If you're going for the sweet life, you've got to do it right.
The moment I saw that the Byrd was screening Fellini's "La Dolce Vita" on a Sunday afternoon, I was on board.
Roger Ebert's favorite film of all time? Sign me up.
But it was when I invited Mr. Wright to join me that the plot thickened. To his way of thinking, why would we leave a three-hour Italian film and not head directly to an old school Italian restaurant? "Think Chianti bottles with candle wax melted down them," he suggested, leaving the actual choice to me.
To add the final touch, he showed up with a rather large bottle of Sambuca to finish out the evening in fine Italian style. All of a sudden, we had a theme going.
At the Byrd, I ran into a trio of music friends who were as excited as we were to spend the afternoon looking through the lens of 1960 Italy. We were also united in our dismay at having learned that Strange Matter is closing, a place where we ran into each other regularly to see interesting bands, and cautiously hopeful that another music venue will replace it.
"La Dolce Vita" was everything I'd hoped it would be: sumptuous black and white cinematography, scenes of post-war Italian decadence, endless commentary on life and love and the drop dead gorgeousness of Marcello Mastroianni (who seemed to bed every beautiful woman he came in contact with). When he tried to convince the other party-goers that it was orgy time, it occurred to me that it was my second Italian movie this week with orgies.
I can assure you, that's not usually the case.
That every night's pleasure - which usually ended at dawn - caused one character or another to suggest eating spaghetti only added to the charm. "Come home, I'll make ravioli! I want to make love!"
And, truthfully, the movie didn't feel anywhere near as long as it should have given the three hours spent scarfing popcorn, watching Anita Eckberg climb the steps of St. Peter's ("She's like an elevator!") and dance every chance she got, and gawking at how much less populated Rome was in 1960 than 2012 when I went.
Not to mention how much better the dresses were back then.
Although the film was a huge box office success and won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, it's also notable for birthing the term "paparazzi," which comes from the character Paparazzo, one of the many celebrity photographers who make up the story of Rome as decaying. Or, as one of the orgy-goers put it, "By 1965, there'll be total depravity. How squalid everything will be."
Flash forward to 2018 in the U.S., my friend, and you'll see just how low things have gotten.
Given the buzz kill that the time change is, we walked out of the Byrd as dusk was settling in and headed directly to the Robin Inn, as old school Italian (and Greek) as was befitting a post-Fellini meal. Granted, the red checkered tablecloths are only on the service tables, not, for instance, on the booth table where we sat, but close enough.
Certainly the carafe of Chianti we drank could have been lifted from 1960.
We were clearly in the minority as a couple since there were two large parties going on and a steady stream of people arriving with gift-wrapped boxes. When one party-goer overheard Mr. Wright comment to our server that we hadn't been invited to either, he stopped and extended his hospitality right there. His mistake was in mentioning that his group included six children. Thanks, but no thanks.
There's a certain old school charm to a place like the Robin Inn, including the iceberg lettuce salads that got us talking about how maligned iceberg lettuce is these days. Sure, it's just pale green water with almost no nutritional value, but it sure does give good crunch.
Meanwhile, his veal scallopini and spaghetti with meat sauce and my baked manicotti Florentine (c'mon, we had an theme going here) oozing ricotta, spinach, mushrooms and Mozzarella were every bit as filling and mass appeal as you'd expect.
After lingering over such a heavy meal, I defy you to come up with a better way to wile away the evening than listening to Sinatra and enjoying the sweet anise flavor of Sambuca. No, we didn't sip it with the traditional three coffee beans, but it was as good as dessert, especially given that even I, the dessert queen, couldn't possibly have eaten another bite.
Now Mr. Wright is thinking we need more themed movie/dinner/after-dinner drink extravaganzas. I'm warning you, by 2023, there'll be total indulgence. How wonderful everything will be.
No orgies, though.
Monday, November 12, 2018
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Skin of My Teeth
My film education continues to unfold nightly.
On the surface, last night's installment of VCU Cinematheque should have been right up my alley. I've gone on record admitting that '60s and '70s movies fascinate me for the shifting cultural mores given voice through Hollywood's eyes.
Of course, the groovy fashions and music don't hurt, either.
So, by all accounts, I should have loved Michelangelo Antonioni's overblown paean to the late '60s counterculture, "Zabriskie Point." Mr. Wright had not only been to Death Valley and spotted the sign for Zabriskie Point, but had already seen the film several times, including as an impressionable young man when it came out. For me, only the title was familiar.
We started at Ipanema and then shifted the action across to the Grace Street Theatre. Both were full of people who weren't alive when Kurt Cobain checked out. Think about that.
When the visiting professor with the German accent got up to introduce the film, he began to wax poetic about the era of student protests and dropping out and turning on, explaining to the clueless student audience that the film was part of a 3-part deal with MGM for the talented Italian director. "Hollywood thought they cold throw big money at Antonioni," he shared and then chuckled in disgust.
Little did they realize that he'd just spend all their money while essentially holding up a giant middle finger to the U.S. To that, I say "well done," although I can see where others might see it as ungrateful and nervy.
Looking around the theater at students born at the tail end of the '90s, the prof instructed them, "Go ask your grandparents about the '70s." If they remember, they weren't there.
It was just too bad that no one had taken the time to explain to these world studies and film students how and why films were being made in 1970. No doubt Antonioni, known for his brilliant framing, cinematography and use of music, would have been disdainful of students today who simply couldn't fathom a film with an extended orgy scene in the desert (first uncomfortable tittering, followed by outright laughter) or a succession of a dozen shots of a house being blown up from different angles.
And don't get me started on their major sighing at the leisurely pacing of the film, which I loved.
If only MGM hadn't cut Antonioni's original ending - a plane sky-writing "F*ck you, America" - they'd have seen something they could understand. As it stood, they'd need to go ask their grandparents why there were so many bad mustaches in the olden days.
Tonight's lesson in film was much more of a treat because there's a particular pleasure to seeing a Hitchcock movie you've never seen before. Even Mr. Wright was in the dark on this one.
Hello, "Shadow of Doubt," nice to make your acquaintance.
After crispy golden rolls and a banh mi at Sen across from the Byrd, we crossed the street for the 1943 psychological thriller written by Thornton Wilder - yes, he of "Our Town" - that Hitch often referred to as his favorite.
And, if not his favorite, according to Byrd manager Todd, his most plausible story.
Because only Hitch would think that a serial murderer coming to live with his older sister's family in the bucolic town of Santa Rosa and talking an unnatural interest in his namesake niece (knowing Hitch, he probably intended the squirm-worthy implications of Uncle Charlie hitting on his sister's oldest daughter) was perfectly plausible.
Not that I cared. From the opening shot, what had my attention was that I was seeing the actor Henry Travers onscreen as something other than Clarence, the angel, from "It's a Wonderful Life." Like a kindergartner who thinks her teacher lives in the classroom, I just assumed Travers had only played that one role.
The funniest scenes in the movie were those between Travers and a nerdy, young Hume Cronyn (whom I only knew as an old man, so I didn't even recognize him until the credits), neighbors who spent their free time trading ideas for how to murder each other creatively and successfully.
Mainly, I reveled in watching a Hitchcock movie I'd never seen before, taking in every dramatically lit shadow, oddball ceiling angle and telltale hand gesture in a crisply black and white movie with infinite shades of gray.
I was so engrossed I missed Hitchcock's cameo as a bridge player on board a train and had to ask Todd on the way out when he'd been onscreen.
Best of all, there were no tittering students and nobody whining about the film's pacing, although a couple in our aisle walked out after half an hour (I was dying to know why). Everyone who'd come to see "Shadow of Doubt" - and many of us were first-timers, evidenced by Todd asking who'd never seen it and more than half the room raising their hands - accepted the film for the 1943 Hitchcock classic that it was.
And if you don't believe me, go ask your grandparents.
On the surface, last night's installment of VCU Cinematheque should have been right up my alley. I've gone on record admitting that '60s and '70s movies fascinate me for the shifting cultural mores given voice through Hollywood's eyes.
Of course, the groovy fashions and music don't hurt, either.
So, by all accounts, I should have loved Michelangelo Antonioni's overblown paean to the late '60s counterculture, "Zabriskie Point." Mr. Wright had not only been to Death Valley and spotted the sign for Zabriskie Point, but had already seen the film several times, including as an impressionable young man when it came out. For me, only the title was familiar.
We started at Ipanema and then shifted the action across to the Grace Street Theatre. Both were full of people who weren't alive when Kurt Cobain checked out. Think about that.
When the visiting professor with the German accent got up to introduce the film, he began to wax poetic about the era of student protests and dropping out and turning on, explaining to the clueless student audience that the film was part of a 3-part deal with MGM for the talented Italian director. "Hollywood thought they cold throw big money at Antonioni," he shared and then chuckled in disgust.
Little did they realize that he'd just spend all their money while essentially holding up a giant middle finger to the U.S. To that, I say "well done," although I can see where others might see it as ungrateful and nervy.
Looking around the theater at students born at the tail end of the '90s, the prof instructed them, "Go ask your grandparents about the '70s." If they remember, they weren't there.
It was just too bad that no one had taken the time to explain to these world studies and film students how and why films were being made in 1970. No doubt Antonioni, known for his brilliant framing, cinematography and use of music, would have been disdainful of students today who simply couldn't fathom a film with an extended orgy scene in the desert (first uncomfortable tittering, followed by outright laughter) or a succession of a dozen shots of a house being blown up from different angles.
And don't get me started on their major sighing at the leisurely pacing of the film, which I loved.
If only MGM hadn't cut Antonioni's original ending - a plane sky-writing "F*ck you, America" - they'd have seen something they could understand. As it stood, they'd need to go ask their grandparents why there were so many bad mustaches in the olden days.
Tonight's lesson in film was much more of a treat because there's a particular pleasure to seeing a Hitchcock movie you've never seen before. Even Mr. Wright was in the dark on this one.
Hello, "Shadow of Doubt," nice to make your acquaintance.
After crispy golden rolls and a banh mi at Sen across from the Byrd, we crossed the street for the 1943 psychological thriller written by Thornton Wilder - yes, he of "Our Town" - that Hitch often referred to as his favorite.
And, if not his favorite, according to Byrd manager Todd, his most plausible story.
Because only Hitch would think that a serial murderer coming to live with his older sister's family in the bucolic town of Santa Rosa and talking an unnatural interest in his namesake niece (knowing Hitch, he probably intended the squirm-worthy implications of Uncle Charlie hitting on his sister's oldest daughter) was perfectly plausible.
Not that I cared. From the opening shot, what had my attention was that I was seeing the actor Henry Travers onscreen as something other than Clarence, the angel, from "It's a Wonderful Life." Like a kindergartner who thinks her teacher lives in the classroom, I just assumed Travers had only played that one role.
The funniest scenes in the movie were those between Travers and a nerdy, young Hume Cronyn (whom I only knew as an old man, so I didn't even recognize him until the credits), neighbors who spent their free time trading ideas for how to murder each other creatively and successfully.
Mainly, I reveled in watching a Hitchcock movie I'd never seen before, taking in every dramatically lit shadow, oddball ceiling angle and telltale hand gesture in a crisply black and white movie with infinite shades of gray.
I was so engrossed I missed Hitchcock's cameo as a bridge player on board a train and had to ask Todd on the way out when he'd been onscreen.
Best of all, there were no tittering students and nobody whining about the film's pacing, although a couple in our aisle walked out after half an hour (I was dying to know why). Everyone who'd come to see "Shadow of Doubt" - and many of us were first-timers, evidenced by Todd asking who'd never seen it and more than half the room raising their hands - accepted the film for the 1943 Hitchcock classic that it was.
And if you don't believe me, go ask your grandparents.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
My Vote, My Voice
We do not have government by the majority. We have government by the majority who participate.
~ Thomas Jefferson
Turns out both Tim Kaine and I have a soft spot for Carver Elementary School.
For me, it was the 2008 election at Carver because despite having been an active voter since I was 18, never had I seen the diversity - black, brown, white, young, old - or the sheer number of people in a line that snaked up and down halls of classrooms, outdoors and down the block. I'll never forget how moved I was by people doing their civic duty.
When Mac came over to walk today, I suggested our walk include me voting, which wasn't a hard sell because we haven't been able to get on the pipeline for days. Once at Carver, I headed inside to vote while Mac said she'd wait outside to enjoy the last of the warm front before the thunderstorms moved in.
Imagine my surprise when I walked outside to rejoin her, only to hear, "Look who I'm talking to" and see Tim Kaine standing next to her. Moments earlier, I'd been filling in the circle to vote for him and then, just to make sure, going back over that circle to ensure that I was clear on my choice.
Now here he was smiling at me.
Like any idiot unexpectedly faced with her U.S. Senator, I babbled something about having just voted for him, but then my brain cleared and I realized I had something to tell him: that I'd just recently seen "The Laramie Project" and been terribly impressed with the show in general and specifically, his daughters's performance in it.
What Dad doesn't want to hear how talented his offspring is?
He beamed. He shared that she's living in NYC these days, a fact I already knew but didn't let on. He told me how great Richmond Triangle Players - where "Laramie" had been produced - was and I told him I agreed. We were united in our RTP love. That, and an unspoken hope for a blue voting wave today.
It was then that Mac's need to document clicked in and she asked if he would pose for a picture and he did us one better, asking one of his assistants standing nearby to snap a picture of all three of us. So there we are in front of the Carver Elementary School sign, grinning like the happy voters we all three were.
Except that Tim Kaine doesn't live in my neighborhood, so what was he doing there? Seems that my precinct was the one that won him a seat on city council, his first elected position, so he always makes a point to hang out at Carver on election days.
"Thanks again!" he said, smiling, as we headed off on our walk, photographic evidence of our chance meeting on Mac's phone.
Well, if I didn't think I had the best polling place ever before, I'm thoroughly convinced of it now. When I sent the photo to my parents - the same parents who told me and my sisters not to bring home any boy who didn't vote in every election - my Dad had his usual pithy response.
"Very nice pic! Such tidbits of wisdom is why T.J. is one of my favorites. Assuming and not voting is one of the main reasons we are in this current predicament! It will be a lengthy reclamation project..."
Doing my part to reclaim at Carver Elementary every chance I get. Tim was just a bonus.
~ Thomas Jefferson
Turns out both Tim Kaine and I have a soft spot for Carver Elementary School.
For me, it was the 2008 election at Carver because despite having been an active voter since I was 18, never had I seen the diversity - black, brown, white, young, old - or the sheer number of people in a line that snaked up and down halls of classrooms, outdoors and down the block. I'll never forget how moved I was by people doing their civic duty.
When Mac came over to walk today, I suggested our walk include me voting, which wasn't a hard sell because we haven't been able to get on the pipeline for days. Once at Carver, I headed inside to vote while Mac said she'd wait outside to enjoy the last of the warm front before the thunderstorms moved in.
Imagine my surprise when I walked outside to rejoin her, only to hear, "Look who I'm talking to" and see Tim Kaine standing next to her. Moments earlier, I'd been filling in the circle to vote for him and then, just to make sure, going back over that circle to ensure that I was clear on my choice.
Now here he was smiling at me.
Like any idiot unexpectedly faced with her U.S. Senator, I babbled something about having just voted for him, but then my brain cleared and I realized I had something to tell him: that I'd just recently seen "The Laramie Project" and been terribly impressed with the show in general and specifically, his daughters's performance in it.
What Dad doesn't want to hear how talented his offspring is?
He beamed. He shared that she's living in NYC these days, a fact I already knew but didn't let on. He told me how great Richmond Triangle Players - where "Laramie" had been produced - was and I told him I agreed. We were united in our RTP love. That, and an unspoken hope for a blue voting wave today.
It was then that Mac's need to document clicked in and she asked if he would pose for a picture and he did us one better, asking one of his assistants standing nearby to snap a picture of all three of us. So there we are in front of the Carver Elementary School sign, grinning like the happy voters we all three were.
Except that Tim Kaine doesn't live in my neighborhood, so what was he doing there? Seems that my precinct was the one that won him a seat on city council, his first elected position, so he always makes a point to hang out at Carver on election days.
"Thanks again!" he said, smiling, as we headed off on our walk, photographic evidence of our chance meeting on Mac's phone.
Well, if I didn't think I had the best polling place ever before, I'm thoroughly convinced of it now. When I sent the photo to my parents - the same parents who told me and my sisters not to bring home any boy who didn't vote in every election - my Dad had his usual pithy response.
"Very nice pic! Such tidbits of wisdom is why T.J. is one of my favorites. Assuming and not voting is one of the main reasons we are in this current predicament! It will be a lengthy reclamation project..."
Doing my part to reclaim at Carver Elementary every chance I get. Tim was just a bonus.
Monday, November 5, 2018
Variations on a Girls' Night Out
When Typhoid Mary sets out for help alone, it's trumpet time.
Because it had been two months since I'd last seen Lady G, I had no idea she'd been battling the Galloping Consumption for a while now. When she showed up to fetch me, she was coughing like a consumptive and looking a tad peaked, not exactly ideal conditions to share anecdotes from her recent trip to Ireland.
Much less throw back wine and laugh at everything.
But like the trooper she is, she insisted we were good to go and that she wasn't nearly as sick as she looked or sounded. As someone who suffered with pneumonia for weeks under the delusion that I'd snap out of it, her false bravado was uncomfortably familiar. Still, no one wants to nag a sick friend.
Well, except for someone who mishandled her own illness and isn't afraid to be pushy about the risks of not getting treatment. So I put on my big sister hat and told her not to be stupid.
So my bedside manner could use some tweaking.
At her insistence, we carried on with our plans, landing at Bar Solita a few blocks away to try to cover three countries, hundreds of photographs, dozens of personal anecdotes and make plans for a road trip. Drawing on the only medicine that seems to be working currently, G ordered what she called "tea," a hot mixture of rye, honey and lemon that she thinks helps her cough but really helps her not care about her cough.
Over a basil pesto pizza and pastry, she shared photos, all of which proved how green Ireland is, and tall tales gleaned from wizened guides on her trip to the Motherland, while the pink-haired bartender worried about the seriousness of her cough. Every time G got into a good story, she'd begin a coughing fit from too much talking and we were back in the tubercular ward.
Make no mistake, I tried to convince her that we should go directly from Bar Solita to MCV, but she remained unconvinced. The bartender put in her two cents' worth, suggesting Patient First instead. "You should have that cough looked at!" the woman said with all the solemnity someone with pink hair can manage.
It was some time during dessert that Lady G caved and agreed to go directly to Patient First, albeit the one in her far-flung neighborhood. The time elapsed since we'd started our evening together was 90 minutes, so I felt pretty good about my nagging.
But at least she'd agreed to go and report back on her diagnosis.
All of a sudden, my evening was over. But rather than going home, I asked G to drop me at the Singleton Center (sign in stall of Singelton bathroom: "Swipe left on the flu!") on the way to having her cough examined. She was surprised that I just happened to know there was a musical program there tonight and I was surprised that she'd think I don't know of at least one, if not several, things going on on any given night.
After all, we have known each other for 20 years at this point.
Rex Richardson's Trumpet Spectacular had begun moments before I took my seat in the auditorium, so the VCU Trumpet ensemble was already playing. I'm one of those people who actually enjoys seeing a student group play because sometimes it's a first glance at an up and comer in the local jazz scene.
Not to make generalizations (because somebody will call me on it if I do) but trumpet fans appear to skew heavily male, or at least, that was my conclusion when I looked around the room and saw ten guys for every girl. Or perhaps, like me, all those guys were just out to hear top notch trumpet and piano playing on a Monday night after finishing a plate of profiteroles.
More likely, they were just big trumpet nerds like Rex, a man who tosses around phrases like, "If you know trumpet music," which I don't, but I also enjoy being in a room where there are people who do. People like trumpeter Taylor Barnett whom I've seen play in No BS Brass band and any number of big bands, and who joined Rex and pianist Magda Adamek for "Variations on a Theme" by Haydn.
Lady G might have benefited from some Haydn almost as much as from the "tea."
