the back room were already taken, I spotted two empty in the front row. It seemed unlikely they weren't spoken for, but the woman sitting next to them confirmed they were available. Luck was being a lady tonight.
Depositing my bag to hold my place, I made my way through the throngs at the bar to talk to some familiar faces and procure some liquid refreshment. When I finally returned to my chair, I was surprised to see the one next to me still vacant.
It wasn't long before a guy slid into it, observing that it's always easiest to find a seat when you're alone. I told him he was preaching to the choir. Many is the time I've scored a seat while duos and trios stood. Tonight, people were wedged in like sardines, even standing on the stairs, while others sat cross-legged on the floor.
Not a good room for a claustrophobic.
Tonight's theme was "Gotcha: Hi-jinks, Hijacks and Hoodwinks," a mouthful of a theme if ever there was one. As with all their themes, it left a lot of room for interpretation.
Mark kicked off the evening with the suggestively-titled (or is that just me?), "Want Me to Sign Your Balls?" His first surprise was his announcement that he's the third place world champion of four square, the playground game not the app.
Jeez Louise, who knew anyone still played four square? I mean, it was big when I was a kid but that was back in the dark ages. Who knew it had endured?
His amusing tale chronicled how he'd called a sporting goods store in Miami (where he was headed for work) and offered to come autograph playground balls the following Saturday. Needless to say, no one showed up, although he did sign two balls - one for the store's ball collection - before the afternoon was over.
I had to admire the guy's moxie.
Heather worked at one of VCU's cubic farm offices and labeled herself a prankster. You know, the kind of child who wraps the toilet seat in Saran Wrap before her younger sister goes in to use the toilet.
Her story involved back and forth pranking with a cubicle-mate. A full desk drawer of candy corn was answered with aluminum foil wrapped around every object in his cube. Orange jello in her water bottle resulted in sticky notes on every square inch of his office.
She now lives in fear of his next move.
William was a fine storyteller, the kind of guy you pay attention to at a party because he shares with the class so well. His saga, "I Know Who Chicken Man Is" concerned the student who had moved into his dorm room after he left it.
But one of his funniest quips was about how dumb and oblivious he and his college friends were. Apparently Ben Folds lived in their dorm and was always practicing piano, something they never bothered to listen to. "Lame," he proclaimed, explaining that drinking and taunting the new guy in his room were more fun.
First they dug up a boat, then they placed it in the guy's dorm room. When the police came to investigate, blame was spread around among all the guys on the floor, but no one copped to it.
Only after they paid $85 to have the boat removed (a price that seems perfectly reasonable to me), they sent the chief of police a picture of all of them in the boat. As if he didn't already know who the culprits were.
When Brent's name was called, it was the guy sitting next to me, and he opened his mouth to reveal the honey-dripping tones of someone from lower Alabama telling his story, "Me, Myself and Irene and a Hot Glue Gun."
After being surprised by Hurricane Isabel, he was determined to be fully prepped for Irene, laying out supplies on his ping-pong table. The problem was that his daughter didn't care about the impending storm; she wanted to decorate a bulletin board for her friend, so she needed the hot glue gun.
Unable to locate it among the plethora of batteries, flashlights and emergency camping equipment, he set out for Walmart at 2 a.m. to procure a glue gun for her. He talked about the beleaguered Walmart greeter who preemptively told everyone they were out of batteries, flashlights and lanterns.
Told in his distinctive southern accent, it was hilarious.
The funny business came in when he asked the location of glue guns, only to have the crowd behind him follow him to the arts and crafts department (speeding up and slowing down as he did), assuming he knew something they didn't.
Nothing like sheep in hurricane mode.
Taylor's story involved an older brother who delighted in tormenting her with the unseen, scaring her with the unknown and, once a soldier on a visit back from Iraq, surprising her at school by having her called to the office, only to scoop her up for a reunion hug.
Ian got major points for his delivery of "Disabusing Fantasy Land," a tale of attending an anime convention with his then-girlfriend.
I don't think he ever once looked at the audience (or even opened his eyes), but his almost monotone voice delivered pithy, sarcastic commentary about everyone and everything.
He skewered the kind of people who dress up in costumes ("No, Super Mario Brothers is not anime"), the way costumes give men the nerve to fondle strange women's breasts and why an anime rave is a terrible place to buy weed (as opposed to everywhere else on earth being a great place to buy it).
His humor was nihilistic, uncomfortable and hysterical. After the disaster of the convention and rave experiences, he put his arms around his girlfriend, trying to comfort her in her disappointment. "Life isn't that good," he deadpanned.
It is when you're listening to strangers telling stories.
During the break, we learned that Secretly Y'All has raised over $10K for non-profits and that tonight's admission fee haul was going to...(drum roll, please) Secretly Y'All. The goal is to create a story bike, although the specifics of that haven't exactly been worked out.
Why not? This is a bike town, why not a story bike?
Although a few people left during the break, the record-sized crowd remained strong throughout and the second half of the evening began with pulling names from the hat for the chance to over share.
Dustin King, whom I've seen tell stories before, got things rolling with easily one of the best gotcha stories all night.
After a night of getting his drink on in Charlottesville, he'd passed out on the front porch in just a t-shirt, his manly bits discreetly tucked away. Naturally, a friend took a picture of the absence of his genitalia and sent it out to all their friends.
What else could poor Dustin do but send out a retaliatory picture of his erection to the same group. One of his buddies, responded, saying, "Game, set, match: King." The crowd roared.
When he arrived at his birthday party a few weeks later, it was to find that everyone there was wearing a t-shirt with the picture of his erection on it. Even better, a projection of the sleeping Dustin photo on the wall was used to play "pin the erection on Dustin" with small pictures of it.
A man is only poor if he does not have friends.
Paul's story explained how he got a reputation as a bad ass when he transferred to private school in Minnesota.
On senior skip day, his class organized a bus trip to one kid's family lake house in Wisconsin. Paul was one of the kids doing gin shots on the way there. "A lot of bad decisions were made that day," he cracked.
When he finally woke up after passing out, it took two friends to prop him up, but only one to warn him that a cop had just arrived. He said he did his best to stay cool. When the cop asked him for ID, Paul said, "Nope," and planted face-first on the ground in front of the cop.
Needless to say, his reputation was sealed and the respect of his high school peers ensured.
Phil was particularly proud of his story because it had happened right where we were: in the back room of Balliceaux. Undoubtedly, scores of over-the-top stories have happened there.
His involved friends from Smithfield where he grew up, arriving for a New Year's eve bash at Balliceaux with Black Girls (whom he first called Black Ladies) playing.
A very drunk girl approached his friend and slurred, "I wanna get with you," meaning that they left immediately.
After a while, their friend returned to share his tale of woe: once in her car, she'd begun delivering oral pleasure before vomiting. All over the dashboard, in the cup holder, everywhere. He'd left her passed out to return to the party.
When Balliceaux closed and the Smithfield gang left, it was to wander the streets of the Fan, confused and lost. Imagine their surprise when they happened on a running car with vomit all over the dashboard. Being gentlemen as only Smithfield men can be, they gingerly moved the passed out woman to the back seat and drove themselves to their hotel.
They raise 'em right in ham country.
Our final storyteller turned out to be a Brit from Salford, or as Owen put it, "You know that band Joy Division? They were from Salford. It looks like how they sound. Very depressing."
But his story was hilarious, albeit a sad commentary about the options open to children in northern England. With a choice of R.A.F. or gangs, Owen partook of both, shooting near friends, dropping fish off bridges to hit cars, writing their name in lighter fluid and then setting fire to it. Even at 11, there seemed to be a whole lot of drinking and drugging going on between him and his two best buds.
Because there was no police presence, they had no compunction about breaking windows at school. From there it was skylights giving them a portal into the school and then smashing equipment. "We were going nuts on this school. When we found extra large bricks, we carried them as a team."
Only problem was that cops did show up and they were chased (right through an active funeral) and caught. "I served six hours in a jail cell," he said. "I got fed a baked potato." His friend Ben already had a record, so he insisted on taking full credit for everything, even serving time for it.
When he got out, he visited Owen, whose Mum had something to say to him.
"If you did all that, stay away from my son!" she warned Ben with all the ferocity of a mother tiger. "If he did it, you're a good f*cking friend."
"Ben was a good f*cking friend," Owen said to clamorous applause.
I've said it before, but it bears repeating. It's become a cliche at Secretly Y'All, but somehow that last story is always killer. Maybe it was the glimpse into another world, maybe it was Owen's accent - sometimes very British, other moments all American - or maybe just hearing a mother lay it out so baldly. Helluva great story.
But honestly, pin the erection on the birthday boy? Ignoring Ben Folds' piano playing? Four square championships? Glue gun shopping at 2 a.am.?
I'm just thankful that the first rule at Secretly Y'All is that you have to tell the truth. Not that anyone could make this kind of stuff up.
Life is that good. Or at least that funny.
But First, Tea
It's a gloomy, damp Monday afternoon and I'm drinking a cup of hot tea and listening to a '90s Irish band.
Perfect, right? Maybe, but it also represents a seismic shift in the earth's force, at least according to those who know me best. You see, I never drank hot tea. And by never, I mean from birth until a few months ago, I couldn't stand the stuff.
Friends and family know my aversion to hot beverages, the occasional hot chocolate aside. While I've always enjoyed a glass of iced tea (no sugar, no lemon) during the summer, I could never get into a hot cuppa tea.
And then the planets realigned and boom, I enjoy a cup of tea almost every night when I get home, either while blogging or reading. Sometimes on a chilly day, in the afternoon, too. On vacation over the holiday, I even had it with breakfast some days.
I can't explain what happened to make me suddenly appreciate tea. But those closest to me registered shock and awe when they heard the news. In one case, I was rewarded for my shift in allegiance with a gift certificate to Carytown Teas, a place I hadn't even known existed until I unwrapped the envelope.
Even a novice tea drinker like me recognized today as a prime tea-drinking day, so I looked up the shop's location and set out to explore the world of tea. It was a tad overwhelming.
Canisters of loose tea sat on shelves with all the accouterments on tables nearby. Since I don't yet have the ability to brew loose tea, the first thing I picked up was a box of tea bags. That much I knew I needed.
Then I laid myself at the skilled feet of the proprietor, sharing that I was new to all this, aware only that so far I'd enjoyed mint and orange teas and had a leaning toward green tea for its antioxidant qualities.
Pro that she was, she immediately set about blending me a tea to suit my blossoming palate. With an eye toward my interest in green tea, she chose Gunpowder Osprey but used a higher percentage of beautifully-scented blood orange/grapefruit tea to keep the caffeine even lower.
Now as I sit here on my second cup, I marvel at how it took me so many decades to appreciate the pleasures of a cup of hot tea.
Just call me a late bloomer about yet another thing. I'm with Monty Python on this one: Make tea, not war. Will do...finally.
Perfect, right? Maybe, but it also represents a seismic shift in the earth's force, at least according to those who know me best. You see, I never drank hot tea. And by never, I mean from birth until a few months ago, I couldn't stand the stuff.
Friends and family know my aversion to hot beverages, the occasional hot chocolate aside. While I've always enjoyed a glass of iced tea (no sugar, no lemon) during the summer, I could never get into a hot cuppa tea.
And then the planets realigned and boom, I enjoy a cup of tea almost every night when I get home, either while blogging or reading. Sometimes on a chilly day, in the afternoon, too. On vacation over the holiday, I even had it with breakfast some days.
I can't explain what happened to make me suddenly appreciate tea. But those closest to me registered shock and awe when they heard the news. In one case, I was rewarded for my shift in allegiance with a gift certificate to Carytown Teas, a place I hadn't even known existed until I unwrapped the envelope.
Even a novice tea drinker like me recognized today as a prime tea-drinking day, so I looked up the shop's location and set out to explore the world of tea. It was a tad overwhelming.
Canisters of loose tea sat on shelves with all the accouterments on tables nearby. Since I don't yet have the ability to brew loose tea, the first thing I picked up was a box of tea bags. That much I knew I needed.
Then I laid myself at the skilled feet of the proprietor, sharing that I was new to all this, aware only that so far I'd enjoyed mint and orange teas and had a leaning toward green tea for its antioxidant qualities.
Pro that she was, she immediately set about blending me a tea to suit my blossoming palate. With an eye toward my interest in green tea, she chose Gunpowder Osprey but used a higher percentage of beautifully-scented blood orange/grapefruit tea to keep the caffeine even lower.
Now as I sit here on my second cup, I marvel at how it took me so many decades to appreciate the pleasures of a cup of hot tea.
Just call me a late bloomer about yet another thing. I'm with Monty Python on this one: Make tea, not war. Will do...finally.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Negotiate, Demonstrate, Resist
Some movies just need to be seen.
Last February, I'd gone to the VMFA to see the Oscar-winning documentary "King: A Filmed Record...Montgomery to Memphis" and upped my MLK knowledge significantly. So naturally after seeing a treatment of the entirety of King's work, I was dead curious about a film focusing solely on the Selma portion.
As I got out of my car at the Bowtie, I was surprised to hear a train whistle very nearby and looked up to see a freight train skirting the edge of the parking lot. In all the times I've been to that theater, I have never once seen a train on those tracks.
Simple pleasures.
After sitting through a succession of movies you couldn't pay me to see (a J-Lo thriller, a new Terminator with an aged Arnold, a cheesy time travel teen film), we finally got to "Selma," which started quietly and triumphantly with his being awarded the Nobel Peace prize and then scared the pants off the audience with a heartbreaking flashback scene of the church in Birmingham being bombed and the four little girls dying in the rubble.
There was really no comparison between the black and white documentary I'd seen, which mainly used news reel footage and tonight's beautifully shot color film with its intimate angles focusing not just on the big events but all the small, private moments of King's life during that period.
Hardly surprisingly, it only alluded to King's marital infidelities, fine with me since the story of his non-violent protesting was the focus of the movie.
Considering it was Sunday night and that the film was showing in multiple theaters every hour, there was a pretty good crowd in the theater I was in. During scenes of King giving speeches, many in the theater reacted as if they were in the room with him, testifying and responding to what he said.
Surely actor David Oyelowo will win an Oscar for his spot-on performance of King, all the more notable because he's a Brit and both his accent and cadence were nearly identical to what I'd seen in the documentary. Someone did his homework.
But like in the real footage, the scenes of the marches were awe-inspiring while watching simulated beatings of marchers was not quite as horrific as watching the real thing. I'll never forget seeing a dog bite into a protester's arm in that documentary.
In a brilliant move, the final march to Montgomery fades from the fictionalized version to actual black and white newsreel footage for an emotional wallop to close things out.
I was surprised when the crowd didn't clap at the end, although, like me, most people stayed through the credits, during which epilogues were given for many of the characters. Besides King himself, probably the most heartbreaking one was the white civil rights worker who was killed by Klansmen five hours after King's speech on the steps of the Montgomery courthouse for driving other protesters home.
I've been on a surprisingly good run of films for grown-ups lately. "Selma" packed enormous emotional power, even for someone who knows about the events of the film, offering a look beyond the events to the man himself. For someone younger or less studied, it would probably be a revelation.
One of my recent goals is to become more informed, not just about current events but also about history. As it's resurrected in "Selma," it's an invaluable lesson. Bonus: buttered popcorn while I learn.
