For a Jackson Ward resident, I've been woefully absent at recent First Fridays.
I fixed that tonight, managing to hit Candela Gallery for their mobbed Indie Photobook showcase, ADA Gallery for Geo Necro, where 86 artists collectively imagined a dungeon and Black Iris for the latest in their Tiny Bar series.
The Brian Jones Trio was set to play, the candles were lit and people filled the room to hear the piano, upright bass and drum combo expend some energy in pursuit of filling the multiple-story room with a tribute to the Purple One, a piece called "Ghost Hand" in which Brian usually plays piano but didn't and other fine examples of Friday night jazz.
Before long, pianist Daniel was unstoppable, scissoring his body to create sound, exploding off the bench with passionate playing, drummer Brian was mopping sweat off his face and head and bassist Russell was grinning with pleasure at defiant rhythmic change-ups.
The mostly young crowd bobbed their heads and yelled "Ow, ow, ow!" when things got especially good.
Not content to stop there, I went to Gallery 5 for the VCU Senior Communication Art student show, which was naturally mobbed with young VCU types.
Behind me, a man looking at Julia Moore's illustration of lizard limb regeneration asked the little girl with him, "Have you ever caught a salamander?' and when she answered in the negative, he told her that you could catch one, cut its foot off and it would grow back.
"Isn't that mean?" the child asked plaintively, but the man was already on to another piece of art. Bending down, I told her that yes, it was mean and that she should never do such a thing. Ever.
Forget stranger danger, how about Bad Dad syndrome?
But a theme for the show was emerging as I looked at Timothy Pfeiffer's "A Shooter's Mother," a haunting image of a woman hugging a hooded, black-cloaked figure holding two guns. On another wall was Alicia Wendling's Minimalistic Horror Poster series, the eyeless images staring out at the viewer. Smith's black and white-toned oil painting called "Suckers" depicted a group of WW II soldiers gambling away their earnings.
Bleak world aside aside, a few seniors had apparently escaped the doom and gloom of their nihilistic childhoods and it showed in their art, like Caroline Bivens' exquisite botanical illustrations of golden beets, which were positively life-affirming compared to limbs and murderers.
Downstairs, Atlanta's Hello Ocho's jazz-not-jazz psych rock was just getting cranked up, the vibes and synth ensuring I'd stay for their set, which meandered through all kinds of musical planes as they wove their spell through the room to end my evening.
First Friday, I was overdue to catch up with you.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Friday, May 6, 2016
Keep Calm and Eat Lunch
You can lead a man to creative food, but you can't make him step out of his comfort zone.
When a newish friend suggested lunch, I countered with Vagabond, knowing it was two blocks from where he worked. "I haven't been there since the name change," he tells me and we set a time.
Arriving first, I spot a hungover-looking bartender eating lunch at the bar and catch up with him, barely returning to my seat when a newly-blond friend approaches, having spotted me from across the room. We finish up just as my friend arrives.
I could tell from looking at his face as he scanned the menu that it was not to his taste, a fact confirmed when I asked where he usually eats lunch. His answer told me everything I needed to know: Joe's Inn, the Hill Cafe, Tarrant's. His current weekly favorite is Bandito's.
Seems he used to be a huge fan of Home Team Grill but thinks the quality of the food has declined. Was it ever elevated, I wonder?
Eventually he decides on the chicken salad sandwich (I'd already guessed it would be that or the egg salad - not for him the likes of braised pork cheek tacos or even barley), despite its inclusion of cranberry, pecan and orange.
I could see he was hesitant about the accompanying green soup du jour, a killer potato asparagus from the taste I'd had, but he eventually lapped it up, sounding shocked about how tasty it was.
Only a Vagabond virgin would be surprised at how good the food was.
Meanwhile, over on my side of the table, I was totally digging two filled-to-bursting shrimp tacos laden with charred pico de gallo, hot sauce crema and, yes, popcorn, accompanied by a magnificent side salad that could have been a standalone it was so well executed.
Where we had lots to talk about was on the subject of his mid-century modern house and the fabulous updates to it, including plenty of before and after photos that proved what the house I'd toured on Riverside Drive had: that a '60s box of a dwelling has plenty of room for improvement with a bit of creativity and a little effort.
Kind of like that elevated chicken salad sandwich. If only it were as easy to improve a boring eater's habits.
When a newish friend suggested lunch, I countered with Vagabond, knowing it was two blocks from where he worked. "I haven't been there since the name change," he tells me and we set a time.
Arriving first, I spot a hungover-looking bartender eating lunch at the bar and catch up with him, barely returning to my seat when a newly-blond friend approaches, having spotted me from across the room. We finish up just as my friend arrives.
I could tell from looking at his face as he scanned the menu that it was not to his taste, a fact confirmed when I asked where he usually eats lunch. His answer told me everything I needed to know: Joe's Inn, the Hill Cafe, Tarrant's. His current weekly favorite is Bandito's.
Seems he used to be a huge fan of Home Team Grill but thinks the quality of the food has declined. Was it ever elevated, I wonder?
Eventually he decides on the chicken salad sandwich (I'd already guessed it would be that or the egg salad - not for him the likes of braised pork cheek tacos or even barley), despite its inclusion of cranberry, pecan and orange.
I could see he was hesitant about the accompanying green soup du jour, a killer potato asparagus from the taste I'd had, but he eventually lapped it up, sounding shocked about how tasty it was.
Only a Vagabond virgin would be surprised at how good the food was.
Meanwhile, over on my side of the table, I was totally digging two filled-to-bursting shrimp tacos laden with charred pico de gallo, hot sauce crema and, yes, popcorn, accompanied by a magnificent side salad that could have been a standalone it was so well executed.
Where we had lots to talk about was on the subject of his mid-century modern house and the fabulous updates to it, including plenty of before and after photos that proved what the house I'd toured on Riverside Drive had: that a '60s box of a dwelling has plenty of room for improvement with a bit of creativity and a little effort.
Kind of like that elevated chicken salad sandwich. If only it were as easy to improve a boring eater's habits.
A Complicated Lover of Poetry
Ye gads! Some people gave up on my blog.
Tonight a friend asked why I'd stopped, lamenting the loss of the cultural record-keeping I've done for the past seven years. Turns out he was fully unaware that I'd eventually started up again and can once more waste time on the state's dime catching up.
The post-Prince rain continues and for the briefest of moments, I considered staying in tonight to work but too much was happening to follow through on that momentary responsible whim.
Tonight's installment of Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia was a rainy evening book launch for "Monticello in Mind: 50 Contemporary Poems on Jefferson" and featured nine readers, some reading their own work, some not, and the book's editor, who referred to TJ as, "A very complicated lover of poetry who also happened to be a Founding Father."
Rita Dove's poem "What Doesn't Happen" was about Jefferson in Paris, while Elizabeth Sydel Morgan's "Symmetry" concerned the man's dialog between his head and heart. Virginia's poet laureate Ron Smith read his "Mr. Jefferson Speaks of Rapture: Natural Bridge, Virginia" and David Wojahn called himself the caboose (he was the final reader) before reading his poem, "Jefferson Composing His Bible" - wherein he eliminated all the miracles making for a far shorter version - and sharing that when TJ had lady troubles, he'd copy out poetry to quiet his mind.
Straight down Broad I went after the Jefferson fest for Sunset at the Hof, knowing full well that today's rain would preclude any sunset viewing from the rooftop bar, but hoping it wouldn't dampen the kickoff party for the renovated Hofheimer Building.
Of course I dug the history of the Mediterranean-style copper-domed building, formerly a rug cleaning business that used the rooftop to air dry rugs in the days before dryers. The mosaic tile were leftovers from building the Mosque and it has a bit of that feeling to it, albeit on a less grand scale.
So I climbed the historic steps (marked as such even) to the loft, where an exhibit of Todd Hale's high gloss paintings - one used manipulated film stills from "Fantasia" - took a backseat to the see and be seen crowd mingling in the vast space.
I gave them points for the architectural drawings of the building lining the hallway to the bathrooms, while upstairs, the enormous rooftop space delivered views in every direction, although not quite as far as Jackson Ward. Once the bar is completed, it's going to be a lovely place to hang out, assuming I can stand the crowd.
We'll chalk it up to synchronicity that Richmond had zero rooftop bars forever and now we'll have three almost simultaneously.
From Scott's Addition, I was barely a spit away from the Broadberry and the kickoff event for Virginia Tourism's "Virginia is for Music Lovers" campaign - conceived of by my former music buddy who'd invited me - which involved three bands (No BS was playing when I walked in), two drink tickets per person and, inexplicably, Cow Tails (as gross a candy as I can imagine, yet a friend was scheming to take any leftovers home).
There was also rock candy on a stick, one of those old fashioned treats I thought had slipped into complete obscurity but is apparently still a thing, at least at certain events.
Tourism merch abounded, but I settled for a button to add to the grouping on my lapel.
The ongoing (purple) rain necessitated a discussion of Prince which yielded one of the best stories imaginable. Explaining how Prince had been part of his life at every turn, a friend shared his youthful obsession with Prince's "Batman" album.
Of all the hilarious details that came out of his mouth, by far the best was, "I bullied my friends into doing the bat dance in a Batman play done on our BMX bikes."
The visual alone was Prince-worthy.
There were just the right number of people in the room: it felt lively but wasn't uncomfortable to move around. The words, "Virginia is for Music Lovers" had been painted on an upper wall, making a statement for years to come.
Ruby-throated Galax singer Dori Freeman was new to many of us but her spellbinding voice hushed the crowd in attention before more than a few people rushed over en masse to buy her new record of dreamy songs and honest lyrics.
My former neighbor and now mayoral candidate was there, so I paused to remind him that he used to be at far more shows before he began running for mayor. I discussed the imminent East End Festival with a trombone player of note who's also a member of the Folk Fest committee.
While lavishly-maned Avers rocked the room, a stylish friend explained why she's given away her larger clothes now that she's discovered the seductive pleasures of compliments and feeling better. A fellow writer and I commiserated about assignments, deadlines and bad copy editing.
An art conservationist recalled a trip riding shotgun to chaperone art in transit, trapped in an un-air-conditioned truck with Ann Coulter on the radio the entire time, clearly one of the nine circles of hell.
And that, my Bat-dancing friend, is as much as is going in the blog for tonight. But I am back.
Tonight a friend asked why I'd stopped, lamenting the loss of the cultural record-keeping I've done for the past seven years. Turns out he was fully unaware that I'd eventually started up again and can once more waste time on the state's dime catching up.
The post-Prince rain continues and for the briefest of moments, I considered staying in tonight to work but too much was happening to follow through on that momentary responsible whim.
Tonight's installment of Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia was a rainy evening book launch for "Monticello in Mind: 50 Contemporary Poems on Jefferson" and featured nine readers, some reading their own work, some not, and the book's editor, who referred to TJ as, "A very complicated lover of poetry who also happened to be a Founding Father."
Rita Dove's poem "What Doesn't Happen" was about Jefferson in Paris, while Elizabeth Sydel Morgan's "Symmetry" concerned the man's dialog between his head and heart. Virginia's poet laureate Ron Smith read his "Mr. Jefferson Speaks of Rapture: Natural Bridge, Virginia" and David Wojahn called himself the caboose (he was the final reader) before reading his poem, "Jefferson Composing His Bible" - wherein he eliminated all the miracles making for a far shorter version - and sharing that when TJ had lady troubles, he'd copy out poetry to quiet his mind.
Straight down Broad I went after the Jefferson fest for Sunset at the Hof, knowing full well that today's rain would preclude any sunset viewing from the rooftop bar, but hoping it wouldn't dampen the kickoff party for the renovated Hofheimer Building.
Of course I dug the history of the Mediterranean-style copper-domed building, formerly a rug cleaning business that used the rooftop to air dry rugs in the days before dryers. The mosaic tile were leftovers from building the Mosque and it has a bit of that feeling to it, albeit on a less grand scale.
So I climbed the historic steps (marked as such even) to the loft, where an exhibit of Todd Hale's high gloss paintings - one used manipulated film stills from "Fantasia" - took a backseat to the see and be seen crowd mingling in the vast space.
I gave them points for the architectural drawings of the building lining the hallway to the bathrooms, while upstairs, the enormous rooftop space delivered views in every direction, although not quite as far as Jackson Ward. Once the bar is completed, it's going to be a lovely place to hang out, assuming I can stand the crowd.
We'll chalk it up to synchronicity that Richmond had zero rooftop bars forever and now we'll have three almost simultaneously.
From Scott's Addition, I was barely a spit away from the Broadberry and the kickoff event for Virginia Tourism's "Virginia is for Music Lovers" campaign - conceived of by my former music buddy who'd invited me - which involved three bands (No BS was playing when I walked in), two drink tickets per person and, inexplicably, Cow Tails (as gross a candy as I can imagine, yet a friend was scheming to take any leftovers home).
There was also rock candy on a stick, one of those old fashioned treats I thought had slipped into complete obscurity but is apparently still a thing, at least at certain events.
Tourism merch abounded, but I settled for a button to add to the grouping on my lapel.
The ongoing (purple) rain necessitated a discussion of Prince which yielded one of the best stories imaginable. Explaining how Prince had been part of his life at every turn, a friend shared his youthful obsession with Prince's "Batman" album.
Of all the hilarious details that came out of his mouth, by far the best was, "I bullied my friends into doing the bat dance in a Batman play done on our BMX bikes."
The visual alone was Prince-worthy.
There were just the right number of people in the room: it felt lively but wasn't uncomfortable to move around. The words, "Virginia is for Music Lovers" had been painted on an upper wall, making a statement for years to come.
Ruby-throated Galax singer Dori Freeman was new to many of us but her spellbinding voice hushed the crowd in attention before more than a few people rushed over en masse to buy her new record of dreamy songs and honest lyrics.
My former neighbor and now mayoral candidate was there, so I paused to remind him that he used to be at far more shows before he began running for mayor. I discussed the imminent East End Festival with a trombone player of note who's also a member of the Folk Fest committee.
While lavishly-maned Avers rocked the room, a stylish friend explained why she's given away her larger clothes now that she's discovered the seductive pleasures of compliments and feeling better. A fellow writer and I commiserated about assignments, deadlines and bad copy editing.
An art conservationist recalled a trip riding shotgun to chaperone art in transit, trapped in an un-air-conditioned truck with Ann Coulter on the radio the entire time, clearly one of the nine circles of hell.
And that, my Bat-dancing friend, is as much as is going in the blog for tonight. But I am back.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Beat Around the Bush
Just another evening ending in a history discussion on the front porch with a history major and an international studies major around midnight.
I scored major points in a discussion of British colonialism when I referred to Europeans as an invasive species, a discussion that could be traced back to theirs about the migrating patterns of one guy's Philippine ancestors (psst, there's a Philippine/Virginia pipeline) when I'd walked up.
They, naturally, were chain smoking, practically lighting one from another in that intense, deep discussion manner they probably first saw in an old '80s movie. Don't forget, this is the apartment downstairs that also yielded two guitarists, neither of whom knew much of anything about Prince or his significance musically when I brought up his untimely death.
Guitar players.
I stumbled on the history round table after getting home from an evening out with friends, wherein I found myself introducing two neighbors who live seven houses apart and didn't know each other despite decades in proximity.
Jaws dropped when we heard the story of the crazy neighbor - they all knew her, hell, I recognized her - who'd arrived at the neighborhood "Alley Cat" party, not only dressed as a cat, but pushing a cat dressed as a cat in a carriage. One neighbor used an air whistle to alert a friend of a sighting of her.
That's part of the magic that happens at the seductively-lit (and is that something that only people of a certain age notice?) Pizza Tonight - which deserves the more apt new name it's about to get - as I showed Holmes and Beloved tonight on our first date in two months.
Knowing what the kitchen is capable of with cabbage, how could we not try the cauliflower and capers that wove its spell on Holmes, a confirmed non-cauliflower eater? Or Beloved's suggestion of the warm olives, so far removed from the cheap martini garnish as to be of a separate botanical genus?
When a server went to remove the plate of pits, she checked for missed olives. The bartender scoffed. "That look on her face when she put that first olive in her mouth? No way she was leaving one!" They already had Beloved's number.
Fair to say that they also had Holmes' and mine with the shoegazing, dreampop soundtrack. After several songs so up my music-from-a-cave alley (and Holmes') that we looked for its source: the selfsame observant bartender. Curious, we asked.
"It's a band called Nothing," she said, making sure we knew it was a band, as if we were either 1) musical idiots or 2) clueless old people, reinforced when a woman nearby pointed out, "Or you could have just said, "It's Nothing."
Once we dispelled those notions, the evening unfolded with hours more of good music as she played us more Nothing from their last record, "Guilty of Everything," (and aren't we all?) along with Failure and her favorite, Hum, who were big in the '90s and broke up when the new millennium rolled around.
When Holmes suggested Bob Moses to her, she knew nothing of the band. What kind of electronica do you like, I wanted to know. She thought for hardly a moment and responded, "ELO," surprising the hell out of me because I would go right to prog rock if asked that.
But then this where Holmes, the consummate musician, comes to the rescue, explaining that their extensive use of synthesizers puts them squarely in the electronica camp, which totally makes sense for a woman raised by a Dad who loved Meat Loaf and pre-1990 Springsteen.
Coming highly recommended for the pig parts, the pizza of the week, Porchetta, onions and mushrooms was irrefutable evidence that whatever this place calls itself name-wise, its roots were in terrific pizza (and on the fly, at that).
When Beloved bragged about her latest estate sale find of the soundtrack to "Hair," a staffer jumped in, saying he had two copies, both of which had been mistreated before he got them. You heard right, people were debating their favorite "Hair" song at the bar, as if it isn't common knowledge that "Good Morning, Starshine" is the clear winner there.
We were told a great RVA stereotype story: apparently there are West End women who come to Carytown to brunch, ending their giggling forays buying cards at Mongrel, cards they then return a few days later when sober, unwilling after all to send Mom an Easter card with three forms of the verb "to suck" on it.
Coaxing from me and the staff got my friends trying their first sugar toads, mastering the eating method easily and moaning about the richness of the buttery fish like they'd never had puffer fish before.
Over dessert of an almond cake an Italian would appreciate and a couple of exquisite cream puffs, we grooved to the '90s with Superdrag, another bartender fave ("I should have been born ten years earlier so I could have experienced the whole '90s thing firsthand.") making for interesting music at an appealing volume, an all too rare combination.
