i could go on and on

I Have News for You

2012-02-14T02:38:00.005-05:00

Valentines' Day eve is not your typical restaurant night.

A brief stop at Bistro 27 began with an empty bar and me, at least until a girl in pale green leather gloves took the corner stool.

I couldn't imagine getting such a thing in Richmond and she admitted she'd spied them in NYC and had to have them.

They were the color of an after dinner mint so I understood completely.

My stay progressed through some superb Gabrielle Rausse Nebbiolo Reserve, beef tips over Gorgonzola polenta and ended with me coming out of the men's room to find another restaurant owner inquiring, "Are you cheating on me?"

I ceded the bathroom but not my restaurant virtue.

And as I left, people were still calling the restaurant hoping to get a 7:00 reservation for Valentine's Day.

Seriously, people?

Next stop was Acacia because they'd moved half-priced wine night to VD eve, probably figuring that Valentine's Day was already going to be a good Tuesday.

My partner in crime and I scored end stools with a view and a bottle of Casamatta Rosso Sagiovese, fragrant and soft and oh-so Italian.

You know the type.

The music was different tonight, less clubby and more mainstream; I wondered if it was intentional for the occasion.

The crowd was definitely of the night-before variety. One girl had on a red satin dress while her date sported a red shirt and black tie.

They were very festive.

We ate our way through fried oysters and Southern cole slaw and house-smoked salmon with herb creme fraiche and red onion caper oil.

If you're going to have Richmond's chef of the year cooking for you, you can't go wrong with fruits of the sea given his passion for them.

Not surprisingly, I ran into several people who'd been at the Elbys last night and the consensus was that next year's event will be too big for the Historical Society.

We finished with almond and caramel milk chocolate sponge cake with coffee ice cream, rum caramel, caramel milk chocolate ganache and coffee cream.

And that dessert, I would guess, is an example of why Josh Gaulin won last night for best pastry chef. And how we justified eating it.

You see, we're just going behind the judges to fact-check. If there was also laughter to the point of soreness, it came after the research.

We certainly weren't out celebrating the night before Valentine's Day.

How Soon is Now?

2012-02-12T23:30:00.006-05:00

If the Virginia Historical Society had spontaneously combusted tonight, half the restaurants in Richmond would have had to close and a lot of great tights would have gone up in a puff of smoke.

Fortunately that wasn't the case.

The occasion was the inaugural Elbys, Richmond's restaurant awards named for Master Chef Paul Elbling.

Shortly after arriving, I came face to face with the great man himself when he walked up to me and said, "You have such beautiful stockings. And what's in them."

Leave it to a Frenchman to compliment a random stranger right off the bat.

Soon the hordes of restaurant people and the merely curious were herded into the auditorium where I had heard many a Banner Lecture.

It was there that Richmond Magazine proceeded to announce the restaurant awards while alternately sharing food history about the eight Virginia Presidents.

Several people told me that they could have lived without the food trivia, but I loved it.

Witness: George Washington was obsessed with composting (yes, dung piles at Mount Vernon). Virginia ladies valued themselves based on their bacon.

And then just as the tension was becoming claustrophobic, the honored were called onstage.

Some awards were hardly surprises. Lemaire won for fine dining.

Dale Reitzer won Chef of the Year, getting laughs with his acknowledgement of his staff that, "I'm not shit without them."

Balliceaux won for their drink program, with mixologist Sean Rapoza giving a nod to Bobby Kruger for having blazed the trail.

When Black Sheep won Best Neighborhood restaurant, owner Amy spoke eloquently about their commitment to Carver and getting people to come to "that" neighborhood.

Host Juan Conde followed her remarks by saying, "Just keep serving those chicken livers and I'll keep coming back."

When Secco won for Best Wine Program, Chef Tim Bereika in Chucks Taylors and owner Julia (the tomboy) in a dress took the stage.

After thanking her suppliers, she said, "And thanks to Richmond for getting it."

You're welcome, oh ginger one.