Last February, I'd gone to the VMFA to see the Oscar-winning documentary "King: A Filmed Record...Montgomery to Memphis" and upped my MLK knowledge significantly. So naturally after seeing a treatment of the entirety of King's work, I was dead curious about a film focusing solely on the Selma portion.
As I got out of my car at the Bowtie, I was surprised to hear a train whistle very nearby and looked up to see a freight train skirting the edge of the parking lot. In all the times I've been to that theater, I have never once seen a train on those tracks.
Simple pleasures.
After sitting through a succession of movies you couldn't pay me to see (a J-Lo thriller, a new Terminator with an aged Arnold, a cheesy time travel teen film), we finally got to "Selma," which started quietly and triumphantly with his being awarded the Nobel Peace prize and then scared the pants off the audience with a heartbreaking flashback scene of the church in Birmingham being bombed and the four little girls dying in the rubble.
There was really no comparison between the black and white documentary I'd seen, which mainly used news reel footage and tonight's beautifully shot color film with its intimate angles focusing not just on the big events but all the small, private moments of King's life during that period.
Hardly surprisingly, it only alluded to King's marital infidelities, fine with me since the story of his non-violent protesting was the focus of the movie.
Considering it was Sunday night and that the film was showing in multiple theaters every hour, there was a pretty good crowd in the theater I was in. During scenes of King giving speeches, many in the theater reacted as if they were in the room with him, testifying and responding to what he said.
Surely actor David Oyelowo will win an Oscar for his spot-on performance of King, all the more notable because he's a Brit and both his accent and cadence were nearly identical to what I'd seen in the documentary. Someone did his homework.
But like in the real footage, the scenes of the marches were awe-inspiring while watching simulated beatings of marchers was not quite as horrific as watching the real thing. I'll never forget seeing a dog bite into a protester's arm in that documentary.
In a brilliant move, the final march to Montgomery fades from the fictionalized version to actual black and white newsreel footage for an emotional wallop to close things out.
I was surprised when the crowd didn't clap at the end, although, like me, most people stayed through the credits, during which epilogues were given for many of the characters. Besides King himself, probably the most heartbreaking one was the white civil rights worker who was killed by Klansmen five hours after King's speech on the steps of the Montgomery courthouse for driving other protesters home.
I've been on a surprisingly good run of films for grown-ups lately. "Selma" packed enormous emotional power, even for someone who knows about the events of the film, offering a look beyond the events to the man himself. For someone younger or less studied, it would probably be a revelation.
One of my recent goals is to become more informed, not just about current events but also about history. As it's resurrected in "Selma," it's an invaluable lesson. Bonus: buttered popcorn while I learn.
It Was Worth All the While
Kerplunk, just like that it was 1994 again, except thankfully without Celine Dion and "The Lion King."
For the second night in a row, I was at Hardywood, this time for the Cover to Cover series where they play an entire album live start to finish. Somehow when I wasn't looking, 21 years have passed since Green Day's "Dookie" was released, so that was to be the featured album tonight.
Like every teen-aged boy in the country, I'd bought "Dookie" when it came out in '94 because even with estrogen, I couldn't resist their pop punk hooks and whiny, stoner lyrics. But even then I understood who that album belonged to.
Walking in, I ran into Brian, tonight's bass player, whom I'd just seen play bass last night with Snowy Owls. Even better, he's playing tomorrow at Hardywood with yet another band, that one a jazz group. Versatile guy doing shoegaze, punk and jazz in a matter of 48 hours.
Hardywood had a big crowd for the show tonight, whether for beer or a trip down middle school memory lane, I couldn't say. A couple of (male) friends joined me near the front, no doubt there because they were 12 and 14 years old when it came out.
Although the show was supposed to start at 7:30, it didn't, so the crowd kept growing until finally ringleader Matt Shofner (in a short-sleeved black shirt and bow tie) took the stage with the crack Cover to Cover band, saying, "Punctuality isn't punk." You know, he had a point.
Matt wasn't the only one looking the part. When I'd seen bassist Brian earlier, his long hair had been up, but now he'd released his waist-length locks, looking ready to rock.
Explaining that "Dookie" had been released on February 1, 1994, he reminded us that it had arrived in an era of chain wallets (the chain on his pants could have secured a bank vault) and burgeoning eye liner usage. As they launched into "Burnout," the crowd began "clinking" beer cups together as the familiar strains washed over them.
Matt and his fellow vocalists - Maggie (who did triple duty also dancing and playing tambourine), Evan (black shirt, skinny tie) and occasionally the other Maggie (hilariously insisting on applause to make it worth her while)- even had the rowdy crowd sing "Happy Birthday" to the album in Green Day style ("not dirge-like").
The night really got rolling when they did "Basket Case." As Matt sang, "I am one of those melodramatic fools," a melodramatic bearded fool in the crowd exploded in front of the stage, singing along, pumping his fist, briefly jumping on stage and generally unleashing his inner 14-year old. It was a beautiful thing to see.
One thing the crowd picked up on quickly was how well the band - Brian, Bentley and Grant - were executing the songs, nailing every lick and drum fill. A girl in front of me kept yelling, "You're amazing!" at them.
Of course everyone went berserk singling along and jumping around to "When I Come Around," causing Evan to observe, "It's great to see so many of you singing along. It means you listened to this music when you were kids."
I wheeled around to raise an eyebrow at my friend, the former 12-year old Green Day lover, and he looked sheepish. "Kids!" he repeated.
Someone shouted out a toast to Tres Cool, Green Day's drummer, only appropriate.
After the last song, "F.O.D.," Matt held up his phone set to a timer and told us to be patient. He reminded the crowd that it was last call. Only when a minute and 17 seconds had passed did they launch into the hidden track, "All by Myself" accompanied only by acoustic guitar.
It's now standard procedure at the end of every Cover to Cover show for the band to encore with a few greatest hits and they did. My friends didn't bother waiting around so I told them good-night and stayed put.
"American Idiot" made everyone go crazy, even more so when Matt sang the line, "Well, maybe I'm the faggot America," pointing at himself and the crowd roared. After all, who wants to be part of the redneck agenda?
"Brain Stew" only fed the fire and after that, he announced, "Okay, get out your lighters," which for this age group means cell phones with the flashlight feature on and sang "Time of Your Life." The room sang along at the top of our voices.
So take the photographs and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
After one last full-throttle rocking, the band was introduced and we were thanked by Matt, but the band had other ideas. They began playing "Welcome to Paradise" for the second time tonight and the space in front of the stage, sloppy with spilled beer, finally turned into a mosh pit with bodies flying as they sang along.
It was very 1994. Like then, I stayed out of the fray but enjoyed watching every minute of it. Green Day calls that "Having a Blast." Me, too.
For the second night in a row, I was at Hardywood, this time for the Cover to Cover series where they play an entire album live start to finish. Somehow when I wasn't looking, 21 years have passed since Green Day's "Dookie" was released, so that was to be the featured album tonight.
Like every teen-aged boy in the country, I'd bought "Dookie" when it came out in '94 because even with estrogen, I couldn't resist their pop punk hooks and whiny, stoner lyrics. But even then I understood who that album belonged to.
Walking in, I ran into Brian, tonight's bass player, whom I'd just seen play bass last night with Snowy Owls. Even better, he's playing tomorrow at Hardywood with yet another band, that one a jazz group. Versatile guy doing shoegaze, punk and jazz in a matter of 48 hours.
Hardywood had a big crowd for the show tonight, whether for beer or a trip down middle school memory lane, I couldn't say. A couple of (male) friends joined me near the front, no doubt there because they were 12 and 14 years old when it came out.
Although the show was supposed to start at 7:30, it didn't, so the crowd kept growing until finally ringleader Matt Shofner (in a short-sleeved black shirt and bow tie) took the stage with the crack Cover to Cover band, saying, "Punctuality isn't punk." You know, he had a point.
Matt wasn't the only one looking the part. When I'd seen bassist Brian earlier, his long hair had been up, but now he'd released his waist-length locks, looking ready to rock.
Explaining that "Dookie" had been released on February 1, 1994, he reminded us that it had arrived in an era of chain wallets (the chain on his pants could have secured a bank vault) and burgeoning eye liner usage. As they launched into "Burnout," the crowd began "clinking" beer cups together as the familiar strains washed over them.
Matt and his fellow vocalists - Maggie (who did triple duty also dancing and playing tambourine), Evan (black shirt, skinny tie) and occasionally the other Maggie (hilariously insisting on applause to make it worth her while)- even had the rowdy crowd sing "Happy Birthday" to the album in Green Day style ("not dirge-like").
The night really got rolling when they did "Basket Case." As Matt sang, "I am one of those melodramatic fools," a melodramatic bearded fool in the crowd exploded in front of the stage, singing along, pumping his fist, briefly jumping on stage and generally unleashing his inner 14-year old. It was a beautiful thing to see.
One thing the crowd picked up on quickly was how well the band - Brian, Bentley and Grant - were executing the songs, nailing every lick and drum fill. A girl in front of me kept yelling, "You're amazing!" at them.
Of course everyone went berserk singling along and jumping around to "When I Come Around," causing Evan to observe, "It's great to see so many of you singing along. It means you listened to this music when you were kids."
I wheeled around to raise an eyebrow at my friend, the former 12-year old Green Day lover, and he looked sheepish. "Kids!" he repeated.
Someone shouted out a toast to Tres Cool, Green Day's drummer, only appropriate.
After the last song, "F.O.D.," Matt held up his phone set to a timer and told us to be patient. He reminded the crowd that it was last call. Only when a minute and 17 seconds had passed did they launch into the hidden track, "All by Myself" accompanied only by acoustic guitar.
It's now standard procedure at the end of every Cover to Cover show for the band to encore with a few greatest hits and they did. My friends didn't bother waiting around so I told them good-night and stayed put.
"American Idiot" made everyone go crazy, even more so when Matt sang the line, "Well, maybe I'm the faggot America," pointing at himself and the crowd roared. After all, who wants to be part of the redneck agenda?
"Brain Stew" only fed the fire and after that, he announced, "Okay, get out your lighters," which for this age group means cell phones with the flashlight feature on and sang "Time of Your Life." The room sang along at the top of our voices.
So take the photographs and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
After one last full-throttle rocking, the band was introduced and we were thanked by Matt, but the band had other ideas. They began playing "Welcome to Paradise" for the second time tonight and the space in front of the stage, sloppy with spilled beer, finally turned into a mosh pit with bodies flying as they sang along.
It was very 1994. Like then, I stayed out of the fray but enjoyed watching every minute of it. Green Day calls that "Having a Blast." Me, too.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Going for Baroque
Flashback to August 2010. Once again, you could have knocked me over with a feather.
Today's plan was lunch with a friend followed by music at the library, nothing too earth-shattering. My friend had recently been in a car accident and while I'd heard all those details, we hadn't sat down just to catch up in a good, long while.
As I was walking out the door to go wait for him to collect me, the phone rang. He'd gotten caught up in doing errands and wanted to meet me there.
I made it to the Gellman Room at the main library minutes before the program "Music and Conversation" was to start, snagging the only two available seats next to a couple of teens who'd been dragged there by their parents to hear the Chamber Music Society of Central Virginia give us their best winter Baroque.
After thanking the audience for coming out on such a cold day, the ensemble of two violins, harpsichord, cello and theorbo (which at that point I assumed was a lute) play a Baroque piece by Jean-Baptiste Lully. The only thing as lovely as the music was the view of the impossibly long neck on thelute theorbo against the enormous window and blue sky behind it.
Artistic director and cello player James Wilson followed that with a Baroque primer, explaining to the musically-deficient such as me about this music. He had considerately made copies of a very old handwritten musical score, explaining that the few notes on the sheet were "all the information we have to work from. In Baroque music, you can add in or take away as many notes as you want." Sounds a lot like the non-rules of jazz to me.
They demonstrated this by doing part of a piece with just cello and violin, then adding in harpsichord and finally the theorbo to create more imaginative bass lines than what was on the page. One of the unexpectedly funniest moments was when he instructed violin player Marty from Chicago to play just the notes, with no expression.
"You want me to play with no expression?" Marty asked incredulously. James may as well have asked him to play naked for how surprised he was. Naturally, that made for a pretty boring sound, but as James explained, that was apparently how Baroque music was played as recently as the '70s. "But no more! Now it's played very emotionally."
It was easy to imagine this music having been created to be played in homes and private spaces rather than public halls for the enjoyment of audiences and musicians alike.
Each of the musicians explained their period instrument, all of them centuries old, some dating back to the 1720s. The French harpsichord made in the Italian style had been borrowed from a man in the audience.
The finished with Lully's "Trios for the Bedtime of the King," mentioning that the composer had been in residence to Louis XIV, just the kind of over-the-top ruler to need musicians to lull him to sleep in his chamber.
Midway through the hour long performance, my tardy friend had arrived, sitting down next to me. After the music, we looked at Bob Coles' photography show before heading out to lunch. We'd barely settled in the booth when he sprung some major news on me, much the way he'd done in August 2010.
Then he'd surprised me by sharing that he'd fallen hard for a woman. Consequently he hadn't been getting much sleep. They broke up after a few years, but I recognized the same grin on his face today as four and a half years ago.
What do you know, they're back together and once again, he was over the moon to have her back in his life. He's not getting any more sleep this time around than he did last time and he couldn't be happier about it. In just the past couple weeks since they got back together, they've already begun making plans for living together, sharing work spaces and taking trips.
As his friend of six years, I was just thrilled to see him this happy again. Nobody makes him as happy as this woman does. Unlike his last girlfriend, this one has enthusiasm and energy and likes to go out and do the things he enjoys. He was about to bust his buttons telling me that they were going to a show tonight, something he'd all but given up with the last one.
As we lingered over lunch with him spilling all his good news, our poor server kept stopping by in case we needed something, but her services were superfluous.
Like that August lunch, when a friend comes bearing the good news of love reunited ("You know she's always been the one"), all that's needed is the other friend's attention and support. I gave him both.
All I can say is thank goodness he wound up being late for the performance so we could eat afterwards. Had he spilled the beans beforehand, we'd have sat there for the same two hours and missed it entirely.
Then I'd never have known the beauty of the theorbo or the creative freedom of Baroque music. Everything happens for a reason.
When I said that to him about his latest turn of events, though, he corrected me. "No, things happen and then we come up with reasons to justify them."
Says the man who can't stop smiling...or yawning. Lucky guy.
Today's plan was lunch with a friend followed by music at the library, nothing too earth-shattering. My friend had recently been in a car accident and while I'd heard all those details, we hadn't sat down just to catch up in a good, long while.
As I was walking out the door to go wait for him to collect me, the phone rang. He'd gotten caught up in doing errands and wanted to meet me there.
I made it to the Gellman Room at the main library minutes before the program "Music and Conversation" was to start, snagging the only two available seats next to a couple of teens who'd been dragged there by their parents to hear the Chamber Music Society of Central Virginia give us their best winter Baroque.
After thanking the audience for coming out on such a cold day, the ensemble of two violins, harpsichord, cello and theorbo (which at that point I assumed was a lute) play a Baroque piece by Jean-Baptiste Lully. The only thing as lovely as the music was the view of the impossibly long neck on the
Artistic director and cello player James Wilson followed that with a Baroque primer, explaining to the musically-deficient such as me about this music. He had considerately made copies of a very old handwritten musical score, explaining that the few notes on the sheet were "all the information we have to work from. In Baroque music, you can add in or take away as many notes as you want." Sounds a lot like the non-rules of jazz to me.