More than once we discussed Pop ' Roll, a sub genre of Rock that Holmes is devoted to, and, for the bartender, a different way of looking at her musical taste.
As pre-history debate meals go, it's pretty hard to beat low lighting, honest food and another evening heavy on laughs and early morning singing songs.
I scored major points in a discussion of British colonialism when I referred to Europeans as an invasive species, a discussion that could be traced back to theirs about the migrating patterns of one guy's Philippine ancestors (psst, there's a Philippine/Virginia pipeline) when I'd walked up.
They, naturally, were chain smoking, practically lighting one from another in that intense, deep discussion manner they probably first saw in an old '80s movie. Don't forget, this is the apartment downstairs that also yielded two guitarists, neither of whom knew much of anything about Prince or his significance musically when I brought up his untimely death.
Guitar players.
I stumbled on the history round table after getting home from an evening out with friends, wherein I found myself introducing two neighbors who live seven houses apart and didn't know each other despite decades in proximity.
Jaws dropped when we heard the story of the crazy neighbor - they all knew her, hell, I recognized her - who'd arrived at the neighborhood "Alley Cat" party, not only dressed as a cat, but pushing a cat dressed as a cat in a carriage. One neighbor used an air whistle to alert a friend of a sighting of her.
That's part of the magic that happens at the seductively-lit (and is that something that only people of a certain age notice?) Pizza Tonight - which deserves the more apt new name it's about to get - as I showed Holmes and Beloved tonight on our first date in two months.
Knowing what the kitchen is capable of with cabbage, how could we not try the cauliflower and capers that wove its spell on Holmes, a confirmed non-cauliflower eater? Or Beloved's suggestion of the warm olives, so far removed from the cheap martini garnish as to be of a separate botanical genus?
When a server went to remove the plate of pits, she checked for missed olives. The bartender scoffed. "That look on her face when she put that first olive in her mouth? No way she was leaving one!" They already had Beloved's number.
Fair to say that they also had Holmes' and mine with the shoegazing, dreampop soundtrack. After several songs so up my music-from-a-cave alley (and Holmes') that we looked for its source: the selfsame observant bartender. Curious, we asked.
"It's a band called Nothing," she said, making sure we knew it was a band, as if we were either 1) musical idiots or 2) clueless old people, reinforced when a woman nearby pointed out, "Or you could have just said, "It's Nothing."
Once we dispelled those notions, the evening unfolded with hours more of good music as she played us more Nothing from their last record, "Guilty of Everything," (and aren't we all?) along with Failure and her favorite, Hum, who were big in the '90s and broke up when the new millennium rolled around.
When Holmes suggested Bob Moses to her, she knew nothing of the band. What kind of electronica do you like, I wanted to know. She thought for hardly a moment and responded, "ELO," surprising the hell out of me because I would go right to prog rock if asked that.
But then this where Holmes, the consummate musician, comes to the rescue, explaining that their extensive use of synthesizers puts them squarely in the electronica camp, which totally makes sense for a woman raised by a Dad who loved Meat Loaf and pre-1990 Springsteen.
Coming highly recommended for the pig parts, the pizza of the week, Porchetta, onions and mushrooms was irrefutable evidence that whatever this place calls itself name-wise, its roots were in terrific pizza (and on the fly, at that).
When Beloved bragged about her latest estate sale find of the soundtrack to "Hair," a staffer jumped in, saying he had two copies, both of which had been mistreated before he got them. You heard right, people were debating their favorite "Hair" song at the bar, as if it isn't common knowledge that "Good Morning, Starshine" is the clear winner there.
We were told a great RVA stereotype story: apparently there are West End women who come to Carytown to brunch, ending their giggling forays buying cards at Mongrel, cards they then return a few days later when sober, unwilling after all to send Mom an Easter card with three forms of the verb "to suck" on it.
Coaxing from me and the staff got my friends trying their first sugar toads, mastering the eating method easily and moaning about the richness of the buttery fish like they'd never had puffer fish before.
Over dessert of an almond cake an Italian would appreciate and a couple of exquisite cream puffs, we grooved to the '90s with Superdrag, another bartender fave ("I should have been born ten years earlier so I could have experienced the whole '90s thing firsthand.") making for interesting music at an appealing volume, an all too rare combination.
More than once we discussed Pop ' Roll, a sub genre of Rock that Holmes is devoted to, and, for the bartender, a different way of looking at her musical taste.
As pre-history debate meals go, it's pretty hard to beat low lighting, honest food and another evening heavy on laughs and early morning singing songs.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
The Fourth Was With Us
Call me oblivious, but I'd never noticed the swift creek at Swift Creek Mill Theatre before.
It's not like I hadn't been there, I just hadn't heard the roar of the creek that I did today, undoubtedly a result of the almost non-stop rain we've had since Prince died. And roaring is no exaggeration. The original gristmill must have been wildly productive with that kind of water behind it.
Foto Boy and I were there for "Little Shop of Horrors," which, like the creek, I hadn't seen before. Oh, sure, I'd seen the 1986 film version but the play? Never.
And the eight-month run at Swift Creek Mill in 1986? That was the year I landed in Richmond and was far too busy adjusting to life in the county after Dupont Circle to pay attention to the local theater scene. Today allowed me to correct that.
Our pre-show lunch of salads, Nicoise and Cobb, at Garnett's ran long and as we slid into our seats a few short minutes before curtain, the woman next to us observed, "You're late!" and then smiled to show she was joking.
Everyone's a mother (or grandmother) at Swift Creek it seems.
Everything about the play was fun and well-executed, from helium-voiced Audra almost unrecognizable in a blond pageboy wig as Audrey, to Ian's earnest and nebbishy Seymour to Adam's shape-shifting takes on too many characters to count - the abusive dentist, the Life magazine reporter, the bum barfing on the street, Mrs. Luce - to the do-wop girls acting as a Greek chorus in bouffants, everybody hit their marks and projected energetic devotion to the comedy horror story.
Director Tom Width ably filled in for the actor who usually plays shop owner Mr. Mushnik, giving us a different "Little Shop" than most people have seen.
It was also a thrill to hear Audra and Ian sing "Suddenly Seymour," a song I've heard plenty of times at the Ghostlight After Party and any number of theater parties, but never live as part of the show.
Let's just say I can see why certain boys love to ham it up singing it after a few drinks.
And when all was said and done, the action wrapped up with a gaping Audrey II advancing on the theater audience while leaves and branches dropped down from the lighting to engulf us.
What else would we do during intermission but trek down to the creek to admire its high water and relentless rushing despite the enormous tree trunks clogging it? When I requested that Foto Boy snap me in front of this watery marvel, he tells me his cloud is full.
Do I even have a cloud, I ask of him. "No, of course you don't, you're Karen," he says. Which means if, as the cast sang, the meek will inherit, chances are slim I'll be getting any of that action, either.
Not meek
Don't have a cloud
Slow to notice a creek
Living out loud
Surely there's a song in there, right?
It's not like I hadn't been there, I just hadn't heard the roar of the creek that I did today, undoubtedly a result of the almost non-stop rain we've had since Prince died. And roaring is no exaggeration. The original gristmill must have been wildly productive with that kind of water behind it.
Foto Boy and I were there for "Little Shop of Horrors," which, like the creek, I hadn't seen before. Oh, sure, I'd seen the 1986 film version but the play? Never.
And the eight-month run at Swift Creek Mill in 1986? That was the year I landed in Richmond and was far too busy adjusting to life in the county after Dupont Circle to pay attention to the local theater scene. Today allowed me to correct that.
Our pre-show lunch of salads, Nicoise and Cobb, at Garnett's ran long and as we slid into our seats a few short minutes before curtain, the woman next to us observed, "You're late!" and then smiled to show she was joking.
Everyone's a mother (or grandmother) at Swift Creek it seems.
Everything about the play was fun and well-executed, from helium-voiced Audra almost unrecognizable in a blond pageboy wig as Audrey, to Ian's earnest and nebbishy Seymour to Adam's shape-shifting takes on too many characters to count - the abusive dentist, the Life magazine reporter, the bum barfing on the street, Mrs. Luce - to the do-wop girls acting as a Greek chorus in bouffants, everybody hit their marks and projected energetic devotion to the comedy horror story.
Director Tom Width ably filled in for the actor who usually plays shop owner Mr. Mushnik, giving us a different "Little Shop" than most people have seen.
It was also a thrill to hear Audra and Ian sing "Suddenly Seymour," a song I've heard plenty of times at the Ghostlight After Party and any number of theater parties, but never live as part of the show.
Let's just say I can see why certain boys love to ham it up singing it after a few drinks.
And when all was said and done, the action wrapped up with a gaping Audrey II advancing on the theater audience while leaves and branches dropped down from the lighting to engulf us.
What else would we do during intermission but trek down to the creek to admire its high water and relentless rushing despite the enormous tree trunks clogging it? When I requested that Foto Boy snap me in front of this watery marvel, he tells me his cloud is full.
Do I even have a cloud, I ask of him. "No, of course you don't, you're Karen," he says. Which means if, as the cast sang, the meek will inherit, chances are slim I'll be getting any of that action, either.
Not meek
Don't have a cloud
Slow to notice a creek
Living out loud
Surely there's a song in there, right?
Highway to the Danger Zone
So, those 18 years of near daily walking? Paid off in spades by 10:30 this morning.
"You've got a badass walk," a guy informs me on Cary Street as I walk toward Can Can to have an apricot scone while my companion destroys a half baguette, the sausage of the day and a French Press.
Badass, you read that right.
Fittingly, I end the day with Mac, who never seems to have an umbrella on a rainy day (you have to appreciate a person's idiosyncrasies) despite prodigious walking skills but who doesn't mind borrowing or mocking one of mine (what's a few broken spokes between friends?).
Umbrellas in hand, we made it to Saison Market before the deluge was unleashed on J-Ward. There was an appropriately groovy alternative soundtrack while we ate the Springiest of Spring salads: asparagus, fresh peas, pea shoots, radishes, carrots, pickled onions and goat cheese lovingly drizzled with a practically perfect coriander vinaigrette.
Because how much help, really, do Spring vegetables need?
Fact is, I've been craving asparagus since spotting bunches of local Northern Neck asparagus on the counter at Ellen's store yesterday.
We followed our salads with oxtail sopas, which looked so enticing that a woman who sat down next to us asked what they were as if she might order them. Originally from Mechanicsville, she'd worked at an Applebee's there, which had proved to her that she needed to escape Mechanicsville ignorance and move into the city (her words).
A trip to the loo resulted in a memorization exercise when I flipped on the light switch and found the bulbs burnt out, but I only had to open the door once to determine the position of the essentials. Mac's subsequent visit benefited from me alerting the staff to the darkness problem and only then did I learn that the chalkboard wall in the loo had become a tribute to Prince. Sorry to have missed that.
I didn't even need the purple umbrella for the trek to The Basement, but the front had changed dramatically while we were eating, making it far cooler and drier than it had been pre-rain.
On Broad Street, we ran into some theater types "taking a walk" which they said was code for "sharing some gossip and talking about people," and isn't that one reason why having a walking buddy is essential sometimes?
Down the steps to the Basement we went, only to be greeted by the Prince station playing - although naturally there was no actual Prince music - but who's going to whine about Sheila E. and MJ?
My only complaint was when a Marvin Gay song came on and someone (Mags, was that you?) skipped it forward to Earth, Wind and Fire, whom I have nothing against (in fact, everything for) but seriously, no one at any time should ever be allowed to skip Marvin.
While the music was Purple-themed, the Basment's loo read, "Have you kissed a Canadian today?' with a drawing of a maple leaf beneath it. And you know what? I hadn't.
Tonight's comedy show was called "The Set Up" and featured four of Richmond Comedy Theatre's finest doing long-form improv on the set of TheatreLAB's current production of "Venus in Fur." For the uninitiated, this gave them access to a lounge chair (the kind psychiatrists had in their offices in Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies in the '50s and '60s), a desk, a radiator, two metal folding chairs and a fur coat.
Oh, yes, and a flip phone that was touted as a "brand new $800 Nokia phone" and got tons of laughs.
Using a bad Uncle Cracker song (redundant, I know) as a starting point, the first two actors took the lyric, "Swim through your veins like a fish in the sea" as their starting point for a riff on a shaky marriage ("I told you marrying me was a big mistake"), a Caddyshack-themed wedding ("Remember when the priest came out of the hole in the ground?") and a deluded attempt to arrange for more couple quality time to get the magic back by having their daughter kidnapped ("I have to come home every night and clean up my life!").
The crowd wasn't large but most everyone was doubled over with laughter watching masturbation under a fur coat and frustration with putting shoes on ("Double knots!").
Two people in the audience became part of the show with their non-stop commentary ("Oh, no, he did not just do that!") and reactions (hand slap to forehead, shaking head in disgust) as the drama and comedy unfolded.
Intermission gave everyone time to refill their glasses and give their face a rest from cracking up. Those of us huddled under a windbreaker were thrilled when the artistic director dialed back the A/C and put the warmth back in May.
For the second skit, the jumping off point was a song called "Nobody's Darlin' But Mine" - somebody in the audience's wedding song, awwww - with a line about, "Come lay your sweet head on my brow."
Somehow, this took us to the Founding Fathers' penchant for rye whiskey ("That's how they balled out") and getting the McGillicuddy contact ("Mama's gonna eat a lobster tonight!"). Maybe you have to be there to understand the transition, but it made perfect sense at the time.
What soon became clear was that when someone gets a grant to map the genome of a human squirrel, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to her injecting herself with squirrel venom containing squirrel genome.
The only problem with someone admitting, "I'm going to level with you, I'm 75% squirrel now," is that it also means they now have strong, furry thighs to climb a tree and that's not everyone's cup of tea (or bag of nuts).
With a cohabitation clause stipulating, "And they lived happily ever after" in her work contact, the squirrel woman finds out that contractually, she has to live in a tree with her coworker.
When he offers to inject himself with squirrel venom, she tells him, "I'm not attracted to squirrels," but she does sit him down to school him on what is and is not acceptable to say to squirrels.
She didn't mention it, but I'm pretty sure it's always okay to tell a human squirrel that she has a badass scamper. It's all in the furry thighs.
"You've got a badass walk," a guy informs me on Cary Street as I walk toward Can Can to have an apricot scone while my companion destroys a half baguette, the sausage of the day and a French Press.
Badass, you read that right.
Fittingly, I end the day with Mac, who never seems to have an umbrella on a rainy day (you have to appreciate a person's idiosyncrasies) despite prodigious walking skills but who doesn't mind borrowing or mocking one of mine (what's a few broken spokes between friends?).
Umbrellas in hand, we made it to Saison Market before the deluge was unleashed on J-Ward. There was an appropriately groovy alternative soundtrack while we ate the Springiest of Spring salads: asparagus, fresh peas, pea shoots, radishes, carrots, pickled onions and goat cheese lovingly drizzled with a practically perfect coriander vinaigrette.
Because how much help, really, do Spring vegetables need?
Fact is, I've been craving asparagus since spotting bunches of local Northern Neck asparagus on the counter at Ellen's store yesterday.
We followed our salads with oxtail sopas, which looked so enticing that a woman who sat down next to us asked what they were as if she might order them. Originally from Mechanicsville, she'd worked at an Applebee's there, which had proved to her that she needed to escape Mechanicsville ignorance and move into the city (her words).
A trip to the loo resulted in a memorization exercise when I flipped on the light switch and found the bulbs burnt out, but I only had to open the door once to determine the position of the essentials. Mac's subsequent visit benefited from me alerting the staff to the darkness problem and only then did I learn that the chalkboard wall in the loo had become a tribute to Prince. Sorry to have missed that.
I didn't even need the purple umbrella for the trek to The Basement, but the front had changed dramatically while we were eating, making it far cooler and drier than it had been pre-rain.
On Broad Street, we ran into some theater types "taking a walk" which they said was code for "sharing some gossip and talking about people," and isn't that one reason why having a walking buddy is essential sometimes?
Down the steps to the Basement we went, only to be greeted by the Prince station playing - although naturally there was no actual Prince music - but who's going to whine about Sheila E. and MJ?
My only complaint was when a Marvin Gay song came on and someone (Mags, was that you?) skipped it forward to Earth, Wind and Fire, whom I have nothing against (in fact, everything for) but seriously, no one at any time should ever be allowed to skip Marvin.
While the music was Purple-themed, the Basment's loo read, "Have you kissed a Canadian today?' with a drawing of a maple leaf beneath it. And you know what? I hadn't.
Tonight's comedy show was called "The Set Up" and featured four of Richmond Comedy Theatre's finest doing long-form improv on the set of TheatreLAB's current production of "Venus in Fur." For the uninitiated, this gave them access to a lounge chair (the kind psychiatrists had in their offices in Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies in the '50s and '60s), a desk, a radiator, two metal folding chairs and a fur coat.
Oh, yes, and a flip phone that was touted as a "brand new $800 Nokia phone" and got tons of laughs.
Using a bad Uncle Cracker song (redundant, I know) as a starting point, the first two actors took the lyric, "Swim through your veins like a fish in the sea" as their starting point for a riff on a shaky marriage ("I told you marrying me was a big mistake"), a Caddyshack-themed wedding ("Remember when the priest came out of the hole in the ground?") and a deluded attempt to arrange for more couple quality time to get the magic back by having their daughter kidnapped ("I have to come home every night and clean up my life!").
The crowd wasn't large but most everyone was doubled over with laughter watching masturbation under a fur coat and frustration with putting shoes on ("Double knots!").
Two people in the audience became part of the show with their non-stop commentary ("Oh, no, he did not just do that!") and reactions (hand slap to forehead, shaking head in disgust) as the drama and comedy unfolded.
Intermission gave everyone time to refill their glasses and give their face a rest from cracking up. Those of us huddled under a windbreaker were thrilled when the artistic director dialed back the A/C and put the warmth back in May.
For the second skit, the jumping off point was a song called "Nobody's Darlin' But Mine" - somebody in the audience's wedding song, awwww - with a line about, "Come lay your sweet head on my brow."
Somehow, this took us to the Founding Fathers' penchant for rye whiskey ("That's how they balled out") and getting the McGillicuddy contact ("Mama's gonna eat a lobster tonight!"). Maybe you have to be there to understand the transition, but it made perfect sense at the time.