Finding Taylor was a bit of a problem, so Rex called out to the crowd, saying, "Taylor Barnett, are you here?" only to have Taylor walk onstage behind him. "Oh, there he is!" Rex exclaimed, acknowledging, "That's what you get when you don't entirely print out everything on your program and that's all my fault."
Everyone's - okay my - favorite pianist Russell Wilson of the Richmond Symphony, joined Rex for the next piece. I may have been going to Rex's performances for years, but I took my first jazz appreciation course from Russell, so I always feel fortunate to hear him play. I swear, he always looks like he's having a good time.
Trumpeter Mike Davison was Rex's next partner for "Tournament," a piece in three movements - Jousting, Hawaiian Song and Revelry - that had originally been written for Davison in 1999. "But when I asked him if he had the music, he didn't," Rex said, laughing.
Eager to have the last word, Mike cracked, "Must not have liked that one!" Regardless, they made it sound like they'd been playing it together since 1999.
Rex dedicated the tragically beautiful "Elegy" to the recently-deceased musician Roy Hargrove (whom he referred to as "a direct contemporary of mine") and trumpeter Thomas Steven.
The meatiest piece was Andy Scott's "Freedom of Movement," performed as recently as September by the VCU Wind Ensemble, but tonight performed using a piano-reduction version instead of the full ensemble for something completely different. Of the piece's three sections, the middle one with its jazz-like piano parts was the most intriguing to me, never more so than when pianist Magda began bopping her head, throwing her arms around and grooving like crazy.
Isn't there a saying about leading a classical pianist to jazz, but not being able to make her...something?
With G long gone (hopefully off being examined for whooping cough), it was a fine night for taking my time walking home given the relatively mild temperature and my post-trumpet buzz. Not the evening I expected, but sometimes a friend needs to be coerced to take care of herself.
And if you know stubborn friends better than you know trumpets, you know plying them with rye is the way to do it.
Because it had been two months since I'd last seen Lady G, I had no idea she'd been battling the Galloping Consumption for a while now. When she showed up to fetch me, she was coughing like a consumptive and looking a tad peaked, not exactly ideal conditions to share anecdotes from her recent trip to Ireland.
Much less throw back wine and laugh at everything.
But like the trooper she is, she insisted we were good to go and that she wasn't nearly as sick as she looked or sounded. As someone who suffered with pneumonia for weeks under the delusion that I'd snap out of it, her false bravado was uncomfortably familiar. Still, no one wants to nag a sick friend.
Well, except for someone who mishandled her own illness and isn't afraid to be pushy about the risks of not getting treatment. So I put on my big sister hat and told her not to be stupid.
So my bedside manner could use some tweaking.
At her insistence, we carried on with our plans, landing at Bar Solita a few blocks away to try to cover three countries, hundreds of photographs, dozens of personal anecdotes and make plans for a road trip. Drawing on the only medicine that seems to be working currently, G ordered what she called "tea," a hot mixture of rye, honey and lemon that she thinks helps her cough but really helps her not care about her cough.
Over a basil pesto pizza and pastry, she shared photos, all of which proved how green Ireland is, and tall tales gleaned from wizened guides on her trip to the Motherland, while the pink-haired bartender worried about the seriousness of her cough. Every time G got into a good story, she'd begin a coughing fit from too much talking and we were back in the tubercular ward.
Make no mistake, I tried to convince her that we should go directly from Bar Solita to MCV, but she remained unconvinced. The bartender put in her two cents' worth, suggesting Patient First instead. "You should have that cough looked at!" the woman said with all the solemnity someone with pink hair can manage.
It was some time during dessert that Lady G caved and agreed to go directly to Patient First, albeit the one in her far-flung neighborhood. The time elapsed since we'd started our evening together was 90 minutes, so I felt pretty good about my nagging.
But at least she'd agreed to go and report back on her diagnosis.
All of a sudden, my evening was over. But rather than going home, I asked G to drop me at the Singleton Center (sign in stall of Singelton bathroom: "Swipe left on the flu!") on the way to having her cough examined. She was surprised that I just happened to know there was a musical program there tonight and I was surprised that she'd think I don't know of at least one, if not several, things going on on any given night.
After all, we have known each other for 20 years at this point.
Rex Richardson's Trumpet Spectacular had begun moments before I took my seat in the auditorium, so the VCU Trumpet ensemble was already playing. I'm one of those people who actually enjoys seeing a student group play because sometimes it's a first glance at an up and comer in the local jazz scene.
Not to make generalizations (because somebody will call me on it if I do) but trumpet fans appear to skew heavily male, or at least, that was my conclusion when I looked around the room and saw ten guys for every girl. Or perhaps, like me, all those guys were just out to hear top notch trumpet and piano playing on a Monday night after finishing a plate of profiteroles.
More likely, they were just big trumpet nerds like Rex, a man who tosses around phrases like, "If you know trumpet music," which I don't, but I also enjoy being in a room where there are people who do. People like trumpeter Taylor Barnett whom I've seen play in No BS Brass band and any number of big bands, and who joined Rex and pianist Magda Adamek for "Variations on a Theme" by Haydn.
Lady G might have benefited from some Haydn almost as much as from the "tea."
Finding Taylor was a bit of a problem, so Rex called out to the crowd, saying, "Taylor Barnett, are you here?" only to have Taylor walk onstage behind him. "Oh, there he is!" Rex exclaimed, acknowledging, "That's what you get when you don't entirely print out everything on your program and that's all my fault."
Everyone's - okay my - favorite pianist Russell Wilson of the Richmond Symphony, joined Rex for the next piece. I may have been going to Rex's performances for years, but I took my first jazz appreciation course from Russell, so I always feel fortunate to hear him play. I swear, he always looks like he's having a good time.
Trumpeter Mike Davison was Rex's next partner for "Tournament," a piece in three movements - Jousting, Hawaiian Song and Revelry - that had originally been written for Davison in 1999. "But when I asked him if he had the music, he didn't," Rex said, laughing.
Eager to have the last word, Mike cracked, "Must not have liked that one!" Regardless, they made it sound like they'd been playing it together since 1999.
Rex dedicated the tragically beautiful "Elegy" to the recently-deceased musician Roy Hargrove (whom he referred to as "a direct contemporary of mine") and trumpeter Thomas Steven.
The meatiest piece was Andy Scott's "Freedom of Movement," performed as recently as September by the VCU Wind Ensemble, but tonight performed using a piano-reduction version instead of the full ensemble for something completely different. Of the piece's three sections, the middle one with its jazz-like piano parts was the most intriguing to me, never more so than when pianist Magda began bopping her head, throwing her arms around and grooving like crazy.
Isn't there a saying about leading a classical pianist to jazz, but not being able to make her...something?
With G long gone (hopefully off being examined for whooping cough), it was a fine night for taking my time walking home given the relatively mild temperature and my post-trumpet buzz. Not the evening I expected, but sometimes a friend needs to be coerced to take care of herself.
And if you know stubborn friends better than you know trumpets, you know plying them with rye is the way to do it.
A Natural, Zesty Enterprise
It was like walking into a secret society without knowing the password.
Granted, no reasonably cultured woman of my age should have lived this long without seeing "The Big Lebowski," but I somehow had. And it's not because it was a Coen Brothers film, either, because I've seen plenty of them: "Fargo," "Barton Fink," "No Country for Old Men," "Hail Caesar," "Inside Llewyn Davis," "Raising Arizona," "Blood Simple," "Barton Fink."
Okay, nowhere near all of them, but plenty.
And let's not forget that in 1998, "The Big Lewbowski" was just another Coen Brothers movie and not even a blockbuster at that. Besides having lost my taste for big Hollywood movies by then (I also didn't see "Saving Private Ryan" or "There's Something About Mary" that year), I was busy seeing films like "Shakespeare in Love" and "Run, Lola, Run."
Let the movie snob ribbing begin.
But given how "The Big Lewbowski" has grown in stature to a cult film, I was at least savvy enough to know I needed to see it for the sake of cultural references. I'd been aware that for the past three years the Byrd Theatre had held a "Big LeByrdski" screening, but never made it there. So when I saw that this was the 20th anniversary of the movie, I resolved to up my cultural literacy.
Like I said, I was entering a zone for which I had no credentials. Countless people had come dressed as characters in the movie which means beyond the Dude, I had no idea who they were supposed to be. In theory, they were dressed up so they could participate in the costume contest, but since there were more costumes than participants, I sense that dressing the part was just part of the fun.
Hello "Rocky Horror Picture Show."
Byrd manager Todd not only wore a Dude-like sweater but danced the part before his introduction of the film. He also insisted we chant "The Byrd abides!" three times before instructing the projectionist to start the movie, saying, "Let's see what condition our condition is in!"
The near capacity crowd ate it up with a spoon, belched and ate some more.
They cheered and clapped as soon as the title appeared. They hooted and hollered at the mention of "El Duderino," not surprising since many of them were sucking back Center of the Universe's "El Duderino," a White Russian-inspired beer. And while I should have expected it, they repeated lines verbatim along with the actors on the screen.
I got it, the rug really tied the room together.
A guy in the row behind us also sang every song in the movie, word for word, which got annoying, especially during a Creedence Clearwater Revival song because they're a band I can't stand. On the other hand, I felt a kinship with the Dude when he said, "I hate the f*ckin' Eagles, man," given I've been hating on that band since the '70s. So we had that bond.
Certainly the writing was at times hilarious. When John Goodman's character Walter nonchalantly and maniacally tells the Dude, "You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me. There are ways, Dude. You don't wanna know about it, believe me...Hell, I can get you a toe by 3:00 this afternoon. With nail polish. These f*ckin' amateurs," I was laughing as hard as anyone.
Even an unlikely detail like the Dude's car spoke to me since I took Driver's Ed in an early '70s four door Ford Torino.
But when all was said and done, after taking in the superb casting - I only wished John Turturro's character Jesus had been in more scenes and seeing Phillip Seymour Hoffman as a toadie was mesmerizing - the unexpectedly elaborate dream sequences, the complete surprise of Sam Elliott being in the movie, I was left shrugging.
This is what all the hoopla has been about?
Granted, my reaction might have been different had I seen it in 1998. With several references to Saddam Hussein, Bush and Reagan, it was very much art of its time and certainly the political incorrectness of it placed it squarely in the '90s.
Which is where I shall leave it to rest, having finally, if temporarily, joined the close-knit Lebowski clan for one brief evening. I am not worthy to put on a bathrobe, sip White Russians and recite dialog along with true fans.
Am I wrong? Am I wrong? Okay then.
Granted, no reasonably cultured woman of my age should have lived this long without seeing "The Big Lebowski," but I somehow had. And it's not because it was a Coen Brothers film, either, because I've seen plenty of them: "Fargo," "Barton Fink," "No Country for Old Men," "Hail Caesar," "Inside Llewyn Davis," "Raising Arizona," "Blood Simple," "Barton Fink."
Okay, nowhere near all of them, but plenty.
And let's not forget that in 1998, "The Big Lewbowski" was just another Coen Brothers movie and not even a blockbuster at that. Besides having lost my taste for big Hollywood movies by then (I also didn't see "Saving Private Ryan" or "There's Something About Mary" that year), I was busy seeing films like "Shakespeare in Love" and "Run, Lola, Run."
Let the movie snob ribbing begin.
But given how "The Big Lewbowski" has grown in stature to a cult film, I was at least savvy enough to know I needed to see it for the sake of cultural references. I'd been aware that for the past three years the Byrd Theatre had held a "Big LeByrdski" screening, but never made it there. So when I saw that this was the 20th anniversary of the movie, I resolved to up my cultural literacy.
Like I said, I was entering a zone for which I had no credentials. Countless people had come dressed as characters in the movie which means beyond the Dude, I had no idea who they were supposed to be. In theory, they were dressed up so they could participate in the costume contest, but since there were more costumes than participants, I sense that dressing the part was just part of the fun.
Hello "Rocky Horror Picture Show."
Byrd manager Todd not only wore a Dude-like sweater but danced the part before his introduction of the film. He also insisted we chant "The Byrd abides!" three times before instructing the projectionist to start the movie, saying, "Let's see what condition our condition is in!"
The near capacity crowd ate it up with a spoon, belched and ate some more.
They cheered and clapped as soon as the title appeared. They hooted and hollered at the mention of "El Duderino," not surprising since many of them were sucking back Center of the Universe's "El Duderino," a White Russian-inspired beer. And while I should have expected it, they repeated lines verbatim along with the actors on the screen.
I got it, the rug really tied the room together.
A guy in the row behind us also sang every song in the movie, word for word, which got annoying, especially during a Creedence Clearwater Revival song because they're a band I can't stand. On the other hand, I felt a kinship with the Dude when he said, "I hate the f*ckin' Eagles, man," given I've been hating on that band since the '70s. So we had that bond.
Certainly the writing was at times hilarious. When John Goodman's character Walter nonchalantly and maniacally tells the Dude, "You want a toe? I can get you a toe, believe me. There are ways, Dude. You don't wanna know about it, believe me...Hell, I can get you a toe by 3:00 this afternoon. With nail polish. These f*ckin' amateurs," I was laughing as hard as anyone.
Even an unlikely detail like the Dude's car spoke to me since I took Driver's Ed in an early '70s four door Ford Torino.
But when all was said and done, after taking in the superb casting - I only wished John Turturro's character Jesus had been in more scenes and seeing Phillip Seymour Hoffman as a toadie was mesmerizing - the unexpectedly elaborate dream sequences, the complete surprise of Sam Elliott being in the movie, I was left shrugging.
This is what all the hoopla has been about?
Granted, my reaction might have been different had I seen it in 1998. With several references to Saddam Hussein, Bush and Reagan, it was very much art of its time and certainly the political incorrectness of it placed it squarely in the '90s.
Which is where I shall leave it to rest, having finally, if temporarily, joined the close-knit Lebowski clan for one brief evening. I am not worthy to put on a bathrobe, sip White Russians and recite dialog along with true fans.
Am I wrong? Am I wrong? Okay then.
Porn Names and Handcuffs
I've been slacking off in the wine dinner department.
A year and a half ago, I'd been tasked with keeping the group up-to-date on upcoming wine dinners. Mind you, I didn't ask for the job, but it was mine.
The last time I'd arranged for the posse to attend one, it was February and I'd arrived with the biggest news of the year: I'd accepted a lunch date. And because that lunch was so successful, I'd put keeping everyone abreast of wine dinners on the back burner.
Hell, if I was honest, I'd say I'd moved that pan off the stove entirely. My new love life took precedence over mere wine dinners, even with friends who had a wine jail to keep filled.
But a month ago, I'd gotten an email about Secco's upcoming Vom Boden five course wine dinner with Collin Wagner taking the reins for three courses and all five wines. Secco's wine dinners never disappoint, I was months overdue in my scheduling duties and here was my chance to get back in the swing of things. Beau made the reservation and we were set.
Driving through the Fan to get to Secco tonight, poor Beau had to deal with every possible annoyance: double-parking, unsure turners, darting pedestrians, slow parallel parkers. He got so frustrated he shouted, "City much?" to the last of the automobile-challenged we passed.
That's a brilliant phrase to describe the unfortunate subset of drivers plaguing those of us competent to drive in urban areas.
As we were walking up to Secco, the owner came out to meet us, a concerned look on her face because the dinner was sold out and she hadn't seen my name on the reservation list. I explained I'd been grouped with my friends. Inside, her partner saw me, glanced at his seating chart and took on the look of a deer in headlights. Only once he found out I was part of Beau's party did he relax.
Even better, the owner came over once we'd been seated to say that she'd looked at Beau's last name and assumed he was porn star Jack Vidra, in town this weekend for the Fire, Flour and Fork dinner at L'Opossum.
Instinctively I knew this was an association Beau would welcome. And he did.
Our six top was completed with an IT guy for the Federal Reserve whose wife was pregnant (and why waste five wines?) so he'd come alone and a cop and his German-born wife. To kick things off, we sipped Hild Elbling Sekt until the owner tapped her glass to get the ball rolling.
Almost as soon as she did, a late arrival came in and had to do the walk of shame to his seat at a table in the back while she continued talking. Pru and I just assume that people who would do such a thing were raised by wolves. That's fair, right?
Introducing Collin, who'd started at Secco in 2010 at the tender age of 19, she said that he'd been cooking all over Europe and NYC, at least right up until he'd fallen in love with the Vom Boden portfolio and become a wine rep.
Tonight he was combining both skill sets to dazzle us.
"We're going to drink esoteric German wines you'll never drink again!" he promised, sharing that he was just back from the harvest in Germany. When he returned to the kitchen, the older woman at the table next to us said wistfully to her husband, "Don't you wish you were young enough to go work in the vineyards?"
Don't we all?
Along with the bubbly Sekt, we crunched through wonton cups filled with apple. cucumber and tarragon cream sauce topped with micro-greens. We were that table who, when asked who needed a touch-up on their Sekt, saw every hand go up.
Meanwhile, Beau told us he'd been too busy working night and day last week to see any of Seattle - any, mind you - but he was hoping for better luck in San Francisco when he gets there tomorrow. Pru regaled us with the story of her father coming to visit today, a Time Life book on Nazi sympathizers in hand. I find this hysterical.
I never tire of hearing her Dad stories. I mean, a man who wears a jacket indoors because he's so underweight? A man who claims to be a vegetarian but eats ham and hot dogs? A man who is considering hair plugs at 86? Tell me more, please.
Our first course was smoked Max Creek rainbow trout ("Farm raised fish from a dude named Dave," Collin tells us) in a creamy herb emulsion with kohlrabi and celery, a dish that paired magnificently with Stein Blauschiefer Riesling Trokcen, which caused Collin to brag a little because he'd helped pick the grapes that went into what we were drinking. I loved this pairing and so did Beau, although he had to come around to the wine, which he hadn't liked until he had food with it.
How many wine dinners have I reminded him of this reality and will he ever learn?
As plates were being cleared, I noticed that the cop's wife hadn't eaten her trout and asked why not. Seems she doesn't like smoked fish, so I offered to take it off her hands, knowing Beau would aid the cause. Let no smoked trout go to waste at my table.
By that time, tongues were loosened and people were talking across tables. When Beau and the father-to-be discovered they made their livings in the soul-sucking field of technology IT security, they turned toward each other and the rest of us could have spontaneously combusted and they'd not have noticed.
Another gorgeous pairing, JB Becker Walkenberg Riesling Kabinett Trocken and rye, farro and wild rice cooked like risotto in brown butter, garlic and thyme, then crowned with the thinnest of matsutake mushrooms slices, and even the naysayers were starting to believe in the power of Riesling. Collin came out to rave about the strong and powerful 2008 wine, which, of course, was only available in very limited quantities.
The father-to-be shared the names he and his bride have chosen for their daughter once she arrives - Hannah, Eleanor and Kara - and we took a vote on it. Looks like she'll be Eleanor, though they have a cat named Theodore, so they have some concerns about establishing a theme.
It didn't take much wine for Pru to learn that the older couple next to us are also denizens of Church Hill and from there, it was all about upcoming holiday events in the 'hood. When we complimented the lovely mauve jacket the wife had on, she said she chose such colors because she'd always had to wear black, navy and gray when she was a businesswoman.
Naturally, I had to know what her business was (fundraising for MCV) even as I admired her gold shoes.
Collin returned to rave, first about the Free Union Grass farms roasted duck we were about to eat and then about his enjoyment of the Shelter Winery "Lovely Lilly" Pinot Noir. Secco's owner jumped in to talk about procuring the 40 pounds of duck required at the South of the James Market, where she had to endure listening to vegans discuss "salad and houseplants" while wearing Uggs and giving the duck the stinkeye.
A shame for them, really, because the platter arrived piled high with duck breast that was rosy and medium rare and confit duck legs with crispy bits that would rival any cracklins. I know because Beau and I sampled enough to find out. Along with the mound o' duck came freshly made steam buns, housemade hoison sauce, sliced scallions and cucumbers and pickled carrots for an assemble-your-own kind of meal.
Don't get me started on those who ate theirs with fork and knife. They're buns, people. Pick 'em up and eat 'em.