EAT Restaurant Partners (Blue Goat, Osaka et al) won for Restaurant Visionaries, with Ron Melford saying, "Thanks to everyone who didn't go to a chain restaurant last year."

Call me proud of my membership in that group.

Best Pastry Chef went to Josh Gaulin of Acacia, beating out one of my favorite chefs, Carly Herring, who I was happy to hear has now landed at C'est le Vin.

Another of my favorites got the nod when Caleb Shriver at Aziza's won Rising Culinary Star for across the board perfection as well as having "the work ethic of a beast."

I'd just been sucking on his bones Friday night. Beef marrow, that is.

The Roosevelt took Best New Restaurant to much applause and gratitude from Chef Lee Gregory who sounded genuinely surprised at the honor.

At the after-party, Marty of Steady Sounds spun the excellent mix of music which got a surprisingly few restaurant types to dance.

Richmond magazine's editor said she was hoping to see people dancing on the tables and, frankly, that would have been awesome.

One of Acacia's stellar bar staff suggested he and I get things going but once he told me he used to teach swing dancing, I thought better of it.

Fortunately, other Acacia types got the dancing started.

Because there were only two bars, lines were long but waiting became a party with people visiting one another in line in the interim.

Food tables were everywhere and they featured the food preferences of the Virginia-born Presidents.

While loading up on spoon bread and fried chicken, the server said, "I love your tights. I noticed them when you came in two hours ago."

Wow. You're going to hand me food and say nice things at the same time? Definitely my kind of party.

And I was far from the only pair of cute tights. Women I have never seen wear tights pulled them out for this shindig. High heels abounded.

One restaurant owner, when complimented on her tights, admitted that she'd found them in her closet, along with a beautiful evening purse.

I only wish my closet held such a treasure trove of goodies.

After several conversations, a favorite sous chef belatedly introduced me to his girlfriend, apologizing for forgetting previously.

"I'm trying to be better," he said with a grin. "I'm teachable."

His lovely girlfriend agreed that teachable men were the very best kind.

Dollop's baker had on one of the most stylish and colorful dresses of the evening and when I complimented her on it, she admitted that it was really a bathing suit cover-up.

You can't buy that kind of fashion sense.

I finished up at the Broadbent table for some 1996 Madeira Colheita, smooth and nutty on the finish.

Our little group fell into a discussion of what we were doing in 1996.

Let's see. Not drinking Madeira and not having half as much fun as now.

Do they give awards for finally getting it right?

Raging Through This Life

2012-02-12T00:32:00.000-05:00

I drove to Fredericksburg to see a violent snowstorm whip through downtown.

That and laugh long and hard with two of my sisters.

The drive up 301 was bone dry and without incident (unlike the drive home). I walked into Kybecca Wine bar at 2:57 with the staff teasing me that they didn't open until 3:00.

At 3:02, the snow shower began without warning. There was no gradual buildup, no transition from light flakes to snow downpour.

All at once snow was coming down so hard you couldn't see across the street. Great gusts of wind blew snow horizontally down Charles and William Streets.

It was so weird, so sudden and unexpected, that both staff and customers rushed outside to take pictures of each other in the blizzard.

Well, not the digital Amish among us.

I stayed put and watched as the dramatic drop in temperature caused all the windows to fog up with our hot breath.

Forty five minutes later, it was all gone leaving everyone to return to their wine drinking in earnest.

By then we'd gotten a bottle of Bebe Prosecco Rose and settled in for the long haul.

Our get-together's purpose was twofold; we came to celebrate one of my favorite sister's recent birthday and to do some pre-gaming before my Dad's birthday dinner.

We had a lot to talk about and we only had four hours to do it in before being expected at the pre-dinner cocktail hour.

The conversation went something like this: near death experience, a weekly affair with an old girlfriend, sibling rivalry, drunken train trips, determining an anniversary's official date, advice I gave my sister when she started sleeping with her now-husband (who knew I used to advise on such?) and congratulations.

The food went something like this: Thai shrimp skewers, pistachio pesto gnocchi, bison and bleu cheese sliders, pesto pizza and Chincoteague oysters.