What soon became clear was that when someone gets a grant to map the genome of a human squirrel, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to her injecting herself with squirrel venom containing squirrel genome.
The only problem with someone admitting, "I'm going to level with you, I'm 75% squirrel now," is that it also means they now have strong, furry thighs to climb a tree and that's not everyone's cup of tea (or bag of nuts).
With a cohabitation clause stipulating, "And they lived happily ever after" in her work contact, the squirrel woman finds out that contractually, she has to live in a tree with her coworker.
When he offers to inject himself with squirrel venom, she tells him, "I'm not attracted to squirrels," but she does sit him down to school him on what is and is not acceptable to say to squirrels.
She didn't mention it, but I'm pretty sure it's always okay to tell a human squirrel that she has a badass scamper. It's all in the furry thighs.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
Harder: Change or Acceptance?
Sunday recap: It was a singular experience, both thrilling and demanding, to be asleep in a single bed on the screened porch of a guesthouse at the river when thunder and lightening roll in on three sides of me in the middle of the night. Truly, I felt the final thunderclap, painfully loud and incredibly near, reverberate inside my body. Okay, okay, you didn't have to shout.
Sometimes when you need it most, the universe delivers.
In the spirit of Helen Mirren wearing a purple dress in tribute to Prince at the White House Correspondents' dinner, I have been carrying a purple umbrella practically nonstop for over a week. The frequent showers have allowed me to grieve in my own purple way.
I'd barely left the house to walk over to Gallery 5 when a thunderclap announced the beginning of my night, rain began and out my Purpleness came again. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem walking in the rain, especially when it's warm, but I like it best from under an umbrella.
Hearing my name called as I reached for the gallery door, I saw a musician friend and sat down in an alcove to talk, where we were joined by guy who recognized her from a house show in Blacksburg. Next thing we knew, he was warming up his voice to ably demonstrate that he could throat sing, a rare skill in this town outside of Folk Fest weekend.
And that randomness doesn't even make it into the top tier tonight.
While I'd heard of Dharma Bombs, I didn't know what their sound was, but with four horns, guitar and bass, it very quickly showed itself to be a rousing mashup with some Dixieland roots that worked because of the group's sheer enthusiasm, energy and talent.
Or perhaps because of their intention to "chase away our Mondays."
The lead singer was barefoot and full of gusto for performing, which is not to say that the horn players weren't because the trumpeter pulled in a few jazz-like rounds of applause for his solos, the clarinet player had the crowd eating out of his hand, the sax players wailed and the bass player did an extended intro with no one else playing to highlight his abilities.
A rousing spiritual called "Glory, Bernie" ("Sing it with me!") was a bona fide toe-tapper while "Abigail" was more of a lament ("I went down to St. James Infirmary/To see my baby there/ Laid out on a cold, white table/ So calm, so cold, so fair") involving whiskey and "The Virginia Swing" closed out the set, appropriate given that people had been dancing throughout.
And if dancing on a Monday night isn't good for the soul, I don't know what is.
During the break, I caught up with my favorite silent movie expert about the public orchard he and others are spearheading on Southside. He's discovering the enormous satisfaction of working on an issue at the grass roots level to bring about change, even when you have to dance the bureaucratic dance to make it so.
This is just part of what makes him and his partner two of the grooviest people I count as friends.
We traded sides of the room when the Sun Flights took the stage, eager to be able to see all four band members: the two women who were the original members and the two guys recently added in to fill out their sound and add more beautiful voices to what was already exquisite harmony.
Seems they'd heard about Gallery 5 back in 2014 and been eager to play it ever since. "We made it out to the river today!" they shared with the crowd who responded with shouts of affirmation. "That's exactly how we felt about it!"
It's old news that I'm a sucker for harmonies and not only did they wow us with two and three-part versions, but they knocked it out of the park with a cover of "500 Miles," with each band member singing lead on a verse and breaking our hearts on the chorus singing together.
During their set, I used the friend card to call out a couple who were chatting near me while I was trying to lose myself in the ethereal harmonies onstage. Tapping on their shoulders, I whispered, "Two musicians walk into a venue. Who do you suppose were the talkers while another band played?"
The looks on their faces were priceless: surprise at my bossiness, perhaps, but also guilt because they are musicians and like people to pay attention to them. Pointing at each other, they mutually acknowledged that they'd been shot down.
All that matters is that turned their attention to their brethren onstage.
Referring to Virginia's river issues with Dominion Power, Sun Flights' last song was "These Times" (heaven help us with these times) which followed the introduction of the two new members of the Sun Flights project, who've sort of taken them from house show status to full-on venue status.
"Well, they were absolutely delightful," the guy next to me said. Turns out he'd come because a friend had told him he needed to see Lobo Marino, so I satisfied his curiosity about what he could expect as the duo began to set up (except his questions about the harmonium, which I hadn't a clue about).
Laney announced that while they got set up, there was going to be a Maypole dance since it was May first and that it would be set to Talking Heads.
A decorated May pole was produced and show-goers claimed ribbons attached to it to participate in the pagan ritual as one of the two guys next to me shook his head and grinned. Where else in Richmond could we be watching a Maypole dance set to Talking Heads? I wanted to know.
"Where else in the world?" one asked rhetorically, smiling happily.
Not judging here, but it was clear that not everyone participating understood right away the concept of going over and under the other ribbons, but eventually, the ribbons began to braid over the pole until it was mostly covered.
Ahh, can you feel it? Now May can begin.
Jameson began by telling the crowd to relax and let things happen, that they were going to ask us to step outside our comfort zones. "But not in a creepy way," Laney qualified. "In a migratory way."
When they performed the always-stirring "Holy River," a dancer named Sara in belly dancing garb took the stage behind them to undulate to the music, undoubtedly the first time many in the room had seen such dancing.
"Okay, here's where it starts to get experimental," Laney said. Jameson pulled out his mouth harp and played drum with his ankle, Laney played the rim of the drum and one of the Dharma Bombs' horn players appeared to blow. Midway through the song, DB's clarinetist and guitarist slunk through the curtains and joined in.
Then it was time to leave our zones. Jameson and Laney told us we were taking it to the streets and to grab some of the gigantic puppet heads sitting around.
With the musicians leading the way, the entire audience did a Pied Piper, following them down to Zephyr Gallery where people at the door were handing out small, lit white candles as we spilled in.
The gallery was dark, lit mainly by candles and the musicians sat down on the floor at the back and the audience filled up the floor in front of them. On the walls was art related to the mural projects, being readied for the First Fridays opening in a few days.
It was like we'd been led to a secret art temple to witness another Spring rite.
Listening to "We Hear the Ocean" in that hushed gallery was just short of a mystical experience. An a capella song followed with the audience providing the only accompaniment, our finger snapping.
"Candle down!" someone called out when a pillar was spotted horizontal. "Josh, can you get that?" someone called. "Oh, shit," Josh exclaimed before righting the wrong and making everyone feel a little safer.
And what would Laney say to all this, but, "See, this is what community is all about." Candles and May poles, spirituals and puppet heads, heavenly harmonies and migratory shows.
All that and walking home under the purple, in the rain. Where else, indeed?
Sometimes when you need it most, the universe delivers.
In the spirit of Helen Mirren wearing a purple dress in tribute to Prince at the White House Correspondents' dinner, I have been carrying a purple umbrella practically nonstop for over a week. The frequent showers have allowed me to grieve in my own purple way.
I'd barely left the house to walk over to Gallery 5 when a thunderclap announced the beginning of my night, rain began and out my Purpleness came again. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem walking in the rain, especially when it's warm, but I like it best from under an umbrella.
Hearing my name called as I reached for the gallery door, I saw a musician friend and sat down in an alcove to talk, where we were joined by guy who recognized her from a house show in Blacksburg. Next thing we knew, he was warming up his voice to ably demonstrate that he could throat sing, a rare skill in this town outside of Folk Fest weekend.
And that randomness doesn't even make it into the top tier tonight.
While I'd heard of Dharma Bombs, I didn't know what their sound was, but with four horns, guitar and bass, it very quickly showed itself to be a rousing mashup with some Dixieland roots that worked because of the group's sheer enthusiasm, energy and talent.
Or perhaps because of their intention to "chase away our Mondays."
The lead singer was barefoot and full of gusto for performing, which is not to say that the horn players weren't because the trumpeter pulled in a few jazz-like rounds of applause for his solos, the clarinet player had the crowd eating out of his hand, the sax players wailed and the bass player did an extended intro with no one else playing to highlight his abilities.
A rousing spiritual called "Glory, Bernie" ("Sing it with me!") was a bona fide toe-tapper while "Abigail" was more of a lament ("I went down to St. James Infirmary/To see my baby there/ Laid out on a cold, white table/ So calm, so cold, so fair") involving whiskey and "The Virginia Swing" closed out the set, appropriate given that people had been dancing throughout.
And if dancing on a Monday night isn't good for the soul, I don't know what is.
During the break, I caught up with my favorite silent movie expert about the public orchard he and others are spearheading on Southside. He's discovering the enormous satisfaction of working on an issue at the grass roots level to bring about change, even when you have to dance the bureaucratic dance to make it so.
This is just part of what makes him and his partner two of the grooviest people I count as friends.
We traded sides of the room when the Sun Flights took the stage, eager to be able to see all four band members: the two women who were the original members and the two guys recently added in to fill out their sound and add more beautiful voices to what was already exquisite harmony.
Seems they'd heard about Gallery 5 back in 2014 and been eager to play it ever since. "We made it out to the river today!" they shared with the crowd who responded with shouts of affirmation. "That's exactly how we felt about it!"
It's old news that I'm a sucker for harmonies and not only did they wow us with two and three-part versions, but they knocked it out of the park with a cover of "500 Miles," with each band member singing lead on a verse and breaking our hearts on the chorus singing together.
During their set, I used the friend card to call out a couple who were chatting near me while I was trying to lose myself in the ethereal harmonies onstage. Tapping on their shoulders, I whispered, "Two musicians walk into a venue. Who do you suppose were the talkers while another band played?"
The looks on their faces were priceless: surprise at my bossiness, perhaps, but also guilt because they are musicians and like people to pay attention to them. Pointing at each other, they mutually acknowledged that they'd been shot down.
All that matters is that turned their attention to their brethren onstage.
Referring to Virginia's river issues with Dominion Power, Sun Flights' last song was "These Times" (heaven help us with these times) which followed the introduction of the two new members of the Sun Flights project, who've sort of taken them from house show status to full-on venue status.
"Well, they were absolutely delightful," the guy next to me said. Turns out he'd come because a friend had told him he needed to see Lobo Marino, so I satisfied his curiosity about what he could expect as the duo began to set up (except his questions about the harmonium, which I hadn't a clue about).
Laney announced that while they got set up, there was going to be a Maypole dance since it was May first and that it would be set to Talking Heads.
A decorated May pole was produced and show-goers claimed ribbons attached to it to participate in the pagan ritual as one of the two guys next to me shook his head and grinned. Where else in Richmond could we be watching a Maypole dance set to Talking Heads? I wanted to know.
"Where else in the world?" one asked rhetorically, smiling happily.
Not judging here, but it was clear that not everyone participating understood right away the concept of going over and under the other ribbons, but eventually, the ribbons began to braid over the pole until it was mostly covered.
Ahh, can you feel it? Now May can begin.
Jameson began by telling the crowd to relax and let things happen, that they were going to ask us to step outside our comfort zones. "But not in a creepy way," Laney qualified. "In a migratory way."
When they performed the always-stirring "Holy River," a dancer named Sara in belly dancing garb took the stage behind them to undulate to the music, undoubtedly the first time many in the room had seen such dancing.
"Okay, here's where it starts to get experimental," Laney said. Jameson pulled out his mouth harp and played drum with his ankle, Laney played the rim of the drum and one of the Dharma Bombs' horn players appeared to blow. Midway through the song, DB's clarinetist and guitarist slunk through the curtains and joined in.
Then it was time to leave our zones. Jameson and Laney told us we were taking it to the streets and to grab some of the gigantic puppet heads sitting around.
With the musicians leading the way, the entire audience did a Pied Piper, following them down to Zephyr Gallery where people at the door were handing out small, lit white candles as we spilled in.
The gallery was dark, lit mainly by candles and the musicians sat down on the floor at the back and the audience filled up the floor in front of them. On the walls was art related to the mural projects, being readied for the First Fridays opening in a few days.
It was like we'd been led to a secret art temple to witness another Spring rite.
Listening to "We Hear the Ocean" in that hushed gallery was just short of a mystical experience. An a capella song followed with the audience providing the only accompaniment, our finger snapping.
"Candle down!" someone called out when a pillar was spotted horizontal. "Josh, can you get that?" someone called. "Oh, shit," Josh exclaimed before righting the wrong and making everyone feel a little safer.
And what would Laney say to all this, but, "See, this is what community is all about." Candles and May poles, spirituals and puppet heads, heavenly harmonies and migratory shows.
All that and walking home under the purple, in the rain. Where else, indeed?
Sunday, May 1, 2016
The Enormous Sighs
Stayin' close, keeping it Southern.
It would have been wrong to have eaten anything else before a Tennessee Williams play, don't you think? Sure, I knew Mama J's Kitchen would be crowded at prime dinnertime, but there was only one of me, so I figured I had a much better shot at a seat than the groups around me.
Skulking about close to the bar, I spotted a guy easing out of his stool and quickly made my move, asking if it was now free. "Have a seat," the man said graciously. "Look at you, being all aggressive or else you're just a pro at this."
Ten years in Jackson Ward, my friend, I know how to score a seat in this place. Busy as it was tonight, it was nothing like I've seen it on some occasions and despite the hostess having told me that it would be an hour and a half wait for a table, people were being seated in far less time.
Waiting for my dinner to arrive, I was entertained by the dishwasher when he brought out a rack of glasses. "Look at those glasses glistening like diamonds!" he said to me smiling. "I am so good at my job!"
The woman next to me wanted the same drink she'd had last time she was in, except she had no idea what it had been. "It was red and fruity and really delicious," was about all she could offer the bartender.
When my plate arrived, it had three pieces of fried chicken instead of two and the bartender explained it away by saying, "It's because the breast was kind of small." For the record, the breast was nothing like small, but who am I to complain about extra fried chicken?
Only problem was that three pieces plus sides put me way over my full threshold, so I didn't get a slice of cake, despite the guy near me raving about how they finally had German chocolate cake (his was already boxed up while he finished his third drink), although it was the black and white cake I had my eye on tonight.
I had to thread my way through a crowd of fifteen or so to get to the door, but I bet they were all seated before I even got to Virginia Rep a few blocks away.
Tonight I was seeing Williams' "Summer and Smoke" for the first time and walking into the theater, the audience was rewarded with just the kind of southern Gothic set you'd hope for. A massive "stone" angel fountain with water spigots dominated, with Spanish moss hanging everywhere and two smaller Victorian-looking room sets in front.
This production has great sentimental value because it is Virginia Rep's artistic director Bruce Miller's final directing job after 41 years with the company. Appropriately, the evening began with the actors talking about the formation of Barksdale Theater, which eventually became VA Rep.
It was a fabulous story: In 1953, six young NYC theater actors risked everything by buying a dilapidated old tavern (no indoor plumbing, no glass in the windows) with plans to turn it into a theater. A week later, they did a reading of "Summer and Smoke" in the basement for no one but themselves.
You could move to New Orleans and have a mysteriously colorful life like your aunt.
Out of necessity, every morning, the group, with a bar of soap in one hand and a towel in the other, would head up to Taylor's Pond to bathe. Naturally, hearing this just made me curious about the pond and I intend to find it next time I go to a play at Hanover Tavern, you can be sure.
There are women who want to love and be loved in a physical manner.
Miller had brilliantly chosen a deliberately young cast - a nod to those actors who'd come to Hanover - and while it was a tad jarring at first to see a 20-something playing the father of a 20-something, the talented Charley Raintree pulled it off.
Remembering last night and anticipating the next one...
The story of a frustrated preacher's daughter and the wild and undisciplined doctor's son who lives next door had all the usual Williams tropes: mentally unbalanced mother, the Southern belle hoping to be saved by a man, traveling salesmen, a hot Southern setting, men in white suits, all enhanced by excellent staging and nuanced acting (it's almost painful to watch Alexander Sapp's character's dissolution over the summer, so believable is his acting).
I've settled with life on the most comfortable terms.
Not knowing the story added a great deal to tonight's experience because while I never expected a Williams play to end happily, I couldn't have anticipated seeing two characters effectively change mindsets with each other, she finally craving the physical and him the spiritual.
Amen, sister. I'm dewy at the thought.
Bruce Miller picked a hell of a way to go out, effectively marrying the nostalgic - the original troupe's first reading 63 years ago - with one of Williams' under-produced but compelling plays and making sure it was done incredibly well.
Sexual repression dealt with, now I'm ready for that piece of cake.
It would have been wrong to have eaten anything else before a Tennessee Williams play, don't you think? Sure, I knew Mama J's Kitchen would be crowded at prime dinnertime, but there was only one of me, so I figured I had a much better shot at a seat than the groups around me.
Skulking about close to the bar, I spotted a guy easing out of his stool and quickly made my move, asking if it was now free. "Have a seat," the man said graciously. "Look at you, being all aggressive or else you're just a pro at this."
Ten years in Jackson Ward, my friend, I know how to score a seat in this place. Busy as it was tonight, it was nothing like I've seen it on some occasions and despite the hostess having told me that it would be an hour and a half wait for a table, people were being seated in far less time.
Waiting for my dinner to arrive, I was entertained by the dishwasher when he brought out a rack of glasses. "Look at those glasses glistening like diamonds!" he said to me smiling. "I am so good at my job!"
The woman next to me wanted the same drink she'd had last time she was in, except she had no idea what it had been. "It was red and fruity and really delicious," was about all she could offer the bartender.
When my plate arrived, it had three pieces of fried chicken instead of two and the bartender explained it away by saying, "It's because the breast was kind of small." For the record, the breast was nothing like small, but who am I to complain about extra fried chicken?
Only problem was that three pieces plus sides put me way over my full threshold, so I didn't get a slice of cake, despite the guy near me raving about how they finally had German chocolate cake (his was already boxed up while he finished his third drink), although it was the black and white cake I had my eye on tonight.