Pru wasted no time in finding out that, like her, the cop's wife had been a financial analyst and since the IT boys were still mooning over each other's RAM, that left me and the cop to find common ground while the others bonded. Pru tried to help, saying, "Both you and John are into handcuffs," a joke that went nowhere since it wasn't true.
I mean, John obviously is because of his job, but other than that time a fellow guest unexpectedly handcuffed himself to me at a dinner party in 1991, I really have no experience with cuffs. And the cop wasn't talking about his.
The gentleman at the table next to us sported a spectacular handlebar mustache and Van Dyke, leading us to compliment both while his bride was in the loo. Curious about the handlebar's origins, we learned from him that he'd had a regular mustache when he'd met his wife 20 years ago and she'd been the one to suggest waxing and twirling it.
When she returned to find what we were discussing, he said he'd told us that she was responsible for his mustache. "You should tell them that," she said with all the authority of a woman who had helped her man become more attractive.
We were, it turned out, a table full of fig fans, so when fig Lintzer cookies showed up, we were a happy bunch. Paired with the delicately sweet Julian Haart 1000L Riesling Feinherb, it was each of our duties to find room in otherwise overcrowded bellies for such a well-crafted final course. I recalled my mother's rule - "There's always a corner left for dessert" - and polished off two cookies with no shame.
If you don't consider housemade fig jam a thing of beauty, truly you are missing out.
But my posse - minus two charter members tonight, but they checked in with humor mid-meal - is no longer missing out on wine dinners because I am back on task, in search of grape and food pairings that double as social occasions. At least, in between everything else life entails now, I am.
Wine dinner much? Not lately, but tonight's esoteric German wines and strangers' back stories were enough to remind me why I should.
Even if I wasn't at Jack Vidra's table. Too bad. I'd love to hear his handcuff stories.
A year and a half ago, I'd been tasked with keeping the group up-to-date on upcoming wine dinners. Mind you, I didn't ask for the job, but it was mine.
The last time I'd arranged for the posse to attend one, it was February and I'd arrived with the biggest news of the year: I'd accepted a lunch date. And because that lunch was so successful, I'd put keeping everyone abreast of wine dinners on the back burner.
Hell, if I was honest, I'd say I'd moved that pan off the stove entirely. My new love life took precedence over mere wine dinners, even with friends who had a wine jail to keep filled.
But a month ago, I'd gotten an email about Secco's upcoming Vom Boden five course wine dinner with Collin Wagner taking the reins for three courses and all five wines. Secco's wine dinners never disappoint, I was months overdue in my scheduling duties and here was my chance to get back in the swing of things. Beau made the reservation and we were set.
Driving through the Fan to get to Secco tonight, poor Beau had to deal with every possible annoyance: double-parking, unsure turners, darting pedestrians, slow parallel parkers. He got so frustrated he shouted, "City much?" to the last of the automobile-challenged we passed.
That's a brilliant phrase to describe the unfortunate subset of drivers plaguing those of us competent to drive in urban areas.
As we were walking up to Secco, the owner came out to meet us, a concerned look on her face because the dinner was sold out and she hadn't seen my name on the reservation list. I explained I'd been grouped with my friends. Inside, her partner saw me, glanced at his seating chart and took on the look of a deer in headlights. Only once he found out I was part of Beau's party did he relax.
Even better, the owner came over once we'd been seated to say that she'd looked at Beau's last name and assumed he was porn star Jack Vidra, in town this weekend for the Fire, Flour and Fork dinner at L'Opossum.
Instinctively I knew this was an association Beau would welcome. And he did.
Our six top was completed with an IT guy for the Federal Reserve whose wife was pregnant (and why waste five wines?) so he'd come alone and a cop and his German-born wife. To kick things off, we sipped Hild Elbling Sekt until the owner tapped her glass to get the ball rolling.
Almost as soon as she did, a late arrival came in and had to do the walk of shame to his seat at a table in the back while she continued talking. Pru and I just assume that people who would do such a thing were raised by wolves. That's fair, right?
Introducing Collin, who'd started at Secco in 2010 at the tender age of 19, she said that he'd been cooking all over Europe and NYC, at least right up until he'd fallen in love with the Vom Boden portfolio and become a wine rep.
Tonight he was combining both skill sets to dazzle us.
"We're going to drink esoteric German wines you'll never drink again!" he promised, sharing that he was just back from the harvest in Germany. When he returned to the kitchen, the older woman at the table next to us said wistfully to her husband, "Don't you wish you were young enough to go work in the vineyards?"
Don't we all?
Along with the bubbly Sekt, we crunched through wonton cups filled with apple. cucumber and tarragon cream sauce topped with micro-greens. We were that table who, when asked who needed a touch-up on their Sekt, saw every hand go up.
Meanwhile, Beau told us he'd been too busy working night and day last week to see any of Seattle - any, mind you - but he was hoping for better luck in San Francisco when he gets there tomorrow. Pru regaled us with the story of her father coming to visit today, a Time Life book on Nazi sympathizers in hand. I find this hysterical.
I never tire of hearing her Dad stories. I mean, a man who wears a jacket indoors because he's so underweight? A man who claims to be a vegetarian but eats ham and hot dogs? A man who is considering hair plugs at 86? Tell me more, please.
Our first course was smoked Max Creek rainbow trout ("Farm raised fish from a dude named Dave," Collin tells us) in a creamy herb emulsion with kohlrabi and celery, a dish that paired magnificently with Stein Blauschiefer Riesling Trokcen, which caused Collin to brag a little because he'd helped pick the grapes that went into what we were drinking. I loved this pairing and so did Beau, although he had to come around to the wine, which he hadn't liked until he had food with it.
How many wine dinners have I reminded him of this reality and will he ever learn?
As plates were being cleared, I noticed that the cop's wife hadn't eaten her trout and asked why not. Seems she doesn't like smoked fish, so I offered to take it off her hands, knowing Beau would aid the cause. Let no smoked trout go to waste at my table.
By that time, tongues were loosened and people were talking across tables. When Beau and the father-to-be discovered they made their livings in t
Another gorgeous pairing, JB Becker Walkenberg Riesling Kabinett Trocken and rye, farro and wild rice cooked like risotto in brown butter, garlic and thyme, then crowned with the thinnest of matsutake mushrooms slices, and even the naysayers were starting to believe in the power of Riesling. Collin came out to rave about the strong and powerful 2008 wine, which, of course, was only available in very limited quantities.
The father-to-be shared the names he and his bride have chosen for their daughter once she arrives - Hannah, Eleanor and Kara - and we took a vote on it. Looks like she'll be Eleanor, though they have a cat named Theodore, so they have some concerns about establishing a theme.
It didn't take much wine for Pru to learn that the older couple next to us are also denizens of Church Hill and from there, it was all about upcoming holiday events in the 'hood. When we complimented the lovely mauve jacket the wife had on, she said she chose such colors because she'd always had to wear black, navy and gray when she was a businesswoman.
Naturally, I had to know what her business was (fundraising for MCV) even as I admired her gold shoes.
Collin returned to rave, first about the Free Union Grass farms roasted duck we were about to eat and then about his enjoyment of the Shelter Winery "Lovely Lilly" Pinot Noir. Secco's owner jumped in to talk about procuring the 40 pounds of duck required at the South of the James Market, where she had to endure listening to vegans discuss "salad and houseplants" while wearing Uggs and giving the duck the stinkeye.
A shame for them, really, because the platter arrived piled high with duck breast that was rosy and medium rare and confit duck legs with crispy bits that would rival any cracklins. I know because Beau and I sampled enough to find out. Along with the mound o' duck came freshly made steam buns, housemade hoison sauce, sliced scallions and cucumbers and pickled carrots for an assemble-your-own kind of meal.
Don't get me started on those who ate theirs with fork and knife. They're buns, people. Pick 'em up and eat 'em.
Pru wasted no time in finding out that, like her, the cop's wife had been a financial analyst and since the IT boys were still mooning over each other's RAM, that left me and the cop to find common ground while the others bonded. Pru tried to help, saying, "Both you and John are into handcuffs," a joke that went nowhere since it wasn't true.
I mean, John obviously is because of his job, but other than that time a fellow guest unexpectedly handcuffed himself to me at a dinner party in 1991, I really have no experience with cuffs. And the cop wasn't talking about his.
The gentleman at the table next to us sported a spectacular handlebar mustache and Van Dyke, leading us to compliment both while his bride was in the loo. Curious about the handlebar's origins, we learned from him that he'd had a regular mustache when he'd met his wife 20 years ago and she'd been the one to suggest waxing and twirling it.
When she returned to find what we were discussing, he said he'd told us that she was responsible for his mustache. "You should tell them that," she said with all the authority of a woman who had helped her man become more attractive.
We were, it turned out, a table full of fig fans, so when fig Lintzer cookies showed up, we were a happy bunch. Paired with the delicately sweet Julian Haart 1000L Riesling Feinherb, it was each of our duties to find room in otherwise overcrowded bellies for such a well-crafted final course. I recalled my mother's rule - "There's always a corner left for dessert" - and polished off two cookies with no shame.
If you don't consider housemade fig jam a thing of beauty, truly you are missing out.
But my posse - minus two charter members tonight, but they checked in with humor mid-meal - is no longer missing out on wine dinners because I am back on task, in search of grape and food pairings that double as social occasions. At least, in between everything else life entails now, I am.
Wine dinner much? Not lately, but tonight's esoteric German wines and strangers' back stories were enough to remind me why I should.
Even if I wasn't at Jack Vidra's table. Too bad. I'd love to hear his handcuff stories.
Saturday, November 3, 2018
A Delicate Quickness
My parents weren't especially creative when naming me or my five sisters.
Family legend has it they resorted to combing through the phone book to find monikers for all their daughters and even then, the most exotic one they could come up with was Melanie.
But on a girls' night out last evening at Lucy's with Pru and Queen B, I learned what creative naming is. Discussing the antics of family members - something about a 14-year old marrying her cousin, a feat which should be illegal, but Queen B assured me she just changed her last name so it wouldn't be so obvious - that they mentioned name after name with a romantic bent: Mathilda, Lorna, Amelia, all a far cry from standard mid-century names like Karen, Cheryl and Nancy.
When I commented on the fancifulness of their family names, Pru admitted that they'd all come from literature, namely whatever romance her great-grandmother had been reading at the time. Of course a family of readers would pluck names from books.
I should have guessed.
"There was even a Nicodemus!" she shared. "Oh, but he was a cousin," Queen B explained dismissively. Apparently there were also several Elmers, including Queen B's terribly charming artist brother whom I've heard so much about.
Given how applause-worthy my meal was - a Fall hash of roasted sweet potatoes, parsnips and celery root over beets and walnuts with a perfect poached egg on top was followed by roasted snapper over barley in leek and celery root cream sauce with green beans - it's amazing that I was even paying attention to the conversation. For a place with a focus on family-raised beef, it was easily one of the best pieces of fish I've had lately and that's not the Chateau de Brique Rose talking.
And while neither of my companions wanted dessert, I made sure they at least sampled my chocolate mousse pie before we dipped out. What did they think the three spoons were for?
It's a good thing we had a leisurely dinner, too, because once we got to the Firehouse Theatre, things got a little crazy when Pru's car keys were inadvertently locked in the trunk by yours truly. That we were parked along bustling Broad Street didn't help matters any since no one slowed down despite open car doors and me crouched in the street.
Only problem was, she was driving Beau's car, so it took the two of us a while to figure out where the trunk release button was and save the day.
Everything was made better, though, when Queen B and I headed inside and a woman standing nearby glanced over, saying, "You have great hair! Both of you!" I don't know about me, but Queen B is currently sporting purple hair and had already gotten a compliment leaving the restaurant, so she's used to hair praise.
As long as I evoke the '80s, I'm happy.
Inside, I'd been assigned my favorite seats in the second row, but the news of the day was that five people had been given seats onstage for "Songs from Bedlam," a play consisting of a series of monologues by "patients" at the infamous mental hospital during past centuries. The stage seating was inspired by the practice of the hospital charging admission for sane people to come in and watch the lunatics on display.
The first vignette involved a guy who spent every afternoon at the zoo, staring at the animal inmates and commenting on them. "The tigers are past caring, having been too long deprived of everything that matters to them...The fish are doomed, but separate."
That line alone evoked more sadness than I was prepared to handle. And, believe me, I'm not even thinking about tigers or fish in captivity. Another involved an alcoholic explaining the difficulty of having a disease everyone thinks is a choice.
Queen B and I found the production interesting, while Pru struggled with the characters. "They're supposed to be crazy?" she wondered. "I deal with people like that in my life every single day!"
I'm not sure, she may have been talking about me closing the trunk with the keys in them, among other idiocy she has to deal with. And you know what? I'm not even offended when someone calls me crazy.
I've been told there's no better excuse to do whatever the hell you want. Well, except changing your name and marrying your cousin. Even I wouldn't go there.
Family legend has it they resorted to combing through the phone book to find monikers for all their daughters and even then, the most exotic one they could come up with was Melanie.
But on a girls' night out last evening at Lucy's with Pru and Queen B, I learned what creative naming is. Discussing the antics of family members - something about a 14-year old marrying her cousin, a feat which should be illegal, but Queen B assured me she just changed her last name so it wouldn't be so obvious - that they mentioned name after name with a romantic bent: Mathilda, Lorna, Amelia, all a far cry from standard mid-century names like Karen, Cheryl and Nancy.
When I commented on the fancifulness of their family names, Pru admitted that they'd all come from literature, namely whatever romance her great-grandmother had been reading at the time. Of course a family of readers would pluck names from books.
I should have guessed.
"There was even a Nicodemus!" she shared. "Oh, but he was a cousin," Queen B explained dismissively. Apparently there were also several Elmers, including Queen B's terribly charming artist brother whom I've heard so much about.
Given how applause-worthy my meal was - a Fall hash of roasted sweet potatoes, parsnips and celery root over beets and walnuts with a perfect poached egg on top was followed by roasted snapper over barley in leek and celery root cream sauce with green beans - it's amazing that I was even paying attention to the conversation. For a place with a focus on family-raised beef, it was easily one of the best pieces of fish I've had lately and that's not the Chateau de Brique Rose talking.
And while neither of my companions wanted dessert, I made sure they at least sampled my chocolate mousse pie before we dipped out. What did they think the three spoons were for?
It's a good thing we had a leisurely dinner, too, because once we got to the Firehouse Theatre, things got a little crazy when Pru's car keys were inadvertently locked in the trunk by yours truly. That we were parked along bustling Broad Street didn't help matters any since no one slowed down despite open car doors and me crouched in the street.
Only problem was, she was driving Beau's car, so it took the two of us a while to figure out where the trunk release button was and save the day.
Everything was made better, though, when Queen B and I headed inside and a woman standing nearby glanced over, saying, "You have great hair! Both of you!" I don't know about me, but Queen B is currently sporting purple hair and had already gotten a compliment leaving the restaurant, so she's used to hair praise.
As long as I evoke the '80s, I'm happy.
Inside, I'd been assigned my favorite seats in the second row, but the news of the day was that five people had been given seats onstage for "Songs from Bedlam," a play consisting of a series of monologues by "patients" at the infamous mental hospital during past centuries. The stage seating was inspired by the practice of the hospital charging admission for sane people to come in and watch the lunatics on display.
The first vignette involved a guy who spent every afternoon at the zoo, staring at the animal inmates and commenting on them. "The tigers are past caring, having been too long deprived of everything that matters to them...The fish are doomed, but separate."
That line alone evoked more sadness than I was prepared to handle. And, believe me, I'm not even thinking about tigers or fish in captivity. Another involved an alcoholic explaining the difficulty of having a disease everyone thinks is a choice.
Queen B and I found the production interesting, while Pru struggled with the characters. "They're supposed to be crazy?" she wondered. "I deal with people like that in my life every single day!"
I'm not sure, she may have been talking about me closing the trunk with the keys in them, among other idiocy she has to deal with. And you know what? I'm not even offended when someone calls me crazy.
I've been told there's no better excuse to do whatever the hell you want. Well, except changing your name and marrying your cousin. Even I wouldn't go there.
Friday, November 2, 2018
Losing This Crowd
Nerd? I prefer intellectual badass ~ t-shirt seen on Second Street
Although I'm always excited about a new event in Richmond, I'm seasoned enough to know that often something that's wonderful the first year becomes something quite different in subsequent years. I know it's inevitable that word of mouth will make happenings more popular over time, but that doesn't mean it will necessarily remain my cup of tea.
Obviously, there are exceptions. Certainly the Folk Fest and InLight qualify because it will never matter how many thousands of people attend, I'm always going to be one of them.
But things like Flour, Fire and Fork? Nope, the first two years were fine, manageable and not so overcrowded that I felt like a number, but no more. Ditto the Brunswick Stew Festival. Unlike seven or eight years ago, we've reached critical mass with hip events and many have lost their luster for me.
But I'm always open to an inaugural event.
This is the first year of Maymont's Garden Glow, an idea inspired by the chief horticulturist seeing the beautifully lit autumn gardens during her first trip to Kyoto. Now Maymont's Japanese Garden has been re-imagined for night time with colored lighting highlighting trees, paths, ponds and structures, a feast for the eyes.
Walking from the parking lot to the Nature Center, a woman called out to us, saying, "It's beautiful! You're going to love it!" like she knew us.
But even before seeing the garden, I was having a splendid time en route. Mr. Wright and I had taken the rear-facing seats on the back of the golf cart, causing us to hang on with both hands to avoid being rattled out of the cart throughout the bumpy ride from the Nature Center to the Japanese Garden. Riding in an open air cart on a 70-degree night along Maymont's darkened walkways was nothing short of magical given the warmth and that you lost all sense of where in the city you were.
Less appealing was being let off with a cluster of people from our golf cart as well as the one behind us because it meant that we all entered the garden at the same time. Instinctively, Mr. Wright and I hung back - cue Wham! lyric, "I wish that we could lose this crowd" - allowing families with strollers and obvious slow movers to get ahead so we could enjoy the spectacle without having to suffer through stranger chatter.
The fact that it was a warm, still evening ensured that the ponds reflecting the trees and architecture had barely a ripple, making for a stunning mirror-like surface to amplify the effect. Some of the lights were the rotating multi-colored sort, so with a moment's pause, you could watch a scene change from brilliantly lit with a pink or orange light to subtly understated with blue or green.
In fact, my preference was for the simplest of lighting which allowed reflections of reality rather than colored versions, but that's just me.
Making our way around the darkened paths, we encountered guides and Maymont staff who graciously indicated the correct route to take to avoid the unpleasantness of overly bright lights. Because the lights were all positioned to be seen from a certain vantage point, reversing direction was a big no-no.
And because this is the 21st century, there were designated selfie stations for people to take advantage of extra light to capture their memory. Never mind that lingering at any point would have seared the memory into your brain, but we all know you can't post a memory on Instagram.
When we rounded a bend and came upon a magnificently-lit pond with trees along one side, a smiling young man asked if it was our first time around. It was, we shared, and he smiled on cue.
"I'm supposed to stop you and tell you to admire the reflection of the trees on the water," he intoned, gesturing with his arm toward the obvious. Although I dutifully looked and thanked him, once we got further along, I cracked wise about the guy's choice of words.
Really, he has to tell us he's supposed to stop us? Hilarious.
But it was even funnier on our second loop around when he asked again if it was our first loop. No, I told him, and you've already given us the "I'm supposed to stop you and tell you to admire the reflection of the trees on the water" speech, so we know what to do.
The look on his co-worker's face was priceless. "Dude, really, you couldn't dress it up a little more than that?" he asked, grinning at Mr. All Business. And I wasn't trying to get the guy in trouble, just to trying encourage more creativity in approaching people or at least realize that he should drop the part about being told to stop people. Pretty soon it was a group discussion.
The man at the center of it all had a defense at the ready, though. As we'd talked about his greeting technique, a crowd of a dozen or so people had gathered, all of them stopped and staring out at the reflection on the water. "See?" he said proudly. "It works!"
You can't argue with millennial logic.
The blue light-lit pathway was especially dark and we tested it by stepping a few feet off the pathway under the canopy of some evergreen trees. Although we were barely a yard off the path and facing it, it was as if we were invisible because people passed us by without so much as a glance over.