They demonstrated this by doing part of a piece with just cello and violin, then adding in harpsichord and finally the theorbo to create more imaginative bass lines than what was on the page. One of the unexpectedly funniest moments was when he instructed violin player Marty from Chicago to play just the notes, with no expression.
"You want me to play with no expression?" Marty asked incredulously. James may as well have asked him to play naked for how surprised he was. Naturally, that made for a pretty boring sound, but as James explained, that was apparently how Baroque music was played as recently as the '70s. "But no more! Now it's played very emotionally."
It was easy to imagine this music having been created to be played in homes and private spaces rather than public halls for the enjoyment of audiences and musicians alike.
Each of the musicians explained their period instrument, all of them centuries old, some dating back to the 1720s. The French harpsichord made in the Italian style had been borrowed from a man in the audience.
The finished with Lully's "Trios for the Bedtime of the King," mentioning that the composer had been in residence to Louis XIV, just the kind of over-the-top ruler to need musicians to lull him to sleep in his chamber.
Midway through the hour long performance, my tardy friend had arrived, sitting down next to me. After the music, we looked at Bob Coles' photography show before heading out to lunch. We'd barely settled in the booth when he sprung some major news on me, much the way he'd done in August 2010.
Then he'd surprised me by sharing that he'd fallen hard for a woman. Consequently he hadn't been getting much sleep. They broke up after a few years, but I recognized the same grin on his face today as four and a half years ago.
What do you know, they're back together and once again, he was over the moon to have her back in his life. He's not getting any more sleep this time around than he did last time and he couldn't be happier about it. In just the past couple weeks since they got back together, they've already begun making plans for living together, sharing work spaces and taking trips.
As his friend of six years, I was just thrilled to see him this happy again. Nobody makes him as happy as this woman does. Unlike his last girlfriend, this one has enthusiasm and energy and likes to go out and do the things he enjoys. He was about to bust his buttons telling me that they were going to a show tonight, something he'd all but given up with the last one.
As we lingered over lunch with him spilling all his good news, our poor server kept stopping by in case we needed something, but her services were superfluous.
Like that August lunch, when a friend comes bearing the good news of love reunited ("You know she's always been the one"), all that's needed is the other friend's attention and support. I gave him both.
All I can say is thank goodness he wound up being late for the performance so we could eat afterwards. Had he spilled the beans beforehand, we'd have sat there for the same two hours and missed it entirely.
Then I'd never have known the beauty of the theorbo or the creative freedom of Baroque music. Everything happens for a reason.
When I said that to him about his latest turn of events, though, he corrected me. "No, things happen and then we come up with reasons to justify them."
Says the man who can't stop smiling...or yawning. Lucky guy.
That's All Right
For some things, I rearrange my entire schedule. Books are one of those things.
Tonight was the main library's annual book giveaway, which I'd attended last year for the first time, my bag in hand as directed. It is nirvana for a bibliophile like me, a chance to walk away with any titles that interest you. I gave up the artwalk to dig through stacks.
Last year, I'd arrived a half hour into the giveaway to find 30 or so people browsing the tables as librarians refreshed the cartons on the table. It was all very civilized.
Tonight I arrived ten minutes before the event began to find at least 75 people crowded into the lobby of the library. Many wore determined looks on their face and held cartons and crates with which to carry away their plunder.
Holy moley, when had this become a competitive sport?
The good news was that once we reached the bowels of the building where the giveaway is held, I saw that this year, we weren't relegated to just the center tables. No, we had full run of all the shelves in the basement, all the leftovers from the last library used book sale.
Talk about letting kids loose in the candy store!
I began at the tables holding CDs, scoring seven gems like a still-shrink-wrapped copy of the Sundays' "Static and Silence," the nostalgia of "Sergio Mendes & Brazil 66's Greatest Hits" and "Drift" by the Devlins, an Irish band I fell in love with after hearing their 1993 single "Someone to talk To" but never hearing another thing from since. Now, finally, 21 years later, I will.
Then it was on to the shelves which were a non-stop dance because every time you bent over to scan titles on a lower shelf, someone would inevitably want to pass behind you to get further down the aisle.
You could sense an urgency in some people, as if they were afraid that if they didn't hurry, the books they wanted would be snatched up before they could get them. This didn't concern me even the tiniest bit.
Did I really think anyone besides me wanted a 1944 edition of William Saroyan's "The Human Comedy," complete with chapter illustrations? Not really.
Was anyone fighting me for the 1931 copy of "The Thurber Carnival," a collection of his stories and essays? They were not.
And despite how many members of the second sex were there, I alone paused to nab second wave feminist icon Simone de Beauvoir's "Force of Circumstance." Hell, for that matter, who else would pick up a French existentialist and the '40s classic "Cheaper By the Dozen"?
But even less obscure books that went home with me, say Jacques Pepin's "The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen" and Isabel Allende's "Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses" (because who doesn't want to read about the delights of food and sex?), went unchallenged.
With an eye toward visiting Oxford, Mississippi, I scooped up "Collected Stories of William Faulkner," the better to prepare myself when I do.
When it felt like my arms were breaking from my eleven book, seven CD haul, I forced myself to leave, putting Hardywood in my sights and preparing myself for the overwhelming odor of hops.
Indie folk band Luray was midway through their set when I got there and located some musician friends near the front. Although I hadn't seen the band before, I'd been wanting to, interested because of guitarist Scott Burton and bassist Brian Cruse, both of whom I know from other bands, more jazz and world-oriented.
Here, with a female vocalist playing banjo, was something completely different and I liked it a lot, wishing I hadn't missed any of it.
During the break, I chatted with friends about the local music scene, casting my vote to restart Live at Ipanema, anticipating some of the excellent shows coming up this month and acknowledging that none of us had heard Snowy Owls in a good, long while.
One friend posited that the reason for that dovetailed with the reason that lead singer Matt was looking sharp in stylish new shoes tonight: new girlfriend. Love cuts into music every time.
Because it had been a while, it was an absolute pleasure when both guitarists in Snowy Owls cranked up their pedal boards and sent the sounds of shimmering reverb to my shoegaze-starved ears. Doing some of their best songs, a cover of the Cure's "Love Song" and a new song I hadn't heard, it felt like old times.
What's majorly different now is that the band that was once a trio has grown to a quintet with keyboards, making for a much fuller and groovier sound. I approved of every note, standing right in front of the stage with my favorite dulcitar player while the entire rest of the crowd stood eight feet behind us, as if separated by some imaginary barricade.
"They're just not cool enough," my friend quipped. Or something.
But because it's Hardywood, the fun has to be over early, leaving me plenty of time for another stop, this one at Cary Street Cafe where River City Band had just started their set. Grabbing a seat in the sound booth, I spotted a server in a t-shirt reading, "hippies use side door," a problem given that there isn't one.
The crowd wasn't big but it steadily grew as RCB, playing guitar, upright bass, mandolin and banjo, did their impeccable take on bluegrass and gospel under the spinning silver disco ball. Honestly, there's nothing bandleader Grant can't sing. Because yesterday would have been Elvis' 80th birthday, they even played his first release, "That's All Right."
A couple of girls in boots got the dancing started, shedding their coats in a booth and inducing others to shake a leg.
Grant stayed onstage to play mandolin when the band left and was joined by Alison Self (borrowing his guitar) to start off with "All the Good Times Are Past and Gone," followed by her directing everyone to buy RCB's music and merchandise.
"I don't have any. I have Bandcamp," she explained. "You can buy me a shot." Sure enough, within moments, she was handed one. "Think I'll sip it. I don't want to get drunk." Announcing she was going to do "Your Cheatin' Heart," she insisted, "Don't be afraid to move around. Grab someone cute and dance with them!" Plenty of people did.
After Grant left the stage with much deserved applause, she did an original song called, "When I Feel Weak, I Make a Strong Drink," a couple of Kitty Wells' tunes, some more original material like "Lay Me Down" ("It's not about f*cking, it's about dying, but they're kind of the same thing. All my songs are sad.") and a Loretta Lynn tune.
No surprise, she got the crowd to sing and dance along to "Lord, I Wish I was a Single Girl Again," a song I've seen her perform many times and always popular.
She caught me by surprise when she said from the stage, "Thanks for coming out for the Tinder Meet-Up." What? To someone there, she called out, "Thanks for right-swiping me!" Since I will die without being right-swiped, this just made me laugh.
She closed with another of her inimitable originals, this one with the prolonged and very country-sounding title, "I Wouldn't Kiss You if I was Whiskey Drunk." And that's saying a lot.
Needless to say, this got the crowd dancing wildly, two-stepping on each other's toes with great abandon. I see a lot of right-swiping in their future.
In mine, a whole lot of reading and, if I'm lucky, some kissing, too. They're not mutually exclusive, right?
Because, single girl that I am, I'm counting on all the good times not being past and gone. And that's saying a lot.
Tonight was the main library's annual book giveaway, which I'd attended last year for the first time, my bag in hand as directed. It is nirvana for a bibliophile like me, a chance to walk away with any titles that interest you. I gave up the artwalk to dig through stacks.
Last year, I'd arrived a half hour into the giveaway to find 30 or so people browsing the tables as librarians refreshed the cartons on the table. It was all very civilized.
Tonight I arrived ten minutes before the event began to find at least 75 people crowded into the lobby of the library. Many wore determined looks on their face and held cartons and crates with which to carry away their plunder.
Holy moley, when had this become a competitive sport?
The good news was that once we reached the bowels of the building where the giveaway is held, I saw that this year, we weren't relegated to just the center tables. No, we had full run of all the shelves in the basement, all the leftovers from the last library used book sale.
Talk about letting kids loose in the candy store!
I began at the tables holding CDs, scoring seven gems like a still-shrink-wrapped copy of the Sundays' "Static and Silence," the nostalgia of "Sergio Mendes & Brazil 66's Greatest Hits" and "Drift" by the Devlins, an Irish band I fell in love with after hearing their 1993 single "Someone to talk To" but never hearing another thing from since. Now, finally, 21 years later, I will.
Then it was on to the shelves which were a non-stop dance because every time you bent over to scan titles on a lower shelf, someone would inevitably want to pass behind you to get further down the aisle.
You could sense an urgency in some people, as if they were afraid that if they didn't hurry, the books they wanted would be snatched up before they could get them. This didn't concern me even the tiniest bit.
Did I really think anyone besides me wanted a 1944 edition of William Saroyan's "The Human Comedy," complete with chapter illustrations? Not really.
Was anyone fighting me for the 1931 copy of "The Thurber Carnival," a collection of his stories and essays? They were not.
And despite how many members of the second sex were there, I alone paused to nab second wave feminist icon Simone de Beauvoir's "Force of Circumstance." Hell, for that matter, who else would pick up a French existentialist and the '40s classic "Cheaper By the Dozen"?
But even less obscure books that went home with me, say Jacques Pepin's "The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen" and Isabel Allende's "Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses" (because who doesn't want to read about the delights of food and sex?), went unchallenged.
With an eye toward visiting Oxford, Mississippi, I scooped up "Collected Stories of William Faulkner," the better to prepare myself when I do.
When it felt like my arms were breaking from my eleven book, seven CD haul, I forced myself to leave, putting Hardywood in my sights and preparing myself for the overwhelming odor of hops.
Indie folk band Luray was midway through their set when I got there and located some musician friends near the front. Although I hadn't seen the band before, I'd been wanting to, interested because of guitarist Scott Burton and bassist Brian Cruse, both of whom I know from other bands, more jazz and world-oriented.
Here, with a female vocalist playing banjo, was something completely different and I liked it a lot, wishing I hadn't missed any of it.
During the break, I chatted with friends about the local music scene, casting my vote to restart Live at Ipanema, anticipating some of the excellent shows coming up this month and acknowledging that none of us had heard Snowy Owls in a good, long while.
One friend posited that the reason for that dovetailed with the reason that lead singer Matt was looking sharp in stylish new shoes tonight: new girlfriend. Love cuts into music every time.
Because it had been a while, it was an absolute pleasure when both guitarists in Snowy Owls cranked up their pedal boards and sent the sounds of shimmering reverb to my shoegaze-starved ears. Doing some of their best songs, a cover of the Cure's "Love Song" and a new song I hadn't heard, it felt like old times.
What's majorly different now is that the band that was once a trio has grown to a quintet with keyboards, making for a much fuller and groovier sound. I approved of every note, standing right in front of the stage with my favorite dulcitar player while the entire rest of the crowd stood eight feet behind us, as if separated by some imaginary barricade.
"They're just not cool enough," my friend quipped. Or something.
But because it's Hardywood, the fun has to be over early, leaving me plenty of time for another stop, this one at Cary Street Cafe where River City Band had just started their set. Grabbing a seat in the sound booth, I spotted a server in a t-shirt reading, "hippies use side door," a problem given that there isn't one.
The crowd wasn't big but it steadily grew as RCB, playing guitar, upright bass, mandolin and banjo, did their impeccable take on bluegrass and gospel under the spinning silver disco ball. Honestly, there's nothing bandleader Grant can't sing. Because yesterday would have been Elvis' 80th birthday, they even played his first release, "That's All Right."
A couple of girls in boots got the dancing started, shedding their coats in a booth and inducing others to shake a leg.
Grant stayed onstage to play mandolin when the band left and was joined by Alison Self (borrowing his guitar) to start off with "All the Good Times Are Past and Gone," followed by her directing everyone to buy RCB's music and merchandise.
"I don't have any. I have Bandcamp," she explained. "You can buy me a shot." Sure enough, within moments, she was handed one. "Think I'll sip it. I don't want to get drunk." Announcing she was going to do "Your Cheatin' Heart," she insisted, "Don't be afraid to move around. Grab someone cute and dance with them!" Plenty of people did.
After Grant left the stage with much deserved applause, she did an original song called, "When I Feel Weak, I Make a Strong Drink," a couple of Kitty Wells' tunes, some more original material like "Lay Me Down" ("It's not about f*cking, it's about dying, but they're kind of the same thing. All my songs are sad.") and a Loretta Lynn tune.
No surprise, she got the crowd to sing and dance along to "Lord, I Wish I was a Single Girl Again," a song I've seen her perform many times and always popular.
She caught me by surprise when she said from the stage, "Thanks for coming out for the Tinder Meet-Up." What? To someone there, she called out, "Thanks for right-swiping me!" Since I will die without being right-swiped, this just made me laugh.
She closed with another of her inimitable originals, this one with the prolonged and very country-sounding title, "I Wouldn't Kiss You if I was Whiskey Drunk." And that's saying a lot.
Needless to say, this got the crowd dancing wildly, two-stepping on each other's toes with great abandon. I see a lot of right-swiping in their future.
In mine, a whole lot of reading and, if I'm lucky, some kissing, too. They're not mutually exclusive, right?
Because, single girl that I am, I'm counting on all the good times not being past and gone. And that's saying a lot.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Foie Gras and Philosophy
Oh, yes, I have been ridiculed for my eclectic taste.
A friend used to joke about it, saying things like "Who are you off to see tonight? Portuguese hula hoop chanters? Norwegian midget clown poetry? Senegalese haiku dancing girls?" As if.
One friend who does not mock me for my varied interests was more than happy to make plans to meet at L'opossum tonight, although she had one concern. "Supposed to be oh-so very cold on Thursday. Not sure your legs will make it out of your apartment!"