I had to thread my way through a crowd of fifteen or so to get to the door, but I bet they were all seated before I even got to Virginia Rep a few blocks away.
Tonight I was seeing Williams' "Summer and Smoke" for the first time and walking into the theater, the audience was rewarded with just the kind of southern Gothic set you'd hope for. A massive "stone" angel fountain with water spigots dominated, with Spanish moss hanging everywhere and two smaller Victorian-looking room sets in front.
This production has great sentimental value because it is Virginia Rep's artistic director Bruce Miller's final directing job after 41 years with the company. Appropriately, the evening began with the actors talking about the formation of Barksdale Theater, which eventually became VA Rep.
It was a fabulous story: In 1953, six young NYC theater actors risked everything by buying a dilapidated old tavern (no indoor plumbing, no glass in the windows) with plans to turn it into a theater. A week later, they did a reading of "Summer and Smoke" in the basement for no one but themselves.
You could move to New Orleans and have a mysteriously colorful life like your aunt.
Out of necessity, every morning, the group, with a bar of soap in one hand and a towel in the other, would head up to Taylor's Pond to bathe. Naturally, hearing this just made me curious about the pond and I intend to find it next time I go to a play at Hanover Tavern, you can be sure.
There are women who want to love and be loved in a physical manner.
Miller had brilliantly chosen a deliberately young cast - a nod to those actors who'd come to Hanover - and while it was a tad jarring at first to see a 20-something playing the father of a 20-something, the talented Charley Raintree pulled it off.
Remembering last night and anticipating the next one...
The story of a frustrated preacher's daughter and the wild and undisciplined doctor's son who lives next door had all the usual Williams tropes: mentally unbalanced mother, the Southern belle hoping to be saved by a man, traveling salesmen, a hot Southern setting, men in white suits, all enhanced by excellent staging and nuanced acting (it's almost painful to watch Alexander Sapp's character's dissolution over the summer, so believable is his acting).
I've settled with life on the most comfortable terms.
Not knowing the story added a great deal to tonight's experience because while I never expected a Williams play to end happily, I couldn't have anticipated seeing two characters effectively change mindsets with each other, she finally craving the physical and him the spiritual.
Amen, sister. I'm dewy at the thought.
Bruce Miller picked a hell of a way to go out, effectively marrying the nostalgic - the original troupe's first reading 63 years ago - with one of Williams' under-produced but compelling plays and making sure it was done incredibly well.
Sexual repression dealt with, now I'm ready for that piece of cake.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Honk If You See Me
Sometimes, you take a newspaper to a restaurant, only to get moved three times.
Every seat at Amuse's bar was taken when I walked in, so I was directed to one of the mod green chairs, a perfectly fine perch for a solo diner intent on reading her Washington Post and all the better if I could find someone who wanted to read a section with me.
Just as I was finishing the Weekend section, sipping a glass of Rose and awaiting my food, I was asked if I minded moving so a group of four could use the chairs.
No problem. I took a chair near a couple who told me they were busy dissecting their awful Friday, but since my day had consisted of a walk (where one of the guys down on Dock Street had greeted me by saying, "I'd recognize that walk anywhere! Where's your hat today?") and hours in at my desk writing to make a deadline, I didn't have a lot to complain about with them.
It was a bit awkward trying to eat chicken tortilla soup while seated in a deep chair hovering over a low bar table, but the bartender's recommendation of the soup was right on. Full of chicken, chickpeas and tortilla strips, the broth had the level of heat that ensures you crave another bite immediately but not so hot that it was ever burning my mouth.
I was only halfway through the bowl when I was alerted that a seat had opened up at the bar, if I was willing to move yet again. With another drippy course on the way, it seemed wise to get to a closer surface to eat off of.
The bar crowd welcomed me into their fold, I cleaned my bowl of soup and started on a bowl of Mussels and ham in a white wine butter broth that eventually left me in a butter coma after sopping up an obscene amount of it.
Needing to move for fear I'd fall asleep, I strolled the new photography show, "Kertesz," marveling at the photographer's Modernist eye in the collection of stunning black and white images, some familiar like the one of two people looking at a circus through a hole in a fence. For another, Kertesz used his brothers as models, the two in Speedos, holding hands and using their body weight to counterbalance each other in mid-air.
I'll need to go back when I have a bit more time to scope out the show in full.
When a familiar face called my name, I joined their group, which involved tasting a new cocktail of mezcal, moonshine, pineapple juice and vanilla shrub (you'll never disappoint me with a mezcal cocktail) and discussing my trip to California with one who lived there a dozen years. It isn't often I meet someone who's also stayed at the Timber Cove Lodge, so that made for a delightful surprise.
Another restaurant type informed me that she'd spotted me in my natural habitat - J-Ward - recognized me immediately ("I spotted those legs and knew it was you!") but resisted the urge to hit the horn, knowing I wouldn't recognize her car. What's a random honk among friends?
Despite the dining room being completely full, for a change the bar wasn't overcrowded, so we had no guilt camping out to reminisce about the history of Richmond's restaurant scene and why certain neighborhoods are so far superior to others. Fan? No, thank you. Church Hill? Too isolated. Woodland Heights? Not for me.
When I pulled out my card to pay, I made a crack about its prehistoric nature since I don't yet have a chip card. As soon as I said it, the guy in the seat next to me whipped around to explain that if I called Wells Fargo, I could get a chip card immediately.
He pulled out his card to show me the graphic pattern he'd designed to go on his card and suggested when I do get my new card that I have an image put on it (so, yes, this stranger was trying to drag me into the 21st century right here at the bar) to further personalize it.
Explaining patiently to him that I'd only gotten a Wells Fargo card last year - yes, I've been carrying around a Wachovia card for years after the 2009 merger - he laughed.
I'm in no hurry for a chip card, I told him, because I'm a Luddite. When I said I had no cell phone, he countered proudly that he didn't use Facebook, Instagram or Twitter. As a 29-year old, he thinks his generation is losing social skills due to reliance on technology and as a millennial who realizes this, he's an exception.
The funny part was, he sees the generation behind him (the early 20-somethings) as completely clueless and overly-dependent on devices in a much worse way than his people. I tried not to laugh at the distinction, then belatedly noticed he had a companion.
Wait, are you on a date? Yes, he says and turns back to it reluctantly. Good luck and godspeed with that, friend.
I got home to find a message waiting for me requesting the pleasure of my company and before long I was walking over to the Comedy Theater for some laughs and a Red Eye chocolate chip cookie, which, if you ask me, was a cookie tailored to the taste of generations raised on slice and bake cookies.
Overly sweet, not enough texture, just a lame sort of cookie. Granted, their target demographic is students studying and munched out at 2 a.m. and that's not me, but I couldn't help but be disappointed.
Luckily, the comedy made up for the cookie with the Disco Lemonade team kicking things off with a skit about boys - What do dudes like to do? Play video games and smash things - and the Work Family team taking on this unfortunate election cycle - I am a millennial and we are the future - with no hesitation about slamming Trump - I went to a restaurant and there was no T-bone on the menu. What's this world coming to? - and the rationalizations of racism - I think I'm a cute racist - all in pursuit of laughs.
Walking home in the finest of drizzles, my butter coma finally starting to wear off, I took stock of my evening. A few good laughs and excellent food and wine savored in multiple seats, although epic failure at finding a fellow reader.
Wait, I went to an art-filled restaurant and there were no newspaper-readers to discuss its articles with? What's this world coming to?
Every seat at Amuse's bar was taken when I walked in, so I was directed to one of the mod green chairs, a perfectly fine perch for a solo diner intent on reading her Washington Post and all the better if I could find someone who wanted to read a section with me.
Just as I was finishing the Weekend section, sipping a glass of Rose and awaiting my food, I was asked if I minded moving so a group of four could use the chairs.
No problem. I took a chair near a couple who told me they were busy dissecting their awful Friday, but since my day had consisted of a walk (where one of the guys down on Dock Street had greeted me by saying, "I'd recognize that walk anywhere! Where's your hat today?") and hours in at my desk writing to make a deadline, I didn't have a lot to complain about with them.
It was a bit awkward trying to eat chicken tortilla soup while seated in a deep chair hovering over a low bar table, but the bartender's recommendation of the soup was right on. Full of chicken, chickpeas and tortilla strips, the broth had the level of heat that ensures you crave another bite immediately but not so hot that it was ever burning my mouth.
I was only halfway through the bowl when I was alerted that a seat had opened up at the bar, if I was willing to move yet again. With another drippy course on the way, it seemed wise to get to a closer surface to eat off of.
The bar crowd welcomed me into their fold, I cleaned my bowl of soup and started on a bowl of Mussels and ham in a white wine butter broth that eventually left me in a butter coma after sopping up an obscene amount of it.
Needing to move for fear I'd fall asleep, I strolled the new photography show, "Kertesz," marveling at the photographer's Modernist eye in the collection of stunning black and white images, some familiar like the one of two people looking at a circus through a hole in a fence. For another, Kertesz used his brothers as models, the two in Speedos, holding hands and using their body weight to counterbalance each other in mid-air.
I'll need to go back when I have a bit more time to scope out the show in full.
When a familiar face called my name, I joined their group, which involved tasting a new cocktail of mezcal, moonshine, pineapple juice and vanilla shrub (you'll never disappoint me with a mezcal cocktail) and discussing my trip to California with one who lived there a dozen years. It isn't often I meet someone who's also stayed at the Timber Cove Lodge, so that made for a delightful surprise.
Another restaurant type informed me that she'd spotted me in my natural habitat - J-Ward - recognized me immediately ("I spotted those legs and knew it was you!") but resisted the urge to hit the horn, knowing I wouldn't recognize her car. What's a random honk among friends?
Despite the dining room being completely full, for a change the bar wasn't overcrowded, so we had no guilt camping out to reminisce about the history of Richmond's restaurant scene and why certain neighborhoods are so far superior to others. Fan? No, thank you. Church Hill? Too isolated. Woodland Heights? Not for me.
When I pulled out my card to pay, I made a crack about its prehistoric nature since I don't yet have a chip card. As soon as I said it, the guy in the seat next to me whipped around to explain that if I called Wells Fargo, I could get a chip card immediately.
He pulled out his card to show me the graphic pattern he'd designed to go on his card and suggested when I do get my new card that I have an image put on it (so, yes, this stranger was trying to drag me into the 21st century right here at the bar) to further personalize it.
Explaining patiently to him that I'd only gotten a Wells Fargo card last year - yes, I've been carrying around a Wachovia card for years after the 2009 merger - he laughed.
I'm in no hurry for a chip card, I told him, because I'm a Luddite. When I said I had no cell phone, he countered proudly that he didn't use Facebook, Instagram or Twitter. As a 29-year old, he thinks his generation is losing social skills due to reliance on technology and as a millennial who realizes this, he's an exception.
The funny part was, he sees the generation behind him (the early 20-somethings) as completely clueless and overly-dependent on devices in a much worse way than his people. I tried not to laugh at the distinction, then belatedly noticed he had a companion.
Wait, are you on a date? Yes, he says and turns back to it reluctantly. Good luck and godspeed with that, friend.
I got home to find a message waiting for me requesting the pleasure of my company and before long I was walking over to the Comedy Theater for some laughs and a Red Eye chocolate chip cookie, which, if you ask me, was a cookie tailored to the taste of generations raised on slice and bake cookies.
Overly sweet, not enough texture, just a lame sort of cookie. Granted, their target demographic is students studying and munched out at 2 a.m. and that's not me, but I couldn't help but be disappointed.
Luckily, the comedy made up for the cookie with the Disco Lemonade team kicking things off with a skit about boys - What do dudes like to do? Play video games and smash things - and the Work Family team taking on this unfortunate election cycle - I am a millennial and we are the future - with no hesitation about slamming Trump - I went to a restaurant and there was no T-bone on the menu. What's this world coming to? - and the rationalizations of racism - I think I'm a cute racist - all in pursuit of laughs.
Walking home in the finest of drizzles, my butter coma finally starting to wear off, I took stock of my evening. A few good laughs and excellent food and wine savored in multiple seats, although epic failure at finding a fellow reader.
Wait, I went to an art-filled restaurant and there were no newspaper-readers to discuss its articles with? What's this world coming to?
Friday, April 29, 2016
Since When Do You Wear a Ring?
Growing up in a '60s rancher did not feel like a mid-century modern experience.
It was, of course. The house was the kind of small, easy-living dwelling devoted to a more relaxed lifestyle than the more formal houses of my grandparents who lived in a townhouse in the city.
The post-war years were a new era and people optimistically thought this is what houses could like like in the modern world. Popular thought was that the right architecture could improve people's lives, a fact lost on kids like me.
Fast forward and now I know plenty of people with a passion for mid-century modern architecture, although now that I think about it, none of them actually lived in it growing up. I still look at ranchers (or Cape Cods or split levels) and shudder, but that's not to say that I don't have an appreciation for any of the architecture of that era.
For the final event of Design Month RVA, the Branch Museum and Modern Richmond were showing a documentary, "Modern Tide: Mid-Century Architecture on Long Island," and my curiosity was piqued by the beach connection.
Here's this strip of land between the bay and the ocean and starting back in the '20s and '30s, New Yorkers decided to build getaway houses in a simple, modern style that borrowed heavily from the Europeans. The clean, geometric lines of the houses designed by a new breed of architect were, as one talking head called them, "no more than an artful form of camping."
Of course, back then people expected beach life to be simple, a completely different experience from their city lives. While some of us still subscribe to that theory of beach-living, far more expect their beach houses, whether rentals or their own, to be elaborate affairs with wet bars, billiard rooms and, perhaps worst of all, hermetically sealed to prevent the intrusion of salt air and mist.
Tragic, in my opinion.
High ceilings for maximum light, a central room for gathering and small, utilitarian bedrooms ("What are you gonna do in them but sleep?") and lots of windows for maximum water views defined most of the Long Island houses - deliberately designed for the middle class, mind you - shown in the film.
And small in scale like the rancher I grew up in.
The heartbreaking part was how many fantastical houses we saw in photographs that have long since been demolished. The land is so valuable now that nobody cares about saving these mid-century jewels when the well-off can easily raze them and throw up a McMansion in their place.
And the crime is not just the size of the replacement house (although that's plenty obnoxious) but that in most cases, neighborhood associations now require traditional architecture to replace these once-modern houses, so this style of housing stock is being lost entirely.
But not all. Architect Andrew Geller's whimsical "double diamond" house, a practically perfect beach house when it was designed in 1958 practically at the ocean's edge, was moved back a bit and faithfully restored by Geller's grandson, making for a decided high spot in an otherwise unfortunate saga of the history of mid-century modern houses on Long Island.
Not that a documentary dork like me would have missed seeing such a fascinating slice of architectural history, especially with three familiar theater buffs in the row behind me to blather with until things git started.
Having dinner with a friend before the movie, I listened as he tried to convince me to join him tonight in going to hear a group of Tibetan monks talk about the snow leopard perimeter of their monastery. I couldn't imagine what that meant and he couldn't explain.
This was after he gave me a hard time for not going with him yesterday to watch the monks create a sand mandala. Monks? Meh.
Clearly he didn't understand the depths of my mid-century modern roots.
It was, of course. The house was the kind of small, easy-living dwelling devoted to a more relaxed lifestyle than the more formal houses of my grandparents who lived in a townhouse in the city.
The post-war years were a new era and people optimistically thought this is what houses could like like in the modern world. Popular thought was that the right architecture could improve people's lives, a fact lost on kids like me.
Fast forward and now I know plenty of people with a passion for mid-century modern architecture, although now that I think about it, none of them actually lived in it growing up. I still look at ranchers (or Cape Cods or split levels) and shudder, but that's not to say that I don't have an appreciation for any of the architecture of that era.
For the final event of Design Month RVA, the Branch Museum and Modern Richmond were showing a documentary, "Modern Tide: Mid-Century Architecture on Long Island," and my curiosity was piqued by the beach connection.
Here's this strip of land between the bay and the ocean and starting back in the '20s and '30s, New Yorkers decided to build getaway houses in a simple, modern style that borrowed heavily from the Europeans. The clean, geometric lines of the houses designed by a new breed of architect were, as one talking head called them, "no more than an artful form of camping."
Of course, back then people expected beach life to be simple, a completely different experience from their city lives. While some of us still subscribe to that theory of beach-living, far more expect their beach houses, whether rentals or their own, to be elaborate affairs with wet bars, billiard rooms and, perhaps worst of all, hermetically sealed to prevent the intrusion of salt air and mist.
Tragic, in my opinion.
High ceilings for maximum light, a central room for gathering and small, utilitarian bedrooms ("What are you gonna do in them but sleep?") and lots of windows for maximum water views defined most of the Long Island houses - deliberately designed for the middle class, mind you - shown in the film.
And small in scale like the rancher I grew up in.
The heartbreaking part was how many fantastical houses we saw in photographs that have long since been demolished. The land is so valuable now that nobody cares about saving these mid-century jewels when the well-off can easily raze them and throw up a McMansion in their place.
And the crime is not just the size of the replacement house (although that's plenty obnoxious) but that in most cases, neighborhood associations now require traditional architecture to replace these once-modern houses, so this style of housing stock is being lost entirely.
But not all. Architect Andrew Geller's whimsical "double diamond" house, a practically perfect beach house when it was designed in 1958 practically at the ocean's edge, was moved back a bit and faithfully restored by Geller's grandson, making for a decided high spot in an otherwise unfortunate saga of the history of mid-century modern houses on Long Island.
Not that a documentary dork like me would have missed seeing such a fascinating slice of architectural history, especially with three familiar theater buffs in the row behind me to blather with until things git started.
Having dinner with a friend before the movie, I listened as he tried to convince me to join him tonight in going to hear a group of Tibetan monks talk about the snow leopard perimeter of their monastery. I couldn't imagine what that meant and he couldn't explain.
This was after he gave me a hard time for not going with him yesterday to watch the monks create a sand mandala. Monks? Meh.
Clearly he didn't understand the depths of my mid-century modern roots.
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Thank You for a Funky Time
I mean, how could I not stand in line with a purple umbrella under a pouring rain?
If the Byrd was going to show "Purple Rain," why would I not be there to see it? I'm not ashamed to say I'm still mourning the loss of a talent the likes of which I may never see again.
So, like any self-respecting fan who first saw the movie in 1984, I dressed the part with a purple shirt, ruffles and big hair and headed to Carytown early before the rest of the purple-clad masses arrived.