We could have been doing anything.
With up-lit trees, a lavender-lit wooden pagoda, an enormous light-covered mesh over a rock outcropping and a spotlighted waterfall, there was a lot to see, making repeat loops a necessity. Mother Nature contributed with occasional breezes dropping falling leaves, which only added to the drama of the scene. At one point, we settled on a stone bench just to take in the panorama.
When we finally finished our final loop it was less than half an hour to closing time. When we passed by some of Maymont's staff crowing about how well things had gone tonight given the large crowds, we paused. "Not one person has fallen!" a staffer said and considering how dark parts of the path were - as they should be for a light-based event - that was really saying something.
A fine drizzle was just beginning to fall as we joined the queue to hop a golf cart for the ride back up the hill. We landed again on the far back seats of a golf cart that tried its best to get up some speed to make it up the hill without losing momentum, but sounded a little unsure about it. Mr Wright thought that given the cheerful mood on board, our night time travel by golf cart was reminiscent of Athens' Happy Train, albeit without souvlaki joints on every corner.
My first thought after experiencing Garden Glow was about how it will be different next year. Maymont has mentioned holding it in another of their gardens, say, the Italian gardens, but for an event inspired by a Japanese tradition, I don't see that working quite as well. But the notion of them trying to outdo this year in the same garden does hold a certain appeal.
I don't have to decide now whether Garden Glow will be a recurring event for me or whether once was sufficient. It's enough that I was there for the first, had a fine time and left with a head full of memories I can share. A year's a long time away.
Besides, as an intellectual badass, I like to keep things fast and loose.
Although I'm always excited about a new event in Richmond, I'm seasoned enough to know that often something that's wonderful the first year becomes something quite different in subsequent years. I know it's inevitable that word of mouth will make happenings more popular over time, but that doesn't mean it will necessarily remain my cup of tea.
Obviously, there are exceptions. Certainly the Folk Fest and InLight qualify because it will never matter how many thousands of people attend, I'm always going to be one of them.
But things like Flour, Fire and Fork? Nope, the first two years were fine, manageable and not so overcrowded that I felt like a number, but no more. Ditto the Brunswick Stew Festival. Unlike seven or eight years ago, we've reached critical mass with hip events and many have lost their luster for me.
But I'm always open to an inaugural event.
This is the first year of Maymont's Garden Glow, an idea inspired by the chief horticulturist seeing the beautifully lit autumn gardens during her first trip to Kyoto. Now Maymont's Japanese Garden has been re-imagined for night time with colored lighting highlighting trees, paths, ponds and structures, a feast for the eyes.
Walking from the parking lot to the Nature Center, a woman called out to us, saying, "It's beautiful! You're going to love it!" like she knew us.
But even before seeing the garden, I was having a splendid time en route. Mr. Wright and I had taken the rear-facing seats on the back of the golf cart, causing us to hang on with both hands to avoid being rattled out of the cart throughout the bumpy ride from the Nature Center to the Japanese Garden. Riding in an open air cart on a 70-degree night along Maymont's darkened walkways was nothing short of magical given the warmth and that you lost all sense of where in the city you were.
Less appealing was being let off with a cluster of people from our golf cart as well as the one behind us because it meant that we all entered the garden at the same time. Instinctively, Mr. Wright and I hung back - cue Wham! lyric, "I wish that we could lose this crowd" - allowing families with strollers and obvious slow movers to get ahead so we could enjoy the spectacle without having to suffer through stranger chatter.
The fact that it was a warm, still evening ensured that the ponds reflecting the trees and architecture had barely a ripple, making for a stunning mirror-like surface to amplify the effect. Some of the lights were the rotating multi-colored sort, so with a moment's pause, you could watch a scene change from brilliantly lit with a pink or orange light to subtly understated with blue or green.
In fact, my preference was for the simplest of lighting which allowed reflections of reality rather than colored versions, but that's just me.
Making our way around the darkened paths, we encountered guides and Maymont staff who graciously indicated the correct route to take to avoid the unpleasantness of overly bright lights. Because the lights were all positioned to be seen from a certain vantage point, reversing direction was a big no-no.
And because this is the 21st century, there were designated selfie stations for people to take advantage of extra light to capture their memory. Never mind that lingering at any point would have seared the memory into your brain, but we all know you can't post a memory on Instagram.
When we rounded a bend and came upon a magnificently-lit pond with trees along one side, a smiling young man asked if it was our first time around. It was, we shared, and he smiled on cue.
"I'm supposed to stop you and tell you to admire the reflection of the trees on the water," he intoned, gesturing with his arm toward the obvious. Although I dutifully looked and thanked him, once we got further along, I cracked wise about the guy's choice of words.
Really, he has to tell us he's supposed to stop us? Hilarious.
But it was even funnier on our second loop around when he asked again if it was our first loop. No, I told him, and you've already given us the "I'm supposed to stop you and tell you to admire the reflection of the trees on the water" speech, so we know what to do.
The look on his co-worker's face was priceless. "Dude, really, you couldn't dress it up a little more than that?" he asked, grinning at Mr. All Business. And I wasn't trying to get the guy in trouble, just to trying encourage more creativity in approaching people or at least realize that he should drop the part about being told to stop people. Pretty soon it was a group discussion.
The man at the center of it all had a defense at the ready, though. As we'd talked about his greeting technique, a crowd of a dozen or so people had gathered, all of them stopped and staring out at the reflection on the water. "See?" he said proudly. "It works!"
You can't argue with millennial logic.
The blue light-lit pathway was especially dark and we tested it by stepping a few feet off the pathway under the canopy of some evergreen trees. Although we were barely a yard off the path and facing it, it was as if we were invisible because people passed us by without so much as a glance over.
We could have been doing anything.
With up-lit trees, a lavender-lit wooden pagoda, an enormous light-covered mesh over a rock outcropping and a spotlighted waterfall, there was a lot to see, making repeat loops a necessity. Mother Nature contributed with occasional breezes dropping falling leaves, which only added to the drama of the scene. At one point, we settled on a stone bench just to take in the panorama.
When we finally finished our final loop it was less than half an hour to closing time. When we passed by some of Maymont's staff crowing about how well things had gone tonight given the large crowds, we paused. "Not one person has fallen!" a staffer said and considering how dark parts of the path were - as they should be for a light-based event - that was really saying something.
A fine drizzle was just beginning to fall as we joined the queue to hop a golf cart for the ride back up the hill. We landed again on the far back seats of a golf cart that tried its best to get up some speed to make it up the hill without losing momentum, but sounded a little unsure about it. Mr Wright thought that given the cheerful mood on board, our night time travel by golf cart was reminiscent of Athens' Happy Train, albeit without souvlaki joints on every corner.
My first thought after experiencing Garden Glow was about how it will be different next year. Maymont has mentioned holding it in another of their gardens, say, the Italian gardens, but for an event inspired by a Japanese tradition, I don't see that working quite as well. But the notion of them trying to outdo this year in the same garden does hold a certain appeal.
I don't have to decide now whether Garden Glow will be a recurring event for me or whether once was sufficient. It's enough that I was there for the first, had a fine time and left with a head full of memories I can share. A year's a long time away.
Besides, as an intellectual badass, I like to keep things fast and loose.
Thursday, November 1, 2018
Anyone Can Spectate
If it turns out to be the last, it was a fine sendoff.
My default All Hallows' Eve plan for over a decade now has been All the Saints' Halloween parade and with rumors flying that this, the thirteenth, might well be the last for organizer Lilly, the urgency to be part of it was even stronger. Like every year, there was a funereal theme - funeral march for the patriarchy - but also an exultant one - a celebration of the divine feminine.
Don't even think about trying to stop me from being part of that tribute given how highly I think of my gender. Especially after a couple of glasses of Mont Gravet Rose. Gloriously warm weather didn't hurt, either.
Mac was back for her third year and Mr. Wright had signed on to have his Halloween parade cherry popped, so I made sure we were in Monroe Park by 6:30 so we could have first crack at choosing signs to carry. Once upon a time, aka the first few years of the parade, I dutifully carried one of the enormous puppets or banners, but I have since moved on to a more manageable sign and since I'm smart enough to show up early, I have that option.
Naturally, I've taught my acolytes to do the same.
Almost immediately, organizer Lilly wrapped me in her arms in a bear hug and thanked me for being there. "You came!" she laughed. Of course I did.
I was greeted by Jameson and Laney of Lobo Marino, both of whom were acting as parade marshals, telling people what was happening and encouraging them to participate. Laney roamed the side of the line of people, calling out, "Who wants to carry a puppet or banner? This parade is not a spectator sport!"
As one who has walked it shivering in frigid temperatures, perspired non-stop on humid, sweaty nights and everything in between, I can assure you that watching the parade is not the way to experience it. No, to fully embrace the spirit of the thing, you need to be part of the line of humanity - estimates were 2,000 participants last year and that's without spectators - that marches through Oregon Hill to cheers and people snapping photographs and videos from all sides.
Lilly walked by with a costumed mummy in tow, asking if anyone had seen the Zombie String Band, which we had, because they'd just walked by, blood dripping down their dead faces. Several of us indicated that they'd gone that-a-way and the mummy was whisked away.
Waiting for things to get started, a long-time museum friend sporting a snail head caught sight of me and ran over to chat. "Be careful I don't slime you!" she laughed, hugging me. "But lots of people will want to slime you. Be discerning!"
If Mr. Wright hadn't already been in place with Mac just ahead of the Trans Remembrance puppets in front of me, I'd have introduced her so she would stop worrying about me being approached by slimeballs.
Instead, I helped Jameson by handing him his elaborate, fringed mask, drum and drumsticks after he mounted a gigantic puppet on his shoulders and could no longer bend over. Gradually, the rest of the drums laying on the ground were claimed by others and I soon found myself positioned just ahead of what one drummer referred to as "Kind of like my high school drum line."
Jameson quickly amended that with, "A really strange drum line."
The black, coffin-shaped sign I chose read, "Here lies humanity: Death by patriarchy," and you'd better believe I not only held it high but, given my place in front of the drum line, also moved it in time to the beat, making for a parade essentially dancing the whole way.
When the parade cleared Monroe Park and turned on to Laurel Street, we were hit with a gusty wind blowing up from the river that about took down some of the biggest banners and puppets with its force. When what you're carrying is 12' tall, it essentially becomes a sail when the wind starts gusting. But people held on and righted their puppets so they could keep going and the wind settled down.
I have to admit, much as I love being part of the Halloween parade, I've never adjusted to the onslaught of picture taking, so I manage by holding my sign in front of my face and dancing it side to side to avoid eye contact with the cheering masses. It's a way of creating my own little world while surrounded by strangers, a stilt-walker and drunk people.
But because I'm not maintaining sight lines beyond the feet of the Trans Remembrance carriers in front of me so I don't step on their heels, I was occasionally jolted by a roller skating ghoul doing figure eights in my vicinity. Talk about an adrenaline rush, try having someone suddenly zip past you and your sign with no warning.
After the U-turn at the overlook on the river, we made our way back up Pine Street as I jumped ahead and joined Mac and Mr. Wright to see how they were holding up. You don't bring people to the parade and not make sure they're representing you well. Fortunately, they were.
It will be a shame if Lilly bows out of the parade after 13 years, although I certainly understand wanting to cede all that work making puppets, banners and signs and organizing thousands of people to someone new. If you ask me, her spark leading the parade - along with No BS Brass Band - is the heart and soul of Halloween in Richmond.
When we finally got to the lot where the parade ends, the three of us leaned on our signs to listen to No BS play some covers under the moonlight as those marching behind us continued to fill up the grassy lot.
If anything could be more satisfying than listening to "Thriller" played live on Halloween night followed by fireworks after walking my divine feminine self through Oregon Hill, it's not something I'm going to blog about.
And just for the record, the slime warning was unnecessary. No one messes with a dancing coffin.
My default All Hallows' Eve plan for over a decade now has been All the Saints' Halloween parade and with rumors flying that this, the thirteenth, might well be the last for organizer Lilly, the urgency to be part of it was even stronger. Like every year, there was a funereal theme - funeral march for the patriarchy - but also an exultant one - a celebration of the divine feminine.
Don't even think about trying to stop me from being part of that tribute given how highly I think of my gender. Especially after a couple of glasses of Mont Gravet Rose. Gloriously warm weather didn't hurt, either.
Mac was back for her third year and Mr. Wright had signed on to have his Halloween parade cherry popped, so I made sure we were in Monroe Park by 6:30 so we could have first crack at choosing signs to carry. Once upon a time, aka the first few years of the parade, I dutifully carried one of the enormous puppets or banners, but I have since moved on to a more manageable sign and since I'm smart enough to show up early, I have that option.
Naturally, I've taught my acolytes to do the same.
Almost immediately, organizer Lilly wrapped me in her arms in a bear hug and thanked me for being there. "You came!" she laughed. Of course I did.
I was greeted by Jameson and Laney of Lobo Marino, both of whom were acting as parade marshals, telling people what was happening and encouraging them to participate. Laney roamed the side of the line of people, calling out, "Who wants to carry a puppet or banner? This parade is not a spectator sport!"
As one who has walked it shivering in frigid temperatures, perspired non-stop on humid, sweaty nights and everything in between, I can assure you that watching the parade is not the way to experience it. No, to fully embrace the spirit of the thing, you need to be part of the line of humanity - estimates were 2,000 participants last year and that's without spectators - that marches through Oregon Hill to cheers and people snapping photographs and videos from all sides.
Lilly walked by with a costumed mummy in tow, asking if anyone had seen the Zombie String Band, which we had, because they'd just walked by, blood dripping down their dead faces. Several of us indicated that they'd gone that-a-way and the mummy was whisked away.
Waiting for things to get started, a long-time museum friend sporting a snail head caught sight of me and ran over to chat. "Be careful I don't slime you!" she laughed, hugging me. "But lots of people will want to slime you. Be discerning!"
If Mr. Wright hadn't already been in place with Mac just ahead of the Trans Remembrance puppets in front of me, I'd have introduced her so she would stop worrying about me being approached by slimeballs.
Instead, I helped Jameson by handing him his elaborate, fringed mask, drum and drumsticks after he mounted a gigantic puppet on his shoulders and could no longer bend over. Gradually, the rest of the drums laying on the ground were claimed by others and I soon found myself positioned just ahead of what one drummer referred to as "Kind of like my high school drum line."
Jameson quickly amended that with, "A really strange drum line."
The black, coffin-shaped sign I chose read, "Here lies humanity: Death by patriarchy," and you'd better believe I not only held it high but, given my place in front of the drum line, also moved it in time to the beat, making for a parade essentially dancing the whole way.
When the parade cleared Monroe Park and turned on to Laurel Street, we were hit with a gusty wind blowing up from the river that about took down some of the biggest banners and puppets with its force. When what you're carrying is 12' tall, it essentially becomes a sail when the wind starts gusting. But people held on and righted their puppets so they could keep going and the wind settled down.
I have to admit, much as I love being part of the Halloween parade, I've never adjusted to the onslaught of picture taking, so I manage by holding my sign in front of my face and dancing it side to side to avoid eye contact with the cheering masses. It's a way of creating my own little world while surrounded by strangers, a stilt-walker and drunk people.
But because I'm not maintaining sight lines beyond the feet of the Trans Remembrance carriers in front of me so I don't step on their heels, I was occasionally jolted by a roller skating ghoul doing figure eights in my vicinity. Talk about an adrenaline rush, try having someone suddenly zip past you and your sign with no warning.
After the U-turn at the overlook on the river, we made our way back up Pine Street as I jumped ahead and joined Mac and Mr. Wright to see how they were holding up. You don't bring people to the parade and not make sure they're representing you well. Fortunately, they were.
It will be a shame if Lilly bows out of the parade after 13 years, although I certainly understand wanting to cede all that work making puppets, banners and signs and organizing thousands of people to someone new. If you ask me, her spark leading the parade - along with No BS Brass Band - is the heart and soul of Halloween in Richmond.
When we finally got to the lot where the parade ends, the three of us leaned on our signs to listen to No BS play some covers under the moonlight as those marching behind us continued to fill up the grassy lot.
If anything could be more satisfying than listening to "Thriller" played live on Halloween night followed by fireworks after walking my divine feminine self through Oregon Hill, it's not something I'm going to blog about.
And just for the record, the slime warning was unnecessary. No one messes with a dancing coffin.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Two by Two
What's with the sudden urge to pair up?
Before the night was over, I had one friend telling me the lengths her ex went to for her birthday - calls, a dinner invitation, flowers, a book of photographs of their relationship before he dumped her in a text - and another friend laying out the series of steps required before he marries his main squeeze.
Did Noah send out another ark memo that didn't get to me?
We made the bartender at Acacia our fourth because we were the sole occupants of the bar and he was loquacious and witty. The only problem was he couldn't join us in enjoying Chateau Langlois Cremant de Loire, but at least he had a fat tip in his future.
During a discussion of the pleasure of eating duck, my friend asks him if he likes garlic butter. With a roll of his eyes, the barkeep responds, "I like oxygen, too." In other words, duh.
That kind of witty.
They must have been kindred souls, I'm thinking, because it takes a certain kind of man to offer a new acquaintance a pocket protector. And not even one that he had with him, just one that he had languishing at home somewhere, left over from college. Granted, the bartender did have four pens neatly lined up in his shirt pocket, a disaster waiting to happen. Not improbably, a conservation about pens spewing ink into white pockets ensued, complete with the barkeep's memories of a leaky pen ruining his R.O.T.C. uniform shirt in high school.
Some traumas you never get over.
They bonded over Russel Crowe and Denzel Washington movies, which pretty much left the womenfolk out of the conversation entirely. I tried to stay relevant by mentioning "BlackkKlansman" so we could talk about Denzel's son's talent, but they merely acknowledged me and moved on
Because we had the bartender's undivided attention, we could be as nosy as we liked. Talking about the benefits - wine at cost - and drawbacks - little playtime - of working every night the restaurant is open, he regaled us with his off-duty antics. Seems this past Sunday, that meant starting with bourbon and ginger upon waking up, a miscalculation that landed him back in bed by 8:30 that evening.
It's a marathon, not a sprint, son. Like the t-shirt I saw on the pot-bellied guy at the grocery store yesterday, "You can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning." That's some Confucius wisdom right there.
But he was also kind enough to share his current favorite wine, Riebeek Cellars Cape Rose, a ridiculously easy drinking pink that made our brains default to sunny days and porch afternoons. After pouring us glasses to taste, he acknowledged, "I never buy fewer than five bottles at a time," showing wisdom beyond his years.
Nor could our newfound friend join us in eating through the menu, although conversation revealed that he'd already done as much on his own. Now it was our turn.
So. Much. Food.
Crab fritters, fried oysters, white anchovies with Fourme d'Ambert. A salad of greens, apples, golden raisins and cashews in celery vinaigrette, just so I could live with myself. Entrees of rockfish, mahi mahi with roasted cauliflower and crispy potatoes and, my choice, rockfish collar with Brussels sprouts and mushrooms in a cilantro sauce, all nodded to the chef's talent with the bounty of the sea.
The manager stopped by to say hello and her outfit caught the attention of those of us who like retro fashion. A tan suede jumper over a cream turtleneck with dark brown suede boots was not only mod and Fall-like, but reminded my friend of an outfit she'd had in 1967. For me, it looked like something I'd aspired to in junior high.
Either way, we sent her off with effusive compliments about the look, even if Fall dressing does depress me.
So. Many. Layers. And it's only October.
Once we got the bartender dishing on problematic customers. we heard about those who order outrageous cocktails ("I'll have a Grateful Dead") and then when the bartender asks what's in it, have no idea. "You don't know and you're ordering it?" he asks them incredulously. Nope.
Our most serious discussion involved the differences for his generation versus ours in terms of what's attainable, a conversation that included debating trade schools versus college and how out of reach what his parents strove for was for him as an adult. I was feeling his pain right up until he said he and his girlfriend make $95K between them and after that I just had to question their budgeting skills.
Let's put it this way, when I told him how much I make, his eyes about bugged out of his head.