Assuring her that my legs always make it out of the apartment, we were welcomed warmly as the bar's first occupants. You have to appreciate a bartender who remembers an infrequent customer.
Since it was our first 2015 get-together, we decided to begin with glasses of the oh-so dry Treveri Brut de Blanc to toast our nearly 20-year friendship and the new year. And, let's be honest, because we just plain like sparkling.
Because it was my friend's first visit, we took some time for her to get the lay of the land, surveying the visual splendor that is L'opossum. As an artist, she couldn't help but be taken with the colorful light fixtures, the Andy Warhol wallpaper-covered bar, even the beautiful votive candle holders along the bar. No detail escapes the owner's discerning eye, making it a pleasure to behold, no matter where your eye lands.
After admiring the most unique menu design in town (she and I originally met when she was making her living as a graphic designer), we got down to ordering so we could move on to social intercourse.
Like me on my first visit, she was understandably immediately drawn to the el Dorado low rider, a lobster taco with truffled guacamole, although, unlike me, she decided we needed to splurge and have the chef's surprise (silky foie gras) added on.
Since that combination was guaranteed to close our arteries mid-conversation, we balanced it with the polyamorous hippie three-way because the two of us are, after all, products of the '70s (which should not necessarily be construed to mean that we were polyamorous...or that we weren't).
Eating the plate of toasted papadoms with quinoa tabouleh, hummus and baba ganouche first, the bright, fresh flavors made it difficult to keep in mind that this was our healthy choice.
And while I knew how flavorful and well balanced the lobster and tomatillo taco was, the addition of the foie gras pushed it into all new territory, something at once obscene and glorious. And with the Treveri, an absolute indulgence.
Several times while we ate, my friend paused and cocked her ear toward the speaker, taken by the noticeably well-chosen music playing. I assured her it's always that good. It's no exaggeration to say that there's no more unique or compelling restaurant soundtrack in this town.
Midway through eating, a friend came up to say hello and I almost didn't recognize her. She was dressed to the nines and looked absolutely fabulous, but I'd never seen her in anything but jeans or a bathing suit. You just never know how beautifully some people clean up, I teased her. For that matter, her happy husband looked tres dapper in a suit, something else I'd never seen and I've known him far longer.
Not long after, the couple who'd taken up residence next to us at the bar, turned to my friend and greeted her by name. He was someone who used to date a co-worker of hers and his companion was the set designer for a local theater company's upcoming production.
Always in Richmond you may be guaranteed that even in a tiny restaurant on a freezing Thursday night, people will know you and say hello.
Rather than leave our palates hanging on a savory note, we closed out with la petite mort au chococlat en flambe (because what woman doesn't want to die by chocolate?), admiring the finesse of our server as he poured 151 rum over the chocolate brick and ignited it for a bit of dessert pyrotechnics.
That left us no choice but to inhale the cayenne-infused delicacy and moan a little.
By the time we reached for our coats, the dining room was full and we were up to date on each other's lives. My dressed-up friends were still waiting on the couch up front for a table, so we paused to chat, meeting their charming friend who's about to embark on a two-year motorcycle trip through South America. Last year, it was the Yukon.
My only question was, "You don't have a girlfriend, do you?" He grinned and said no. With his accent and winning smile, I doubt he'll lack for company south of the border.
As she is wont to do, heading out my friend inquired what my next stop would be.
Duh. What else but Balinese Wayang shadow puppetry with Master Gusti Sudarta and musical accompaniment by members of the Gamelan Raga Kusuma?
Laugh all you want, but the back room at Balliceaux was crowded with spectators when I arrived. It was a diverse group - I spotted three berets in the room - from a child to a very old-looking man. The shadow screen was set up in the center of the room, with people sitting on both sides of it for very different views.
Those in front saw a traditional Balinese shadow play. Those behind could see the master as he chose colorful cardboard figures to manipulate behind the screen, as well as the three musicians playing behind him. Those on the sides could see bits of it all.
I began on the side next to the sax player I know, listening to the Gamelan leader explain what would happen and that it was okay to move around during the performance for varying views. He said we could expect everything from fart jokes to philosophical observations, meaning the narrative was going to be as wide-ranging as the audience.
During the "overture," I chose to move to the bar and take a yellow stool so I could watch from the traditional view, while still having a clear shot of two of the musicians playing. It was ideal for me, but plenty of people moved around throughout.
Parts of the story were in Balinese with others in heavily-accented English, such as when one character called out, "Happy New Year, everyone!" to the audience. There were traditional Balinese songs followed by cracks about Mick Jagger and Michael Jackson. During a fight scene, there was a crack about Bruce Lee.
It was after our hero, the prince, had gone to the woods for enlightenment that we got to see the creatures of the woods: giraffes, kangaroos, frogs (with background mouth harp accompaniment), big cats and rabbits. At one point, a character pulled out a cell phone puppet, to the crowd's delight. My favorite element was the hair ponytail on certain "devil" puppets because it flew around wildly when they were fighting.
At the end, the moral seemed to be that life was happy in the forest because there was no stress.
While some people in the audience looked at their phones throughout, most people seemed pretty into the performance and there was lots of applause when it finished. The master came out to take a bow, wearing only one sock, the other foot barefoot.
Maybe this is an ancient Balinese custom.
Holy cow, maybe I'd just seen semi-barefoot Balinese Wayang shadow puppetry, an even more culturally rarefied way to spend an evening.
I don't care how frigid it is, I'd have to have the stupidest legs in Richmond not to leave my apartment for that.
A friend used to joke about it, saying things like "Who are you off to see tonight? Portuguese hula hoop chanters? Norwegian midget clown poetry? Senegalese haiku dancing girls?" As if.
One friend who does not mock me for my varied interests was more than happy to make plans to meet at L'opossum tonight, although she had one concern. "Supposed to be oh-so very cold on Thursday. Not sure your legs will make it out of your apartment!"
Assuring her that my legs always make it out of the apartment, we were welcomed warmly as the bar's first occupants. You have to appreciate a bartender who remembers an infrequent customer.
Since it was our first 2015 get-together, we decided to begin with glasses of the oh-so dry Treveri Brut de Blanc to toast our nearly 20-year friendship and the new year. And, let's be honest, because we just plain like sparkling.
Because it was my friend's first visit, we took some time for her to get the lay of the land, surveying the visual splendor that is L'opossum. As an artist, she couldn't help but be taken with the colorful light fixtures, the Andy Warhol wallpaper-covered bar, even the beautiful votive candle holders along the bar. No detail escapes the owner's discerning eye, making it a pleasure to behold, no matter where your eye lands.
After admiring the most unique menu design in town (she and I originally met when she was making her living as a graphic designer), we got down to ordering so we could move on to social intercourse.
Like me on my first visit, she was understandably immediately drawn to the el Dorado low rider, a lobster taco with truffled guacamole, although, unlike me, she decided we needed to splurge and have the chef's surprise (silky foie gras) added on.
Since that combination was guaranteed to close our arteries mid-conversation, we balanced it with the polyamorous hippie three-way because the two of us are, after all, products of the '70s (which should not necessarily be construed to mean that we were polyamorous...or that we weren't).
Eating the plate of toasted papadoms with quinoa tabouleh, hummus and baba ganouche first, the bright, fresh flavors made it difficult to keep in mind that this was our healthy choice.
And while I knew how flavorful and well balanced the lobster and tomatillo taco was, the addition of the foie gras pushed it into all new territory, something at once obscene and glorious. And with the Treveri, an absolute indulgence.
Several times while we ate, my friend paused and cocked her ear toward the speaker, taken by the noticeably well-chosen music playing. I assured her it's always that good. It's no exaggeration to say that there's no more unique or compelling restaurant soundtrack in this town.
Midway through eating, a friend came up to say hello and I almost didn't recognize her. She was dressed to the nines and looked absolutely fabulous, but I'd never seen her in anything but jeans or a bathing suit. You just never know how beautifully some people clean up, I teased her. For that matter, her happy husband looked tres dapper in a suit, something else I'd never seen and I've known him far longer.
Not long after, the couple who'd taken up residence next to us at the bar, turned to my friend and greeted her by name. He was someone who used to date a co-worker of hers and his companion was the set designer for a local theater company's upcoming production.
Always in Richmond you may be guaranteed that even in a tiny restaurant on a freezing Thursday night, people will know you and say hello.
Rather than leave our palates hanging on a savory note, we closed out with la petite mort au chococlat en flambe (because what woman doesn't want to die by chocolate?), admiring the finesse of our server as he poured 151 rum over the chocolate brick and ignited it for a bit of dessert pyrotechnics.
That left us no choice but to inhale the cayenne-infused delicacy and moan a little.
By the time we reached for our coats, the dining room was full and we were up to date on each other's lives. My dressed-up friends were still waiting on the couch up front for a table, so we paused to chat, meeting their charming friend who's about to embark on a two-year motorcycle trip through South America. Last year, it was the Yukon.
My only question was, "You don't have a girlfriend, do you?" He grinned and said no. With his accent and winning smile, I doubt he'll lack for company south of the border.
As she is wont to do, heading out my friend inquired what my next stop would be.
Duh. What else but Balinese Wayang shadow puppetry with Master Gusti Sudarta and musical accompaniment by members of the Gamelan Raga Kusuma?
Laugh all you want, but the back room at Balliceaux was crowded with spectators when I arrived. It was a diverse group - I spotted three berets in the room - from a child to a very old-looking man. The shadow screen was set up in the center of the room, with people sitting on both sides of it for very different views.
Those in front saw a traditional Balinese shadow play. Those behind could see the master as he chose colorful cardboard figures to manipulate behind the screen, as well as the three musicians playing behind him. Those on the sides could see bits of it all.
I began on the side next to the sax player I know, listening to the Gamelan leader explain what would happen and that it was okay to move around during the performance for varying views. He said we could expect everything from fart jokes to philosophical observations, meaning the narrative was going to be as wide-ranging as the audience.
During the "overture," I chose to move to the bar and take a yellow stool so I could watch from the traditional view, while still having a clear shot of two of the musicians playing. It was ideal for me, but plenty of people moved around throughout.
Parts of the story were in Balinese with others in heavily-accented English, such as when one character called out, "Happy New Year, everyone!" to the audience. There were traditional Balinese songs followed by cracks about Mick Jagger and Michael Jackson. During a fight scene, there was a crack about Bruce Lee.
It was after our hero, the prince, had gone to the woods for enlightenment that we got to see the creatures of the woods: giraffes, kangaroos, frogs (with background mouth harp accompaniment), big cats and rabbits. At one point, a character pulled out a cell phone puppet, to the crowd's delight. My favorite element was the hair ponytail on certain "devil" puppets because it flew around wildly when they were fighting.
At the end, the moral seemed to be that life was happy in the forest because there was no stress.
While some people in the audience looked at their phones throughout, most people seemed pretty into the performance and there was lots of applause when it finished. The master came out to take a bow, wearing only one sock, the other foot barefoot.
Maybe this is an ancient Balinese custom.
Holy cow, maybe I'd just seen semi-barefoot Balinese Wayang shadow puppetry, an even more culturally rarefied way to spend an evening.
I don't care how frigid it is, I'd have to have the stupidest legs in Richmond not to leave my apartment for that.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Ramble On
For an art geek, there's nothing quite like a curator's tour.
Which is why this art geek was at the VMFA for curator of modern and contemporary art John Ravenal's insight into the latest exhibition in the 21st century gallery, "Fusion."
It was kind of bittersweet, too, because he's leaving the VMFA next week to become director of the deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Massachusetts. Our loss is their gain, but his presence will be sorely missed here after 16 years.
Leading us through the galleries showing off works he'd acquired by black artists as well as artists from Latin America, Mexico and the Caribbean, his delight in them was evident. Only a passionate curator can rave about the materiality of a painting or the apocalyptic nature of a landscape and make it sound so thrilling.
Several especially strong pieces I recognized from recent special exhibits, like Trenton Doyle Hancock's autobiographical "The Former and the Ladder or Ascension and a Cinchin'," with its winking references. Or Sonya Clark's "Black Hair Flag," which he called succinct and very loaded with the symbols she combines in it - the Confederate and U.S. flags and black hair braids.
What became clear as we moved through the galleries was how thoughtfully assembled the pieces in the exhibit were, sometimes because of a silent dialog between them and other times a reactionary one. He spoke about each piece as lovingly as a father, eventually admitting that he could no more choose a favorite. than a parent could a favorite child.
When he spoke about the challenges of attracting people to the contemporary gallery when they'd come for something more traditional, say Faberge eggs or Impressionism, he said he hoped that seeing something contemporary might speak to the visitor.
As someone who has no problem with art speaking to her, I still felt fortunate to have the talented Mr. Ravenal speaking for and about the art, sharing why it originally spoke to him and how it matters in the greater context.
At the start of the walk and talk, he'd preemptively apologized for his tendency to ramble. For this art lover, listening to a brilliant curator ramble about what he loves about a gallery full of art is almost as good as it gets.
Goodbye, Mr. Ravenal. You will be remembered for your unerring eye in leaving a legacy of contemporary art that matters. That, and being the best possible art tour guide.
Something to think about in case Massachusetts doesn't work out...
Which is why this art geek was at the VMFA for curator of modern and contemporary art John Ravenal's insight into the latest exhibition in the 21st century gallery, "Fusion."
It was kind of bittersweet, too, because he's leaving the VMFA next week to become director of the deCordova Sculpture Park and Museum in Massachusetts. Our loss is their gain, but his presence will be sorely missed here after 16 years.
Leading us through the galleries showing off works he'd acquired by black artists as well as artists from Latin America, Mexico and the Caribbean, his delight in them was evident. Only a passionate curator can rave about the materiality of a painting or the apocalyptic nature of a landscape and make it sound so thrilling.
Several especially strong pieces I recognized from recent special exhibits, like Trenton Doyle Hancock's autobiographical "The Former and the Ladder or Ascension and a Cinchin'," with its winking references. Or Sonya Clark's "Black Hair Flag," which he called succinct and very loaded with the symbols she combines in it - the Confederate and U.S. flags and black hair braids.
What became clear as we moved through the galleries was how thoughtfully assembled the pieces in the exhibit were, sometimes because of a silent dialog between them and other times a reactionary one. He spoke about each piece as lovingly as a father, eventually admitting that he could no more choose a favorite. than a parent could a favorite child.
When he spoke about the challenges of attracting people to the contemporary gallery when they'd come for something more traditional, say Faberge eggs or Impressionism, he said he hoped that seeing something contemporary might speak to the visitor.
As someone who has no problem with art speaking to her, I still felt fortunate to have the talented Mr. Ravenal speaking for and about the art, sharing why it originally spoke to him and how it matters in the greater context.
At the start of the walk and talk, he'd preemptively apologized for his tendency to ramble. For this art lover, listening to a brilliant curator ramble about what he loves about a gallery full of art is almost as good as it gets.
Goodbye, Mr. Ravenal. You will be remembered for your unerring eye in leaving a legacy of contemporary art that matters. That, and being the best possible art tour guide.
Something to think about in case Massachusetts doesn't work out...
Hello, Officer
It was a more or less situation inspired by girls' talk.
On a night almost too cold to go out, Pru picked me up, considerately turning on the seat warmer on my side before she even arrived. We were on our way to the Criterion to see "Big Eyes," Tim Burton's telling of the saga of the painters behind those dreadful sad-eyed naif pictures from the '60s.