Secco welcomed me into its bosom with a Nebbiolo Rose, a mixed green salad with Feta and red onion and Spanish octopus with fiddleheads ('tis the season), savored along with a Shins-based soundtrack.
When I overheard the servers discussing Beyonce's "Lemonade," I invited them closer so I could hear their thoughts. One postulated that Bey and Jay Z. planned it all and there was never any real marital strife between them, while the other thought the album was a laundry list of women's complaints with the world, meant to be a manifesto.
Together they explained why L'il Kim was a far more significant music figure than she was given credit for and why Beyonce's feminist tracks owes a lot to Kim's groundbreaking style.
I'd forgotten what fertile territory Secco is for first date-watching and tonight was no exception. The duo nearest me spoke awkwardly until the first glasses of wine kicked in and then he began sharing his music taste (Dave Matthews Band - run, girl, run!) and she how demanding her nursing schedule is.
After she shared a story, his response was, "Sure you did! It's a cake job. You needed 20,000 steps today." If I were to translate that, I'd say he insulted her, made light of her work and then presumed she's a Fitbit junkie, but what do I know?
Hearing that one of the dessert options was Baked Alaska, I told my server about my own Baked Alaska period (slightly before the "Purple Rain" period) when I decided that it wasn't all that difficult a thing to make and did so for many special occasions.
Even so, what I'd done in quantity couldn't have been matched by the quality of this version: a pistachio cookie topped with orange ice cream, blood orange slices and meringue, all situated on crushed pistachios and blood orange puree.
Hell, back when I was making Baked Alaskas, I'd probably never even heard of a blood orange.
In line at the Byrd by 8:30, I saw manager Todd in an orange shirt and chided him. "Just you wait!" he promised, directing traffic on the sidewalk.
Best of all, it began to rain, necessitating me taking out my - wait for it - purple umbrella. A man walked by in a purple frock coat and top hat.
In front of me was a trio from Philly (complaining about how southern drivers are clueless at merging and roundabouts) chain vaping (apparently that's a thing) and behind me a woman from Vancouver who in ten years of living here had never been to the Byrd.
Once we bought tickets, we switched lines and stood in the purple rain waiting to get in. Not a soul complained. The crowd was big enough to justify opening the balcony while latecomers straggled in looking for seats together in the rapidly-filling theater.
After taking a prime end seat, a guy asked to get by, explaining, "I'm with my mother," as if that mattered. He and Mom, a retired high school English teacher with a doctorate, quickly initiated conversation with me and I learned that she'd had six sons (I loved her stories of fading into the background when all six men get together - so relatable to what my Dad does when me and my five sisters get together), one of whom was with her and another, Mike, who was on his way.
Older brother was frustrated because Mike, who had initiated the evening, had yet to arrive and was not answering his phone. "That's just the kind of thing he would do," he complained repeatedly. Then why get upset if he's acting in his normal way?
"Good point!" he agreed, as if he hadn't realized the obvious.
Finally everyone was seated and Todd introduced the film wearing a purple shirt, saying, "This is what it sounds like when doves cry..."
The film had just begun to massive cheering with "Let's Go Crazy" when suddenly a man was at my side in the dark asking to get by.
Mike, you finally got here, I said to the stranger. Once he realized I knew his name, he asked for mine, demanded a hug and suggested he sit next to me.
He was a worthy seatmate, hooting and hollering along with the rest of the vocal crowd who'd come to be immersed in the purple world, and clearly very familiar with the film.
But unlike the more seasoned members of the audience, Mike couldn't possibly appreciate the '80s world depicted in the film like some of us could. Champagne served in martini glasses! So many VW Squarebacks! Impossibly big hair on girls wearing gloves! Perfectly applied eyeliner on so many guys!
I'm here to tell you it was all true, or at least it was true in the clubs of Washington, D.C. in the '80s. Unfortunately, back then it was also okay to have lines about "long-haired faggots" and that language is not missed.
The crowd couldn't stop themselves from reacting to the songs, so as "When Doves Cry" began, I heard murmurs - "There's my song!" and "Here we go!" - of affirmation and clapping in time by most of the room. Mike and I were already dancing in our seats anyway.
Seeing the Time onscreen brought back memories of seeing them at the Second Street Festival a few years ago, Morris Day and Jerome still seamless dancing partners, if a bit longer in the tooth.
Either many in the crowd hadn't seen the film before or had forgotten it because during the domestic violence scenes, there was utter silence.
Cheers ensued after Prince did "Purple Rain" and the lights in the theater's alcoves began pulsing in time to the music with "I Would Die 4 U" and finally, "Baby I'm a Star," his dancing bringing people to their feet, cheering and clapping.
Truly, it was as much a religious experience as a heathen like me could hope to have. Watching the beautiful young (26!) Prince onscreen for the first time in 32 years was powerful, made more so for the adoring energy in the room.
Walking out afterwards, the guy next to me says to no one in particular, "I gotta come back Saturday to see it again." Amen, brother.
This is what it sounds like when fans mourn.
If the Byrd was going to show "Purple Rain," why would I not be there to see it? I'm not ashamed to say I'm still mourning the loss of a talent the likes of which I may never see again.
So, like any self-respecting fan who first saw the movie in 1984, I dressed the part with a purple shirt, ruffles and big hair and headed to Carytown early before the rest of the purple-clad masses arrived.
Secco welcomed me into its bosom with a Nebbiolo Rose, a mixed green salad with Feta and red onion and Spanish octopus with fiddleheads ('tis the season), savored along with a Shins-based soundtrack.
When I overheard the servers discussing Beyonce's "Lemonade," I invited them closer so I could hear their thoughts. One postulated that Bey and Jay Z. planned it all and there was never any real marital strife between them, while the other thought the album was a laundry list of women's complaints with the world, meant to be a manifesto.
Together they explained why L'il Kim was a far more significant music figure than she was given credit for and why Beyonce's feminist tracks owes a lot to Kim's groundbreaking style.
I'd forgotten what fertile territory Secco is for first date-watching and tonight was no exception. The duo nearest me spoke awkwardly until the first glasses of wine kicked in and then he began sharing his music taste (Dave Matthews Band - run, girl, run!) and she how demanding her nursing schedule is.
After she shared a story, his response was, "Sure you did! It's a cake job. You needed 20,000 steps today." If I were to translate that, I'd say he insulted her, made light of her work and then presumed she's a Fitbit junkie, but what do I know?
Hearing that one of the dessert options was Baked Alaska, I told my server about my own Baked Alaska period (slightly before the "Purple Rain" period) when I decided that it wasn't all that difficult a thing to make and did so for many special occasions.
Even so, what I'd done in quantity couldn't have been matched by the quality of this version: a pistachio cookie topped with orange ice cream, blood orange slices and meringue, all situated on crushed pistachios and blood orange puree.
Hell, back when I was making Baked Alaskas, I'd probably never even heard of a blood orange.
In line at the Byrd by 8:30, I saw manager Todd in an orange shirt and chided him. "Just you wait!" he promised, directing traffic on the sidewalk.
Best of all, it began to rain, necessitating me taking out my - wait for it - purple umbrella. A man walked by in a purple frock coat and top hat.
In front of me was a trio from Philly (complaining about how southern drivers are clueless at merging and roundabouts) chain vaping (apparently that's a thing) and behind me a woman from Vancouver who in ten years of living here had never been to the Byrd.
Once we bought tickets, we switched lines and stood in the purple rain waiting to get in. Not a soul complained. The crowd was big enough to justify opening the balcony while latecomers straggled in looking for seats together in the rapidly-filling theater.
After taking a prime end seat, a guy asked to get by, explaining, "I'm with my mother," as if that mattered. He and Mom, a retired high school English teacher with a doctorate, quickly initiated conversation with me and I learned that she'd had six sons (I loved her stories of fading into the background when all six men get together - so relatable to what my Dad does when me and my five sisters get together), one of whom was with her and another, Mike, who was on his way.
Older brother was frustrated because Mike, who had initiated the evening, had yet to arrive and was not answering his phone. "That's just the kind of thing he would do," he complained repeatedly. Then why get upset if he's acting in his normal way?
"Good point!" he agreed, as if he hadn't realized the obvious.
Finally everyone was seated and Todd introduced the film wearing a purple shirt, saying, "This is what it sounds like when doves cry..."
The film had just begun to massive cheering with "Let's Go Crazy" when suddenly a man was at my side in the dark asking to get by.
Mike, you finally got here, I said to the stranger. Once he realized I knew his name, he asked for mine, demanded a hug and suggested he sit next to me.
He was a worthy seatmate, hooting and hollering along with the rest of the vocal crowd who'd come to be immersed in the purple world, and clearly very familiar with the film.
But unlike the more seasoned members of the audience, Mike couldn't possibly appreciate the '80s world depicted in the film like some of us could. Champagne served in martini glasses! So many VW Squarebacks! Impossibly big hair on girls wearing gloves! Perfectly applied eyeliner on so many guys!
I'm here to tell you it was all true, or at least it was true in the clubs of Washington, D.C. in the '80s. Unfortunately, back then it was also okay to have lines about "long-haired faggots" and that language is not missed.
The crowd couldn't stop themselves from reacting to the songs, so as "When Doves Cry" began, I heard murmurs - "There's my song!" and "Here we go!" - of affirmation and clapping in time by most of the room. Mike and I were already dancing in our seats anyway.
Seeing the Time onscreen brought back memories of seeing them at the Second Street Festival a few years ago, Morris Day and Jerome still seamless dancing partners, if a bit longer in the tooth.
Either many in the crowd hadn't seen the film before or had forgotten it because during the domestic violence scenes, there was utter silence.
Cheers ensued after Prince did "Purple Rain" and the lights in the theater's alcoves began pulsing in time to the music with "I Would Die 4 U" and finally, "Baby I'm a Star," his dancing bringing people to their feet, cheering and clapping.
Truly, it was as much a religious experience as a heathen like me could hope to have. Watching the beautiful young (26!) Prince onscreen for the first time in 32 years was powerful, made more so for the adoring energy in the room.
Walking out afterwards, the guy next to me says to no one in particular, "I gotta come back Saturday to see it again." Amen, brother.
This is what it sounds like when fans mourn.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
The Best Laid Plans
We need a better method of communication.
That particular sentiment, expressed by a friend frustrated when we didn't connect tonight, is one I hear in one form or another all the time. Because the rest of the world relies on cell phones for contact and I don't, I wind up frustrating people when they can't get in touch with me.
Everyone's so used to the instant gratification of their phone - quick, Google it and see who was in that movie, text her and tell her where we are - that, honestly, I feel like people have gotten lazy about making plans.
Scene: my apartment as I'm getting dressed, Friday around 5:00. The phone rings and it's a neighbor extending an invitation to start the weekend with drinks at Quirk, something he'd mentioned in the abstract on our walk last week.
When I explain that I have plans and am primping for a 7:15 pick-up, he's put out. Disappointed. Says he'd been really looking forward to seeing me.
Well, unless this desire for my company came upon you in a mad onslaught - which could be flattering if it did and I'm not entirely discounting - couldn't you have asked sooner? That said, I give him points for picking up the phone and calling to connect.
What if I buy you a cell phone?
It is astounding how many people - old friends, new acquaintances, dates and those just interested in knowing me better - have made that offer to me. Two people bought me an iPod Touch in hopes that I'd carry the device with me everywhere and thereby be somewhat reachable.
Another goes out of his way to send text messages to my land line via a computerized voice, a phone hack I didn't even know existed until I got his first few messages.
Sometimes it takes a few years to get the hang of communicating with me. A guy I started out dating before settling into long-term friendship relied on email for years, eventually switching over to phone calls because things were resolved so much more quickly that way.
It still delights him when I'm the one who calls first. I may be a Luddite, but I've got this land line thing down. Plus I like getting home at 1 a.m. and having a message waiting for me.
And tonight? While I was off with a fellow music obsessive enjoying Don Cheadle's splendid take on Miles Davis' fallow period, "Miles Ahead," and chomping popcorn at Bowtie, my company was eagerly sought elsewhere.
So call me maybe...with a little notice?
That particular sentiment, expressed by a friend frustrated when we didn't connect tonight, is one I hear in one form or another all the time. Because the rest of the world relies on cell phones for contact and I don't, I wind up frustrating people when they can't get in touch with me.
Everyone's so used to the instant gratification of their phone - quick, Google it and see who was in that movie, text her and tell her where we are - that, honestly, I feel like people have gotten lazy about making plans.
Scene: my apartment as I'm getting dressed, Friday around 5:00. The phone rings and it's a neighbor extending an invitation to start the weekend with drinks at Quirk, something he'd mentioned in the abstract on our walk last week.
When I explain that I have plans and am primping for a 7:15 pick-up, he's put out. Disappointed. Says he'd been really looking forward to seeing me.
Well, unless this desire for my company came upon you in a mad onslaught - which could be flattering if it did and I'm not entirely discounting - couldn't you have asked sooner? That said, I give him points for picking up the phone and calling to connect.
What if I buy you a cell phone?
It is astounding how many people - old friends, new acquaintances, dates and those just interested in knowing me better - have made that offer to me. Two people bought me an iPod Touch in hopes that I'd carry the device with me everywhere and thereby be somewhat reachable.
Another goes out of his way to send text messages to my land line via a computerized voice, a phone hack I didn't even know existed until I got his first few messages.
Sometimes it takes a few years to get the hang of communicating with me. A guy I started out dating before settling into long-term friendship relied on email for years, eventually switching over to phone calls because things were resolved so much more quickly that way.
It still delights him when I'm the one who calls first. I may be a Luddite, but I've got this land line thing down. Plus I like getting home at 1 a.m. and having a message waiting for me.
And tonight? While I was off with a fellow music obsessive enjoying Don Cheadle's splendid take on Miles Davis' fallow period, "Miles Ahead," and chomping popcorn at Bowtie, my company was eagerly sought elsewhere.
So call me maybe...with a little notice?
Pie in the Sky
I hope he's slurping oysters in the sky.
That semi-retired judge I'd met when I walked out on the sandbar, the one who was collecting oysters from his oyster beds in the Rappahannock behind my parents' house and gave me the Cliff's Notes version of his life while we stood in the river, the one who then directed me to a bushel basket under a nearby dock to help myself to two dozen freshly-caught oysters, just died.
It was one of the first things my parents told me when I arrived yesterday and I was truly sad to hear it. Many's the time since that first encounter that I'd gone down to the river to see if he was out in it collecting and always when he was, he'd wave and if I was willing to wade out, stop to chat with me.
I'd have gone down there yesterday to look for him if they hadn't showed me his obituary first.
Other than that, it was a beautiful day to be at the river, my purpose being to help Mom get ready for a bridge luncheon Wednesday, which involved things like cutting flowers for vases, sweeping the driveway and getting the big screened-in porch in tip-top shape for the "girls," all of whom are at least septuagenarians.
At that age, who's got the eyesight to notice a little cobweb action in the corner or a dead bug behind a chair? When I'm an old lady, I won't worry about any such things, I can assure you.
When I'm an old lady, I'll probably be less inclined to walk two miles in platform espadrilles (oh, the blisters this morning!) like I did last night, managing to hit Lapple - zero ambiance but solid Chinese food from Peter Chang proteges - and Ipanema - where on a trip to the loo I heard the kitchen inexplicably blasting "Home on the Range" and "Que Sera, Sera" - for black and white cake ("But that's not pie!" the mutton-chopped manager said in surprise at my choice) and wine before making it to Balliceaux for music.
It was good to see so many people out for a show on a Monday night - the global DJ, the newsman, the guitarist, the Bijou crew, the former neighbor - even if it did make for a slightly airless room until the air conditioning kicked on to save us all.
My bell bottoms elicited both shock and advice, with three different guy friends asking me why I would ever intentionally cover up my assets. "I've spent plenty of time thinking about those legs," one shared. "I'd rather see 'em," another informed me, effectively voting down any future pants-wearing.
For the record, a friend long ago informed me that my legs are not my greatest asset, but he wasn't around to make a case for what was, either.
After Gary Kalar opened the show with his Ottoman empire music, Yeni Nostalji took the stage for what was being billed as guitarist Evrim's last show. Hardly a surprise since baking and music-making are hardly compatible past times.
Referencing the last Balliceaux show when Evrim's capo went missing, he joked that he'd stashed six of them around the room with different friends so as to ward off a possible capo emergency again. I like a man who learns from his mistakes.
But, my god, they're so hard to find.
That semi-retired judge I'd met when I walked out on the sandbar, the one who was collecting oysters from his oyster beds in the Rappahannock behind my parents' house and gave me the Cliff's Notes version of his life while we stood in the river, the one who then directed me to a bushel basket under a nearby dock to help myself to two dozen freshly-caught oysters, just died.
It was one of the first things my parents told me when I arrived yesterday and I was truly sad to hear it. Many's the time since that first encounter that I'd gone down to the river to see if he was out in it collecting and always when he was, he'd wave and if I was willing to wade out, stop to chat with me.
I'd have gone down there yesterday to look for him if they hadn't showed me his obituary first.
Other than that, it was a beautiful day to be at the river, my purpose being to help Mom get ready for a bridge luncheon Wednesday, which involved things like cutting flowers for vases, sweeping the driveway and getting the big screened-in porch in tip-top shape for the "girls," all of whom are at least septuagenarians.
At that age, who's got the eyesight to notice a little cobweb action in the corner or a dead bug behind a chair? When I'm an old lady, I won't worry about any such things, I can assure you.
When I'm an old lady, I'll probably be less inclined to walk two miles in platform espadrilles (oh, the blisters this morning!) like I did last night, managing to hit Lapple - zero ambiance but solid Chinese food from Peter Chang proteges - and Ipanema - where on a trip to the loo I heard the kitchen inexplicably blasting "Home on the Range" and "Que Sera, Sera" - for black and white cake ("But that's not pie!" the mutton-chopped manager said in surprise at my choice) and wine before making it to Balliceaux for music.
It was good to see so many people out for a show on a Monday night - the global DJ, the newsman, the guitarist, the Bijou crew, the former neighbor - even if it did make for a slightly airless room until the air conditioning kicked on to save us all.
My bell bottoms elicited both shock and advice, with three different guy friends asking me why I would ever intentionally cover up my assets. "I've spent plenty of time thinking about those legs," one shared. "I'd rather see 'em," another informed me, effectively voting down any future pants-wearing.