I shared some recent family stories I'd heard from various fam members, all to the amazement of my listeners.

Both are convinced I should be writing all this stuff down since no one else remembers it.

Even though we were soon off to eat again, two of us splurged on dessert, sharing the chocolate pot de creme and the Nutella and blackberries on grilled pound cake.

We delayed leaving for the inn and the festivities because a) the sister organizing everything is a royal pain and b) we were caught up in the post-5:00 blue sky and late afternoon light.

Wasn't it just a hot minute ago that it was black as night at 5:00? It's so wonderful to be on the other side of the Winter Solstice.

But all good things must come to an end and after many laugh attacks, too many questions about the state of my life and the unique pleasures of being with two sisters with whom I don't even need to finish my sentences, we decided to move to the inn.

Happy hour was a blur of hugs and greetings, followed by a move to the private dining room for dinner.

Our server Ryan was a Mary Washington student who couldn't have known what he was in for when he took tonight's shift.

Asking if any of us had any questions, my sarcastic aunt queried, "What's the meaning of life?"

Ryan blushed and said he was a little young to know yet, but that he was working on it.

The hand-cut French pork chops were the star of the evening but my seafood-loving family did acknowledge the much better than average crab cakes (primarily backfin) and the generous serving of pan-seared rockfish.

While the array of entrees had been impressive, the dessert choices were less so: apple pie, pecan pie and creme brulee.

I thought I'd made it clear to the restaurant world that not having a chocolate option is unacceptable.

All I can say is it was a good thing I'd scored dessert earlier or I might have been disappointed.

It was a birthday so there were shared memories, old jokes and much rolling of eyes at family-familiar quips.

A joke about trying to change one's mate resulted in my Dad responding with, "You haven't been listening, Grasshopper."

Let's just say that it wasn't directed at me.

When the party ended, I was happy to hit the road and return home, albeit a much colder place since the front moved through on the back of the whirlwind blizzard.

Cruising back on Route 301, I got almost into downtown Bowling Green (an oxymoron if ever there was one) when I saw flashing lights behind me and pulled over.

The female officer asked if I was in a hurry and then noted the case of alcohol and Chinese pinball machine in my back seat.

I had good explanations for both.

She asked for my license and registration before saying, "Have you been drinking?"

One drink since 7:00, I told her honestly and it was going on 11:00 at that point.

She went back to her car to run me through her computer while I cranked Bloc Party's "Sunday" and wished I could teleport home.

Returning with my documents, she sent me on my way telling me to drive safely.

I always do, ma'am. I have many vices, but speeding isn't one of them.

Besides, I wouldn't want to rush past another rogue snowstorm along the way.

When we need to rage through this life
There might be ones who are smarter than you
That have the right answers, that wear better shoes
Forget about those melting ice caps
We're doing the best with what we've got

Keeping Up is the Easy Part

2012-02-11T03:43:00.010-05:00

The Friday evening exploration began on 17th Street and moved eastward with only one quick detour to the other side of the street.

New, old, old, new, old, new.

At C'est le Vin, there were a bevy of wines to be sampled and a familiar yet new consulting chef, Jannequin Bennett, debuting their new menu.

Chilled beet gazpacho with goat cheese mousse and celery made a non-beet eater swoon.Catalan chicken bruschetta, salt cod salad and pork belly over white beans hinted at what new taste delights await the wine drinker.

A third generation chocolatier, Kelly (as in Chocolates By) taught by her grandmother, a former chocolatier for Wanamaker's in Philly, seduced us with exquisite pieces of Petit Syrah in dark chocolate.

There were sixteen wines to be savored and after working our way through, we chose the Spanish bubbles of Eudaid Massana Noya "Familia" Brut Cava and the 2009 Pied de Perdrix (named for the 1,000-year old Partridge Foot vine, a distant cousin of Malbec) to leave with us.

Yum, yum.

A detour across the street took us to Main Street Station so the transplant could see its renovated magnificence.