Growing up, our next-door neighbors, the Nearings, had them in their mod rec-room and even as a kid, I questioned their artistic value. Now it was Tim Burton's turn.
Buying our tickets, the only topic on everyone's lips was the cold. One guy behind the counter said he'd gone outside for a minute and returned with watering eyes, making people think he was crying. Nope, just freezing in his flimsy uniform.
Popcorn in hand, we took seats in front of the only other two people in the theater to watch previews, including a dreadful-looking one for "Fifty Shades of Gray." When it ended, we spontaneously looked at each other and said "nope."
"A Little Chaos," on the other hand, the upcoming period piece about the gardens of Versailles directed by and starring Alan Rickman and Kate Winslet, got an immediate thumbs-up from us both.
I'd read plenty about the story behind "Big Eyes" about how an untalented man passes off his wife's paintings as his own, creating a worldwide demand for the cheesy pictures of sad-eyed children while secluding her away almost constantly to produce more of them to pass off as his own.
A lot of the charm of the film was Burton's recreation of late '50s and '60s San Francisco, depicted as a hip and happening artistic mecca - jazz clubs, art galleries, basement espresso bars ("What's espresso? Is that like reefer?") and nearly vertical hills - all shot magnificently in the colors of a mid-century postcard.
While it seemed like the overarching theme was about the age-old struggle between art and commercialism, I was struck by the underpinnings of circumscribed gender roles that defined the characters.
A young mother who has left one bad marriage falls into another for fear of losing custody of her daughter to her ex-husband. The new husband offers security at a time when women were asked questions at job interviews like, "What does your husband think of you working?"
While the characters were written a bit broadly for my taste, the story stayed compelling because it was based on a true one. How in the world did this man get away with claiming to be the artist for so long without anyone finding out?
It was a reflection of the kinder, gentler time that it took place that the mystery was eventually solved in a court of law when the judge ordered both to paint and the husband produced nothing while Margaret Keane effortlessly painted another of her big-eyed children.
Imagine having been on the jury and watching that play out.
Perhaps most satisfyingly, the end of the film showed the real Margaret Keane alive and well and, according to the caption, still painting every single day.
As we stood to put our coats on and bundle up against the cold, the man behind us shared that it had been the real Margaret sitting on a bench in an early scene. Nice that she's finally getting her due.
When we walked out of the theater it was 19 degrees, unfortunate because no heated seats awaited us. Discussing the movie as she drove me home, we marveled at how recently women had been without any discernible power in relationships.
Arriving in front of my house, we continued our discussion, moving on to other topics: the beach house she's rented for next summer, my recent trip to Florida, an upcoming play we need to see, her house-hunting efforts, a Woody Allen movie she recently saw and wants to watch again with me (for the points it raises about relationships). Girl talk.
We chatted for a good 50 minutes at least, until finally she cracked a window and said she needed a cigarette. As we moved on to the bubbles we've been drinking and the books we're reading (and how neither of us has stopped thinking about "Gone Girl"), suddenly there were blue and red lights flashing behind us.
Mind you, we were parked directly in front of my house.
An officer gets out of the car and slowly approaches us as we're giggling about what in the world he could want from us. We haven't been drinking, much less speeding, so we're pretty sure we're innocent.
Turns out he's suspicious because we'd been sitting in the right lane of Clay Street - flashers on, of course - for over an hour. He asks Pru for her license which she eventually unearths after dumping out the entire contents of her wallet.
While he's going back to his squad car to run it through his computer, Pru applies lip gloss. I don't because I'd just reapplied at the theater. The officer returns to hand her back her license, along with an admonition not to block traffic in the future.
Surely our men in blue have better things to do than this.
Once he walks away, we burst out laughing and begin to wrap our our rambling conversation, promising to get together soon, before I sprint for my front door.
There are some things you can't cover up with lipstick and powder. Girls' talk in the right lane is one of them.
On a night almost too cold to go out, Pru picked me up, considerately turning on the seat warmer on my side before she even arrived. We were on our way to the Criterion to see "Big Eyes," Tim Burton's telling of the saga of the painters behind those dreadful sad-eyed naif pictures from the '60s.
Growing up, our next-door neighbors, the Nearings, had them in their mod rec-room and even as a kid, I questioned their artistic value. Now it was Tim Burton's turn.
Buying our tickets, the only topic on everyone's lips was the cold. One guy behind the counter said he'd gone outside for a minute and returned with watering eyes, making people think he was crying. Nope, just freezing in his flimsy uniform.
Popcorn in hand, we took seats in front of the only other two people in the theater to watch previews, including a dreadful-looking one for "Fifty Shades of Gray." When it ended, we spontaneously looked at each other and said "nope."
"A Little Chaos," on the other hand, the upcoming period piece about the gardens of Versailles directed by and starring Alan Rickman and Kate Winslet, got an immediate thumbs-up from us both.
I'd read plenty about the story behind "Big Eyes" about how an untalented man passes off his wife's paintings as his own, creating a worldwide demand for the cheesy pictures of sad-eyed children while secluding her away almost constantly to produce more of them to pass off as his own.
A lot of the charm of the film was Burton's recreation of late '50s and '60s San Francisco, depicted as a hip and happening artistic mecca - jazz clubs, art galleries, basement espresso bars ("What's espresso? Is that like reefer?") and nearly vertical hills - all shot magnificently in the colors of a mid-century postcard.
While it seemed like the overarching theme was about the age-old struggle between art and commercialism, I was struck by the underpinnings of circumscribed gender roles that defined the characters.
A young mother who has left one bad marriage falls into another for fear of losing custody of her daughter to her ex-husband. The new husband offers security at a time when women were asked questions at job interviews like, "What does your husband think of you working?"
While the characters were written a bit broadly for my taste, the story stayed compelling because it was based on a true one. How in the world did this man get away with claiming to be the artist for so long without anyone finding out?
It was a reflection of the kinder, gentler time that it took place that the mystery was eventually solved in a court of law when the judge ordered both to paint and the husband produced nothing while Margaret Keane effortlessly painted another of her big-eyed children.
Imagine having been on the jury and watching that play out.
Perhaps most satisfyingly, the end of the film showed the real Margaret Keane alive and well and, according to the caption, still painting every single day.
As we stood to put our coats on and bundle up against the cold, the man behind us shared that it had been the real Margaret sitting on a bench in an early scene. Nice that she's finally getting her due.
When we walked out of the theater it was 19 degrees, unfortunate because no heated seats awaited us. Discussing the movie as she drove me home, we marveled at how recently women had been without any discernible power in relationships.
Arriving in front of my house, we continued our discussion, moving on to other topics: the beach house she's rented for next summer, my recent trip to Florida, an upcoming play we need to see, her house-hunting efforts, a Woody Allen movie she recently saw and wants to watch again with me (for the points it raises about relationships). Girl talk.
We chatted for a good 50 minutes at least, until finally she cracked a window and said she needed a cigarette. As we moved on to the bubbles we've been drinking and the books we're reading (and how neither of us has stopped thinking about "Gone Girl"), suddenly there were blue and red lights flashing behind us.
Mind you, we were parked directly in front of my house.
An officer gets out of the car and slowly approaches us as we're giggling about what in the world he could want from us. We haven't been drinking, much less speeding, so we're pretty sure we're innocent.
Turns out he's suspicious because we'd been sitting in the right lane of Clay Street - flashers on, of course - for over an hour. He asks Pru for her license which she eventually unearths after dumping out the entire contents of her wallet.
While he's going back to his squad car to run it through his computer, Pru applies lip gloss. I don't because I'd just reapplied at the theater. The officer returns to hand her back her license, along with an admonition not to block traffic in the future.
Surely our men in blue have better things to do than this.
Once he walks away, we burst out laughing and begin to wrap our our rambling conversation, promising to get together soon, before I sprint for my front door.
There are some things you can't cover up with lipstick and powder. Girls' talk in the right lane is one of them.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Disco Inferno
I'm sort of a pro at this look.
With plans to go to a disco-themed party in a few weeks, I set out this afternoon seeking an appropriate dress for disco-ing in. My requirements were based on three criteria: had to be polyester, had to have the kind of skirt that moves when you dance and had to remind me of something I actually wore back then.
Just to be sure of the last one, I looked at some old pictures before setting out. Because, yes, I spent far too much time dancing in clubs back in the '70s and there's evidence to prove it.
My first stop was Halcyon Vintage, where I ran into a photographer I know making an impromptu purchase of a celery green polyester dress that wasn't too far off the era I was seeking. She guessed instantly what party I was shopping for, telling me that if nothing else, I could wear a tuxedo jacket and black pants a la Bianca Jagger.
Explaining that I don't do pants (then or now), she wished me well in my search.
When the saleswoman offered to help me look, I stipulated that it had to be polyester like everything we wore back then. Although why we thought a synthetic fiber was good for hours of dancing on a crowded dance floor is beyond me.
She agreed laughing, then found a dress that, while vaguely 70s-ish, was nothing I would have worn then or now. Promising they'd be getting in more '70s stuff, she suggested I check back.
But I was on a mission, albeit one with a very limited budget. It was on to the Clothes Rack where I met a woman who said she had a Western boot fetish and bought a pair she said she didn't need. I heard her telling the saleswoman about how she justifies her purchases to her husband with half-truths.
Me, I wasn't so lucky (or have a husband to answer to) and left with nothing.
My next stop was the Hall Tree which had scads more dresses than either of the other places. I began scanning the racks to see what they had in polyester that would work. As I looked, I kept in mind the stuff we'd worn back in the day.
After a few minutes, I realized I was smiling and it was because of the cheesy radio station they had on. The music was as much a throwback as the kind of dress I was looking for.
Heat Wave's "Always and Forever" from 1976. McCartney's "With a Little Luck" from 1978. Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb's "Guilty" from 1980, which I haven't heard in a million years.
Pulses racing, darling
How grand we are
Little by little we meet in the middle
There's danger in the dark
A Gibb brother serenading me? It was the soundtrack to go disco dress shopping to! A dozen dresses made it into the dressing room with me and three made the final cut. The eventual winner looks amazingly similar to the dress I wore New Year's Eve 1977, except it's not red and the V-neck is not cut all the way to my waist like that one had been.
Which brings up a funny story. When I'd worn that red, polyester dress out to dinner on the southwest D.C. waterfront that night before going to a club to dance in 1978, a woman had stopped me as we were led to our table for dinner.
Eyeing the waist-deep slit on the front of my dress, the older woman had pointed and sneered, saying, "Wear it now while you can, honey! You won't be able to wear that when you're my age." Maybe it was my youth, but it seemed like an incredibly rude thing to point out to a stranger, even if it was true.
So here I am three decades years later with plans to wear a remarkably similar dress - synthetic so it'll be hot as hell to dance in, but with a flared skirt that it'll look great when I do so - with the major difference being a respectable V-neck instead of full decolletage.
I'd say I hope she's happy now, except I'm pretty sure she's dead. Satisfaction came in a chain reaction, as the Trammps sang.
Who's still dancing now, old lady?
With plans to go to a disco-themed party in a few weeks, I set out this afternoon seeking an appropriate dress for disco-ing in. My requirements were based on three criteria: had to be polyester, had to have the kind of skirt that moves when you dance and had to remind me of something I actually wore back then.
Just to be sure of the last one, I looked at some old pictures before setting out. Because, yes, I spent far too much time dancing in clubs back in the '70s and there's evidence to prove it.
My first stop was Halcyon Vintage, where I ran into a photographer I know making an impromptu purchase of a celery green polyester dress that wasn't too far off the era I was seeking. She guessed instantly what party I was shopping for, telling me that if nothing else, I could wear a tuxedo jacket and black pants a la Bianca Jagger.
Explaining that I don't do pants (then or now), she wished me well in my search.
When the saleswoman offered to help me look, I stipulated that it had to be polyester like everything we wore back then. Although why we thought a synthetic fiber was good for hours of dancing on a crowded dance floor is beyond me.
She agreed laughing, then found a dress that, while vaguely 70s-ish, was nothing I would have worn then or now. Promising they'd be getting in more '70s stuff, she suggested I check back.
But I was on a mission, albeit one with a very limited budget. It was on to the Clothes Rack where I met a woman who said she had a Western boot fetish and bought a pair she said she didn't need. I heard her telling the saleswoman about how she justifies her purchases to her husband with half-truths.
Me, I wasn't so lucky (or have a husband to answer to) and left with nothing.
My next stop was the Hall Tree which had scads more dresses than either of the other places. I began scanning the racks to see what they had in polyester that would work. As I looked, I kept in mind the stuff we'd worn back in the day.
After a few minutes, I realized I was smiling and it was because of the cheesy radio station they had on. The music was as much a throwback as the kind of dress I was looking for.
Heat Wave's "Always and Forever" from 1976. McCartney's "With a Little Luck" from 1978. Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb's "Guilty" from 1980, which I haven't heard in a million years.
Pulses racing, darling
How grand we are
Little by little we meet in the middle
There's danger in the dark
A Gibb brother serenading me? It was the soundtrack to go disco dress shopping to! A dozen dresses made it into the dressing room with me and three made the final cut. The eventual winner looks amazingly similar to the dress I wore New Year's Eve 1977, except it's not red and the V-neck is not cut all the way to my waist like that one had been.
Which brings up a funny story. When I'd worn that red, polyester dress out to dinner on the southwest D.C. waterfront that night before going to a club to dance in 1978, a woman had stopped me as we were led to our table for dinner.
Eyeing the waist-deep slit on the front of my dress, the older woman had pointed and sneered, saying, "Wear it now while you can, honey! You won't be able to wear that when you're my age." Maybe it was my youth, but it seemed like an incredibly rude thing to point out to a stranger, even if it was true.
So here I am three decades years later with plans to wear a remarkably similar dress - synthetic so it'll be hot as hell to dance in, but with a flared skirt that it'll look great when I do so - with the major difference being a respectable V-neck instead of full decolletage.
I'd say I hope she's happy now, except I'm pretty sure she's dead. Satisfaction came in a chain reaction, as the Trammps sang.
Who's still dancing now, old lady?
Couldn't Ask for Better
I don't even know how I could pick my favorite moment of the evening.
It might be when I walked into Lunch for the Shoryuken Ramen pop-up at 5:03 (three minutes after they opened) and took a seat at the end of the counter.
The lovely Asian-looking woman behind the counter looked at me and said, "Your hair looks great! Who does it?" When I said it was me, she asked if I was a hairdresser. Ha! I explained that I've been cutting it myself for a year and a half and just learned how to blow dry in 2014. Still, she raved.
To someone who was raised by a mother who preached that "if your hair doesn't look good, it doesn't matter about the rest of how you look because that's all people will remember," this was heady stuff. I thanked her repeatedly.
Then I ordered a bowl of tonight's special, wontononmen, opting for shio (salty) over shoyu (soy sauce) in the fragrant chicken-based broth with scallions, bok choy, noodles and wontons of pork and shrimp. After a liberal sprinkling of Nanami Togarashi, I inhaled every bit, saving the plumpest wonton for my last bite.
While it was my first visit to the pop-up in residence at Lunch until the end of February, I heard several people mention they'd been there before, including two people who'd gone last night. The place, admittedly tiny, was completely full by 5:30 and I could see why the friend who used to live in China had said the small size made it feel like a true noodle bar.