But nibbling on chocolate cremeux, sipping Cremant from a second bottle and listening to techno music, I couldn't help but acknowledge that life, especially mine, is good.
One highlight of the evening came not from the bartender but from my girlfriend, who pulled out a Baggie with a selection of old photographs from her 1987 group trip to Paris that showed her as a young woman, along with her best friend and the art professor she was secretly pining for.
But personal history aside, what caught my eye was how arresting her photographs were simply because she has such an artistic eye. One taken from her room at the Hotel de Lima shows a neatly parked street, the quaint old buildings receding into the distance. The composition is so perfect it would sell as a postcard.
All I could see, though, was how very different the Paris of 1987 was from the Paris I saw for the first time in 2016. Her Paris had only a fraction of the cars and people and none of them were looking at phones.
Another showed the nearby skyline through the leaded outlines of a rose window at Notre Dame. But my favorite showed her on the roof of a building as she stood behind a massive stone gargoyle "scratching" its back, the city spread out before her with the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance. She's smiling optimistically like she's having the time of her life.
Little did she know it would be another 25 years before she found the love of her life. Fortunately, there's wine, garlic butter and oxygen to keep a girl occupied until that finally happens and she qualifies to board the Ark.
In the meantime, whatever works.
Before the night was over, I had one friend telling me the lengths her ex went to for her birthday - calls, a dinner invitation, flowers, a book of photographs of their relationship before he dumped her in a text - and another friend laying out the series of steps required before he marries his main squeeze.
Did Noah send out another ark memo that didn't get to me?
We made the bartender at Acacia our fourth because we were the sole occupants of the bar and he was loquacious and witty. The only problem was he couldn't join us in enjoying Chateau Langlois Cremant de Loire, but at least he had a fat tip in his future.
During a discussion of the pleasure of eating duck, my friend asks him if he likes garlic butter. With a roll of his eyes, the barkeep responds, "I like oxygen, too." In other words, duh.
That kind of witty.
They must have been kindred souls, I'm thinking, because it takes a certain kind of man to offer a new acquaintance a pocket protector. And not even one that he had with him, just one that he had languishing at home somewhere, left over from college. Granted, the bartender did have four pens neatly lined up in his shirt pocket, a disaster waiting to happen. Not improbably, a conservation about pens spewing ink into white pockets ensued, complete with the barkeep's memories of a leaky pen ruining his R.O.T.C. uniform shirt in high school.
Some traumas you never get over.
They bonded over Russel Crowe and Denzel Washington movies, which pretty much left the womenfolk out of the conversation entirely. I tried to stay relevant by mentioning "BlackkKlansman" so we could talk about Denzel's son's talent, but they merely acknowledged me and moved on
Because we had the bartender's undivided attention, we could be as nosy as we liked. Talking about the benefits - wine at cost - and drawbacks - little playtime - of working every night the restaurant is open, he regaled us with his off-duty antics. Seems this past Sunday, that meant starting with bourbon and ginger upon waking up, a miscalculation that landed him back in bed by 8:30 that evening.
It's a marathon, not a sprint, son. Like the t-shirt I saw on the pot-bellied guy at the grocery store yesterday, "You can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning." That's some Confucius wisdom right there.
But he was also kind enough to share his current favorite wine, Riebeek Cellars Cape Rose, a ridiculously easy drinking pink that made our brains default to sunny days and porch afternoons. After pouring us glasses to taste, he acknowledged, "I never buy fewer than five bottles at a time," showing wisdom beyond his years.
Nor could our newfound friend join us in eating through the menu, although conversation revealed that he'd already done as much on his own. Now it was our turn.
So. Much. Food.
Crab fritters, fried oysters, white anchovies with Fourme d'Ambert. A salad of greens, apples, golden raisins and cashews in celery vinaigrette, just so I could live with myself. Entrees of rockfish, mahi mahi with roasted cauliflower and crispy potatoes and, my choice, rockfish collar with Brussels sprouts and mushrooms in a cilantro sauce, all nodded to the chef's talent with the bounty of the sea.
The manager stopped by to say hello and her outfit caught the attention of those of us who like retro fashion. A tan suede jumper over a cream turtleneck with dark brown suede boots was not only mod and Fall-like, but reminded my friend of an outfit she'd had in 1967. For me, it looked like something I'd aspired to in junior high.
Either way, we sent her off with effusive compliments about the look, even if Fall dressing does depress me.
So. Many. Layers. And it's only October.
Once we got the bartender dishing on problematic customers. we heard about those who order outrageous cocktails ("I'll have a Grateful Dead") and then when the bartender asks what's in it, have no idea. "You don't know and you're ordering it?" he asks them incredulously. Nope.
Our most serious discussion involved the differences for his generation versus ours in terms of what's attainable, a conversation that included debating trade schools versus college and how out of reach what his parents strove for was for him as an adult. I was feeling his pain right up until he said he and his girlfriend make $95K between them and after that I just had to question their budgeting skills.
Let's put it this way, when I told him how much I make, his eyes about bugged out of his head.
But nibbling on chocolate cremeux, sipping Cremant from a second bottle and listening to techno music, I couldn't help but acknowledge that life, especially mine, is good.
One highlight of the evening came not from the bartender but from my girlfriend, who pulled out a Baggie with a selection of old photographs from her 1987 group trip to Paris that showed her as a young woman, along with her best friend and the art professor she was secretly pining for.
But personal history aside, what caught my eye was how arresting her photographs were simply because she has such an artistic eye. One taken from her room at the Hotel de Lima shows a neatly parked street, the quaint old buildings receding into the distance. The composition is so perfect it would sell as a postcard.
All I could see, though, was how very different the Paris of 1987 was from the Paris I saw for the first time in 2016. Her Paris had only a fraction of the cars and people and none of them were looking at phones.
Another showed the nearby skyline through the leaded outlines of a rose window at Notre Dame. But my favorite showed her on the roof of a building as she stood behind a massive stone gargoyle "scratching" its back, the city spread out before her with the Eiffel Tower looming in the distance. She's smiling optimistically like she's having the time of her life.
Little did she know it would be another 25 years before she found the love of her life. Fortunately, there's wine, garlic butter and oxygen to keep a girl occupied until that finally happens and she qualifies to board the Ark.
In the meantime, whatever works.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Live in the Moment
Imagine a woman writing out installments of the story of her life for others to read, complete with aliases for real people.
I know, I know. Unlikely as it sounds, there's a surprisingly eager audience for those kinds of stories. So when I saw that "Colette" was playing at the Criterion tonight, I messaged a fellow literary fan for company, hearing back, "Ooh, that sounds right up my alley."
Nearly 20 years ago, I'd read all 500 pages of Judith Thurman's "Secrets of the Flesh: A Life of Colette" and closed it still wanting to know more. And, to this day, I've never read any of Colette's writing, a glaring omission I could begin to address by seeing this film.
Total absence of humor renders life impossible. ~Colette
Judging by the decent-sized crowd for an early Monday evening show, lots of Baby Boomers were curious about the bisexual writer who'd ghostwritten the "Claudine" books about her life for her husband's publishing company and become the toast of France with her openness and unorthodox attitudes.
But I was just as taken with her need to write, a point driven home when Colette acknowledges that she didn't write because he told her to but because she couldn't stop herself. Putting one's life down on paper allows memories to be forever recalled because no matter what you're certain you'll remember, it won't be as much as you think.
Most of my life I've kept diaries or journals, and now, this blog. As hard as it would be to recall all the times I've had to verify a date or place (or band or person) on my blog, there are nearly as many times someone else settled their own question by searching the blog.
Can't recall when you saw me at the Elvis Costello show at the National? Looking it up on the blog tells me it was April 24, 2010. Last time I was at Lakeside Tavern? September 23, 2014. Look it up.
Colette's novelization of her years at school, or introduction to Paris or menage-a-trois interlude provided fodder for the reading public and perhaps incited more than a little envy, but they also gave voice to a different kind of woman. That she's such an astute observer of the people around her only make her writing more compelling for those who enjoy a good observation or opinion. After all, you don't get nominated for the Nobel prize in literature for nothing.
You can do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.~Colette
Pru and I both loved everything about the film, from costumes to dialog to performances, and that's not the popcorn talking, either. But we're also those nerds who got back to my apartment and promptly began poring over my copy of "Secrets of the Flesh" for the dozens of old black and white photos of the people the movie's characters were based on.
There was Colette at 15 in a hammock, or in drag in 1910.
Our curiosity rewarded us with several images that had become entire scenes in the movie: Colette being carried in on a palanquin supported by men in the barest of black briefs at a theater party, Colette and her transgender partner working out on their backyard gym.
This is what nerds do after seeing a satisfying costume biopic.
What a wonderful life I've had! I only wished I'd realized it sooner.~Colette
Flashing back to a conversation Pru and I had had yesterday about her new cookbooks - one by Frida Kahlo, another by Monet - I pulled out my own piece-de-resistance, Toulouse-Lautrec's "The Art of Cusine," a book I bought in the '70s, as much for its Lautrec illustrations as for the straightforward recipes.
Ever the chef, once the book was in Pru's hands, she made me the audience as she read preparations that either caught her eye or made her sick at the prospect of executing. Things such as, "In order to make the chickens immediately edible, take them out of the hen run, pursue them into the open country, and when you have made them run, kill them with a gun loaded with very small shot."
Not a snowball's chance in hell either of us would have managed that, but it's eminently entertaining reading.
For galantine of preserved goose, she read, "Take the bones out of a goose fat enough to die of it." I'm not even sure what that means.
For squirrels, the instructions read, "One must use no spice of any kind which might entail the risk of taking away from the animal its exquisite nutty flavor." This, I suppose, explains its inclusion in Brunswick stew.
Of English Channel Bouillabaisse, the author wrote, "This bouillabaisse is only a pale reflection of the bouillabaisse of Marseilles since it lacks rascasse and the Mediteranean rock fish which makes both its basis and its savor." So why, Pru and I wonder, include this recipe at all?
And don't get us started on Quails in Ashes: "At the end of September, beginning of October, after you have killed some fat quail, pluck and empty them." For the record, "emptying" birds is part of every recipe that involves them, perhaps because "disembowel" is such an unpleasant word.
We couldn't stop laughing. The cookbook's era overlaps with Colette's, but she and Willy had a housemaid, so it's doubtful she ever had to worry about stewing eels or skinning a rabbit. And let's face it, writing about your life is way more interesting than cooking calf's liver with three slabs anyway.
And if it's not, I suppose I'll never know. That's enthusiasm talking.
I know, I know. Unlikely as it sounds, there's a surprisingly eager audience for those kinds of stories. So when I saw that "Colette" was playing at the Criterion tonight, I messaged a fellow literary fan for company, hearing back, "Ooh, that sounds right up my alley."
Nearly 20 years ago, I'd read all 500 pages of Judith Thurman's "Secrets of the Flesh: A Life of Colette" and closed it still wanting to know more. And, to this day, I've never read any of Colette's writing, a glaring omission I could begin to address by seeing this film.
Total absence of humor renders life impossible. ~Colette
Judging by the decent-sized crowd for an early Monday evening show, lots of Baby Boomers were curious about the bisexual writer who'd ghostwritten the "Claudine" books about her life for her husband's publishing company and become the toast of France with her openness and unorthodox attitudes.
But I was just as taken with her need to write, a point driven home when Colette acknowledges that she didn't write because he told her to but because she couldn't stop herself. Putting one's life down on paper allows memories to be forever recalled because no matter what you're certain you'll remember, it won't be as much as you think.
Most of my life I've kept diaries or journals, and now, this blog. As hard as it would be to recall all the times I've had to verify a date or place (or band or person) on my blog, there are nearly as many times someone else settled their own question by searching the blog.
Can't recall when you saw me at the Elvis Costello show at the National? Looking it up on the blog tells me it was April 24, 2010. Last time I was at Lakeside Tavern? September 23, 2014. Look it up.
Colette's novelization of her years at school, or introduction to Paris or menage-a-trois interlude provided fodder for the reading public and perhaps incited more than a little envy, but they also gave voice to a different kind of woman. That she's such an astute observer of the people around her only make her writing more compelling for those who enjoy a good observation or opinion. After all, you don't get nominated for the Nobel prize in literature for nothing.
You can do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm.~Colette
Pru and I both loved everything about the film, from costumes to dialog to performances, and that's not the popcorn talking, either. But we're also those nerds who got back to my apartment and promptly began poring over my copy of "Secrets of the Flesh" for the dozens of old black and white photos of the people the movie's characters were based on.
There was Colette at 15 in a hammock, or in drag in 1910.
Our curiosity rewarded us with several images that had become entire scenes in the movie: Colette being carried in on a palanquin supported by men in the barest of black briefs at a theater party, Colette and her transgender partner working out on their backyard gym.
This is what nerds do after seeing a satisfying costume biopic.
What a wonderful life I've had! I only wished I'd realized it sooner.~Colette
Flashing back to a conversation Pru and I had had yesterday about her new cookbooks - one by Frida Kahlo, another by Monet - I pulled out my own piece-de-resistance, Toulouse-Lautrec's "The Art of Cusine," a book I bought in the '70s, as much for its Lautrec illustrations as for the straightforward recipes.
Ever the chef, once the book was in Pru's hands, she made me the audience as she read preparations that either caught her eye or made her sick at the prospect of executing. Things such as, "In order to make the chickens immediately edible, take them out of the hen run, pursue them into the open country, and when you have made them run, kill them with a gun loaded with very small shot."
Not a snowball's chance in hell either of us would have managed that, but it's eminently entertaining reading.
For galantine of preserved goose, she read, "Take the bones out of a goose fat enough to die of it." I'm not even sure what that means.
For squirrels, the instructions read, "One must use no spice of any kind which might entail the risk of taking away from the animal its exquisite nutty flavor." This, I suppose, explains its inclusion in Brunswick stew.
Of English Channel Bouillabaisse, the author wrote, "This bouillabaisse is only a pale reflection of the bouillabaisse of Marseilles since it lacks rascasse and the Mediteranean rock fish which makes both its basis and its savor." So why, Pru and I wonder, include this recipe at all?
And don't get us started on Quails in Ashes: "At the end of September, beginning of October, after you have killed some fat quail, pluck and empty them." For the record, "emptying" birds is part of every recipe that involves them, perhaps because "disembowel" is such an unpleasant word.
We couldn't stop laughing. The cookbook's era overlaps with Colette's, but she and Willy had a housemaid, so it's doubtful she ever had to worry about stewing eels or skinning a rabbit. And let's face it, writing about your life is way more interesting than cooking calf's liver with three slabs anyway.
And if it's not, I suppose I'll never know. That's enthusiasm talking.
Monday, October 29, 2018
Mixing Metaphors
Bagels, backers, tequila and tacos. Oh, right, and Hell. Just another typical Sunday.
It was a glorious morning to walk to Nate's Bagels, overcast and brooding on the way there and blue skies and sunny coming back. Kind of like life. The only problem was that after last week's glowing review of the place, the line was even longer than usual.
Not that we were in a hurry.
But some people walked in, eyeballed the line and made an immediate U-turn. Sorry, but once my mouth is set for Nate's, I don't care how long I have to wait to be satisfied. Some people looked like they'd just rolled out of bed - I spotted a woman in slippers and several people in pajama pants - and were using their line time to wake up. Not a bad system.
When we finally got to the counter to order, Nate himself came over to say hello. When we mentioned the review, he shrugged. "It was no Karen, but it was good." Hilarious.
Given that we'd already had breakfast, the purpose of the bagels was to tide us over during the matinee we were attending, which took place only after we'd spent quality time with the Washington Post on the couch. Yet again, it was a depressing day to be reading the news, but better to be informed.
After outfitting ourselves for the theater, we drove to the Gottwald Playhouse where we ran into a trio of women, two visiting from New York, navigating the parking lot payment machine. It took me no time to find out how the local had been entertaining her guests, chief among which was Richmond's ridiculously low prices for parking. They laughed out loud at an $8 fee to park for the rest of the day. Richmond's cute, right, for its simplicity, I asked them. "It's adorable!" one said in her thick New York-ese accent. "We thought it was $25 and that didn't seem bad!"
They'd done a trolley tour the day before and now were off for a tour of Mr. Jefferson's Capital, but only after regaling me with the splendor of the brunch they'd had at the Stables at Belmont. They were as impressed with the cost of food as they were with the quality of what they'd gotten.
After wishing them a good time, we headed to the same building we'd been in the night before for the gala to meet up with Pru, Beau and Queen B. Inside the theater, a row of tables had been set up in front of the risers of seats and we found them ensconced at the last available table.
The premise of "Gutenberg! The Musical" was that the two men onstage - the hilarious and multi-talented Chris Hester and Paul Major - were presenting the musical they'd poured their blood, sweat and tears into to an audience of of potential backers. Because they needed a producer (aka money), it was just the two of them playing all the roles, a task assisted by the many baseball caps labeled with character names: Drunk #1, Young Monk, Drunk #2, Anti-Semite, Daughter. You get the idea.
As for why they'd chosen Gutenberg for the subject of their play, well, who needs historical accuracy to come up with a good musical? Not these guys. Instead, after Googling the inventor of the printing press and discovering scant personal information, they'd set out to make up a Broadway-worthy story with enough inside theater humor to keep our table in stitches all afternoon.
They spoke about the need for a "charm song," a "big end of Act 1 rock 'n roll number" and even explained what a metaphor is: "When you say one thing and mean something else, but you're not lying." That these two uber-talented men were able to play less-than-talented actors, singers and dancers only made it all the funnier.
Like when Chris Hester as Doug performed the Elvis Presley-like strains of "Glimmer in Schlimmer" complete with windmilling guitar arm nad sobbing voice. Or watching Bud, played by Paul Major, as Gutenberg's fictitious love interest, Helvetica, stomping grapes in a cardboard box labeled "barrel" and flipping her blond pig-tails.
And, yes, she was named after the font, making for some seriously nerdy graphic design humor.
As the duo went through all the scenes in their would-be play, Doug would set the scene, invariably mentioning a dirty, thatched roof and getting a bigger laugh every time he did it. Add in the brisk pacing and we were pretty much treated to a non-stop sense of amusement.
By using the character hats laid out on a table, sometimes stacked four or five deep atop their heads, the two played every character, including Dead Baby. In one case, hats were strung on a line for a crowd scene and Beau was chosen as one of two audience members asked to hold up one end while Bud and Doug moved underneath, fitting their heads into various hats to play different characters.
I think it's safe to say that I haven't laughed so much at a play in ages, but the beauty of it was the array of humor, which included everything from bad puns to dry asides to clever wordplay. And for Beau, a touch of corny. No matter what your cup of humorous tea was, these boys had you covered. It didn't hurt that they'd also step out of character to share a thought or observation.
Mel Brooks would have been proud.
And it wasn't just me, because my tablemates were cracking up right along with me. When, at the end, a backer stepped forward to offer them a contract, I stopped laughing for the first time in two hours.
The posse trooped over to Maya afterward, immediately running into a familiar server who hugged me first and welcomed us in. Seated at a large table with a view of the Carpenter Center, we spent the next few hours sipping (mine was Espolon), eating fiery mahi mahi tacos (Mr. Wright) and tamer shrimp tacos (me) while discussing Beau's upcoming trip to Seattle, hearing about Pru's manse repairs and enjoying Queen B's memories of the Plaka.
Improbably, Beau casually mentioned that time that he'd played a robot in a fashion show and we all laughed as hard as we had at Bud and Doug's exploits, which is really saying something.
Although I was seduced by neither flan nor tres leches cake for dessert, both arrived at the table along with a Belle Tango cocktail of Belle Isle Moonshine, tangerine concentrate and habanero syrup, a sweet/spicy sipper with appeal, but not as much as tequila on ice, if I'm honest.
I may be a complicated woman, but my needs are simple.
The Church Hill gang headed home, but Mr. Wright and I weren't finished yet. Our final stop was Gallery 5 for the Halloween edition of the Silent Music Revival with Kenneka Cook providing the improvised score. We had front row seats for the 1911 Italian film, "L'Inferno," considered the first full-length film (at one hour) and also the first blockbuster because it made $2 million in the U.S., which, as producer Jameson so eloquently put it, "was a whole lotta money back then."