For the record, a friend long ago informed me that my legs are not my greatest asset, but he wasn't around to make a case for what was, either.
After Gary Kalar opened the show with his Ottoman empire music, Yeni Nostalji took the stage for what was being billed as guitarist Evrim's last show. Hardly a surprise since baking and music-making are hardly compatible past times.
Referencing the last Balliceaux show when Evrim's capo went missing, he joked that he'd stashed six of them around the room with different friends so as to ward off a possible capo emergency again. I like a man who learns from his mistakes.
But, my god, they're so hard to find.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Sunday: A Post-Electric Day
Rooting around Clay Street, that's what the pig was doing.
Walking over to The Basement for TheatreLAB's Roast and Toast, I came to a gray pig rooting around in the upturned dirt of a tiny front yard two blocks down the street.
Wait, a pig?
A guy was riding down the sidewalk on his bike, earbuds in, but that didn't stop me from tapping him on the shoulder to get his opinion on spotting a farm animal in J-Ward. He stopped, stared and looked at me incredulously. "It is a pig!"
Call us agog because we were.
From across the street, a woman called to ask if the pig was upsetting us. Please. It was easily the most unexpectedly charming thing I could have come upon strolling down the street and I told her so. She looked relieved.
Almost at the Basement, I fell into step with a woman who said hello and looked at my feet. "I like your toenail polish," she says of my silver polish, a leftover from a disco party I went to over a year ago but keep using. "It looks like you're really jammin'," she tells me.
Oh, honey, if you only knew.
At TheatreLAB, I found the usual theater suspects - during intermission a girl took selfies with her tongue stuck out Gene Simmons-style - along with breakfast items suited to a noon start to the party: mimosas, yogurt, fruit and granola and, most importantly, doughnuts. When I saw a young woman reach for yogurt, I let her know that doughnuts lurked just on the other side of the group of people next to us.
Putting her bowl back on the table, she looked at me incredulously. "Then why am I wasting my time with this?" she asked rhetorically. I'm here to help, kid.
Taking the stage, Deejay, Evan, Maggie and McLean proceeded to poke fun at everyone from theater critics to play choices to themselves. They played Pictionary with one theater's season, "Gay Family Feud" for another's and "Two Truths and a Lie" with yet a third.
No one was spared spoofing
Categories for Theater Jeopardy included "Actors drunk at other people's plays," "Name that Naked McLean Jessie play" and "Napping during Cat in the Hat Plays," a sweeping indictment of both CAT Theater and HATT Theater.
"Did anyone actually see that play?" our hosts joked. From the front row, a guy said, "I directed it." Ouch.
Such was the nature of all the barbs - sharply observed, honest whether politically correct or not and laugh-out-loud worthy - that eventually every theater type in this town had been skewered. It was easy to miss a crack still laughing from the last.
McLean's big announcement that she's off to DC to get her master's had her lamenting, "It's like I'm leaving just when we have money to finally pay ourselves!"
With visibly shaking hands trying to read from a piece of paper, creative director Deejay ("It's like I never spoke up here before") announced the new season, "Women at War," causing spontaneous applause because they'll all be women-directed performances. The Cellar series will all be one-woman shows.
From the back of the room, McLean had the afternoon's best line: "If all you guys just got disappointed hearing that, that's how it feels."
Right on, Sister Bogeywoman (look it up, kids).
Interspersed with announcements, we saw monologues from the upcoming plays, hearing from directors and actors.
Second best line: director Keri Womald, saying, "This company is the shit." I couldn't have said it better myself.
Walking home with the intent of checking on the neighborhood pig, I passed friends sitting outside enjoying beverages on this delightful afternoon. We spoke through the bars of their fence until they invited me in to chat about their experience at the new Quirk rooftop bar Friday night. Like me, they're hoping to make it a neighborhood stop during off hours when the mobs are elsewhere.
Expecting to impress them with my pig siting, I was thrown off when they said they'd seen someone with a pig on a leash in Abner Clay Park. He'd spotted it and called her over so he had a witness. Crazy.
Back at home, I dipped into today's Washington Post, out on my porch reading about a 70-year old who'd just this February had sex reassignment surgery after a lifetime of knowing he was a girl in a boy's body. Best of all, his wife of all those years was 100% behind him on it. It's gratifying to know that 70 is not to late to change your life and that love extends beyond a previously-defined set of genitals.
Taking advantage of the gorgeous day, I walked over to Cask Cafe late, late in the afternoon (early evening?) because Lucy's was doing a burger pop-up, grilling out behind the restaurant. So, yes, I was walking two miles to eat food from a nearby Jackson Ward restaurant.
Not the point.
Walking through campus, I complimented a student on a pair of high-waisted jean shorts that looked identical to a pair I had in 1979, but it was her friend in hip-hugger jeans who wanted to chat about how shallow young people today are.
"I listen to classic rock, like the stuff my parents listen to because I fell like all the current music is so shallow and meaningless. No one knows what came before them." She also thought that vintage fashion beat out today's mish-mash of trends encompassing the past half century, showing me the four pieces she'd just scored for $15 at a pop-up vintage shop. "Everything was better before we ruined it."
Out of the mouths of babes.
The natives (students, mostly male) were restless as I walked up Cary Street past houses with porches crowded with guys smoking, drinking, bullshitting and playing loud music in the late afternoon sunshine.
Cask was buzzing with people, windows up and energy high. Lots of familiar faces - the woman I always see there who once bought a Fitz & the Tantrums ticket from me, the shorn beer geek, a favorite chef not long off a brunch shift, the uber-Mom and practiced server, the bearded and bubbly front of the house manager, the town's best bagel-maker - and plenty of raves for the massive burgers.
Hmm, pork bacon or housemade beef bacon? There's a first world problem for you.
A woman complimented my skort and then noticed my top, ecstatic when she realized it was a Spoon t-shirt. "Ohmygod, I saw them at [insert obscure club I never heard of] and they were a-maze-ing!" she gushed.
"You like Spoon?" she asks nonsensically. Are there people who wear band shirts but haven't seen the band? Recognizing a teachable moment, I shared exactly why they appeal to me: his distinctive voice, decidedly clever lyrics, the unaltered guitars so rare these days.
She high-fives me not once but twice about our shared admiration for Spoon. "You're a-maze-ing!" If she only knew.
It wasn't easy getting a bartender's attention to order, but the subsequent cheddar-dripping burger satisfied me into submission about the wait. Lucy's couldn't have asked for a better grilling out day or me a finer perch than the counter at the rolled up garage door facing the old depot and its pastiche of street art.
"I've decided not to worry anymore about first world problems," I overheard a young woman tell her friends. You'll be a much happier person for it, I told her and she lit up. "Really? I thought so! But it works, right?"
Please, let my life experience work for you and save yourself the trouble.
A woman showed up with sprigs of lilacs, my favorite flower, and questions about how best to do Mama J's, a subject on which I am an expert. The chef sat down next to me, bringing gossip about the rebirth of a classic restaurant and disdain for overly fussy food when the subject turned to sculptural Cesar salads.
It was fairly late in the game when I finally saw tonight's menu and realized I had ice cream sandwich options. How had I missed this? Not for me chocolate chip between sugar cookies (makes my teeth ache thinking about it) but I certainly couldn't resist housemade vanilla between thick, chewy chocolate cookies, now could I?
There's a reason it's the classic, the standard-bearer of all ice cream sandwiches.
Even when I'd polished that off, I stayed on, chatting with friends about the new film "Elvis and Nixon," about customers who don't feel bound by waiting for a hostess to seat them and how, unbelievably, some people have never gone to the Byrd Theater. I can only suggest reasons to correct that, I can't make them sit in those seats.
By the time I said my good-nights, the sun had slid into setting mode my back as I wandered back up Cary, far quieter now than it had been four hours earlier. For the record, I did not make a third visit to check on the local swine, secure in the knowledge that he's apparently a Clay Street fixture.
At home, a message awaited from hours earlier. "Leaving Norfolk now. I come bearing fresh oysters. Meet me at my house?"
There's a reason I wear this toenail polish, friend. Word on Broad Street is that I'm really jammin' so I'm bound to miss a last minute invitation here and there. Thank you for asking, though.
A great burger can make you cocky like that.
Walking over to The Basement for TheatreLAB's Roast and Toast, I came to a gray pig rooting around in the upturned dirt of a tiny front yard two blocks down the street.
Wait, a pig?
A guy was riding down the sidewalk on his bike, earbuds in, but that didn't stop me from tapping him on the shoulder to get his opinion on spotting a farm animal in J-Ward. He stopped, stared and looked at me incredulously. "It is a pig!"
Call us agog because we were.
From across the street, a woman called to ask if the pig was upsetting us. Please. It was easily the most unexpectedly charming thing I could have come upon strolling down the street and I told her so. She looked relieved.
Almost at the Basement, I fell into step with a woman who said hello and looked at my feet. "I like your toenail polish," she says of my silver polish, a leftover from a disco party I went to over a year ago but keep using. "It looks like you're really jammin'," she tells me.
Oh, honey, if you only knew.
At TheatreLAB, I found the usual theater suspects - during intermission a girl took selfies with her tongue stuck out Gene Simmons-style - along with breakfast items suited to a noon start to the party: mimosas, yogurt, fruit and granola and, most importantly, doughnuts. When I saw a young woman reach for yogurt, I let her know that doughnuts lurked just on the other side of the group of people next to us.
Putting her bowl back on the table, she looked at me incredulously. "Then why am I wasting my time with this?" she asked rhetorically. I'm here to help, kid.
Taking the stage, Deejay, Evan, Maggie and McLean proceeded to poke fun at everyone from theater critics to play choices to themselves. They played Pictionary with one theater's season, "Gay Family Feud" for another's and "Two Truths and a Lie" with yet a third.
No one was spared spoofing
Categories for Theater Jeopardy included "Actors drunk at other people's plays," "Name that Naked McLean Jessie play" and "Napping during Cat in the Hat Plays," a sweeping indictment of both CAT Theater and HATT Theater.
"Did anyone actually see that play?" our hosts joked. From the front row, a guy said, "I directed it." Ouch.
Such was the nature of all the barbs - sharply observed, honest whether politically correct or not and laugh-out-loud worthy - that eventually every theater type in this town had been skewered. It was easy to miss a crack still laughing from the last.
McLean's big announcement that she's off to DC to get her master's had her lamenting, "It's like I'm leaving just when we have money to finally pay ourselves!"
With visibly shaking hands trying to read from a piece of paper, creative director Deejay ("It's like I never spoke up here before") announced the new season, "Women at War," causing spontaneous applause because they'll all be women-directed performances. The Cellar series will all be one-woman shows.
From the back of the room, McLean had the afternoon's best line: "If all you guys just got disappointed hearing that, that's how it feels."
Right on, Sister Bogeywoman (look it up, kids).
Interspersed with announcements, we saw monologues from the upcoming plays, hearing from directors and actors.
Second best line: director Keri Womald, saying, "This company is the shit." I couldn't have said it better myself.
Walking home with the intent of checking on the neighborhood pig, I passed friends sitting outside enjoying beverages on this delightful afternoon. We spoke through the bars of their fence until they invited me in to chat about their experience at the new Quirk rooftop bar Friday night. Like me, they're hoping to make it a neighborhood stop during off hours when the mobs are elsewhere.
Expecting to impress them with my pig siting, I was thrown off when they said they'd seen someone with a pig on a leash in Abner Clay Park. He'd spotted it and called her over so he had a witness. Crazy.
Back at home, I dipped into today's Washington Post, out on my porch reading about a 70-year old who'd just this February had sex reassignment surgery after a lifetime of knowing he was a girl in a boy's body. Best of all, his wife of all those years was 100% behind him on it. It's gratifying to know that 70 is not to late to change your life and that love extends beyond a previously-defined set of genitals.
Taking advantage of the gorgeous day, I walked over to Cask Cafe late, late in the afternoon (early evening?) because Lucy's was doing a burger pop-up, grilling out behind the restaurant. So, yes, I was walking two miles to eat food from a nearby Jackson Ward restaurant.
Not the point.
Walking through campus, I complimented a student on a pair of high-waisted jean shorts that looked identical to a pair I had in 1979, but it was her friend in hip-hugger jeans who wanted to chat about how shallow young people today are.
"I listen to classic rock, like the stuff my parents listen to because I fell like all the current music is so shallow and meaningless. No one knows what came before them." She also thought that vintage fashion beat out today's mish-mash of trends encompassing the past half century, showing me the four pieces she'd just scored for $15 at a pop-up vintage shop. "Everything was better before we ruined it."
Out of the mouths of babes.
The natives (students, mostly male) were restless as I walked up Cary Street past houses with porches crowded with guys smoking, drinking, bullshitting and playing loud music in the late afternoon sunshine.
Cask was buzzing with people, windows up and energy high. Lots of familiar faces - the woman I always see there who once bought a Fitz & the Tantrums ticket from me, the shorn beer geek, a favorite chef not long off a brunch shift, the uber-Mom and practiced server, the bearded and bubbly front of the house manager, the town's best bagel-maker - and plenty of raves for the massive burgers.
Hmm, pork bacon or housemade beef bacon? There's a first world problem for you.
A woman complimented my skort and then noticed my top, ecstatic when she realized it was a Spoon t-shirt. "Ohmygod, I saw them at [insert obscure club I never heard of] and they were a-maze-ing!" she gushed.
"You like Spoon?" she asks nonsensically. Are there people who wear band shirts but haven't seen the band? Recognizing a teachable moment, I shared exactly why they appeal to me: his distinctive voice, decidedly clever lyrics, the unaltered guitars so rare these days.
She high-fives me not once but twice about our shared admiration for Spoon. "You're a-maze-ing!" If she only knew.
It wasn't easy getting a bartender's attention to order, but the subsequent cheddar-dripping burger satisfied me into submission about the wait. Lucy's couldn't have asked for a better grilling out day or me a finer perch than the counter at the rolled up garage door facing the old depot and its pastiche of street art.
"I've decided not to worry anymore about first world problems," I overheard a young woman tell her friends. You'll be a much happier person for it, I told her and she lit up. "Really? I thought so! But it works, right?"
Please, let my life experience work for you and save yourself the trouble.
A woman showed up with sprigs of lilacs, my favorite flower, and questions about how best to do Mama J's, a subject on which I am an expert. The chef sat down next to me, bringing gossip about the rebirth of a classic restaurant and disdain for overly fussy food when the subject turned to sculptural Cesar salads.
It was fairly late in the game when I finally saw tonight's menu and realized I had ice cream sandwich options. How had I missed this? Not for me chocolate chip between sugar cookies (makes my teeth ache thinking about it) but I certainly couldn't resist housemade vanilla between thick, chewy chocolate cookies, now could I?
There's a reason it's the classic, the standard-bearer of all ice cream sandwiches.
Even when I'd polished that off, I stayed on, chatting with friends about the new film "Elvis and Nixon," about customers who don't feel bound by waiting for a hostess to seat them and how, unbelievably, some people have never gone to the Byrd Theater. I can only suggest reasons to correct that, I can't make them sit in those seats.
By the time I said my good-nights, the sun had slid into setting mode my back as I wandered back up Cary, far quieter now than it had been four hours earlier. For the record, I did not make a third visit to check on the local swine, secure in the knowledge that he's apparently a Clay Street fixture.
At home, a message awaited from hours earlier. "Leaving Norfolk now. I come bearing fresh oysters. Meet me at my house?"
There's a reason I wear this toenail polish, friend. Word on Broad Street is that I'm really jammin' so I'm bound to miss a last minute invitation here and there. Thank you for asking, though.
A great burger can make you cocky like that.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Body Language
Body awareness is a life skill. If you'd told me a year ago I'd be out in public in bell bottoms, I'd have mocked you.
But why shouldn't I wear the grooviest of pants to dinner and a play with friends? No good reason, although if that's the case, why am I just now doing it after years of avoiding pants? And why did I put off having someone tell me that my hips looked good in pants?
Words: the intelligent woman's aphrodisiac.
You know what, somebody probably did tell me and I didn't believe them because body awareness takes time. Years of self-delusion. At dinner at Belmont Food Shop tonight, three women discussed how as young women, we'd followed the fickle thread of fashion rather than our particular body contours.
Big mistake.
I'm quite aware of my body's shortcomings at this stage and it's easy enough to dress to accentuate strengths rather than genetic shortcomings. Fashion, we finally learn, is what looks best on each of us, which is why I keep a needle and thread handy so I can hem every skirt and dress that crosses my path. empire waist dresses hide myriad body shortcomings.
Body awareness means sipping Gamay and tucking into a fabulous meal that begins with duck hearts confit ("The kitchen knows you like confit," I'm told. Who doesn't like meat cooked in its own fat? is what I want to know) and warm gougeres right out of the oven without a moment's thought to should I or shouldn't I?
It means feeling like I've hit the jackpot when my virtuous asparagus salad shows up with three rounds of baked Ricotta singing with lemon, a dish boasting splendid spring colors, sublimely complementary flavors and a textural bonanza (Beau is immediately as impressed as I am).
That awareness, though, extends to fullness, so I finish only most of my flounder with pea shoots and Surry sausage because I know I have the most obscene dessert possible - dark chocolate silk pie - en route.
Sure, I'm a little full by the time we depart for the theater, but I also hoofed it seven miles today with Phoenix, so I'm not worried about it.
Watching 5th Wall and Richmond Triangle Players' production of "Body Awareness" tonight, I am reminded that with age comes acceptance.
The middle-aged character Joyce decides to have a nude photograph of herself taken by a noted artist against the wishes of her partner. Would she have done the same at 25? Doubtful, because she would have fixated on what was wrong with her body, rather than celebrating what was right about it.
A few years ago, I interviewed a woman who was painting a series of nudes of middle-aged women for a show of nothing but them. Intrigued by the concept, I told her to please call me if she ever ran out of models. She hasn't, but I'd love to think that someday she might. A photographer friend offered to capture my well-seasoned frame any time I was ready.
I'm about there. I know my body doesn't look like it once did. To be fair, though, it didn't used to walk as fast or as far, nor was it as strong.
And wearing bell bottoms tonight, much to the shock and delight of friends, yet netting compliments from strangers?
One small step in espadrilles and one giant step for hip acceptance.