The large-format photographs of the building flooded by Hurricane Camille or with the tables set in the dining cars couldn't compare to one of WWII soldiers kissing their girls goodbye, they inside the train and the girls outside.

Kisses were exchanged through the train windows and, for many girls, their feet left the ground, dangling above the edge of the track.

It was kissing as levitation method.

Leaving the train station, we set out up the hill to Globehopper for gypsy music by the Richmanian Ramblers, music both profound and hilarious.

The lovely Antonia Vassar and Nate Matthews on upright bass had an assemblage of talented musicians (including Clifton of Ilad and Moonbees and Jessica of the Jungle Beat) and a clarinetist who wrapped his woodwind around all those strings and hauntingly brought forth the gypsy spirit to the Bottom.

"Great is wine and tasteful as well
When you drink it with handsome people
But if you drink it with ugly people
The wine gets stuck in your throat."

Conversations with the accordion player on the topics of beauty, kindness and curating finished out the evening there

Continuing our eastward assault, we joined the throngs at Eric Schindler Gallery for "A Land of Strangers," Mary Chiaramonte's new show of acrylic works on birch panels,

The artist, herself a twin, used her paint to convey a sense of mystery, of other worldliness. It is a show of the surreal and the very real

"High Tide" showed a dark-haired girl floating in the water her hair fanning out around her, clutching a fish.

My favorite, "The Nameless" was entirely surreal: a woman in a dress stands in a field of blues and greens, her blond hair and the house on fire she holds providing a vibrant yellow cast against the cooler colors.

Discussing "The Sleepwalking," an image of a muscular-armed girl with a long torso and short, stocky legs in a bathroom, a French friend observed, "We call that a low rider."

Do we? Because I don't.

Schindler Gallery is busy. I run into the orchid guy, the cheese whiz, the woman who has poured me absinthe, the collector of old telephones.

Keeping with the neighborhood theme, and because we have been non-stop busy since the tapas at C'est le Vin, we end up at Aziza's on Main.

The bar is empty, waiting for our arrival, and glasses of Paololeo Promitivo di Manduria deliver a peppery nose and flavors of dark plum.

A favorite waitress shows off her "predator" look, sporting a leopard print top, a crouching tiger brooch on her shoulder and necklaces of various snarling beasts.

It's Friday night, so things should be a bit wild.

My time is spent sucking the marrow out of brick oven roasted bones (as I tend to do with my evenings, I am told) with grilled bread and pickled turnips.

My dining partner goes with seared fluke with wild mushrooms, gnocchi and basil lemon butter. The bites he shares with me are moist and buttery with an irresistibly crispy edge.

Because it is his first time at Aziza's, I stealthily order the cream puff so that he can experience it

He is properly bowled over, first by its size and then by its classic dark chocolate, cream and pastry one-two-three punch.

Sometimes you have let the pro do the ordering for you.

At our final stop, the wine was a 2002 Ravenswood Vintner's Blend Merlot, everything an insipid Merlot is not: full, soft and delectable.

Music comes in the form of "September" with a bossa nova beat. It's Ultra Funk time.

And the conversation? I say it's not a real question if you're just giving someone a hard time.

"World, world, sister world
World, world, sister world
When will I have enough of you?

When I give up bread for Lent
And the glass will give up on me
Maybe then I'll have enough of you."

Romanian gypsy music, truly profound and hilarious.

Just the way I want to live my life.

The Cosmic Boomerang of Life

2012-02-10T01:49:00.000-05:00

Being on time is a relative thing.

So when I arrived at Chop Suey for the poetry reading at 5:30, it wasn't a huge surprise that it had been moved to 6ish.

Sonya Renee Taylor was running a bit behind, The surprise was that she was even willing to do a reading at Chop Suey before her scheduled reading at University of Richmond tonight.

Walking into the room fifty minutes after the reading was supposed to start, she charmed us all by saying, "You guys are sexy and that makes my day better."

There were a few hard bodies in the room, it should be noted.

Explaining that she was a performance poet, she clarified the difference between the work on stage and the work on the page.

We were lucky enough to hear both.