Frankly, I still think two million is a whole lot of money, but that's just me.
I'd chatted with Jameson when we'd sat down and as we talked about how I'd been coming practically since the beginning of the Silent Music revival, the guy in front of me turned around, impressed. "You saw Mermaid Skeletons play that show?" he asked with awe in his voice. Yes, I did, son.
Meanwhile, Jameson grinned like a proud father, which is he is when it comes to introducing me (and Richmond) to the cult of silent films with live accompaniment.
He went on to tell us all kinds of interesting tidbits about the film we were about to see, some of which he mentioned when he took the stage to introduce it. In typical Silent Music Revival style - he has, after all been doing this for over 11 years now - he'd edited it some, taking out the most egregious examples of Catholic guilt as well as some political figures that would have been meaningless to 21st century audiences.
"Oh, and I sped it up ten percent," he said with a knowing smile. You don't need to tell me about today's audiences' shrinking attention spans.
Watching Virgil lead Dante through the circles of Hell meant watching early 20th century special effects, some of which were far more sophisticated than I would have thought for the time. That said, I also wondered during a scene with scattered fires and an actor in a nearby hole what kind of safety precautions were used in 1911. My guess? Not much.
Kenneka Cook's overlaid vocal looping was a strong accompaniment to the story, sometimes almost disturbing as her dulcet tones sang over scenes of human misery and bad bird costumes.
But let's get on to the real appeal of this film: major nudity. Clearly film censorship came about after "L'Inferno," because I've never seen so many naked and near naked men onscreen before. For fans of male buns, we're talking a veritable smorgasbord of good-looking Italian butts.
And who knows, maybe some of them went on to play robots in fashion shows. When you're part of the very first blockbuster movie, I bet you can write your own ticket.
It was a glorious morning to walk to Nate's Bagels, overcast and brooding on the way there and blue skies and sunny coming back. Kind of like life. The only problem was that after last week's glowing review of the place, the line was even longer than usual.
Not that we were in a hurry.
But some people walked in, eyeballed the line and made an immediate U-turn. Sorry, but once my mouth is set for Nate's, I don't care how long I have to wait to be satisfied. Some people looked like they'd just rolled out of bed - I spotted a woman in slippers and several people in pajama pants - and were using their line time to wake up. Not a bad system.
When we finally got to the counter to order, Nate himself came over to say hello. When we mentioned the review, he shrugged. "It was no Karen, but it was good." Hilarious.
Given that we'd already had breakfast, the purpose of the bagels was to tide us over during the matinee we were attending, which took place only after we'd spent quality time with the Washington Post on the couch. Yet again, it was a depressing day to be reading the news, but better to be informed.
After outfitting ourselves for the theater, we drove to the Gottwald Playhouse where we ran into a trio of women, two visiting from New York, navigating the parking lot payment machine. It took me no time to find out how the local had been entertaining her guests, chief among which was Richmond's ridiculously low prices for parking. They laughed out loud at an $8 fee to park for the rest of the day. Richmond's cute, right, for its simplicity, I asked them. "It's adorable!" one said in her thick New York-ese accent. "We thought it was $25 and that didn't seem bad!"
They'd done a trolley tour the day before and now were off for a tour of Mr. Jefferson's Capital, but only after regaling me with the splendor of the brunch they'd had at the Stables at Belmont. They were as impressed with the cost of food as they were with the quality of what they'd gotten.
After wishing them a good time, we headed to the same building we'd been in the night before for the gala to meet up with Pru, Beau and Queen B. Inside the theater, a row of tables had been set up in front of the risers of seats and we found them ensconced at the last available table.
The premise of "Gutenberg! The Musical" was that the two men onstage - the hilarious and multi-talented Chris Hester and Paul Major - were presenting the musical they'd poured their blood, sweat and tears into to an audience of of potential backers. Because they needed a producer (aka money), it was just the two of them playing all the roles, a task assisted by the many baseball caps labeled with character names: Drunk #1, Young Monk, Drunk #2, Anti-Semite, Daughter. You get the idea.
As for why they'd chosen Gutenberg for the subject of their play, well, who needs historical accuracy to come up with a good musical? Not these guys. Instead, after Googling the inventor of the printing press and discovering scant personal information, they'd set out to make up a Broadway-worthy story with enough inside theater humor to keep our table in stitches all afternoon.
They spoke about the need for a "charm song," a "big end of Act 1 rock 'n roll number" and even explained what a metaphor is: "When you say one thing and mean something else, but you're not lying." That these two uber-talented men were able to play less-than-talented actors, singers and dancers only made it all the funnier.
Like when Chris Hester as Doug performed the Elvis Presley-like strains of "Glimmer in Schlimmer" complete with windmilling guitar arm nad sobbing voice. Or watching Bud, played by Paul Major, as Gutenberg's fictitious love interest, Helvetica, stomping grapes in a cardboard box labeled "barrel" and flipping her blond pig-tails.
And, yes, she was named after the font, making for some seriously nerdy graphic design humor.
As the duo went through all the scenes in their would-be play, Doug would set the scene, invariably mentioning a dirty, thatched roof and getting a bigger laugh every time he did it. Add in the brisk pacing and we were pretty much treated to a non-stop sense of amusement.
By using the character hats laid out on a table, sometimes stacked four or five deep atop their heads, the two played every character, including Dead Baby. In one case, hats were strung on a line for a crowd scene and Beau was chosen as one of two audience members asked to hold up one end while Bud and Doug moved underneath, fitting their heads into various hats to play different characters.
I think it's safe to say that I haven't laughed so much at a play in ages, but the beauty of it was the array of humor, which included everything from bad puns to dry asides to clever wordplay. And for Beau, a touch of corny. No matter what your cup of humorous tea was, these boys had you covered. It didn't hurt that they'd also step out of character to share a thought or observation.
Mel Brooks would have been proud.
And it wasn't just me, because my tablemates were cracking up right along with me. When, at the end, a backer stepped forward to offer them a contract, I stopped laughing for the first time in two hours.
The posse trooped over to Maya afterward, immediately running into a familiar server who hugged me first and welcomed us in. Seated at a large table with a view of the Carpenter Center, we spent the next few hours sipping (mine was Espolon), eating fiery mahi mahi tacos (Mr. Wright) and tamer shrimp tacos (me) while discussing Beau's upcoming trip to Seattle, hearing about Pru's manse repairs and enjoying Queen B's memories of the Plaka.
Improbably, Beau casually mentioned that time that he'd played a robot in a fashion show and we all laughed as hard as we had at Bud and Doug's exploits, which is really saying something.
Although I was seduced by neither flan nor tres leches cake for dessert, both arrived at the table along with a Belle Tango cocktail of Belle Isle Moonshine, tangerine concentrate and habanero syrup, a sweet/spicy sipper with appeal, but not as much as tequila on ice, if I'm honest.
I may be a complicated woman, but my needs are simple.
The Church Hill gang headed home, but Mr. Wright and I weren't finished yet. Our final stop was Gallery 5 for the Halloween edition of the Silent Music Revival with Kenneka Cook providing the improvised score. We had front row seats for the 1911 Italian film, "L'Inferno," considered the first full-length film (at one hour) and also the first blockbuster because it made $2 million in the U.S., which, as producer Jameson so eloquently put it, "was a whole lotta money back then."
Frankly, I still think two million is a whole lot of money, but that's just me.
I'd chatted with Jameson when we'd sat down and as we talked about how I'd been coming practically since the beginning of the Silent Music revival, the guy in front of me turned around, impressed. "You saw Mermaid Skeletons play that show?" he asked with awe in his voice. Yes, I did, son.
Meanwhile, Jameson grinned like a proud father, which is he is when it comes to introducing me (and Richmond) to the cult of silent films with live accompaniment.
He went on to tell us all kinds of interesting tidbits about the film we were about to see, some of which he mentioned when he took the stage to introduce it. In typical Silent Music Revival style - he has, after all been doing this for over 11 years now - he'd edited it some, taking out the most egregious examples of Catholic guilt as well as some political figures that would have been meaningless to 21st century audiences.
"Oh, and I sped it up ten percent," he said with a knowing smile. You don't need to tell me about today's audiences' shrinking attention spans.
Watching Virgil lead Dante through the circles of Hell meant watching early 20th century special effects, some of which were far more sophisticated than I would have thought for the time. That said, I also wondered during a scene with scattered fires and an actor in a nearby hole what kind of safety precautions were used in 1911. My guess? Not much.
Kenneka Cook's overlaid vocal looping was a strong accompaniment to the story, sometimes almost disturbing as her dulcet tones sang over scenes of human misery and bad bird costumes.
But let's get on to the real appeal of this film: major nudity. Clearly film censorship came about after "L'Inferno," because I've never seen so many naked and near naked men onscreen before. For fans of male buns, we're talking a veritable smorgasbord of good-looking Italian butts.
And who knows, maybe some of them went on to play robots in fashion shows. When you're part of the very first blockbuster movie, I bet you can write your own ticket.
Sunday, October 28, 2018
Puttin' on the Ritz
When it comes to a fancy pants gala, we're that couple who don't have to worry about what to wear.
And by that I mean, when Mr. Wright invited me to join him for Historic Richmond's "A Night on Grace Street," I knew immediately what I'd be wearing. It wasn't hard because I only have one dress that's black tie-worthy and while it was purchased in 1996, it's my automatic dressy default.
I just hadn't had to pull it out since 2013.
Now it turns out I may have met my match because Mr. Wright showed up in his tuxedo which he assured me was a good two decades old. So, basically, he put as little effort into his attire as I had, 'though I'll give him credit for freshening it up with a new bow tie. Nothing else about my ensemble was remotely new, either, since I acquired the necklace, bracelets and satin evening bag during Jimmy Carter's administration.
We must have looked good because our Uber driver told us so, followed by a directive to "have fun and get crazy." Um, why do you think we took Uber?
In what was a brilliant choice, the dinner and dancing parts of the gala took place right on the stage of the Dominion Energy Center, which is what Virginia's shadow government is trying to call the building we know is really the Carpenter Stage, or, at the very least, CenterStage.
Still, eating and dancing onstage, that was a new one for me and I liked it. What other talent besides eating is going to get me onstage?
But the evening actually began in the alcoves off the lobby where two bars did our alcoholic bidding and uniformed servers passed by with trays of oysters Rockefeller, beef wellington in pastry and, tomato tarts - and probably other things I never even noticed - while everyone mingled and got into the gala spirit.
Ladies and gentlemen, start your buzz.
When we trooped into the theater for dinner, men were stationed at the stairs to the stage to offer their hand or arm so that women teetering on high heels (not me, I had on dressy platforms) had the support of a non-drinking man. As the night wore on, it undoubtedly became a better and better idea since a trip to the ladies' room required a descent and ascent to remount.
One could say it was the only pitfall of stage dancing.
At the front of the stage were Big Ray and the Kool Kats providing early evening dinner jazz and swing to the many tables arranged on the stage. Only six of the eight chairs were filled at table six where we sat, but they were a nice enough group. There was an architect from Chicago - that made two - and his lawyer wife, residents of Chevy Chase, Maryland, next to us, leading to chatter about the development of Anacostia, the SW waterfront and how D.C. is no longer the city I left 30 years ago.
He's currently part of the team working in Richmond on the renovation of Old City Hall and you could hear the reverence in his voice talking about taking the interior back to its original look. Apparently. that means it's going to be far less colorful than what it's been for decades, so he's prepared for Richmond to take issue with the changes.
His wife spoke of how busy he was, so busy that the renovations he sketched on a bev nap 14 years ago when they bought the Chevy Chase house are still nothing more than doodles on a napkin because he's been too busy to work on his own house. Or, as Mr. Wright pointed out, perhaps home remodels are just not his thing.
Meanwhile, what was listed on the menu as an amuse bouche was far more than a bite. Enjoying a first course of golden beet trifle layered with trout caviar and George's Mill goat cheese, I watched as another diner pushed the beets aside and ate only the cheese. Who does that?
The gala chair gave a stirring speech about the good work of Historic Richmond, followed by a short video and when she mentioned Jackson Ward, I raised my fist in solidarity for my adopted neighborhood every time.
She also mentioned that the chef for tonight's event was Carlos Silva, whose food I've eaten since I first moved to Jackson Ward a dozen years ago. After hearing that piece of information, I asked our server to tell him hi, but she did me one better by delivering him to table six so we could chat.
A salad of micro greens and assorted root vegetables was topped by a confit quail, a satisfying rich note for the earthy and bitter underpinnings. What was funny was watching people trying to figure out how to eat the quail.
Another speech, another video, more fist pumping and it was time for braised beef in Barboursville Cabernet Sauvignon and Rockfish braised in Upper Shirley Chardonnay over Byrd Mill cheese grits and wax beans, an entree guaranteed to please multiple palates. The beef especially tasted like something Carlos used to make at Bistro 27 when he was nodding to his Brazilian roots.
As we were finishing up, Big Ray took to the floor as the emcee for the donation bidding (on the back of everyone's program was a bidding number for this purpose) to keep the good work of Historic Richmond going. It was fascinating to see how one person at a table bidding often caused someone else at the table to retaliate with a bid of their own, which made Big Ray very happy.
Once $30,000 was raised (and, mind you, that didn't even include the ridiculous price of the tickets), Big Ray shared that the bar included 12 year Glenlivet, a fact which caused a small stampede as men from nearly every table headed to the bar for some single malt. Since he was still on the clock, Ray's Scotch had to wait, so he returned to the bandstand, only to be joined by two female singers in sequined dresses and one dapper-looking man. Their job it was to take the music from big band to full on dance band and that meant Motown to start and very soon Bruno Mars and Walk the Moon.
Because everyone - I'm looking at you, girl crush and carrot cake man - loves "Shut Up and Dance" after a few drinks, even the preservationist and architect types populating the room.
Between Glenlivet and dancing fools, table six was mostly absent when dessert began arriving, so I waited for no one to try it. Miniature Nelson county apple pies with mascarpone apple butter and - a nice touch - apple slaw provided a sweet ending and a proper sugar buzz to get on with the business of the night.
After all, how often does a woman get to go dancing in her fanciest dress? I may have danced to "Brick House" scores of times during and since the Carter years, but I'm not sure I ever had a better time doing it. I know because I didn't even hold it against Big Ray when he chose to end the night with Journey's hackneyed "Don't Stop Believin'."
How could I? If I'm honest, it's my new mantra, shared already withfriend, doctor and interview subject anyone who will listen. Hang on to that feeling long enough and you just may be rewarded. Mightily.
And though he'd never tell me to "shut up" - what would be the point? - the "dance with me" part is a given.
And by that I mean, when Mr. Wright invited me to join him for Historic Richmond's "A Night on Grace Street," I knew immediately what I'd be wearing. It wasn't hard because I only have one dress that's black tie-worthy and while it was purchased in 1996, it's my automatic dressy default.
I just hadn't had to pull it out since 2013.
Now it turns out I may have met my match because Mr. Wright showed up in his tuxedo which he assured me was a good two decades old. So, basically, he put as little effort into his attire as I had, 'though I'll give him credit for freshening it up with a new bow tie. Nothing else about my ensemble was remotely new, either, since I acquired the necklace, bracelets and satin evening bag during Jimmy Carter's administration.
We must have looked good because our Uber driver told us so, followed by a directive to "have fun and get crazy." Um, why do you think we took Uber?
In what was a brilliant choice, the dinner and dancing parts of the gala took place right on the stage of the Dominion Energy Center, which is what Virginia's shadow government is trying to call the building we know is really the Carpenter Stage, or, at the very least, CenterStage.
Still, eating and dancing onstage, that was a new one for me and I liked it. What other talent besides eating is going to get me onstage?
But the evening actually began in the alcoves off the lobby where two bars did our alcoholic bidding and uniformed servers passed by with trays of oysters Rockefeller, beef wellington in pastry and, tomato tarts - and probably other things I never even noticed - while everyone mingled and got into the gala spirit.
Ladies and gentlemen, start your buzz.
When we trooped into the theater for dinner, men were stationed at the stairs to the stage to offer their hand or arm so that women teetering on high heels (not me, I had on dressy platforms) had the support of a non-drinking man. As the night wore on, it undoubtedly became a better and better idea since a trip to the ladies' room required a descent and ascent to remount.
One could say it was the only pitfall of stage dancing.
At the front of the stage were Big Ray and the Kool Kats providing early evening dinner jazz and swing to the many tables arranged on the stage. Only six of the eight chairs were filled at table six where we sat, but they were a nice enough group. There was an architect from Chicago - that made two - and his lawyer wife, residents of Chevy Chase, Maryland, next to us, leading to chatter about the development of Anacostia, the SW waterfront and how D.C. is no longer the city I left 30 years ago.
He's currently part of the team working in Richmond on the renovation of Old City Hall and you could hear the reverence in his voice talking about taking the interior back to its original look. Apparently. that means it's going to be far less colorful than what it's been for decades, so he's prepared for Richmond to take issue with the changes.
His wife spoke of how busy he was, so busy that the renovations he sketched on a bev nap 14 years ago when they bought the Chevy Chase house are still nothing more than doodles on a napkin because he's been too busy to work on his own house. Or, as Mr. Wright pointed out, perhaps home remodels are just not his thing.
Meanwhile, what was listed on the menu as an amuse bouche was far more than a bite. Enjoying a first course of golden beet trifle layered with trout caviar and George's Mill goat cheese, I watched as another diner pushed the beets aside and ate only the cheese. Who does that?
The gala chair gave a stirring speech about the good work of Historic Richmond, followed by a short video and when she mentioned Jackson Ward, I raised my fist in solidarity for my adopted neighborhood every time.
She also mentioned that the chef for tonight's event was Carlos Silva, whose food I've eaten since I first moved to Jackson Ward a dozen years ago. After hearing that piece of information, I asked our server to tell him hi, but she did me one better by delivering him to table six so we could chat.
A salad of micro greens and assorted root vegetables was topped by a confit quail, a satisfying rich note for the earthy and bitter underpinnings. What was funny was watching people trying to figure out how to eat the quail.
Another speech, another video, more fist pumping and it was time for braised beef in Barboursville Cabernet Sauvignon and Rockfish braised in Upper Shirley Chardonnay over Byrd Mill cheese grits and wax beans, an entree guaranteed to please multiple palates. The beef especially tasted like something Carlos used to make at Bistro 27 when he was nodding to his Brazilian roots.
As we were finishing up, Big Ray took to the floor as the emcee for the donation bidding (on the back of everyone's program was a bidding number for this purpose) to keep the good work of Historic Richmond going. It was fascinating to see how one person at a table bidding often caused someone else at the table to retaliate with a bid of their own, which made Big Ray very happy.
Once $30,000 was raised (and, mind you, that didn't even include the ridiculous price of the tickets), Big Ray shared that the bar included 12 year Glenlivet, a fact which caused a small stampede as men from nearly every table headed to the bar for some single malt. Since he was still on the clock, Ray's Scotch had to wait, so he returned to the bandstand, only to be joined by two female singers in sequined dresses and one dapper-looking man. Their job it was to take the music from big band to full on dance band and that meant Motown to start and very soon Bruno Mars and Walk the Moon.
Because everyone - I'm looking at you, girl crush and carrot cake man - loves "Shut Up and Dance" after a few drinks, even the preservationist and architect types populating the room.
Between Glenlivet and dancing fools, table six was mostly absent when dessert began arriving, so I waited for no one to try it. Miniature Nelson county apple pies with mascarpone apple butter and - a nice touch - apple slaw provided a sweet ending and a proper sugar buzz to get on with the business of the night.
After all, how often does a woman get to go dancing in her fanciest dress? I may have danced to "Brick House" scores of times during and since the Carter years, but I'm not sure I ever had a better time doing it. I know because I didn't even hold it against Big Ray when he chose to end the night with Journey's hackneyed "Don't Stop Believin'."
How could I? If I'm honest, it's my new mantra, shared already with
And though he'd never tell me to "shut up" - what would be the point? - the "dance with me" part is a given.
Saturday, October 27, 2018
Don Juan Triumphant
You think you know your town, but really, you only know what you do.