But why shouldn't I wear the grooviest of pants to dinner and a play with friends? No good reason, although if that's the case, why am I just now doing it after years of avoiding pants? And why did I put off having someone tell me that my hips looked good in pants?
Words: the intelligent woman's aphrodisiac.
You know what, somebody probably did tell me and I didn't believe them because body awareness takes time. Years of self-delusion. At dinner at Belmont Food Shop tonight, three women discussed how as young women, we'd followed the fickle thread of fashion rather than our particular body contours.
Big mistake.
I'm quite aware of my body's shortcomings at this stage and it's easy enough to dress to accentuate strengths rather than genetic shortcomings. Fashion, we finally learn, is what looks best on each of us, which is why I keep a needle and thread handy so I can hem every skirt and dress that crosses my path. empire waist dresses hide myriad body shortcomings.
Body awareness means sipping Gamay and tucking into a fabulous meal that begins with duck hearts confit ("The kitchen knows you like confit," I'm told. Who doesn't like meat cooked in its own fat? is what I want to know) and warm gougeres right out of the oven without a moment's thought to should I or shouldn't I?
It means feeling like I've hit the jackpot when my virtuous asparagus salad shows up with three rounds of baked Ricotta singing with lemon, a dish boasting splendid spring colors, sublimely complementary flavors and a textural bonanza (Beau is immediately as impressed as I am).
That awareness, though, extends to fullness, so I finish only most of my flounder with pea shoots and Surry sausage because I know I have the most obscene dessert possible - dark chocolate silk pie - en route.
Sure, I'm a little full by the time we depart for the theater, but I also hoofed it seven miles today with Phoenix, so I'm not worried about it.
Watching 5th Wall and Richmond Triangle Players' production of "Body Awareness" tonight, I am reminded that with age comes acceptance.
The middle-aged character Joyce decides to have a nude photograph of herself taken by a noted artist against the wishes of her partner. Would she have done the same at 25? Doubtful, because she would have fixated on what was wrong with her body, rather than celebrating what was right about it.
A few years ago, I interviewed a woman who was painting a series of nudes of middle-aged women for a show of nothing but them. Intrigued by the concept, I told her to please call me if she ever ran out of models. She hasn't, but I'd love to think that someday she might. A photographer friend offered to capture my well-seasoned frame any time I was ready.
I'm about there. I know my body doesn't look like it once did. To be fair, though, it didn't used to walk as fast or as far, nor was it as strong.
And wearing bell bottoms tonight, much to the shock and delight of friends, yet netting compliments from strangers?
One small step in espadrilles and one giant step for hip acceptance.
Painting the Town
I excel at being the extra woman.
When friends need an extra body (whether warm or hot) or some estrogen to balance out a dinner party's numbers, I'm that person who gets invited to fill the role and it's one I dispatch with great enthusiasm.
Get to know strangers? Entertain visitors? I got this. Years ago, when I was trying to right the capsizing ship that was my life, a friend (seriously) suggested that I offer just such a service to visitors, showing them places to eat, hear music and do fun things they might not otherwise uncover.
Because selling my time sounded just short of selling my body, I didn't pursue it, although I saw the wisdom of her idea. Now I happily accept invitations to share me.
This time, it was Pru and Beau doing the inviting and the occasion was two male house guests, a seasoned one from Phoenix and a young one one from Fredericksburg, and the destination was Can Can.
I got assigned to the male car, meaning three men called for me (complete with a glass of Miraval Rose - a stellar "car wine," I have to say - awaiting me in the back seat) while the other two womenfolk took another car. My kind of odds.
Beau scored heavily in the parking lot when he complimented my ensemble as "adorable," precisely the vibe I'd been going for with the Berlin tights and a more subdued palette than usual.
Brasseries are noisy places and Can Can is no exception, making for a lot of leaning in and repeated remarks while sipping Cotes de Provence Rose "Terra Amatta" and nibbling zucchini fritters and a cheese/charcuterie plate. A Languedoc Rose showed up with dinner - mine a demi plateau of oysters, clams, shrimp and mussels and a forest of greens mounded into a salad - along with an opportunity for the Phoenix visitor to be more vocal.
When Pru, presuming naturally, asked what I'd planned to do after dinner wound down, I copped to plans to go to Balliceaux to hear K-Pop and the visitor immediately let it be known that he loves to dance. I couldn't ask the young visitor to join because he was a month shy of being legal, so my contribution to his RVA experience was introducing him to some new cheeses during our first course.
So the male car dropped Phoenix and I off at my house so I could swap cute shoes for dancing shoes before heading to Balliceaux. I tried but failed to convince my guest that we should walk, but despite being a native Philly boy, a biking enthusiast and in shape, he resisted.
Next time.
The back room was pretty crowded on arrival and only grew more so with each new wave of K-Pop devotees who wandered in throughout the night. He was struck by their solitary dancing habits, their group movements rather than couple movements, but I'd seen it too many times for it to even register.
Last time I'd gone to a K-Pop night, I'd fallen hard for the Asian take on pop music from the '60s and '70s, but tonight's selections drew from the '90s and hip-hop, filtered through a Korean sensibility, sure, but less compelling to ears that remember music before Auto-Tune.
I was barely a couple sips into my Espolon before he was nodding toward the dance floor and why would I say no? Unlike some of the crowd, we couldn't sing along to any of the songs, but we found enough we could dance to to join the throngs in a room that continued to feel hotter, more crowded, more like Friday night.
On the way out, he admitted that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been dancing, never mind that it was his first exposure to K-Pop. See, this is why some people need to meet me.
Dropping him back at his hostess' house an hour after I'd promised to get him home, we solidified morning plans. He'd seen some night life, he'd claimed to be a fan of walking, so the plan was to show him some of my daytime Richmond.
This is where I get good. I wowed him with notable architecture, historic locations, and river views. I led him along the Pipeline Trail, over to Southern States for the Street Art RVA Festival, up to Tricycle Gardens' urban farm and back across the Lee bridge to admire Belle Isle and the river from a bird's eye view.
Lagging slightly behind me coming up Belvidere, he informed me that this was the longest walk he'd been on in ages. Someone needs to get out of the house more or maybe just out of Phoenix more.
As a thank you for the outstanding walkabout and tour, he offered to take me to lunch, so we detoured to 821 Cafe, found two stools at the bar ("You can't sit there!" a male voice growled at me, but it was only the handsome bass player/server razzing me) and let a soundtrack of '80s music (Hall and Oates-based) wash over us while sharing life stories.
"Are you the marrying kind?" he asked me. "Why did you get married?" I asked him. How hard is it to find your passion and follow it? It's fascinating what you can discuss with someone you didn't know 24 hours ago.
The extra woman tells all, but never judges. Also, she has a ball doing it.
When friends need an extra body (whether warm or hot) or some estrogen to balance out a dinner party's numbers, I'm that person who gets invited to fill the role and it's one I dispatch with great enthusiasm.
Get to know strangers? Entertain visitors? I got this. Years ago, when I was trying to right the capsizing ship that was my life, a friend (seriously) suggested that I offer just such a service to visitors, showing them places to eat, hear music and do fun things they might not otherwise uncover.
Because selling my time sounded just short of selling my body, I didn't pursue it, although I saw the wisdom of her idea. Now I happily accept invitations to share me.
This time, it was Pru and Beau doing the inviting and the occasion was two male house guests, a seasoned one from Phoenix and a young one one from Fredericksburg, and the destination was Can Can.
I got assigned to the male car, meaning three men called for me (complete with a glass of Miraval Rose - a stellar "car wine," I have to say - awaiting me in the back seat) while the other two womenfolk took another car. My kind of odds.
Beau scored heavily in the parking lot when he complimented my ensemble as "adorable," precisely the vibe I'd been going for with the Berlin tights and a more subdued palette than usual.
Brasseries are noisy places and Can Can is no exception, making for a lot of leaning in and repeated remarks while sipping Cotes de Provence Rose "Terra Amatta" and nibbling zucchini fritters and a cheese/charcuterie plate. A Languedoc Rose showed up with dinner - mine a demi plateau of oysters, clams, shrimp and mussels and a forest of greens mounded into a salad - along with an opportunity for the Phoenix visitor to be more vocal.
When Pru, presuming naturally, asked what I'd planned to do after dinner wound down, I copped to plans to go to Balliceaux to hear K-Pop and the visitor immediately let it be known that he loves to dance. I couldn't ask the young visitor to join because he was a month shy of being legal, so my contribution to his RVA experience was introducing him to some new cheeses during our first course.
So the male car dropped Phoenix and I off at my house so I could swap cute shoes for dancing shoes before heading to Balliceaux. I tried but failed to convince my guest that we should walk, but despite being a native Philly boy, a biking enthusiast and in shape, he resisted.
Next time.
The back room was pretty crowded on arrival and only grew more so with each new wave of K-Pop devotees who wandered in throughout the night. He was struck by their solitary dancing habits, their group movements rather than couple movements, but I'd seen it too many times for it to even register.
Last time I'd gone to a K-Pop night, I'd fallen hard for the Asian take on pop music from the '60s and '70s, but tonight's selections drew from the '90s and hip-hop, filtered through a Korean sensibility, sure, but less compelling to ears that remember music before Auto-Tune.
I was barely a couple sips into my Espolon before he was nodding toward the dance floor and why would I say no? Unlike some of the crowd, we couldn't sing along to any of the songs, but we found enough we could dance to to join the throngs in a room that continued to feel hotter, more crowded, more like Friday night.
On the way out, he admitted that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been dancing, never mind that it was his first exposure to K-Pop. See, this is why some people need to meet me.
Dropping him back at his hostess' house an hour after I'd promised to get him home, we solidified morning plans. He'd seen some night life, he'd claimed to be a fan of walking, so the plan was to show him some of my daytime Richmond.
This is where I get good. I wowed him with notable architecture, historic locations, and river views. I led him along the Pipeline Trail, over to Southern States for the Street Art RVA Festival, up to Tricycle Gardens' urban farm and back across the Lee bridge to admire Belle Isle and the river from a bird's eye view.
Lagging slightly behind me coming up Belvidere, he informed me that this was the longest walk he'd been on in ages. Someone needs to get out of the house more or maybe just out of Phoenix more.
As a thank you for the outstanding walkabout and tour, he offered to take me to lunch, so we detoured to 821 Cafe, found two stools at the bar ("You can't sit there!" a male voice growled at me, but it was only the handsome bass player/server razzing me) and let a soundtrack of '80s music (Hall and Oates-based) wash over us while sharing life stories.
"Are you the marrying kind?" he asked me. "Why did you get married?" I asked him. How hard is it to find your passion and follow it? It's fascinating what you can discuss with someone you didn't know 24 hours ago.
The extra woman tells all, but never judges. Also, she has a ball doing it.
Friday, April 22, 2016
The Birds and the Bees
My extravagantly-planted garden and my attendance on it since it was planted have turned out to be a draw for bees as well as a guy (latent gardener?) magnet.
"Watering again? Looking great!" my neighbor calls out, exiting his sleek Jaguar. Doing what I can, I say. "If anyone can, you can," he assures me with a wave.
A man walks by yesterday as I'm examining it, trying to decide how many stepping stones I need. "Three," he advises after assessing the situation and wishes me well. Tonight, he walks by again to find me staring just as intently as yesterday.
"Still working on that garden?" he cracks. I apologize for not having had time to get the stepping stones he suggested yet. It's on my list, though. Why do I think I'll see him again soon to check on my progress?
Leaving for Cinema Noir, I pause to admire how lush and colorful everything looks after a good sprinkler soaking earlier.
"Looks great!" the new guy next door walking up to his porch tells me enthusiastically, as if we've had a conversation before. Standing near the pink and white English daisies, he tells me about all the birds he's seen in my birdbath lately, so I tell him the birdbath's history of being rescued from behind an old wooden schoolhouse slated for demolition.
We discuss whether I should add a bowl to the top of the pedestal for a wider bird bathing surface. Being a guy, he wants to know how heavy the thing is was, if it has a drain and what the bottom of the pedestal looks like. Heavy, no, flat.
"I dig it," he says with a big smile.
At Cinema Noir, the DJ is playing a brilliantly-crafted tribute to Prince, an ideal soundtrack for this dark day.
Earlier, I'd chatted with my downstairs neighbors - students and musicians, including two guitarists - to inquire if they had been Prince fans. No, but they'd heard he was dead.
"I never really got into him," one said with no real interest. "I mean, I knew him, but not really," the other said.
Sound of record scratching.
Wait, you don't seem to understand what this man represented, what he did to bring a combination of rock and funk to black and white audiences. How about his mad musical skills, his stellar production abilities?
By the time I finished making my "why Prince matters" speech to these two whippersnappers, they got it. "Man, I never knew any of that about him," one said, clearly impressed. Someone needs musical guidance is all I can say.
Tonight's short film, "Only Light" was about the $32 billion a year human sex trafficking industry, a heavy yet important topic, followed by a trailer for a documentary on the same subject, "Amazing Grace: Freedom's Song" by musician and cultural ambassador Yewande.
Afterward, during the Q & A, a man asked what he and others could do to make a difference.
"I knew nothing about this, but I want to help," he said. "I was brought here tonight by an intelligent woman or I wouldn't have even known about it."
"Repeat that part," Yewande told him to laughter, and the second time he referred to his date as both intelligent and beautiful. Smart man.
Best line of the night: "Sometimes, I think I should have said yes to some of those goat herders' proposals."
She was probably just minding her own business, tending her garden, when goat herders started showing up to talk to her. Now she regrets not taking them up on their offers.
I can totally dig it.
"Watering again? Looking great!" my neighbor calls out, exiting his sleek Jaguar. Doing what I can, I say. "If anyone can, you can," he assures me with a wave.
A man walks by yesterday as I'm examining it, trying to decide how many stepping stones I need. "Three," he advises after assessing the situation and wishes me well. Tonight, he walks by again to find me staring just as intently as yesterday.
"Still working on that garden?" he cracks. I apologize for not having had time to get the stepping stones he suggested yet. It's on my list, though. Why do I think I'll see him again soon to check on my progress?
Leaving for Cinema Noir, I pause to admire how lush and colorful everything looks after a good sprinkler soaking earlier.
"Looks great!" the new guy next door walking up to his porch tells me enthusiastically, as if we've had a conversation before. Standing near the pink and white English daisies, he tells me about all the birds he's seen in my birdbath lately, so I tell him the birdbath's history of being rescued from behind an old wooden schoolhouse slated for demolition.
We discuss whether I should add a bowl to the top of the pedestal for a wider bird bathing surface. Being a guy, he wants to know how heavy the thing is was, if it has a drain and what the bottom of the pedestal looks like. Heavy, no, flat.
"I dig it," he says with a big smile.
At Cinema Noir, the DJ is playing a brilliantly-crafted tribute to Prince, an ideal soundtrack for this dark day.
Earlier, I'd chatted with my downstairs neighbors - students and musicians, including two guitarists - to inquire if they had been Prince fans. No, but they'd heard he was dead.
"I never really got into him," one said with no real interest. "I mean, I knew him, but not really," the other said.
Sound of record scratching.
Wait, you don't seem to understand what this man represented, what he did to bring a combination of rock and funk to black and white audiences. How about his mad musical skills, his stellar production abilities?
By the time I finished making my "why Prince matters" speech to these two whippersnappers, they got it. "Man, I never knew any of that about him," one said, clearly impressed. Someone needs musical guidance is all I can say.
Tonight's short film, "Only Light" was about the $32 billion a year human sex trafficking industry, a heavy yet important topic, followed by a trailer for a documentary on the same subject, "Amazing Grace: Freedom's Song" by musician and cultural ambassador Yewande.
Afterward, during the Q & A, a man asked what he and others could do to make a difference.
"I knew nothing about this, but I want to help," he said. "I was brought here tonight by an intelligent woman or I wouldn't have even known about it."
"Repeat that part," Yewande told him to laughter, and the second time he referred to his date as both intelligent and beautiful. Smart man.
Best line of the night: "Sometimes, I think I should have said yes to some of those goat herders' proposals."
She was probably just minding her own business, tending her garden, when goat herders started showing up to talk to her. Now she regrets not taking them up on their offers.
I can totally dig it.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Condition of the Heart
Peace is the word, or at least it was on my convoluted walk today.
Stop one was the open house for VCU's new learning garden, situated on a lot next to parking garage on Harrison Street across from the expressway.
Raised beds of lettuce, blueberries and kale, strawberries growing in burlap sacks, a mini-greenhouse with seedlings sprouting (much like the ones in my dining room) and fig trees being planted in half barrels.
A vertical flower garden hung on pallets, providing pollination opportunities for the bees in the little wooden house nearby. We were told that pharmacy students help maintain the gardens as part of their service hours, but also so they can learn the importance of diet in health care. Even some of the frat houses nearby volunteer and that's about the last thing I'd have expected from frat boys.
After enjoying a Mason jar of minted water, I moseyed up to the end of Carytown, past people eating on the Fancy Biscuit's new patio, and back through the Museum district.
A motorcycle sported a green "peace" license plate bigger than its actual Virginia plate, there was a peace sign created out of bricks painted blue and laid out in an empty tree well and some child had drawn a multi-color peace sign in chalk on the sidewalk.
A couple of landscapers on Hanover near Floyd had the radio in their truck blasting as they worked, causing me to cross the street when I heard Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" from, what, 1982?
I told the guys that I'd crossed because the song was part of my club-going youth and one of the guys - standing in the tiny, elevated front yard above me - invited me to dance with him so we did, albeit me on the sidewalk and him on the dirt four feet up.
When you're out walking, you take your dancing where it's offered.
Then you come home and find out the there's a new world order, at least musically speaking, because Prince has died. It doesn't seem possible.
Twice I saw his Royal Purpleness, both times at the Mosque in the '90s and both times with the most diverse crowd of any concerts I have been to in my long and storied show-going past. His charisma, energy and musicality made the evenings still memorable twenty years later.
His music remains part of what gets us through this thing called life.
I'd be his devotee if the only thing he'd ever written had been the masterfully metaphoric "Little Red Corvette" and the sublimely passionate "I Would Die 4 U" but in a bigger sense, Prince was the ongoing soundtrack to my youth.
Remembering how far away "1999" sounded when he was singing it in 1983, it's hard to believe that just as much time has passed since we passed that landmark year
I guess it's a sign of the times that we're losing the great ones from my generation now.