The best part of "Creation Story" was the line, "Women should be wanted."

Can I get an amen?

"Communion of Glass" was every bit as compelling, including, as it did, the line, "Wouldn't want to ruin this pretty dress. It's the only thing holding me together."

The power of a good dress can not be overstated.

Taylor's voice rose in intensity and volume as she read or recited her poetry (as with "The Truth," a poem she delivered extemporaneously), imbuing her reading with an appealing immediacy.

The devoted crowd took in her poetry while knowing that she had a limited time to share with us because of her UR reading.

Still, an evening that begins with poetry being read is worthwhile no matter how long the verse lasts.

From there I made a belated entrance to meet a friend for dinner, hoping she'd forgive my tardiness.

The bartender was a familiar face who admitted to his number being 90, a preference for leggy blonds and a brief career on reality TV.

You know, just another bartender in River City.

Friend and I focused on more significant things like the importance of romance in a relationship, how we didn't fully appreciate our younger selves and how eager we are for good company now.

We didn't have enough time to fully explore those topics, so we moved the party to Balliceaux where a lively crowd was gathering for Canary, Oh, Canary.

I saw all kinds of familiar faces there, musicians mostly, but also including two bartenders who went out of their way to welcome us (by giving us a hard time) and keep us at the front bar.

It was only because I know I'll be hearing their reverb-drenched dreamgaze next week that I could relax and just chat up my friend about life, love and white go-go boots.

Yes, I am proud to say that I have a friend who owns a pair of white go-go boots (bought in Bermuda for $5) which, we agreed, will be the perfect footwear for some of our salons once we open our doors to the public.

I'd be the first to admit that I have nothing that can compete with white go-go boots.

To paraphrase Ginger Rogers who said she had to do everything backwards and in high heels to keep up with Fred Astaire, I fear I will have to find even cooler tights and better conversational hot buttons to compete with white go-go boots.

Luckily, I have the power of a pretty dress holding me together.

I don't know that it's enough to make me wanted as a woman, but it's a start.

I'm planning to work my way up to white go-go boots, metaphorically speaking.

Oh, (Karen) Kay!

2012-02-09T13:25:00.001-05:00

Gershwin at noon is irresistible and, let's face it, they can't take that away from me.

Patrick Smith was giving a lecture, "Grasping Gershwin: The Man Behind the Music," complete with musical clips.

So I wound my way through VCU's Cabell Library, only to hear "Hello, Karen" from behind. It was a favorite poet who'd recognized me by (what else?) my tights.

Once in the lecture room, I saw a friend, singer and accordionist also in attendance.

Goofy for Gershwin, all of us.

Smith talked about Gershwin's musical siblings, talented musicians all, except for brother Arthur who was merely a "musical enthusiast."

Personally, I consider that the highest compliment.

We beard about Gershwin's years on Tin Pan Alley, his mega-success when Jolsen recorded "Swanee" and his foray into symphonic jazz.

It was that battle between high brow and low brow music that Gershwin took as his challenge and mission.

Naturally I was taken with the story of Gershwin's great love, a woman named Kay (coincidentally, also my middle name) whom his mother forbade him to marry (she wasn't Jewish) so he carried on a life-long affair with her.

That love manifested itself in the music he wrote for the musical, "Oh, Kay!"

Now that was an essential piece of Gershwin trivia I definitely needed to know (and my needs have been quite the topic of conversation lately).

The engaging Smith talked about the experimental concert for which Gershwin composed "Rhapsody in Blue" and how he heard "music in the very heart of the noise" of the train he was riding on as he composed it.

Of course the tragedy was how young Gershwin died of a brain tumor, silencing his musical output.

Luckily, he'd already put his philosophy out there.

"Don't die with you music still inside of you. Listen to your intuitive inner voice and find what passion stirs your soul."

Every day, all day. And night.

Clicking My Heels Together

2012-02-09T03:13:00.006-05:00

I am clueless in Short Pump.

So when I set out at 5:35 to get to the new Peter Chang's in the Far West End, I anticipate being on time for a 6:00 dinner.