All except the music maybe - that was vintage Cars, Bowie and Police - but as far as I was concerned, it was the ideal thing for noodle-slurping.
One of the servers showed off her new high-waisted jeans to another server and I admired them, too, telling her they looked like a favorite pair of mine circa 1984. "Ooh, I love the '80s," she squealed.
As I'd hoped, I was sated and out of there by 5:45, en route to the Valentine for the first of their 2015 Community Conversations series, this year at the newly renovated museum itself instead of all over town like last year's.
This year's theme is changing neighborhoods and tonight's topic was Highland Park. I arrived just before things got started and spotted the Man About Town, who swept over to say hello.
"Your hair looks fabulous!" he told me. "Very 21st century!" What was going on with my hair tonight? A girl could get used to all these compliments.
The session began with the little handheld devices used for polling to determine the demographic of the audience. First question? "What do you think of the Cowboys beating the Lions?"
Like 63% of the audience, I clicked "E" for "Really, you're starting a community conversation with a question about football?" I could have just as easily clicked "I hate the Cowboys," but I hate to miss a chance at humor.
After determining that the crowd was overwhelmingly white and that most of us had never lived in Highland Park, we broke into small groups for discussion of our HP memories.
Of the six people in my group (including city councilwoman Ellen Robertson), half had no experience with the neighborhood and that group included me. What I did have was a story my Dad had told me about his youth in HP, so I shared that.
He'd been a teenager, it was after baseball practice and he and a friend had gone to sit on a knoll in HP and drink beers while watching the windows of a nearby house. It was a favorite perch because the woman in the house was known to undress with the lights on. This night she did and so did the man in the room with her.
It was after they got into bed and started getting it on that Dad saw another man - apparently the husband -enter the bedroom, start yelling and shoot the man in bed. When I'd asked Dad what he'd done after that, he said he and his friend had finished their beers and gone home to bed.
When I finished the story (one Dad has told me a dozen times over the years), everyone in my group was agog. "You win!" two of them said and everyone nodded enthusiastically, even the councilwoman. It wasn't even my memory, just an old chestnut I'd been hearing since childhood about my father's Richmond childhood.
Once the small group sessions broke up, facilitator Matt asked if anyone had a story to share and everyone in my group pointed to me. After telling it again to the entire room, a man in the back said, "Was that the 2600 block of Third Avenue?"
Holy cow, small world. The man turned out to be a long-time HP resident who shared tales of a bucolic period in HP's history when people kept chickens and rabbits in their back yard ("We watched people wring their necks. Those were good years.") and streetcars (7 cents a ride) gave way to buses (8 cents per ride) and everyone had to scrape up another penny to ride.
A man who'd moved to HP in the late '60s and raised his family there told of an old-timer in the neighborhood who'd come by when he was painting his house. His advice was never to paint the whole house at once since it would only need repainting. Better to paint two sides this time and two sides in a few years. "To this day, I still do it that way," the man concluded.
Can I just say how much I enjoy these community conversations for stories just such as those?
The Hat got up and filled our heads with fun factoids about HP, how architecturally intact it still was because the highway didn't cut through it (unlike my beloved Jackson Ward). Brian from H.O.M.E. said his would be the most boring part of the program and explained that between 2007 and 2010, HP had the highest foreclosure rate in the city (103 out of 852 houses). Not boring.
From the councilwoman and a representative from the Better Housing Coalition, we learned that the same things that attracted people to HP 100 years ago (proximity to downtown, a feeling of being removed from the bustle of city) still hold true. The problem is that 21st century families no longer need or can afford five-bedroom houses with 5,000 square feet.
Like cheesy suburban developments being built in the counties now, HP had all been built relatively quickly, between 1890 and 1920. The neighborhood has the highest concentration of Queen Anne and Victorian houses in the area.
I was getting worried we were going to run out of time for my favorite part of these conversations, the show and tell that Valentine director Bill Martin does using old photos from the collection to talk about the neighborhood, but he slid it in right at the end.
It was amazing to see Victorian families standing in front of these large houses with no close neighbors and a streetcar running down the middle of the street.
When the evening ended, the man who'd guessed the location of my father's story approached me and said, "I'm pretty sure I know your Dad. What's his name?" I told him. "Where'd he live?" I had no idea. We walked out together, confirming my father's age and discovering that they'd both gone to the old John Marshall High School.
I can not wait to tell my father about this man I met because I blabbed about his story. I expect he'll be as tickled as I was.
Still high from that encounter, I headed directly to Black Iris for an evening of music and film which had just begun as I walked in.
As soon as I opened the door, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Nelly Kate's exquisite voice and quickly found a place among the packed crowd.
It was so good to hear her singing after her "year of saying no" when she cut way back on performing. She had new material and the crowd ate it up, not to mention Dave Watkins' ever more sophisticated light projections behind her to add to the total audio/visual experience.
I would never talk while Nelly was singing, but I was thrilled to find that the audience was not only silent but intent on the performance. It's safe to say that anyone who'd never heard her before was rendered speechless, so perhaps that was it.
When she finished, people rushed to the bar and I took the opportunity to socialize with all kinds of friends - the theater couple, the band photographer, the WRIR DJ, the cute couple band mates and, yes, once again the Man About Town.
I spotted four people like me who'd come from the Valentine. Even the actor formerly known as Hedwig was there, providing me with the too-infrequent pleasure of his witty company as we caught up after months.
The guy I always see at shows was there ("Hello, young lady") and detailed his recent ten-day stay in New Orleans for me. He'd stayed in the Marigny, had access to a bike (logging 20 miles in one day) and seen 30 bands in 10 days. Then he'd come home and slept for two weeks.
Coincidentally, another friend also whispered about his recent trip to NOLA when Todd Chandler's film, "Carnival Conquest" began. Beginning with imagery of a Carnival cruise ship in an industrial canal, smaller boats eventually overtook the behemoth while Todd played accompanying music.
Another short film, "Bovina," began with clouds, followed by a night sky, fireworks and ended with a huge bonfire while "Shore Birds" showed just that.
"Salvage Title" showed a giant piece of machinery scooping up cars and buses in a junkyard, sort of a post-industrial Japanese horror creature consuming its victims.
What was cool about all his films (besides how beautifully shot they were) was that he kept the recorded sounds from the filming - the boom of the fireworks, the crash of the surf, the growl of the machinery- but layered appropriate live music over it.
During the break after his films, more friends showed up, including the dance party enthusiast who'd also been to the ramen pop-up tonight but only after they'd sold out of the incredible wontononmen I'd had. They'd still had the vegetarian version, but, like me, he didn't want that.
Even a first-timer like me knew enough to bee there minutes after opening and he's a veteran of several visits, so he should have known better.
Mirah and her guitar were the evening's headliner (Todd accompanied her) and it was soon apparent that she had plenty of die-hard fans in the audience. Not all that surprising since I'd read that she's been making music since the late '90s.
Her voice, an airy soprano that worked the microphone with nuance and longing, could have probably sung the phone book and sounded wonderful, but she was doing a lot of material from her 2014 album, "Changing Light" instead.
Favorite lyric: "You are a season I will not find again."
If the audience had been respectful for the first two acts, they were worshipful for Mirah, calling out song titles and singing the la-la refrain when she asked them to. "You're being very quiet. I couldn't ask for better," she said, flattering us.
Sometimes she took requests and once she responded, "I am playing some old songs. Maybe not all the ones some of you wish I'd play..." Her voice had such a pure sweetness and finger-picking both her guitars, she created little worlds with every song.
Offering up a consolation prize, as she called, she said she was going to do a cover, one she'd recently done at a house show where no one recognized it. "It made us feel like the cool kids, " she beamed as Todd readied the keyboard.
We're never done killing time
Can I kill it with you
Until the veins run red and blue?
Their version of Lorde's "400 Lux" was absolutely killer, Mirah's supple voice being answered with Todd's responses of "And I like you" and the telling "You buy me orange juice."
When so few people knew what it was, she was delighted. "That makes us the coolest 40-year olds ever!"
Not sure I can choose the coolest part of a very cool evening. Maybe the rest of my group was right. I do win.
It might be when I walked into Lunch for the Shoryuken Ramen pop-up at 5:03 (three minutes after they opened) and took a seat at the end of the counter.
The lovely Asian-looking woman behind the counter looked at me and said, "Your hair looks great! Who does it?" When I said it was me, she asked if I was a hairdresser. Ha! I explained that I've been cutting it myself for a year and a half and just learned how to blow dry in 2014. Still, she raved.
To someone who was raised by a mother who preached that "if your hair doesn't look good, it doesn't matter about the rest of how you look because that's all people will remember," this was heady stuff. I thanked her repeatedly.
Then I ordered a bowl of tonight's special, wontononmen, opting for shio (salty) over shoyu (soy sauce) in the fragrant chicken-based broth with scallions, bok choy, noodles and wontons of pork and shrimp. After a liberal sprinkling of Nanami Togarashi, I inhaled every bit, saving the plumpest wonton for my last bite.
While it was my first visit to the pop-up in residence at Lunch until the end of February, I heard several people mention they'd been there before, including two people who'd gone last night. The place, admittedly tiny, was completely full by 5:30 and I could see why the friend who used to live in China had said the small size made it feel like a true noodle bar.
All except the music maybe - that was vintage Cars, Bowie and Police - but as far as I was concerned, it was the ideal thing for noodle-slurping.
One of the servers showed off her new high-waisted jeans to another server and I admired them, too, telling her they looked like a favorite pair of mine circa 1984. "Ooh, I love the '80s," she squealed.
As I'd hoped, I was sated and out of there by 5:45, en route to the Valentine for the first of their 2015 Community Conversations series, this year at the newly renovated museum itself instead of all over town like last year's.
This year's theme is changing neighborhoods and tonight's topic was Highland Park. I arrived just before things got started and spotted the Man About Town, who swept over to say hello.
"Your hair looks fabulous!" he told me. "Very 21st century!" What was going on with my hair tonight? A girl could get used to all these compliments.
The session began with the little handheld devices used for polling to determine the demographic of the audience. First question? "What do you think of the Cowboys beating the Lions?"
Like 63% of the audience, I clicked "E" for "Really, you're starting a community conversation with a question about football?" I could have just as easily clicked "I hate the Cowboys," but I hate to miss a chance at humor.
After determining that the crowd was overwhelmingly white and that most of us had never lived in Highland Park, we broke into small groups for discussion of our HP memories.
Of the six people in my group (including city councilwoman Ellen Robertson), half had no experience with the neighborhood and that group included me. What I did have was a story my Dad had told me about his youth in HP, so I shared that.
He'd been a teenager, it was after baseball practice and he and a friend had gone to sit on a knoll in HP and drink beers while watching the windows of a nearby house. It was a favorite perch because the woman in the house was known to undress with the lights on. This night she did and so did the man in the room with her.
It was after they got into bed and started getting it on that Dad saw another man - apparently the husband -enter the bedroom, start yelling and shoot the man in bed. When I'd asked Dad what he'd done after that, he said he and his friend had finished their beers and gone home to bed.
When I finished the story (one Dad has told me a dozen times over the years), everyone in my group was agog. "You win!" two of them said and everyone nodded enthusiastically, even the councilwoman. It wasn't even my memory, just an old chestnut I'd been hearing since childhood about my father's Richmond childhood.
Once the small group sessions broke up, facilitator Matt asked if anyone had a story to share and everyone in my group pointed to me. After telling it again to the entire room, a man in the back said, "Was that the 2600 block of Third Avenue?"
Holy cow, small world. The man turned out to be a long-time HP resident who shared tales of a bucolic period in HP's history when people kept chickens and rabbits in their back yard ("We watched people wring their necks. Those were good years.") and streetcars (7 cents a ride) gave way to buses (8 cents per ride) and everyone had to scrape up another penny to ride.
A man who'd moved to HP in the late '60s and raised his family there told of an old-timer in the neighborhood who'd come by when he was painting his house. His advice was never to paint the whole house at once since it would only need repainting. Better to paint two sides this time and two sides in a few years. "To this day, I still do it that way," the man concluded.
Can I just say how much I enjoy these community conversations for stories just such as those?
The Hat got up and filled our heads with fun factoids about HP, how architecturally intact it still was because the highway didn't cut through it (unlike my beloved Jackson Ward). Brian from H.O.M.E. said his would be the most boring part of the program and explained that between 2007 and 2010, HP had the highest foreclosure rate in the city (103 out of 852 houses). Not boring.
From the councilwoman and a representative from the Better Housing Coalition, we learned that the same things that attracted people to HP 100 years ago (proximity to downtown, a feeling of being removed from the bustle of city) still hold true. The problem is that 21st century families no longer need or can afford five-bedroom houses with 5,000 square feet.
Like cheesy suburban developments being built in the counties now, HP had all been built relatively quickly, between 1890 and 1920. The neighborhood has the highest concentration of Queen Anne and Victorian houses in the area.
I was getting worried we were going to run out of time for my favorite part of these conversations, the show and tell that Valentine director Bill Martin does using old photos from the collection to talk about the neighborhood, but he slid it in right at the end.
It was amazing to see Victorian families standing in front of these large houses with no close neighbors and a streetcar running down the middle of the street.
When the evening ended, the man who'd guessed the location of my father's story approached me and said, "I'm pretty sure I know your Dad. What's his name?" I told him. "Where'd he live?" I had no idea. We walked out together, confirming my father's age and discovering that they'd both gone to the old John Marshall High School.
I can not wait to tell my father about this man I met because I blabbed about his story. I expect he'll be as tickled as I was.
Still high from that encounter, I headed directly to Black Iris for an evening of music and film which had just begun as I walked in.
As soon as I opened the door, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Nelly Kate's exquisite voice and quickly found a place among the packed crowd.
It was so good to hear her singing after her "year of saying no" when she cut way back on performing. She had new material and the crowd ate it up, not to mention Dave Watkins' ever more sophisticated light projections behind her to add to the total audio/visual experience.
I would never talk while Nelly was singing, but I was thrilled to find that the audience was not only silent but intent on the performance. It's safe to say that anyone who'd never heard her before was rendered speechless, so perhaps that was it.
When she finished, people rushed to the bar and I took the opportunity to socialize with all kinds of friends - the theater couple, the band photographer, the WRIR DJ, the cute couple band mates and, yes, once again the Man About Town.
I spotted four people like me who'd come from the Valentine. Even the actor formerly known as Hedwig was there, providing me with the too-infrequent pleasure of his witty company as we caught up after months.
The guy I always see at shows was there ("Hello, young lady") and detailed his recent ten-day stay in New Orleans for me. He'd stayed in the Marigny, had access to a bike (logging 20 miles in one day) and seen 30 bands in 10 days. Then he'd come home and slept for two weeks.
Coincidentally, another friend also whispered about his recent trip to NOLA when Todd Chandler's film, "Carnival Conquest" began. Beginning with imagery of a Carnival cruise ship in an industrial canal, smaller boats eventually overtook the behemoth while Todd played accompanying music.
Another short film, "Bovina," began with clouds, followed by a night sky, fireworks and ended with a huge bonfire while "Shore Birds" showed just that.
"Salvage Title" showed a giant piece of machinery scooping up cars and buses in a junkyard, sort of a post-industrial Japanese horror creature consuming its victims.