Peace out, Prince. You were too young to go.
Stop one was the open house for VCU's new learning garden, situated on a lot next to parking garage on Harrison Street across from the expressway.
Raised beds of lettuce, blueberries and kale, strawberries growing in burlap sacks, a mini-greenhouse with seedlings sprouting (much like the ones in my dining room) and fig trees being planted in half barrels.
A vertical flower garden hung on pallets, providing pollination opportunities for the bees in the little wooden house nearby. We were told that pharmacy students help maintain the gardens as part of their service hours, but also so they can learn the importance of diet in health care. Even some of the frat houses nearby volunteer and that's about the last thing I'd have expected from frat boys.
After enjoying a Mason jar of minted water, I moseyed up to the end of Carytown, past people eating on the Fancy Biscuit's new patio, and back through the Museum district.
A motorcycle sported a green "peace" license plate bigger than its actual Virginia plate, there was a peace sign created out of bricks painted blue and laid out in an empty tree well and some child had drawn a multi-color peace sign in chalk on the sidewalk.
A couple of landscapers on Hanover near Floyd had the radio in their truck blasting as they worked, causing me to cross the street when I heard Patrice Rushen's "Forget Me Nots" from, what, 1982?
I told the guys that I'd crossed because the song was part of my club-going youth and one of the guys - standing in the tiny, elevated front yard above me - invited me to dance with him so we did, albeit me on the sidewalk and him on the dirt four feet up.
When you're out walking, you take your dancing where it's offered.
Then you come home and find out the there's a new world order, at least musically speaking, because Prince has died. It doesn't seem possible.
Twice I saw his Royal Purpleness, both times at the Mosque in the '90s and both times with the most diverse crowd of any concerts I have been to in my long and storied show-going past. His charisma, energy and musicality made the evenings still memorable twenty years later.
His music remains part of what gets us through this thing called life.
I'd be his devotee if the only thing he'd ever written had been the masterfully metaphoric "Little Red Corvette" and the sublimely passionate "I Would Die 4 U" but in a bigger sense, Prince was the ongoing soundtrack to my youth.
Remembering how far away "1999" sounded when he was singing it in 1983, it's hard to believe that just as much time has passed since we passed that landmark year
I guess it's a sign of the times that we're losing the great ones from my generation now.
Peace out, Prince. You were too young to go.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
The Light, the Heat
It's 4/20. We know you're hungry!
~ sign outside the Village Cafe
Today is 4/20 (smiley face)
~ sign outside Rumors Boutique
A 420 Carol
~ tonight's show at Comedy Coalition Theater
With all that in mind, it only made sense to start the evening in a split level, just the kind of house where kids probably smoked pot to escape their southside ennui.
The occasion was another Designmonth RVA event, this one at a 1954 house on Riverside Drive that has been renovated from a suburban-looking cliche to what the architects referred to as "West coast modern," which involved re-imagining it by removing the split level and replacing it with an enormous vertical addition, moving the garage to the front and putting a massive garage rooftop patio atop it.
Besides more bedrooms than I can recall, it had a home brewing room (see: drain in center of floor), a closet that ran the length of thee master suite and was wide enough for a couch and gorgeous old azaleas in full bloom crowding the back deck.
One of the Modern Richmond crew referred to Riverside Drive as "Mulholland Drive Richmond" because of its view sheds and distinctly mid-century architecture. Driving out, I saw several houses that supported that theory.
Headed back to the Fan for dinner, I couldn't help but notice how much better at being pedestrians the VCU students are at this point. It's a shame, but by the time we train them in the art of walking around in a city, it's the end of the school year. Pity.
Today's warm yet dry weather meant that the top of the blue Dutch door at Garnett's was open, the screen door keeping bugs on their side of it, but allowing soft evening air to waft in.
The only two seats open in the lively restaurant were at the counter and we took them.
The two women behind us were discussing experiences with men in bars, a couple was enjoying a bottle of Early Mountain Rose as part of the date night deal and a young couple with twin babies was trying to have a meal despite two vocal babies.
When our server took a small hotel pan filled with boiling water to their table, it was to put a baby bottle in it to warm the milk. Impressed with her ingenuity, I complimented her on such cleverness. "Yea, I was pretty proud of that," she grinned. "I used to babysit a lot."
Before we'd even finished our salads, we ordered double chocolate cake and the check because we knew "A 420 Carol" was starting soon. Walking by Gallery 5 to Coalition Theater, the throbbing sounds of a punk show reverberated out while black-clad and deliberately disaffected-looking kids milled about outside smoking cigarettes. It could have been 1982.
Ah, youth.
Using the characters and premise from RCC's recent improvised series "High There" about a guy who inherits a head shop from his stoner Uncle Jim, tonight's special edition focused on owner Jonathan's indifference to the high holy day for potheads while his staff wants to close up and experience Bongzilla, the $11,000 bong that's the shop's centerpiece.
Ho, ho, ho, Merry Spliffness and good luck finding the true meaning of 4/20 and all that.
The staff wants to close the shop and party while he wants a good night's sleep (early morning meeting) while they keep the shop open for the expected 4/20 consumers. Further complicating things is that it's his anniversary and all his wife wants is to celebrate that ("He is a boner, but tonight, he should be my boner").
But, of course, Jonathan's sleep is interrupted repeatedly through the night, beginning with the Bob Marley poster on his wall coming to life as the ghost of Uncle Jim, complete with long multi-colored dreadlocks and lots of beads.
"Every mistake I made, I put a bead in my hair," Marley tells Jonathan. So glad that's not a universal rule.
Poor Jonathan, all he wants to do is sleep - "My mellow is 18 hours of sleep a night. Don't harsh my mellow!" - but all Uncle Jim has done is prepare him for a series of ghost visitors to keep him up.
The ghost of 4/20 past showed him how much fun he used to be, frequently using "Full House" analogies, reminding him of nights capped by a group sing of Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," while the ghost of 4/20 present, wearing Redskins pajamas and stuffing jalapeno potato chips in his gob, wanted to know why he wasn't celebrating 4/20.
"Because I'm sleepy and I want my store to be profitable tonight?" he asked. In the voice of Moses, host of 4/20 present thundered, "Oh, what have you become?" and proceeded to show poor Jonathan how dull the party was downstairs without him.
An ongoing source of laughter was how none of the ghosts could remember their role, always identifying themselves as the "ghost of Christmas, I mean 4/20 past, present or whatever." Sounds to me like ghosts are freelancers who take whatever jobs they can.
You wear as many hats as you need to to make rent.
Wearing black satin elbow-length opera gloves ("These gloves feel amazing right now" said the first-time satin wearer) and a black shroud, the ghost of 4/20 future points out Jonathan's grave marker and shares that if he doesn't change, his High There shop will wind up becoming a Blimpie's when he's gone.
"Which would be perfect if Blimpie's came back," Future opined, momentarily unconcerned about Jonathan's fate for the sake of a good sub.
Laugh-out-loud improvised moments were constant, including a Matthew Broderick/Godzilla reference even some of the actors didn't get ("Huh?") but was quickly explained. Once Jonathan realizes that he really does have a wonderful life, he tells his girlfriend, "It's our anniversary! Roll me into a blunt and smoke me like one of your French girls."
That was the cue for the staff to toast each other with blunts and begin singing "In Your Eyes" again.
The end, except not really, because the sound guy immediately cues up the real "In Your Eyes" and everyone in the audience went out on a high note, possibly even hungry, definitely not harshed.
And my mellow? Nine hours of sleep a night. Yea, I'm pretty proud of that.
~ sign outside the Village Cafe
Today is 4/20 (smiley face)
~ sign outside Rumors Boutique
A 420 Carol
~ tonight's show at Comedy Coalition Theater
With all that in mind, it only made sense to start the evening in a split level, just the kind of house where kids probably smoked pot to escape their southside ennui.
The occasion was another Designmonth RVA event, this one at a 1954 house on Riverside Drive that has been renovated from a suburban-looking cliche to what the architects referred to as "West coast modern," which involved re-imagining it by removing the split level and replacing it with an enormous vertical addition, moving the garage to the front and putting a massive garage rooftop patio atop it.
Besides more bedrooms than I can recall, it had a home brewing room (see: drain in center of floor), a closet that ran the length of thee master suite and was wide enough for a couch and gorgeous old azaleas in full bloom crowding the back deck.
One of the Modern Richmond crew referred to Riverside Drive as "Mulholland Drive Richmond" because of its view sheds and distinctly mid-century architecture. Driving out, I saw several houses that supported that theory.
Headed back to the Fan for dinner, I couldn't help but notice how much better at being pedestrians the VCU students are at this point. It's a shame, but by the time we train them in the art of walking around in a city, it's the end of the school year. Pity.
Today's warm yet dry weather meant that the top of the blue Dutch door at Garnett's was open, the screen door keeping bugs on their side of it, but allowing soft evening air to waft in.
The only two seats open in the lively restaurant were at the counter and we took them.
The two women behind us were discussing experiences with men in bars, a couple was enjoying a bottle of Early Mountain Rose as part of the date night deal and a young couple with twin babies was trying to have a meal despite two vocal babies.
When our server took a small hotel pan filled with boiling water to their table, it was to put a baby bottle in it to warm the milk. Impressed with her ingenuity, I complimented her on such cleverness. "Yea, I was pretty proud of that," she grinned. "I used to babysit a lot."
Before we'd even finished our salads, we ordered double chocolate cake and the check because we knew "A 420 Carol" was starting soon. Walking by Gallery 5 to Coalition Theater, the throbbing sounds of a punk show reverberated out while black-clad and deliberately disaffected-looking kids milled about outside smoking cigarettes. It could have been 1982.
Ah, youth.
Using the characters and premise from RCC's recent improvised series "High There" about a guy who inherits a head shop from his stoner Uncle Jim, tonight's special edition focused on owner Jonathan's indifference to the high holy day for potheads while his staff wants to close up and experience Bongzilla, the $11,000 bong that's the shop's centerpiece.
Ho, ho, ho, Merry Spliffness and good luck finding the true meaning of 4/20 and all that.
The staff wants to close the shop and party while he wants a good night's sleep (early morning meeting) while they keep the shop open for the expected 4/20 consumers. Further complicating things is that it's his anniversary and all his wife wants is to celebrate that ("He is a boner, but tonight, he should be my boner").
But, of course, Jonathan's sleep is interrupted repeatedly through the night, beginning with the Bob Marley poster on his wall coming to life as the ghost of Uncle Jim, complete with long multi-colored dreadlocks and lots of beads.
"Every mistake I made, I put a bead in my hair," Marley tells Jonathan. So glad that's not a universal rule.
Poor Jonathan, all he wants to do is sleep - "My mellow is 18 hours of sleep a night. Don't harsh my mellow!" - but all Uncle Jim has done is prepare him for a series of ghost visitors to keep him up.
The ghost of 4/20 past showed him how much fun he used to be, frequently using "Full House" analogies, reminding him of nights capped by a group sing of Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," while the ghost of 4/20 present, wearing Redskins pajamas and stuffing jalapeno potato chips in his gob, wanted to know why he wasn't celebrating 4/20.
"Because I'm sleepy and I want my store to be profitable tonight?" he asked. In the voice of Moses, host of 4/20 present thundered, "Oh, what have you become?" and proceeded to show poor Jonathan how dull the party was downstairs without him.
An ongoing source of laughter was how none of the ghosts could remember their role, always identifying themselves as the "ghost of Christmas, I mean 4/20 past, present or whatever." Sounds to me like ghosts are freelancers who take whatever jobs they can.
You wear as many hats as you need to to make rent.
Wearing black satin elbow-length opera gloves ("These gloves feel amazing right now" said the first-time satin wearer) and a black shroud, the ghost of 4/20 future points out Jonathan's grave marker and shares that if he doesn't change, his High There shop will wind up becoming a Blimpie's when he's gone.
"Which would be perfect if Blimpie's came back," Future opined, momentarily unconcerned about Jonathan's fate for the sake of a good sub.
Laugh-out-loud improvised moments were constant, including a Matthew Broderick/Godzilla reference even some of the actors didn't get ("Huh?") but was quickly explained. Once Jonathan realizes that he really does have a wonderful life, he tells his girlfriend, "It's our anniversary! Roll me into a blunt and smoke me like one of your French girls."
That was the cue for the staff to toast each other with blunts and begin singing "In Your Eyes" again.
The end, except not really, because the sound guy immediately cues up the real "In Your Eyes" and everyone in the audience went out on a high note, possibly even hungry, definitely not harshed.
And my mellow? Nine hours of sleep a night. Yea, I'm pretty proud of that.
The East of my Youth, the West of My Future
An epic road trip called for an epic bon voyage lunch.
You know, "Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road," as Kerouac put it.
The honor of my presence was requested at Can Can at 2 p.m. by the friend doing the departing so we could have one last gabfest before she and her man took off for places unseen and adventures unimaginable as they cross the country to the West coast and back.
Unwilling to sit inside (for some unfathomable reason, the front windows were closed on this beautiful Spring day), we took a table on the patio next to the flower vendor and partially shaded by a large tree, where I heard about the minutiae of planning a trip of this kind, which involves, it seems, picnic backpacks, plastic bins for clothes and a 30-year old sleeping bag acquired by her man from redeemable points on Marlboro cigarette packs.
No less than Kerouac himself would have approved of the procurement method.
Taking Orson Welles' advice, "Ask not what you can do for your country, ask what's for lunch," we did, matching our choices to the warm day.
Both of us wound up choosing the plat du jour of seared scallops over a cucumber/avocado gazpacho with crisp seasonal veggies (beautiful radish slices as thin as a postcard) and paprika oil, an exquisite combination.
I got to hear about the itinerary, tickled to hear that the first stop was in Memphis so I could recommend a hotel right on the Mississippi where I'd stayed, then on to New Mexico next for the serious camping experience.
The funny part? My friend has never, well, actually camped.
Truth be told, I haven't either unless you count one night in the back of a VW Squareback when it was raining so hard my then-boyfriend took pity on me and set up camp in the way-back rather than subject a camping virgin to the hell of a soggy first time.
Smart man. He didn't last for other reasons, but that was his second most brilliant move in a three year relationship.
I give my girl high points for even agreeing to take this trip, although I wasn't surprised to hear that the original time frame of three months on the road has wisely been shortened to four weeks. Even so, she's a bit worried since she was more than ready to get home after only two weeks in France.
And that trip included Paris.
It's hard to say what my tolerance for such a trip might be, although the idea of fresh vistas, all-new experiences and endless conversation opportunities certainly appeal to me, even if the thought of campgrounds and sleeping bags don't.
Of course, they can always bag the trip at any point and set the GPS for Richmond, although it might be harder to do if only one person is having a miserable time.
Like Kerouac wrote, "The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view." There's only one way to get an "A" in that class and that's to strike out for places unknown.
Dessert was a given - the darkest of chocolate pot de cremes for me, profiteroles for her - as she ticked off the many tasks she still has to complete before their intended departure Thursday. She's already angling to move that to Friday so she can vacuum and change the bed linens before they go.
Just like a woman, always thinking ahead and, in this case, wanting to come home to a clean house. She's a better woman than I am for even thinking of such a thing.
After a couple of hours, we had to part ways because she had more trip errands to do and I needed to work. I expect my next contact from her will be a postcard showing fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.
Whether she makes it the entire trip sleeping in that ancient Marlboro sleeping bag or not, she will be the hero of her own epic adventure. She's got miles to go before I see her again.
But no matter, the road is life.
You know, "Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road," as Kerouac put it.
The honor of my presence was requested at Can Can at 2 p.m. by the friend doing the departing so we could have one last gabfest before she and her man took off for places unseen and adventures unimaginable as they cross the country to the West coast and back.
Unwilling to sit inside (for some unfathomable reason, the front windows were closed on this beautiful Spring day), we took a table on the patio next to the flower vendor and partially shaded by a large tree, where I heard about the minutiae of planning a trip of this kind, which involves, it seems, picnic backpacks, plastic bins for clothes and a 30-year old sleeping bag acquired by her man from redeemable points on Marlboro cigarette packs.
No less than Kerouac himself would have approved of the procurement method.
Taking Orson Welles' advice, "Ask not what you can do for your country, ask what's for lunch," we did, matching our choices to the warm day.
Both of us wound up choosing the plat du jour of seared scallops over a cucumber/avocado gazpacho with crisp seasonal veggies (beautiful radish slices as thin as a postcard) and paprika oil, an exquisite combination.
I got to hear about the itinerary, tickled to hear that the first stop was in Memphis so I could recommend a hotel right on the Mississippi where I'd stayed, then on to New Mexico next for the serious camping experience.
The funny part? My friend has never, well, actually camped.
Truth be told, I haven't either unless you count one night in the back of a VW Squareback when it was raining so hard my then-boyfriend took pity on me and set up camp in the way-back rather than subject a camping virgin to the hell of a soggy first time.
Smart man. He didn't last for other reasons, but that was his second most brilliant move in a three year relationship.
I give my girl high points for even agreeing to take this trip, although I wasn't surprised to hear that the original time frame of three months on the road has wisely been shortened to four weeks. Even so, she's a bit worried since she was more than ready to get home after only two weeks in France.
And that trip included Paris.
It's hard to say what my tolerance for such a trip might be, although the idea of fresh vistas, all-new experiences and endless conversation opportunities certainly appeal to me, even if the thought of campgrounds and sleeping bags don't.
Of course, they can always bag the trip at any point and set the GPS for Richmond, although it might be harder to do if only one person is having a miserable time.
Like Kerouac wrote, "The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view." There's only one way to get an "A" in that class and that's to strike out for places unknown.
Dessert was a given - the darkest of chocolate pot de cremes for me, profiteroles for her - as she ticked off the many tasks she still has to complete before their intended departure Thursday. She's already angling to move that to Friday so she can vacuum and change the bed linens before they go.
Just like a woman, always thinking ahead and, in this case, wanting to come home to a clean house. She's a better woman than I am for even thinking of such a thing.
After a couple of hours, we had to part ways because she had more trip errands to do and I needed to work. I expect my next contact from her will be a postcard showing fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.
Whether she makes it the entire trip sleeping in that ancient Marlboro sleeping bag or not, she will be the hero of her own epic adventure. She's got miles to go before I see her again.
But no matter, the road is life.
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