How naive of me.

First there was the stopped traffic waiting to get off on the Short Pump exit.

Then there was the slow merge as we all tried to get off the ramp and on to Broad Street while others did the reverse.

Already behind schedule by then, I was now faced with finding a storefront in a sea of strip malls.

Let's just say I finally found it in the last strip center I intended to look.

Which is a roundabout way of saying that I got there at 6:20.

Another fifteen minutes and I could have been at the Peter Chang's in Charlottesville.

After a minute or two of mingling (well, I was late), we were asked to take seats and the parade of food began.

Dumplings, duck soup, rice cakes, lamb chops, chicken, noodles, eggplant. And so much more.

All Sichuan spicy, all perfectly executed.

All washed down with Jefferson Cab Franc, which made for a fine pairing.

Next to me I had the eighth grade-daughter of a local chef, so we talked about books ("The Hunger Games"), her musical faves (Queen, the Beatles and Coldplay, in that order) and food (Dad said she was a natural cook).

I advised her to avoid boys who didn't eat everything. We agreed that life without meat was unthinkable.

The vegan restaurant owner to my right begged to differ.

Mrs. Lee (Chang's partner's wife), beautifully resplendent in a black dress and hot pink shawl (and delicate ankle bracelet), did the introductions and translated for her the Chef.

When the meal was finished, I agreed to fetch one friend to meet another and her date at Secco.

He wasn't so much her date as someone she met in the 90s and recently reconnected with (that's apparently what we're calling it these days).

Who knew those things really happened?

During a discussion of being given a hard time by one's date, one member of the party noted, "Sadly, I like it."

And aren't those the best relationships?

All that spicy Chinese food had left some people wanting dessert to accompany the jammy Cantina del Pino Dolcotto d'Alba we ordered.

Pistachio cannoli was a worthy match for the fragrant wine while the others enjoyed the bread pudding with sea salt and caramel.

It was pretty obvious we weren't in Short Pump anymore.

Never let it be said that I don't leave the city to eat. I did just that for Peter Chang's food.

There, I've done my Short Pump for 2012.

Listen Without Prejudice

2012-02-08T01:23:00.005-05:00

When it comes down to it, it's all about finding a receptive audience.

I started my audience participation at the Virginia Center for Architecture and the social hour they were having to explore the new exhibit.

"The Art and Architecture of Carlton Abbott" was like a retrospective of the Williamsburg architect's career.

Which was as much about art as architecture.

Abbott's father had been the landscape architect for the Blue Ridge Parkway and his son documented many Blue Ridge Parkway buildings in pen and ink (even that most romantic-sounding of mediums, India ink).

Cantilevered barns, spring houses and weighted gates were captured by Abbott in the purest line.

But then there was Abbott, the engineer-minded architect, who designed the access bridge at Texas beach, the Visitor's Center at Jamestown and the frickin' mixing bowl.

Oh, yes, Abbott was the one behind the revamped Springfield exits on I-95.

Who knew such a logical, clear-thinking brain could also produce such pure art?

Abbott's postcards from France were a series of cards on which he sketched a French scene on the front, then drew a basic diagram of the layout of the location, maybe wrote a few words on the back, and mailed it home to himself.

And sometimes, to him and his wife.

Most were depictions of charming buildings and streets, but one was a carafe of wine and two filled glasses on a tabletop.

On the back, he had written, "Mon Cheri, I love you. CSA."

Kind of makes your heart melt, doesn't it?

A majestic charcoal over the mantle of the fireplace, "The Norfolk Dock" gave the viewer a sense of actually being on the dock due to its sheer size.

The man's multi-media art was of the deepest, brightest colors, super-saturated in their brilliance.

They were three-dimensional, some layers of fabric, some painted dowels, some intricately arranged geometric/mechanical-looking contrivances.

The man is in his fifth decade of creating and it's obvious he's still going strong.

The optimistic among us would call that encouraging.