What was cool about all his films (besides how beautifully shot they were) was that he kept the recorded sounds from the filming - the boom of the fireworks, the crash of the surf, the growl of the machinery- but layered appropriate live music over it.
During the break after his films, more friends showed up, including the dance party enthusiast who'd also been to the ramen pop-up tonight but only after they'd sold out of the incredible wontononmen I'd had. They'd still had the vegetarian version, but, like me, he didn't want that.
Even a first-timer like me knew enough to bee there minutes after opening and he's a veteran of several visits, so he should have known better.
Mirah and her guitar were the evening's headliner (Todd accompanied her) and it was soon apparent that she had plenty of die-hard fans in the audience. Not all that surprising since I'd read that she's been making music since the late '90s.
Her voice, an airy soprano that worked the microphone with nuance and longing, could have probably sung the phone book and sounded wonderful, but she was doing a lot of material from her 2014 album, "Changing Light" instead.
Favorite lyric: "You are a season I will not find again."
If the audience had been respectful for the first two acts, they were worshipful for Mirah, calling out song titles and singing the la-la refrain when she asked them to. "You're being very quiet. I couldn't ask for better," she said, flattering us.
Sometimes she took requests and once she responded, "I am playing some old songs. Maybe not all the ones some of you wish I'd play..." Her voice had such a pure sweetness and finger-picking both her guitars, she created little worlds with every song.
Offering up a consolation prize, as she called, she said she was going to do a cover, one she'd recently done at a house show where no one recognized it. "It made us feel like the cool kids, " she beamed as Todd readied the keyboard.
We're never done killing time
Can I kill it with you
Until the veins run red and blue?
Their version of Lorde's "400 Lux" was absolutely killer, Mirah's supple voice being answered with Todd's responses of "And I like you" and the telling "You buy me orange juice."
When so few people knew what it was, she was delighted. "That makes us the coolest 40-year olds ever!"
Not sure I can choose the coolest part of a very cool evening. Maybe the rest of my group was right. I do win.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Simplicity Now
One of my first purchases every January is a datebook, also known to several of my closest friends as my "prehistoric Blackberry."
It's the little book that lives in my purse and keeps track of all the upcoming shows, openings, lectures, readings, dates and plans I have. It's invaluable in preventing me from saying yes to more than one person.
Over the years, I've gotten rather particular about the kind of book I prefer. I like to see one week take up two pages so that each days allows room for multiple events to be listed in my chicken scratch handwriting. I prefer a pretty color- no black or brown - and a certain size.
It's an archaic way to keep track of my life, or so I've been told, but it's how I like to roll.
Just yesterday, I got all kinds of validation about my old-fashioned choice while reading a review of a new book, "The Internet is Not the Answer," which makes a case for people like me. In it, the reviewer points out that sincere criticism of the mounting technology swallowing American culture whole usually results in labeling the outlier a Luddite. Because who but a Luddite would try to rain on the big, shiny parade of non-stop app usage?
Many is the time I have been labeled a Luddite, but it's a badge I wear with honor. While away on vacation for 11 days, I checked e-mail only twice, never looked at Facebook, never posted to Instagram and or Twitter, both of which I eschew.
After procuring my new datebook, I eagerly brought it home to fill in with the ever-growing list of things I already have planned for 2015, writing in events as far off as June.
If the Internet is the answer, I don't want to know the question. If you need ideas for what to do in this town, though, I'm happy to make some suggestions from my prehistoric Blackberry.
I am a dying breed, or as my friend Jon likes to say, the last of my kind. Call me what you will.
It's the little book that lives in my purse and keeps track of all the upcoming shows, openings, lectures, readings, dates and plans I have. It's invaluable in preventing me from saying yes to more than one person.
Over the years, I've gotten rather particular about the kind of book I prefer. I like to see one week take up two pages so that each days allows room for multiple events to be listed in my chicken scratch handwriting. I prefer a pretty color- no black or brown - and a certain size.
It's an archaic way to keep track of my life, or so I've been told, but it's how I like to roll.
Just yesterday, I got all kinds of validation about my old-fashioned choice while reading a review of a new book, "The Internet is Not the Answer," which makes a case for people like me. In it, the reviewer points out that sincere criticism of the mounting technology swallowing American culture whole usually results in labeling the outlier a Luddite. Because who but a Luddite would try to rain on the big, shiny parade of non-stop app usage?
Many is the time I have been labeled a Luddite, but it's a badge I wear with honor. While away on vacation for 11 days, I checked e-mail only twice, never looked at Facebook, never posted to Instagram and or Twitter, both of which I eschew.
After procuring my new datebook, I eagerly brought it home to fill in with the ever-growing list of things I already have planned for 2015, writing in events as far off as June.
If the Internet is the answer, I don't want to know the question. If you need ideas for what to do in this town, though, I'm happy to make some suggestions from my prehistoric Blackberry.
I am a dying breed, or as my friend Jon likes to say, the last of my kind. Call me what you will.
This is My Tree
I'm back in the saddle again, but it took me nearly eleven hours to get there.
Coming off of vacation, today's walk was the first one in over a week that involved shoes, much less banking and errands along the way. While laundry had been finished last night, today there was grocery shopping to do. I spent almost four hours on a writing assignment before stripping the Christmas tree bare, wrangling it through the window and tossing it to the sidewalk below (don't try this alone, kids). After cleaning house and paying bills, I finally settled down to read the last two days' worth of the Washington Post.
Then there was the downloading (or is it uploading?) of the 200 vacation pictures I took and the deletion of the hundred that were blurry, of the ground (I kept one foot shot for posterity) or redundant (now why would I take six of the exact same angle of the lighthouse?).
My world restored to its rightful order, at long last I was free to get cleaned up and go out for live music.
Local heroes Spacebomb Records were presenting Spanish singer-songwriter Alondra Bentley for my listening pleasure, preceded by socialization with whomever I might happen to find. Happily, I walked into the back room to find all kinds of familiar faces.
I kvetched with the sax player who hikes about the impending cold weather and how it doesn't stop us from being outside, just ensures that we dress properly for it. The guy who works at the National told me about the recent Lotus show where the band played till 2 a.m. and then hung around shooting the breeze until 5 a.m. The calendar editor and I bemoaned the public's lack of understanding of print deadlines. The New Year's Eve DJ told me about how successful his tail feather-shaking party had been.
Then with no fanfare, Alondra and her handsome jean jacket-clad musical partner took the stage. She was adorably dressed in a navy blue dress with matching trim at the neck and sleeve cuffs and looked as groovy as a happening model from the '60s.
They both took guitars in hand and proceeded to show us how it's done on the other side of the pond, with Spanish-sounding guitar work and a beautiful voice that sounded distinctly un-American, not just in its phrasing but in its delivery. Clearly its origins were not from these parts.
She began by smiling (and never stopped), saying that she'd never played here before but that she was already loving Richmond and its friendliness. "Everyone is so nice. Maybe we should move here. Should we?" We'd only heard a couple of songs and still everyone called out in the affirmative.
When they did a song from her album for kids, she clarified that it was for kids of all ages, two to 200 and did "Wake Up," which began with the lyric of a rooster crowing, although as she sang it, it was absent any cock, as in, "Coo-cadoodle-do."
Afterwards, a friend sitting nearby leaned over and observed, "It feels like we're in Soho in 1967." It was true, with her clear, dulcet tones, dark bangs and groovy dress, we could have been in a smoky basement bar snapping our fingers instead of clapping.
She said she had a lot of songs about family and did "Garden Room" about warning her Dad that she wanted to see the world. Another was about her "crazy" sister whose odd habits she catalogs safely "because she's over the pond and can't hear me."
At one point, she put her guitar down and brought out a maraca, saying it belonged to Pinson the Magic, a reference to Spacebomb's talented drummer. "So it's going to be special even though I don't really know how to play it."
Although she'd been born in England, her accent reflected that she'd lived in Spain since age five and her lyrics were full of imagery you don't hear much here, things such as fruit scones, chocolate boxes filled with pencils, long skirts for dancing and bourbon biscuits.
"You're my tree where the birds live," she sang. Songs were enhanced by her partner's harmonies and piano playing on the second half of them. His style was almost lounge-like, often running the keys as accompaniment to her trilling voice. "In My Garden" got one couple slow dancing, much to her delight.
She told us she'd arrived in Richmond on New Year's Day and spent the last two days recording. "There is nowhere else in the world where we could have made this album. It had to be here."
What's interesting about that, my friend and I decided, was that her sound was very much Spanish and coastal sounding with undertones of lounge, making us curious about how Spacebomb's trademark horn section and impressive percussion will add to that.
No doubt in the same mystical way that the Muscle Shoals Studio affected the sound of artists as diverse as Aretha Franklin, Cat Stevens and the Black Keys.
During one lively song, the bartender began shaking a cocktail in time with the song, causing the keyboard player to call, "Cool, man!" to him when they finished.
When they got to their last song, the applause was loud and long and nobody went anywhere, so I doubt I was the only one who wished they'd played a while longer.
Nobody made a move to leave, including Alondra, who accommodatingly sold albums and signed them for adoring fans while the rest of the crowd milled about socializing on a Monday night high after an amazing (free) show had dropped in our laps.
I heard about a friend's upcoming trip to D.C. to see the Reverend Horton Heat, while another told me about his new restaurant obsession before finally heading out through the clutch of people getting their drink on in the front room. It had been a stellar night of music and conversation.
Doesn't matter how long it's been. Soho or Richmond, certain things you fall back into as naturally as breathing.
For some of us, this is one of them.
Coming off of vacation, today's walk was the first one in over a week that involved shoes, much less banking and errands along the way. While laundry had been finished last night, today there was grocery shopping to do. I spent almost four hours on a writing assignment before stripping the Christmas tree bare, wrangling it through the window and tossing it to the sidewalk below (don't try this alone, kids). After cleaning house and paying bills, I finally settled down to read the last two days' worth of the Washington Post.
Then there was the downloading (or is it uploading?) of the 200 vacation pictures I took and the deletion of the hundred that were blurry, of the ground (I kept one foot shot for posterity) or redundant (now why would I take six of the exact same angle of the lighthouse?).
My world restored to its rightful order, at long last I was free to get cleaned up and go out for live music.
Local heroes Spacebomb Records were presenting Spanish singer-songwriter Alondra Bentley for my listening pleasure, preceded by socialization with whomever I might happen to find. Happily, I walked into the back room to find all kinds of familiar faces.
I kvetched with the sax player who hikes about the impending cold weather and how it doesn't stop us from being outside, just ensures that we dress properly for it. The guy who works at the National told me about the recent Lotus show where the band played till 2 a.m. and then hung around shooting the breeze until 5 a.m. The calendar editor and I bemoaned the public's lack of understanding of print deadlines. The New Year's Eve DJ told me about how successful his tail feather-shaking party had been.
Then with no fanfare, Alondra and her handsome jean jacket-clad musical partner took the stage. She was adorably dressed in a navy blue dress with matching trim at the neck and sleeve cuffs and looked as groovy as a happening model from the '60s.
They both took guitars in hand and proceeded to show us how it's done on the other side of the pond, with Spanish-sounding guitar work and a beautiful voice that sounded distinctly un-American, not just in its phrasing but in its delivery. Clearly its origins were not from these parts.
She began by smiling (and never stopped), saying that she'd never played here before but that she was already loving Richmond and its friendliness. "Everyone is so nice. Maybe we should move here. Should we?" We'd only heard a couple of songs and still everyone called out in the affirmative.
When they did a song from her album for kids, she clarified that it was for kids of all ages, two to 200 and did "Wake Up," which began with the lyric of a rooster crowing, although as she sang it, it was absent any cock, as in, "Coo-cadoodle-do."
Afterwards, a friend sitting nearby leaned over and observed, "It feels like we're in Soho in 1967." It was true, with her clear, dulcet tones, dark bangs and groovy dress, we could have been in a smoky basement bar snapping our fingers instead of clapping.
She said she had a lot of songs about family and did "Garden Room" about warning her Dad that she wanted to see the world. Another was about her "crazy" sister whose odd habits she catalogs safely "because she's over the pond and can't hear me."
At one point, she put her guitar down and brought out a maraca, saying it belonged to Pinson the Magic, a reference to Spacebomb's talented drummer. "So it's going to be special even though I don't really know how to play it."
Although she'd been born in England, her accent reflected that she'd lived in Spain since age five and her lyrics were full of imagery you don't hear much here, things such as fruit scones, chocolate boxes filled with pencils, long skirts for dancing and bourbon biscuits.
"You're my tree where the birds live," she sang. Songs were enhanced by her partner's harmonies and piano playing on the second half of them. His style was almost lounge-like, often running the keys as accompaniment to her trilling voice. "In My Garden" got one couple slow dancing, much to her delight.
She told us she'd arrived in Richmond on New Year's Day and spent the last two days recording. "There is nowhere else in the world where we could have made this album. It had to be here."
What's interesting about that, my friend and I decided, was that her sound was very much Spanish and coastal sounding with undertones of lounge, making us curious about how Spacebomb's trademark horn section and impressive percussion will add to that.
No doubt in the same mystical way that the Muscle Shoals Studio affected the sound of artists as diverse as Aretha Franklin, Cat Stevens and the Black Keys.
During one lively song, the bartender began shaking a cocktail in time with the song, causing the keyboard player to call, "Cool, man!" to him when they finished.
When they got to their last song, the applause was loud and long and nobody went anywhere, so I doubt I was the only one who wished they'd played a while longer.
Nobody made a move to leave, including Alondra, who accommodatingly sold albums and signed them for adoring fans while the rest of the crowd milled about socializing on a Monday night high after an amazing (free) show had dropped in our laps.
I heard about a friend's upcoming trip to D.C. to see the Reverend Horton Heat, while another told me about his new restaurant obsession before finally heading out through the clutch of people getting their drink on in the front room. It had been a stellar night of music and conversation.
Doesn't matter how long it's been. Soho or Richmond, certain things you fall back into as naturally as breathing.
For some of us, this is one of them.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Don't Rush Me
And I have arrived back in Richmond, unwound from listening to the ocean daily and ready to start a new year.
It was a week of pleasures of all kinds. The ocean temperature never dipped below anything but comfortable, although one skinny Floridian dipped her toes in as we walked by, only to jump out proclaiming, "It's icy!"
To each his own, but in my experience, there have been times that the ocean has been far colder in July than it was that day.
Most nights, happy hour was spent on the balcony with a view of the surf while enjoying something bubbly and listening to new music acquisitions. Birdy was a terrific first listen but for this beat-lover, nothing topped Taylor Dane's greatest hits (who remembered she had so many?), which miraculously included a cover of Barry White's "Can't Get Enough of Your Love."
But vacation isn't all sybaritic pleasures. All my geeky sides got indulged, too.
My history jones was fed repeatedly. There was a trip to Eldora House, a former 19th century vacation house turned museum on the shores of Mosquito Lagoon, meticulously restored and full of photographic displays of the small community of people who had populated the area, raising oranges and bees until a major freeze ended that idyll.
At the Sugar Mill Ruins, we saw the remains - half intact stone walls and huge metal pots - of an old sugar and saw mill that had been destroyed by the Seminole Indians (after all, it was on their ancestral land).
Arriving at the Mary Harrell Black Heritage Museum, set up in a tiny former black Catholic church complete with charming belfry, we found it closed up tight. To our good fortune, an older gentleman soon arrived and bade us come in. He turned out to be the husband of Mary Harrell who had died in August, and kindly invited us inside to look at the unique collection of photographs and ephemera of the local black community.