If I'd been asked what the most popular event at the Byrd Theatre is, I wouldn't have paused, I wouldn't have hesitated, I'd have announced with near certainty that it's the Christmas Eve screening of "It's a Wonderful Life." When I began attending the annual event, it had a decent crowd, but that was the mid-90s and since then, it's grown to become a capacity crowd, balcony included.
Such is my dedication to this particular holiday ritual that I've been known to schedule Christmas Eve dinner at a ridiculously early hour solely so I can be in line - a line which eventually stretches down Cary, and around the corner onto Sheppard St. - for "It's a Wonderful Life" over an hour before it even begins.
That said, it never occurred to me when Mr. Wright suggested we take in the Byrd's annual screening of "Phantom of the Opera," the 1925 silent version, natch, complete with live accompaniment on the mighty Wurlitzer, that I was walking into a similarly well-loved event.
As a result of my ignorance, we'd lingered over a leisurely dinner at Greek on Cary, beginning with a bottle of dry, crisp and utterly porch pound-worthy Troupis Moschofilero Rose and some pretty stellar hummus. We'd made sure to arrive early before the dinner rush, although we didn't hesitate to linger well into the evening when nearly every table was taken.
After enough visits to know, I can say I'm a big fan of their stacked, grilled and seasoned vegetables, mainly due to the fig glaze, although the wedge of good Feta doesn't hurt, either. Chicken souvlaki and a chicken gyro also kept us occupied as the rain continued to pour outside and we felt no urgency to move on.
Even walking down the street to the Byrd under cover of a giant umbrella, there was no massive line at the box office to tip us off. But once inside, it was another story, so Mr. Wright went off in search of popcorn while I headed off to find Mac and hopefully seats.
I was just about to my favorite section - not under the balcony overhang, but not in the front third, either - when I heard my name called and turned to see Mac on the left hand side. What are you doing in the old seats, I wanted to know. "There weren't three together," she claimed, but I'd already scoped out three smack dab in the center of a nearby row, even if we did have to climb over some nice people to get to them.
As it happened, those very people welcomed us in saying that they'd saved the seats for us, a kind gesture given that dripping wet people with umbrellas were scrambling over them.
Even better was James, the man seated on my right, who not only welcomed me but struck up a conversation. Seems the Williamsburg resident was there as part of a dual celebration, partly for his 80th birthday and partly for the 85th birthday of the man at the other end of the row, his daughter's father-in-law, which had also included dinner at the Daily.
Add to that that it was his first time at the Byrd and all of a sudden, it was an occasion.
Our conversation meandered all over the place, from how we'd both attended junior high school, not middle school, and how movie theaters used to be known as movie palaces. Pointing out the massive chandelier that is lowered by pulleys to be cleaned, he shared that his church has a similar chandelier, so he knew all about lowering. When I realized that he wasn't aware that the organ and organist were going to rise out of the bowels of the stage, I couldn't wait to see his reaction.
When I finally stopped talking to the birthday boy and looked around, I couldn't believe how full it had gotten, with more people arriving every minute. Then when manager Todd took a poll as to who had come for the annual screening of "Phantom of the Opera" before, it seemed like fully half the room raised their hand. No one needed to know that I'd never seen any version of the Phantom before.
But how had I missed out on such a time-honored tradition?
Although I've seen plenty of silent movies thanks to the Silent Music Revival, this was my first with an organist playing the originally-composed score that would have been played in 1925. The precision timing of the score left me in awe of the composer's ability to provide sound effects and mood music for even the smallest moments in the film.
In what I'm sure was not an intentionally funny choice, every time the ballet dancers scurried away from one scary shadow or figure or another, two of the dancers would run and do a last minute pirouette before rejoining her cowering fellow dancers. It was as if the actresses wanted everyone to appreciate their dance moves even while running scared.
A girl never knows when the right person might see her in action.
And while there were the expected heavy-handed moments given that the movie is almost 100 years old - say, when the Phantom sat down to play "Don Juan Triumphant" once he's captured the girl's interest - the old-fashioned nature of the story - after the Phantom is drowned by a mob, it ended with the lovers on their honeymoon - and the pitch-perfect soundtrack were a big part of its charm.
That's something that scores of people apparently already knew, even if I hadn't. The good news is, if I show up next year, it'll not only be earlier, but I'll be able to raise my hand as a regular.
Even better if my boy James is there celebrating his 81st. We've got a tradition going now.
If I'd been asked what the most popular event at the Byrd Theatre is, I wouldn't have paused, I wouldn't have hesitated, I'd have announced with near certainty that it's the Christmas Eve screening of "It's a Wonderful Life." When I began attending the annual event, it had a decent crowd, but that was the mid-90s and since then, it's grown to become a capacity crowd, balcony included.
Such is my dedication to this particular holiday ritual that I've been known to schedule Christmas Eve dinner at a ridiculously early hour solely so I can be in line - a line which eventually stretches down Cary, and around the corner onto Sheppard St. - for "It's a Wonderful Life" over an hour before it even begins.
That said, it never occurred to me when Mr. Wright suggested we take in the Byrd's annual screening of "Phantom of the Opera," the 1925 silent version, natch, complete with live accompaniment on the mighty Wurlitzer, that I was walking into a similarly well-loved event.
As a result of my ignorance, we'd lingered over a leisurely dinner at Greek on Cary, beginning with a bottle of dry, crisp and utterly porch pound-worthy Troupis Moschofilero Rose and some pretty stellar hummus. We'd made sure to arrive early before the dinner rush, although we didn't hesitate to linger well into the evening when nearly every table was taken.
After enough visits to know, I can say I'm a big fan of their stacked, grilled and seasoned vegetables, mainly due to the fig glaze, although the wedge of good Feta doesn't hurt, either. Chicken souvlaki and a chicken gyro also kept us occupied as the rain continued to pour outside and we felt no urgency to move on.
Even walking down the street to the Byrd under cover of a giant umbrella, there was no massive line at the box office to tip us off. But once inside, it was another story, so Mr. Wright went off in search of popcorn while I headed off to find Mac and hopefully seats.
I was just about to my favorite section - not under the balcony overhang, but not in the front third, either - when I heard my name called and turned to see Mac on the left hand side. What are you doing in the old seats, I wanted to know. "There weren't three together," she claimed, but I'd already scoped out three smack dab in the center of a nearby row, even if we did have to climb over some nice people to get to them.
As it happened, those very people welcomed us in saying that they'd saved the seats for us, a kind gesture given that dripping wet people with umbrellas were scrambling over them.
Even better was James, the man seated on my right, who not only welcomed me but struck up a conversation. Seems the Williamsburg resident was there as part of a dual celebration, partly for his 80th birthday and partly for the 85th birthday of the man at the other end of the row, his daughter's father-in-law, which had also included dinner at the Daily.
Add to that that it was his first time at the Byrd and all of a sudden, it was an occasion.
Our conversation meandered all over the place, from how we'd both attended junior high school, not middle school, and how movie theaters used to be known as movie palaces. Pointing out the massive chandelier that is lowered by pulleys to be cleaned, he shared that his church has a similar chandelier, so he knew all about lowering. When I realized that he wasn't aware that the organ and organist were going to rise out of the bowels of the stage, I couldn't wait to see his reaction.
When I finally stopped talking to the birthday boy and looked around, I couldn't believe how full it had gotten, with more people arriving every minute. Then when manager Todd took a poll as to who had come for the annual screening of "Phantom of the Opera" before, it seemed like fully half the room raised their hand. No one needed to know that I'd never seen any version of the Phantom before.
But how had I missed out on such a time-honored tradition?
Although I've seen plenty of silent movies thanks to the Silent Music Revival, this was my first with an organist playing the originally-composed score that would have been played in 1925. The precision timing of the score left me in awe of the composer's ability to provide sound effects and mood music for even the smallest moments in the film.
In what I'm sure was not an intentionally funny choice, every time the ballet dancers scurried away from one scary shadow or figure or another, two of the dancers would run and do a last minute pirouette before rejoining her cowering fellow dancers. It was as if the actresses wanted everyone to appreciate their dance moves even while running scared.
A girl never knows when the right person might see her in action.
And while there were the expected heavy-handed moments given that the movie is almost 100 years old - say, when the Phantom sat down to play "Don Juan Triumphant" once he's captured the girl's interest - the old-fashioned nature of the story - after the Phantom is drowned by a mob, it ended with the lovers on their honeymoon - and the pitch-perfect soundtrack were a big part of its charm.
That's something that scores of people apparently already knew, even if I hadn't. The good news is, if I show up next year, it'll not only be earlier, but I'll be able to raise my hand as a regular.
Even better if my boy James is there celebrating his 81st. We've got a tradition going now.
Friday, October 26, 2018
Between Jefferson and First
Today's lesson? Don't try to hide happiness.
When a favorite Gemini and I finally managed to meet for lunch - mind you, we've been trying to plan this since our birthdays in May - at Lucy's, the conversation necessarily started with her curious about my love life. Although she'd briefly met Mr. Wright back in May when we all wound up at the same restaurant, she needed details.
Trying to keep my giddiness under control, I started rambling calmly about him, about us, about things we'd done and places we'd gone, stopping only when she grabbed my arm. "Is there something bad about him or the relationship?" she asked, sounding concerned. "Why are you telling me this so matter-of-factly?"
Needless to say, gushing has become my usual M.O. when talking about this wonderful new phase of my life to anyone foolish enough to ask. But ever since Mac chided me about whining about the cold weather on the way to Folk Fest ("You have a man who loves you, so you don't get to complain about Fall!"), I've been trying to temper my over-the-top happiness.
I should have known a Gemini wouldn't let me get away with that crap.
As she devoured her salmon salad and I my shrimp po'boy salad, I proceeded to let loose with everything that's been happening in my life and how well it suits me. That, she told me, was what she wanted to hear.
Around the time the chocolate mousse pie with graham cracker crust showed up, we felt a presence behind us and looked up to find a familiar goateed face (writer/one of my former editors/radio host) standing behind our bar stools. "I'm here with P," he said. "Weren't you two here talking and eating last time we came here?" Not long after, when we went to leave, the duo were still standing at the door awaiting a free table. "Hey, weren't you two here last time we came here for lunch?" P inquired.
Geminis may be overly observant, but even we can't recall everyone who eats at the restaurants we do. We are, after all, concentrating on each other.
The subject of so much of my conversation showed up hours later for a J-Ward date that began by walking to Rogue for dinner. There, we took the only two available stools, only to hear the man to my left say, "Boy, they let anyone in here, don't they?"
There sat a local chef and now sommelier who's been off the radar for a hot minute, so, after introductions, I naturally asked what he had cooking. Giving me a pained look, he assured me he has something big in the works but legally can't say what it is yet. It was obvious the restraint he was displaying was wearing on him, so I assumed it was a matter of city incompetence or money shortages.
In any case, he assured me I'd know something soon.
Sipping Terre di San Venanzio Fortunato Prosecco while noshing on charred carrots jazzed up with harissa, yogurt, a generous amount of crumbled peanuts and capers followed by to-die-for sweet potato-filled cappalletti surrounded by broccoli rabe and caramelized pearl onions with dollops of ricotta, we left the chef to his ruminations. Meanwhile, Rogue's chef proffered a wave and smile from the far end of the bar.
When my chocolate cremeux with meringue stars, vanilla sponge cake and caramelized cinnamon ice cream with graham cracker crumbles arrived, I'd barely made a dent when the man to Mr. Wright's left elbowed him aside to ask of me, "What's that?"
I can't be the only woman impressed by a guy curious about a fabulous looking dessert, can I?
After selling the dessert hard, I polished mine off, suggested he order his own and we left to walk over to the November Theater for Cadence Theatre Company's production of "Between Riverside and Crazy." When the usher pointed out our seats, she said they were right in front of "this couple." Glancing at the couple, major figures in the local theater scene, I shouldn't have been surprised when they began cracking wise about the kind of people in the row in front of them.
Clearly everyone I know is a comedian.
The incredibly well-acted play, which won the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 2015, took us into the rent-controlled apartment of an older black retired cop on disability. His son, just released from jail and his girlfriend, live there too, along with a recovering addict. Everyone refers to him as "Pops" and appreciates his hard-won wisdom, even if he has been cranky since his wife died. He's also got a lawsuit pending against the department since it was a white cop who mistakenly shot him.
The dialog crackled with authenticity and not a few completely politically incorrect statements, but the play was most appealing because I had no idea where it was going. And I certainly didn't see Pops' sex scene coming,
No surprise for a recent Pulitzer winner, the play offered no answers about the state of modern life, but rather showed the good, the bad and the ugly and left the future in limbo, providing plenty to discuss with my willing partner, who saw shades of Redd Foxx's Sanford character in Pops.
This morning, at my yearly girl parts check-up, the nurse-practitioner's first question was whether anything was new. I assumed she meant health wise. Mid-exam, she asked the all-important question - "Are you involved in any domestic violence?" and I laughed out loud.
From there, I was off and blathering about this fascinating new person in my life. She stopped me only to complete the exam before asking what had happened next. She wanted all the intel and who was I to deny her a chirpy version? With a Q & A period (her idea).
I won't necessarily volunteer (although it's likely) to share my happiness, but if you ask, I will answer with many words, chirpy words.
Which I seem to have in spades these days. Not necessarily a bad thing, either.
When a favorite Gemini and I finally managed to meet for lunch - mind you, we've been trying to plan this since our birthdays in May - at Lucy's, the conversation necessarily started with her curious about my love life. Although she'd briefly met Mr. Wright back in May when we all wound up at the same restaurant, she needed details.
Trying to keep my giddiness under control, I started rambling calmly about him, about us, about things we'd done and places we'd gone, stopping only when she grabbed my arm. "Is there something bad about him or the relationship?" she asked, sounding concerned. "Why are you telling me this so matter-of-factly?"
Needless to say, gushing has become my usual M.O. when talking about this wonderful new phase of my life to anyone foolish enough to ask. But ever since Mac chided me about whining about the cold weather on the way to Folk Fest ("You have a man who loves you, so you don't get to complain about Fall!"), I've been trying to temper my over-the-top happiness.
I should have known a Gemini wouldn't let me get away with that crap.
As she devoured her salmon salad and I my shrimp po'boy salad, I proceeded to let loose with everything that's been happening in my life and how well it suits me. That, she told me, was what she wanted to hear.
Around the time the chocolate mousse pie with graham cracker crust showed up, we felt a presence behind us and looked up to find a familiar goateed face (writer/one of my former editors/radio host) standing behind our bar stools. "I'm here with P," he said. "Weren't you two here talking and eating last time we came here?" Not long after, when we went to leave, the duo were still standing at the door awaiting a free table. "Hey, weren't you two here last time we came here for lunch?" P inquired.
Geminis may be overly observant, but even we can't recall everyone who eats at the restaurants we do. We are, after all, concentrating on each other.
The subject of so much of my conversation showed up hours later for a J-Ward date that began by walking to Rogue for dinner. There, we took the only two available stools, only to hear the man to my left say, "Boy, they let anyone in here, don't they?"
There sat a local chef and now sommelier who's been off the radar for a hot minute, so, after introductions, I naturally asked what he had cooking. Giving me a pained look, he assured me he has something big in the works but legally can't say what it is yet. It was obvious the restraint he was displaying was wearing on him, so I assumed it was a matter of city incompetence or money shortages.
In any case, he assured me I'd know something soon.
Sipping Terre di San Venanzio Fortunato Prosecco while noshing on charred carrots jazzed up with harissa, yogurt, a generous amount of crumbled peanuts and capers followed by to-die-for sweet potato-filled cappalletti surrounded by broccoli rabe and caramelized pearl onions with dollops of ricotta, we left the chef to his ruminations. Meanwhile, Rogue's chef proffered a wave and smile from the far end of the bar.
When my chocolate cremeux with meringue stars, vanilla sponge cake and caramelized cinnamon ice cream with graham cracker crumbles arrived, I'd barely made a dent when the man to Mr. Wright's left elbowed him aside to ask of me, "What's that?"
I can't be the only woman impressed by a guy curious about a fabulous looking dessert, can I?
After selling the dessert hard, I polished mine off, suggested he order his own and we left to walk over to the November Theater for Cadence Theatre Company's production of "Between Riverside and Crazy." When the usher pointed out our seats, she said they were right in front of "this couple." Glancing at the couple, major figures in the local theater scene, I shouldn't have been surprised when they began cracking wise about the kind of people in the row in front of them.
Clearly everyone I know is a comedian.
The incredibly well-acted play, which won the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 2015, took us into the rent-controlled apartment of an older black retired cop on disability. His son, just released from jail and his girlfriend, live there too, along with a recovering addict. Everyone refers to him as "Pops" and appreciates his hard-won wisdom, even if he has been cranky since his wife died. He's also got a lawsuit pending against the department since it was a white cop who mistakenly shot him.
The dialog crackled with authenticity and not a few completely politically incorrect statements, but the play was most appealing because I had no idea where it was going. And I certainly didn't see Pops' sex scene coming,
No surprise for a recent Pulitzer winner, the play offered no answers about the state of modern life, but rather showed the good, the bad and the ugly and left the future in limbo, providing plenty to discuss with my willing partner, who saw shades of Redd Foxx's Sanford character in Pops.
This morning, at my yearly girl parts check-up, the nurse-practitioner's first question was whether anything was new. I assumed she meant health wise. Mid-exam, she asked the all-important question - "Are you involved in any domestic violence?" and I laughed out loud.
From there, I was off and blathering about this fascinating new person in my life. She stopped me only to complete the exam before asking what had happened next. She wanted all the intel and who was I to deny her a chirpy version? With a Q & A period (her idea).
I won't necessarily volunteer (although it's likely) to share my happiness, but if you ask, I will answer with many words, chirpy words.
Which I seem to have in spades these days. Not necessarily a bad thing, either.
Thursday, October 25, 2018
On Unbending Knee
For a day that began with injuries, it worked out splendidly.
The day got off to a rocky start when my right shoe got caught in my left shoelace as I was walking down the sidewalk to my basement to do laundry before my walk. In trying to drop my keys and hold on to the laundry basket, I hit the pavement, with my right hand and right knee taking the brunt of it.
Ouch and blood, lots of it.
Being the practical sort, I decided to carry on, using the hot water in the washer to rinse my hand and Kleenexes in my hoodie pocket to wrap around it to catch the blood as I set out for the river. The good news was that at least the laundry got started and walking ensured that my knee didn't stiffen up because of the workout it got on the hills, even if the blood-soaked improvised bandage was a bit unsightly.
But, man, I have to say, climbing the ladder at the end of the pipeline was a whole new challenge with damaged parts. At an interview at an art gallery after walking, I was pleased to find that my hand could still write without oozing too much blood on the pad.
My wounds were cleaned and dressed properly when Mr. Wright showed up for dinner and a movie, only to learn what a klutz he's thrown his lot in with, although part of the blame surely rests with the overly long shoelaces that require triple knotting to stay out of the way.
At Branch and Vine, we found the owner stocking wine on the shelves and a friendly face behind the counter. My first question was about what soups were available, and after she told us we had a choice of squash bisque and Mom's kale stew with sausage, she suggested we take a table and she'd come to us to take our order.
At what is purportedly a fast casual place, you don't have to tell me twice to let a pro wait on me.
The squash bisque, essentially a bowl of Fall, was thick and deeply flavorful and by the time the owner came over to ask how we'd liked it, it was pretty clear from the scraped clean bowl what the answer was.
I am a woman of appetite(s).
Sitting at a front window table, we had a fine view of the mural on the side of Bacchus, as well as a front row seat for the street theater of Meadow and Main, which involved an assortment of cyclists, pedestrians, and a woman walking by at least four times. Not to be left out were the many motorists who seemed to take the traffic light as more of a suggestion than a directive.
All I'm saying is, a cop could make his monthly quota on ticket-writing just sitting at that one intersection for the length of a meal, or at least the time it might take to polish off a Greek salad (accompanied by commentary about the contrast to our recent Greek salads in Athens) and a turkey and tomato jam sandwich with Gruyere and apple slices on a crusty baguette, like we did.