The optimistic and the rest took off for Six Burner to discuss that kind of range of talent and enjoy well priced "midnight in a glass," Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de Bouissiere."

We heard about an actor's upcoming audition and a film graduate's desire to find the local film community.

The music went from the Lou Reed station on Pandora to the Phil Collins station.

This alone fascinates me, but I won't go there now.

When George Micheal came on, I went to point it out to the actor, who was by that time dancing to George Micheal behind the bar.

Clearly he already knew who it was.

Big points went to the panzanella salad (redundant, I think) with Feta cheese, capers, roasted tomatoes, cucumber, red onion, preserved Meyer lemon and oil for its pleasantly chewy bred cubes and perfect saltiness.

The panzanella led seamlessly into the mussels in a white wine cream sauce with bacon, red onions and bleu cheese.

It was ridiculously rich and just the right sized serving to leave you with some sense of dignity. At least until the bread-sopping part came and then all bets were off.

I got theater talk ("Rocky Horror Picture Show" coming to Firehouse) and a chance to recommend some good local film events (Biograph 40th, Southern Film Fest, James River Filmmakers' Forum) before realizing that some of us had places to be.

It was a parking lot farewell.

Since I hadn't had time to have a sweet course, I defaulted to the best late-night dessert bar I know: Ipanema.

After ordering a glass of Analissa Primitovo and a slice of double chocolate cake, I took in the conversations around me.

"Why don't you have any girl bartenders?" a twenty-something girl inquired.

"Well, you know..." the bartender trailed off.

"This place is a sausagefest," I teased him, joining in.

"A Post Office!" he laughed. "A lot of male!"

Did I mention that the comedy is free of charge at the best late night dessert bar in town?

Two bites into my cake, a couple of musician friends walked up to see what I was up to.

One asked me where I'd already been, presuming that my night was not just now starting.

The other suggested, "When you finish your cake, you should head over there," pointing to his friends and band mates celebrating a birthday.

Near the end of my cake, I heard the guy next to me mention Jackson Ward.

If that's not an invitation for me to let them know I've been eavesdropping, I don't know that is.Surely he and I would have something to talk about.

What about Jackson Ward, I asked politely but eager to sing the praises of my 'hood.

One told me where they lived (two blocks away), near the park.

"Yes, it's great. My only complaint is the people from Gilpin walk through our park and they don't live here," he said in all seriousness.

Oh, wow. Clearly we have nothing to talk about.

So I moved away from them and over to my friends where the conversation centered on Tom Waits fishing and other things I could get behind.

My fandom of their band was complimented. Hey, they're the ones doing all the heavy lifting. All I have to do is appreciate it.

"So where were you before this?" the bass player asked, echoing the earlier question.

I wouldn't be presuming I've been anywhere, my friend.

Except, of course, I had.

By that time, I'd already been an audience several times over.

As my Richmond grandmother used to say, stick with what you're good at.

There are few things I'd rather be than a really fine audience. Insert applause.

Mine.

Lunching It Old School

2012-02-07T16:58:00.000-05:00

If I'm going to Phil's for lunch, I may as well go with a UR guy.

Granted, his memories of being a UR student are a bit dim at this point, but devotion to Phil's is still in his blood.

When we arrived in the mid-day sunshine, the place was bursting at the seams with moms in tennis skirts holding toddlers' hands, businessmen types and older couples.

My friend and I grab the only available seats: the two stools at the end of the bar.

Unfortunately, that means we are facing the three big screens, but we turn to face each other and ignore them.

Glancing at the tried and true menu, I decide to go the '60s "ladies who lunch" route, ordering the chicken salad plate with cottage cheese.

My friend reminds me that, in spite of my lunch choice, I could never pass for such a woman.

He barely looks at the menu and decides to order something not on it. UR types do that sort of thing.

"I'll have the Junior Club," he says, knowing instinctively that they still have it.

They do.

He justifies it by saying that it has less bread. Even so, by the time he finishes, he observes, "I feel great right now, but I'm going to regret that later."

Looking around at the old photographs on the wall, he points to the one of "Dry Dock," the luncheonette he remembers from his days at UR.