One day, it was a trip to the 1835 Ponce Lighthouse, a sturdy red-painted structure with eight outbuildings to house the story of the lighthouse keepers, a collection of lens used in it and other lighthouses as well as assorted other historical buildings, none quite as fascinating as the privvy exhibit.
But I'll be the first to admit that my attraction to lighthouses is getting to climb them and admire the views from above, and this one was an easy climb with the added bonus of open, screened windows on some levels. My only regret was that we were a few days too early for the monthly full moon climb to the top of the lighthouse.
The part of me that loves to traipse got its fix with daily walks on the hard-packed sand, so unlike what I'm used to on the Outer Banks. One gloomy day, we drove a few miles to Canaveral National Seashore where we discovered a pristine, barely-inhabited coastline covered in shells ripe for the picking. I did.
Less than an hour into walking, rain started and we headed back up the beach, leaving it to more intrepid surf fisherman and gulls.
Naturally, my appreciation for a good hangout needed to be addressed, too. Not one but two stops were made at the Sea Vista Tiki Bar, a rustic joint on the ocean, where I slurped back a Mai Tai and wings one day and Patron and a cheeseburger another.
When the rain had killed our Canveral walk, we'd taken refuge at J.B.'s Fish Camp, a sprawling complex that rented stuff like paddle boards and kayaks, but also had lagoon-side open air dining and, for busy times, the Drunken Clam Overflow Tiki Bar.
A walk up to Flagler on a cloudy afternoon resulted in a woman on a bike riding by, calling out, "You are two cute sons of guns!" like she knew us. She didn't.
One afternoon, a walk up the beach took us to Chase's, right on the ocean, where we indulged in shrimp, both steamed and fried. Then we moved to the enormous bar where the guy next to me looked at me and told me that Donna Douglas had died that day and did I know who that was.
Pu-leeze. One Ellie May Clampett comment later and he was eating out of my hand. Not that I necessarily wanted him to after discovering that he was a displaced Chicagoan with three marriages behind him, who'd moved to New Smyrna Beach to care for his crazy mother...and that he'd been "into" raccoons for 42 years.
A little skeevy, right?
New Year's Eve was a blast, beginning with fireworks over Flagler, a nearby historic district, followed by dinner at the Riverview Hotel, a charming and historic 1885 hotel on the river.
What I hadn't expected was live music, so when we rolled in for our 9:45 reservation, the band was already in full swing alternating vintage R & B with classic rock. Think Temptations followed by Van Morrison. Luckily for us, our table wasn't ready, so we got glasses of Prosecco and planted ourselves by the dance floor to enjoy it all.
A nearby couple were having a ball when he told her she was staggering. "Maybe I am staggering, but I'm the entertainment!" she told him definitively. Before long she came over and told my date he needed to smile more. I flashed her my best and told her I smiled plenty. Gazing drunkenly at me, she grinned back, saying, "Oh, honey, that's lovely. Don't ever stop smiling!"
Shoot, I'll take a compliment from a staggerer.
The best part (besides bacon-wrapped shrimp and lobster tails) was the dance floor demographic, which swung from millennials to geezers, all of them in complete thrall to the music. Come on, who doesn't shake their groove thing to "Brick House"? I know I do.
So that you know, there were two Richmonders dancing until the band called it quits.
Almost as enjoyable was the night we stumbled into the less-than-a-year-old Third Wave, tucked away outside just off the main drag in a grove of tropical greenery and palms, many strung with tiny white lights. Nearby, a fire pit glowed on the brick patio while a pizza kitchen kept sentry over it all from the back.
It was one of those places where everything was magical (except, maybe for the Mulderbosch Rose arriving warm, but our server soon corrected that with a chilled bottle) about the experience.
Brussels sprouts may be ubiquitous these days, but elevated with honey, Pecorino, Calabrian chili and mint, these were anything but typical. Corn on the cob was swoon-worthy under basil aioli, herb crumb and Parmesan. White pizza with soprasetta salami and balsamic cippolini onions demonstrated the kitchen's chops.
Let's put it this way: we went back a few nights later for more South African wine, this time a Chenin Blanc, and another white pizza, savoring both while a guitar/mandolin duo played. Our server from the first night (Brooklyn-bound, he'd already told us) spotted us and came over to welcome us back.
Even my nerdy, reading side was satisfied with two books finished ("Bastard Out of Carolina" and William Styron's "A Tidewater Morning," a Christmas gift from one of my sisters) and one half finished (coincidentally, Styron's "Sophie's Choice" which I am enjoying enormously for the beauty of the prose, not to mention the '40s time period).
Beach week wound up Saturday as we headed north, stopping in St. Augustine for a morning walk on a beach so misty as to be almost ghostly when we began.
The day ended in Savannah, chosen after dealing with challenging traffic on I-95 and desperately needing a change of scenery. Walking into District Cafe, we were greeted by the Spice Girls "Wannabe" on the sound system and a late afternoon deal on two glasses of wine and a meat/cheese plate. Sold!
It was funny, the music hewed to the middle school years of the female serving staff - No Doubt, Deep Blue Something, some boy band - who seemed totally into it until one of the two 30-something guys in the kitchen was overheard asking plaintively, "Who picked this station?"
After a stroll along the fog-shrouded riverfront, dinner was at The Olde Pink House, a gargantuan place with a staff the size of an army, a good thing apparently because our bartender said they'd served 1800 people on Christmas Day and 700 yesterday.
All we knew was that they were willing to accommodate two latecomers who'd only been in town for a couple of hours. Oysters on the half shell were from Apalachicola, not at all salty, but tasty, followed by fried chicken livers with bearnaise sauce over cheddar grit cakes. A wedge salad, delayed because they forgot the bacon (horrors!) was our pretense at offsetting the delectable livers.
But it was when the monstrous bacon cheeseburger we were to share arrived that the couple next to us at the bar wanted to chat. They were on their way south from New Hampshire, having spent the previous night in Baltimore on their way to Ocala.
"Why fly when we can eat our way down the coast?" she asked, giggling after finishing her first Planter's Punch (light on the Grenadine). When I told her we were doing the reverse, just returning from a week in Florida, she said, "That's why you're so tan!"
For the record, I'm not tanned, in fact, I avoid tanning.
As if it was our final day reward, we sailed up 95 today without the usual traffic slow and go, collecting all but nine state license plates (M.I.A.: Idaho, North Dakota, Arizona, New Mexico, Alaska, Hawaii, Kansas, Colorado, Utah) plus D.C., Quebec, Ontario and New Brunswick. Childhood road games die hard.
No one was more surprised than me to arrive back in Richmond to 70-degree temperatures, but I'll take it.
The last supper of vacation was five blocks from home at Graffiato's, where no one wore flip-flops and, despite the January warmth, there was no soft, salty air greeting upon walking out. That's okay, too, because vacation adventure memories abound, along with a few incriminating and/or fuzzy pictures.
Let's get this 2015 thing rolling, shall we? Ever the optimist, I can't wait to see what it brings.
It was a week of pleasures of all kinds. The ocean temperature never dipped below anything but comfortable, although one skinny Floridian dipped her toes in as we walked by, only to jump out proclaiming, "It's icy!"
To each his own, but in my experience, there have been times that the ocean has been far colder in July than it was that day.
Most nights, happy hour was spent on the balcony with a view of the surf while enjoying something bubbly and listening to new music acquisitions. Birdy was a terrific first listen but for this beat-lover, nothing topped Taylor Dane's greatest hits (who remembered she had so many?), which miraculously included a cover of Barry White's "Can't Get Enough of Your Love."
But vacation isn't all sybaritic pleasures. All my geeky sides got indulged, too.
My history jones was fed repeatedly. There was a trip to Eldora House, a former 19th century vacation house turned museum on the shores of Mosquito Lagoon, meticulously restored and full of photographic displays of the small community of people who had populated the area, raising oranges and bees until a major freeze ended that idyll.
At the Sugar Mill Ruins, we saw the remains - half intact stone walls and huge metal pots - of an old sugar and saw mill that had been destroyed by the Seminole Indians (after all, it was on their ancestral land).
Arriving at the Mary Harrell Black Heritage Museum, set up in a tiny former black Catholic church complete with charming belfry, we found it closed up tight. To our good fortune, an older gentleman soon arrived and bade us come in. He turned out to be the husband of Mary Harrell who had died in August, and kindly invited us inside to look at the unique collection of photographs and ephemera of the local black community.
One day, it was a trip to the 1835 Ponce Lighthouse, a sturdy red-painted structure with eight outbuildings to house the story of the lighthouse keepers, a collection of lens used in it and other lighthouses as well as assorted other historical buildings, none quite as fascinating as the privvy exhibit.
But I'll be the first to admit that my attraction to lighthouses is getting to climb them and admire the views from above, and this one was an easy climb with the added bonus of open, screened windows on some levels. My only regret was that we were a few days too early for the monthly full moon climb to the top of the lighthouse.
The part of me that loves to traipse got its fix with daily walks on the hard-packed sand, so unlike what I'm used to on the Outer Banks. One gloomy day, we drove a few miles to Canaveral National Seashore where we discovered a pristine, barely-inhabited coastline covered in shells ripe for the picking. I did.
Less than an hour into walking, rain started and we headed back up the beach, leaving it to more intrepid surf fisherman and gulls.
Naturally, my appreciation for a good hangout needed to be addressed, too. Not one but two stops were made at the Sea Vista Tiki Bar, a rustic joint on the ocean, where I slurped back a Mai Tai and wings one day and Patron and a cheeseburger another.
When the rain had killed our Canveral walk, we'd taken refuge at J.B.'s Fish Camp, a sprawling complex that rented stuff like paddle boards and kayaks, but also had lagoon-side open air dining and, for busy times, the Drunken Clam Overflow Tiki Bar.
A walk up to Flagler on a cloudy afternoon resulted in a woman on a bike riding by, calling out, "You are two cute sons of guns!" like she knew us. She didn't.
One afternoon, a walk up the beach took us to Chase's, right on the ocean, where we indulged in shrimp, both steamed and fried. Then we moved to the enormous bar where the guy next to me looked at me and told me that Donna Douglas had died that day and did I know who that was.
Pu-leeze. One Ellie May Clampett comment later and he was eating out of my hand. Not that I necessarily wanted him to after discovering that he was a displaced Chicagoan with three marriages behind him, who'd moved to New Smyrna Beach to care for his crazy mother...and that he'd been "into" raccoons for 42 years.
A little skeevy, right?
New Year's Eve was a blast, beginning with fireworks over Flagler, a nearby historic district, followed by dinner at the Riverview Hotel, a charming and historic 1885 hotel on the river.
What I hadn't expected was live music, so when we rolled in for our 9:45 reservation, the band was already in full swing alternating vintage R & B with classic rock. Think Temptations followed by Van Morrison. Luckily for us, our table wasn't ready, so we got glasses of Prosecco and planted ourselves by the dance floor to enjoy it all.
A nearby couple were having a ball when he told her she was staggering. "Maybe I am staggering, but I'm the entertainment!" she told him definitively. Before long she came over and told my date he needed to smile more. I flashed her my best and told her I smiled plenty. Gazing drunkenly at me, she grinned back, saying, "Oh, honey, that's lovely. Don't ever stop smiling!"
Shoot, I'll take a compliment from a staggerer.
The best part (besides bacon-wrapped shrimp and lobster tails) was the dance floor demographic, which swung from millennials to geezers, all of them in complete thrall to the music. Come on, who doesn't shake their groove thing to "Brick House"? I know I do.
So that you know, there were two Richmonders dancing until the band called it quits.
Almost as enjoyable was the night we stumbled into the less-than-a-year-old Third Wave, tucked away outside just off the main drag in a grove of tropical greenery and palms, many strung with tiny white lights. Nearby, a fire pit glowed on the brick patio while a pizza kitchen kept sentry over it all from the back.
It was one of those places where everything was magical (except, maybe for the Mulderbosch Rose arriving warm, but our server soon corrected that with a chilled bottle) about the experience.
Brussels sprouts may be ubiquitous these days, but elevated with honey, Pecorino, Calabrian chili and mint, these were anything but typical. Corn on the cob was swoon-worthy under basil aioli, herb crumb and Parmesan. White pizza with soprasetta salami and balsamic cippolini onions demonstrated the kitchen's chops.
Let's put it this way: we went back a few nights later for more South African wine, this time a Chenin Blanc, and another white pizza, savoring both while a guitar/mandolin duo played. Our server from the first night (Brooklyn-bound, he'd already told us) spotted us and came over to welcome us back.
Even my nerdy, reading side was satisfied with two books finished ("Bastard Out of Carolina" and William Styron's "A Tidewater Morning," a Christmas gift from one of my sisters) and one half finished (coincidentally, Styron's "Sophie's Choice" which I am enjoying enormously for the beauty of the prose, not to mention the '40s time period).
Beach week wound up Saturday as we headed north, stopping in St. Augustine for a morning walk on a beach so misty as to be almost ghostly when we began.
The day ended in Savannah, chosen after dealing with challenging traffic on I-95 and desperately needing a change of scenery. Walking into District Cafe, we were greeted by the Spice Girls "Wannabe" on the sound system and a late afternoon deal on two glasses of wine and a meat/cheese plate. Sold!
It was funny, the music hewed to the middle school years of the female serving staff - No Doubt, Deep Blue Something, some boy band - who seemed totally into it until one of the two 30-something guys in the kitchen was overheard asking plaintively, "Who picked this station?"
After a stroll along the fog-shrouded riverfront, dinner was at The Olde Pink House, a gargantuan place with a staff the size of an army, a good thing apparently because our bartender said they'd served 1800 people on Christmas Day and 700 yesterday.
All we knew was that they were willing to accommodate two latecomers who'd only been in town for a couple of hours. Oysters on the half shell were from Apalachicola, not at all salty, but tasty, followed by fried chicken livers with bearnaise sauce over cheddar grit cakes. A wedge salad, delayed because they forgot the bacon (horrors!) was our pretense at offsetting the delectable livers.
But it was when the monstrous bacon cheeseburger we were to share arrived that the couple next to us at the bar wanted to chat. They were on their way south from New Hampshire, having spent the previous night in Baltimore on their way to Ocala.
"Why fly when we can eat our way down the coast?" she asked, giggling after finishing her first Planter's Punch (light on the Grenadine). When I told her we were doing the reverse, just returning from a week in Florida, she said, "That's why you're so tan!"
For the record, I'm not tanned, in fact, I avoid tanning.
As if it was our final day reward, we sailed up 95 today without the usual traffic slow and go, collecting all but nine state license plates (M.I.A.: Idaho, North Dakota, Arizona, New Mexico, Alaska, Hawaii, Kansas, Colorado, Utah) plus D.C., Quebec, Ontario and New Brunswick. Childhood road games die hard.
No one was more surprised than me to arrive back in Richmond to 70-degree temperatures, but I'll take it.
The last supper of vacation was five blocks from home at Graffiato's, where no one wore flip-flops and, despite the January warmth, there was no soft, salty air greeting upon walking out. That's okay, too, because vacation adventure memories abound, along with a few incriminating and/or fuzzy pictures.
Let's get this 2015 thing rolling, shall we? Ever the optimist, I can't wait to see what it brings.
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