From there, we made our way to the Virginia Museum of History and Culture to see "G.I. Jews: Jewish Americans in World War II" along with what turned out to be a large contingent of JCC members and the usual Greatest Generation history crowd.
I happen to know from past events I've attended at the JCC that they're a welcoming bunch, even if I have been called out - "You're not Jewish, are you?" the gentleman sitting next to me at the brisket dinner and lecture had politely inquired - for not being one of the Chosen People.
I would think, however, that my good standing in the documentary dork department more than qualified me for tonight's film which told the story of the half million American Jews who served. And not always because their parents approved, either, as evidenced by one female veteran who observed that she didn't tell her parents before enlisting because they believed that the military "was no life for a nice Jewish girl."
Maybe not, but I'll bet her dating options increased a hundredfold.
One of those nice Jewish girls told the story of the romance she'd had with a soldier named Mike, who'd then been shipped back home. She assumed he wasn't interested, but in fact, unbeknownst to her, once back in the U.S., he'd sought out her family to ask for permission to marry her. After discovering that her family was Jewish, he'd written her a letter explaining that he had no desire to marry a Jew.
Because in 1943, apparently religion still trumped love. Sadly.
The documentary used plenty of interesting vets to share their memories (and old black and white snapshots) and that would have been enough, but director Lisa Ades also had Mel Brooks, Henry Kissenger and Carl Reiner sharing their stories of life as a Jew in the military.
Mel Brooks spoke about not being able to stay kosher in the military, rapturously describing his first melding of dairy and meat: a cheeseburger. In his typical humorous way, he immediately blamed the Jews for denying him such a pleasure up until that point.
Many told anecdotes about the prejudice they faced from fellow soldiers, but also there were stories of acceptance. The film made the point that for many soldiers, unless they'd been raised in a major city, basic training and deployment was their first time seeing, much less meeting, a Jewish person.
One guy said his bunk mate heard a rumor and asked him if he was Jewish. After he answered in the affirmative, his bunk mate never spoke to him again for the rest of their tour. Another recalled that he'd grown up thinking that everyone was Jewish and only learned differently once he'd enlisted.
All in all, it was a fascinating documentary and with images of concentration camps and liberating prisoners (Jewish soldiers helped by speaking Yiddish to the prisoners to tell them they were finally free), profoundly sad at times, too. I know if Mac had been with me instead of Mr. Wright, there'd have been some tears.
And if anything makes a person put her own life in perspective, it's hearing about the sacrifices of people willing to fight for their adopted country even as they were being called racial slurs and ostracized.
So I have a torn up hand, bloody knee and bruised arm and hip. I'll live.
Just don't deny me an occasional cheeseburger. I'm with Mel.
The day got off to a rocky start when my right shoe got caught in my left shoelace as I was walking down the sidewalk to my basement to do laundry before my walk. In trying to drop my keys and hold on to the laundry basket, I hit the pavement, with my right hand and right knee taking the brunt of it.
Ouch and blood, lots of it.
Being the practical sort, I decided to carry on, using the hot water in the washer to rinse my hand and Kleenexes in my hoodie pocket to wrap around it to catch the blood as I set out for the river. The good news was that at least the laundry got started and walking ensured that my knee didn't stiffen up because of the workout it got on the hills, even if the blood-soaked improvised bandage was a bit unsightly.
But, man, I have to say, climbing the ladder at the end of the pipeline was a whole new challenge with damaged parts. At an interview at an art gallery after walking, I was pleased to find that my hand could still write without oozing too much blood on the pad.
My wounds were cleaned and dressed properly when Mr. Wright showed up for dinner and a movie, only to learn what a klutz he's thrown his lot in with, although part of the blame surely rests with the overly long shoelaces that require triple knotting to stay out of the way.
At Branch and Vine, we found the owner stocking wine on the shelves and a friendly face behind the counter. My first question was about what soups were available, and after she told us we had a choice of squash bisque and Mom's kale stew with sausage, she suggested we take a table and she'd come to us to take our order.
At what is purportedly a fast casual place, you don't have to tell me twice to let a pro wait on me.
The squash bisque, essentially a bowl of Fall, was thick and deeply flavorful and by the time the owner came over to ask how we'd liked it, it was pretty clear from the scraped clean bowl what the answer was.
I am a woman of appetite(s).
Sitting at a front window table, we had a fine view of the mural on the side of Bacchus, as well as a front row seat for the street theater of Meadow and Main, which involved an assortment of cyclists, pedestrians, and a woman walking by at least four times. Not to be left out were the many motorists who seemed to take the traffic light as more of a suggestion than a directive.
All I'm saying is, a cop could make his monthly quota on ticket-writing just sitting at that one intersection for the length of a meal, or at least the time it might take to polish off a Greek salad (accompanied by commentary about the contrast to our recent Greek salads in Athens) and a turkey and tomato jam sandwich with Gruyere and apple slices on a crusty baguette, like we did.
From there, we made our way to the Virginia Museum of History and Culture to see "G.I. Jews: Jewish Americans in World War II" along with what turned out to be a large contingent of JCC members and the usual Greatest Generation history crowd.
I happen to know from past events I've attended at the JCC that they're a welcoming bunch, even if I have been called out - "You're not Jewish, are you?" the gentleman sitting next to me at the brisket dinner and lecture had politely inquired - for not being one of the Chosen People.
I would think, however, that my good standing in the documentary dork department more than qualified me for tonight's film which told the story of the half million American Jews who served. And not always because their parents approved, either, as evidenced by one female veteran who observed that she didn't tell her parents before enlisting because they believed that the military "was no life for a nice Jewish girl."
Maybe not, but I'll bet her dating options increased a hundredfold.
One of those nice Jewish girls told the story of the romance she'd had with a soldier named Mike, who'd then been shipped back home. She assumed he wasn't interested, but in fact, unbeknownst to her, once back in the U.S., he'd sought out her family to ask for permission to marry her. After discovering that her family was Jewish, he'd written her a letter explaining that he had no desire to marry a Jew.
Because in 1943, apparently religion still trumped love. Sadly.
The documentary used plenty of interesting vets to share their memories (and old black and white snapshots) and that would have been enough, but director Lisa Ades also had Mel Brooks, Henry Kissenger and Carl Reiner sharing their stories of life as a Jew in the military.
Mel Brooks spoke about not being able to stay kosher in the military, rapturously describing his first melding of dairy and meat: a cheeseburger. In his typical humorous way, he immediately blamed the Jews for denying him such a pleasure up until that point.
Many told anecdotes about the prejudice they faced from fellow soldiers, but also there were stories of acceptance. The film made the point that for many soldiers, unless they'd been raised in a major city, basic training and deployment was their first time seeing, much less meeting, a Jewish person.
One guy said his bunk mate heard a rumor and asked him if he was Jewish. After he answered in the affirmative, his bunk mate never spoke to him again for the rest of their tour. Another recalled that he'd grown up thinking that everyone was Jewish and only learned differently once he'd enlisted.
All in all, it was a fascinating documentary and with images of concentration camps and liberating prisoners (Jewish soldiers helped by speaking Yiddish to the prisoners to tell them they were finally free), profoundly sad at times, too. I know if Mac had been with me instead of Mr. Wright, there'd have been some tears.
And if anything makes a person put her own life in perspective, it's hearing about the sacrifices of people willing to fight for their adopted country even as they were being called racial slurs and ostracized.
So I have a torn up hand, bloody knee and bruised arm and hip. I'll live.
Just don't deny me an occasional cheeseburger. I'm with Mel.
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
A Soft Five Hours
I spent my evening surrounded by the fruit of VCU's loins.
Next up on VCU Cinematheque's ongoing tribute to Italian director extraordinaire Michelangelo Antonioni was "The Passenger," so I followed my sunny road trip with a brisk walk to the Grace Street Theater.
Brisk because sundown means I'm automatically cold and resenting it, even when culture awaits.
Although I've been to see several of the Antonioni films this semester and in the past, tonight's was the first in English. Maybe even more surprising than that was that the film had been made at MGM, featured a big American actor, Jack Nicholson, and was considered an homage to Hitchcock and, with his main character switching identities, to Hitch's masterful "North by Northwest."
The theater was unusually packed for the Tuesday night screening series, a fact I attributed to the name recognition of the star. That said, the movie was made in 1975 before every role Jack Nicholson played was essentially Jack Nicholson, resulting in the chance to see him disappear into the role and not overpower it with his own persona.
That alone was worth seeing.
But so was the French actress Maria Schneider, whom I knew solely from having seen in "Last Tango in Paris" way back when it came out, who played a strong, assured architecture student at a time when most women's roles were more decorative.
And not that she wasn't lovely (that her haircut in 1975 was eerily similar to mine in 2018 was a side bonus), but I was especially taken with her clothes because they were so spot on for that era. Everything she wore in the film looked like a variation of something I owned that decade, including the over-sized fabric bag she carried for a purse.
When it came to male style, Nicholson had multiple scenes wearing a button-down, short-sleeved shirt which he'd unbuttoned completely and tied at the waist. Whole lot of chest and chest hair there. If that was a thing anywhere but in the gay clubs in 1975, I don't recall seeing it.
Like any Antonioni film, effort was required to stay engaged and within the first 45 minutes, at least a dozen students got up to leave, some of them running up the theater aisles as if they were making a break for it. No doubt they'd be incredulous to learn that some of us had come by choice and not because our professor dictated it.
I got a kick out of a scene where Nicholson is renting a car to begin his adventure as somebody else (a dead man) and when the clerk asks where he's going, he hasn't a clue. She points to a list of potential drop-off countries in Europe and he says, "Yugoslovia! I'll go to Dubrovnik."
I can only imagine how different Dubrovnik must have been in 1975 than it was last month when I saw it.
Walking out of the theater with the hordes of students, I overheard one say, "Once I knew what it was about..." as if it had taken a while to figure out. The irony there is that the professor had read a four-page introduction to the movie, including explaining what would happen in the story, as well as mentioning the notable 7-minute long tracking shot near the end, so if he'd been paying attention (say, not on his phone), he'd have had a clue.
I'm guessing listening to your professor is sooo 20th century.
One thing the professor had not shared, however, was that actual footage of a real assassination had been used by Antonioni, so as one who has great difficulty watching violence of any kind, I was completely unprepared for that. My issues aside, I'd have been curious to know if it even registered for students who've grown up with the ability to see to any horrible thing they care to online.
And, as the professor had warned us, the ending came as a complete surprise. Those who were glancing at their phones undoubtedly missed it entirely.
Another Tuesday night, another Antonioni film. It's like the gallerist I was recently interviewing observed, "Once Fall hits, there's just so much to do in Richmond." Tell me about it.
When I got back to J-Ward, I didn't even bother going upstairs. My next stop was the Rabbit Hole at Vagabond for the Randazzo Big Band doing Charles Owen (not that I knew who Charles Owen was) and I was already late because Antonioni makes no short films.
The room was quite full when I got there, so I slipped into a sliver of space near the door in the back to take in the satisfying sounds of 15 musicians playing in a very low-ceilinged room. Charles Owen, it turned out, was the bearded sax player whose music Randazzo had transcribed and was now being featured in the first set, and he looked mighty happy about it.
Mind you, this is a big band led by bass player Andrew Randazzo, who also plays with Butcher Brown, so besides a dozen horns of all kinds, there were some pretty great bass lines leading the way. And don't get me started on Devonne Harris on drums.
I gotta say, music fans in this town should get down on their knees every night and thank VCU's jazz studies program for the top notch musicians it spits out for us to enjoy.
Just when it felt like the room couldn't hold another person, Randazzo announced, "Okay, we're going to take a ten minute break. Just ten minutes! Then we'll come back and play Beyonce." From behind me at the bar, I overheard a guy knowingly say, "It'll be a soft ten minutes," and I knew he was right.
I think I'm safe in saying that no band in Richmond has ever stuck to a ten-minute break, least of all jazz cats.
The break gave me an opportunity to wiggle in for a better vantage point, which I found on the back corner of a couch where a couple occupying it told me to help myself to the edge of their space. The room was full of hair and lots of it, and looked to be crowded with long-time musicians and jazz students eager to hear their (slightly) elders.
A busy, young server came by, trying to clean up a bit during the break. When she picked up an almost full plate of fries from the couple's table, I joked that it was a waste of perfectly good fries. Her take was purely economical, though. "It's a waste of perfectly good money! Those fries cost $5!"
Clearly a woman who works hard for the money.
Behind me, I heard several musicians lamenting the difficulty of transitioning from touring to being back at home and more than one admitted that when on the road, they don't worry about the regular business of life at all.
I may not have a musical bone in my body, but I can sure relate to trying to balance the reality of daily life with time spent away, constantly trying to play catch-up.
Running into a favorite saxophone player provided the opportunity to learn that he's now teaching music in the Henrico County jail, a job with enormous challenges, I gathered. When I asked how many inmates were interested in music, he laughed, saying maybe one in each class. That's got to be tough.
The second set may or may not have included Beyonce (it's not like I'd recognize anything beyond "Single Ladies"), but it definitely featured several Butcher Brown tunes as well as one by Philly soul songwriter Thom Bell. Still, I think I was the only one who raised my hand when Randazzo asked if there were any Thom Bell fans in the room, although why he'd ask that of a room made up 90% with people born after grunge is beyond me. Optimism, I guess.
Around 10:30, a guy came in, assessed the crowded room and began moving through the tables and chairs, eventually settling himself on the floor beside a front booth, mere feet from the the saxophones. Prime real estate if you're willing to floor sit.
The evening closed with a Vince Guaraldi song the bandleader said was originally called "Minus Lucy" but became "Linus, Single Again," but all I know for sure is that the distinctive sound of brushes on drums and that kind of piano playing could only be Guaraldi.
Sort of like an Antonioni screening followed by a big band on a Tuesday night. Once you know what it's about, it could only be Richmond.
Next up on VCU Cinematheque's ongoing tribute to Italian director extraordinaire Michelangelo Antonioni was "The Passenger," so I followed my sunny road trip with a brisk walk to the Grace Street Theater.
Brisk because sundown means I'm automatically cold and resenting it, even when culture awaits.
Although I've been to see several of the Antonioni films this semester and in the past, tonight's was the first in English. Maybe even more surprising than that was that the film had been made at MGM, featured a big American actor, Jack Nicholson, and was considered an homage to Hitchcock and, with his main character switching identities, to Hitch's masterful "North by Northwest."
The theater was unusually packed for the Tuesday night screening series, a fact I attributed to the name recognition of the star. That said, the movie was made in 1975 before every role Jack Nicholson played was essentially Jack Nicholson, resulting in the chance to see him disappear into the role and not overpower it with his own persona.
That alone was worth seeing.
But so was the French actress Maria Schneider, whom I knew solely from having seen in "Last Tango in Paris" way back when it came out, who played a strong, assured architecture student at a time when most women's roles were more decorative.
And not that she wasn't lovely (that her haircut in 1975 was eerily similar to mine in 2018 was a side bonus), but I was especially taken with her clothes because they were so spot on for that era. Everything she wore in the film looked like a variation of something I owned that decade, including the over-sized fabric bag she carried for a purse.
When it came to male style, Nicholson had multiple scenes wearing a button-down, short-sleeved shirt which he'd unbuttoned completely and tied at the waist. Whole lot of chest and chest hair there. If that was a thing anywhere but in the gay clubs in 1975, I don't recall seeing it.
Like any Antonioni film, effort was required to stay engaged and within the first 45 minutes, at least a dozen students got up to leave, some of them running up the theater aisles as if they were making a break for it. No doubt they'd be incredulous to learn that some of us had come by choice and not because our professor dictated it.
I got a kick out of a scene where Nicholson is renting a car to begin his adventure as somebody else (a dead man) and when the clerk asks where he's going, he hasn't a clue. She points to a list of potential drop-off countries in Europe and he says, "Yugoslovia! I'll go to Dubrovnik."
I can only imagine how different Dubrovnik must have been in 1975 than it was last month when I saw it.
Walking out of the theater with the hordes of students, I overheard one say, "Once I knew what it was about..." as if it had taken a while to figure out. The irony there is that the professor had read a four-page introduction to the movie, including explaining what would happen in the story, as well as mentioning the notable 7-minute long tracking shot near the end, so if he'd been paying attention (say, not on his phone), he'd have had a clue.
I'm guessing listening to your professor is sooo 20th century.
One thing the professor had not shared, however, was that actual footage of a real assassination had been used by Antonioni, so as one who has great difficulty watching violence of any kind, I was completely unprepared for that. My issues aside, I'd have been curious to know if it even registered for students who've grown up with the ability to see to any horrible thing they care to online.
And, as the professor had warned us, the ending came as a complete surprise. Those who were glancing at their phones undoubtedly missed it entirely.
Another Tuesday night, another Antonioni film. It's like the gallerist I was recently interviewing observed, "Once Fall hits, there's just so much to do in Richmond." Tell me about it.
When I got back to J-Ward, I didn't even bother going upstairs. My next stop was the Rabbit Hole at Vagabond for the Randazzo Big Band doing Charles Owen (not that I knew who Charles Owen was) and I was already late because Antonioni makes no short films.
The room was quite full when I got there, so I slipped into a sliver of space near the door in the back to take in the satisfying sounds of 15 musicians playing in a very low-ceilinged room. Charles Owen, it turned out, was the bearded sax player whose music Randazzo had transcribed and was now being featured in the first set, and he looked mighty happy about it.
Mind you, this is a big band led by bass player Andrew Randazzo, who also plays with Butcher Brown, so besides a dozen horns of all kinds, there were some pretty great bass lines leading the way. And don't get me started on Devonne Harris on drums.
I gotta say, music fans in this town should get down on their knees every night and thank VCU's jazz studies program for the top notch musicians it spits out for us to enjoy.
Just when it felt like the room couldn't hold another person, Randazzo announced, "Okay, we're going to take a ten minute break. Just ten minutes! Then we'll come back and play Beyonce." From behind me at the bar, I overheard a guy knowingly say, "It'll be a soft ten minutes," and I knew he was right.
I think I'm safe in saying that no band in Richmond has ever stuck to a ten-minute break, least of all jazz cats.
The break gave me an opportunity to wiggle in for a better vantage point, which I found on the back corner of a couch where a couple occupying it told me to help myself to the edge of their space. The room was full of hair and lots of it, and looked to be crowded with long-time musicians and jazz students eager to hear their (slightly) elders.
A busy, young server came by, trying to clean up a bit during the break. When she picked up an almost full plate of fries from the couple's table, I joked that it was a waste of perfectly good fries. Her take was purely economical, though. "It's a waste of perfectly good money! Those fries cost $5!"
Clearly a woman who works hard for the money.
Behind me, I heard several musicians lamenting the difficulty of transitioning from touring to being back at home and more than one admitted that when on the road, they don't worry about the regular business of life at all.
I may not have a musical bone in my body, but I can sure relate to trying to balance the reality of daily life with time spent away, constantly trying to play catch-up.
Running into a favorite saxophone player provided the opportunity to learn that he's now teaching music in the Henrico County jail, a job with enormous challenges, I gathered. When I asked how many inmates were interested in music, he laughed, saying maybe one in each class. That's got to be tough.
The second set may or may not have included Beyonce (it's not like I'd recognize anything beyond "Single Ladies"), but it definitely featured several Butcher Brown tunes as well as one by Philly soul songwriter Thom Bell. Still, I think I was the only one who raised my hand when Randazzo asked if there were any Thom Bell fans in the room, although why he'd ask that of a room made up 90% with people born after grunge is beyond me. Optimism, I guess.
Around 10:30, a guy came in, assessed the crowded room and began moving through the tables and chairs, eventually settling himself on the floor beside a front booth, mere feet from the the saxophones. Prime real estate if you're willing to floor sit.
The evening closed with a Vince Guaraldi song the bandleader said was originally called "Minus Lucy" but became "Linus, Single Again," but all I know for sure is that the distinctive sound of brushes on drums and that kind of piano playing could only be Guaraldi.
Sort of like an Antonioni screening followed by a big band on a Tuesday night. Once you know what it's about, it could only be Richmond.
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