Let's just say that it didn't look like a very diverse kind of place. In fact, it looked like the kind of place they should have had a sit-in during the civil rights era.

Then the food comes and it's pure Phil's.

My chicken salad is flavorful and not over mayonaised. His club has real turkey rather than deli turkey and we both adore the thick-sliced sweet pickles.

He sucks back his limeade, reminding me that it's bad for him. Every last drop apparently is bad for him.

By the time we finish eating, the crowd has thinned noticeably so we linger to chat.

And while he amused me on any number of subjects, I laughed the hardest when he said, "That's not being adventurous, that's being wise."

In fact, I laughed so hard that my face turned color, according to him.

A close second: "Okay, stop there. If I need more, I'll rent a movie."

University of Richmond guys: not usually my type, but they make hilarious friends.

No matter how hard a time they give you.

And while I'm not sure I could have fit in at Dry Dock, they're the best possible company at Phil's.

We Call That N.B.T.

2012-02-07T11:34:00.010-05:00

It's good to know that when it comes to birthdays, I'm not the only one who thinks they should be a multi-day celebration.

So when I get invited to be part of such revelry, I welcome the opportunity to share in the fun.

And when the birthday celebrant wants to take the fun to the beach, all the better.

The overcast day is spent indulgently, sitting on a couch in front of an open balcony door, looking at the ocean.

And that's it.

There is wine on that couch, including one hilariously called "Sexy Wine Bomb," a big California blend of Zinfandel, Merlot, Syrah and Petit Sirah.

It claims that discovering this wine is like "going on a third date and realizing that the person you are with is not only good-looking, but also not the slightest bit creepy."

All involved appreciate a wine with a sense of humor and a luscious mouthfeel.

There is a cheese course, there is a dinner course and then there is a bottle of good 2004 Chianti.

And when the ocean-view, couch-sitting portion of the birthday celebration ends, it is duly noted that it took eight hours for that part of the celebration to run its course.

Don't come to these kinds of birthdays if you're in a hurry.

At the discretion of the birthday celebrant, the sunny day portion of the great birthday caper does not begin early.

And when it does, it is the antithesis of the day before.

An epic beach walk involves bare feet despite it being February, spying in the windows of empty beach cottages (only worthwhile contenders), specific shell gathering (I have been told I will stoop for anything and it was meant as a compliment) and breezy salt air that smells as briney as an oyster.

Hours later the walk concludes only because everyone is starving.

A NY-style deli provides enormous paninis (Italian for me naturally), five-layer chocolate cake and one the birthday boy can't resist: something called chocolate ecstasy.

By this point, it is late afternoon and time for another birthday outing, this one to a soundside beach for sunset viewing.

Yes, the sign said private property and yet there wasn't a soul around, so the birthday revelers take a chance and walk out to a gazebo over the water to watch the light show.

What begins as shades of browns and blues soon morphs into pinks and golds in the sky which then translate to the water's surface.

For the art geeks among us, what begins as a Constable painting becomes a Turner as the colors of the sky melt into the barely rippling water, suggesting impressionistic brushstrokes on its surface.

Standing at the edge of the gazebo for an hour, the peace is shattered when a guy and his wife approach, and he's talking a mile a minute on his cell phone.

He ends that call only to take a second one and he's still approaching.

Birthday or not, this qualifies as a buzz kill.

The birthday party is moved to an undisclosed location where music is an integral part of the festivities.

The first Paul Weller album is played as a tribute to the birthday boy who said in 1992 that it was an album he could play over and over.

Actually the word he had used was endlessly.

And on a momentous occasion such as a birthday, it's all about the endless.

Endless wine, endless food, endless sitting, endless walking, the endless sound of the ocean.

It's not just the birthday person who doesn't want birthday celebrations to end.

Fortunately, everyone involved has nothing but time.

A Weighty Opus of an Evening

2012-02-04T23:46:00.003-05:00

I expected a couple date and instead got an old friend.

Knowing that both the Symphony and the Forum were happening tonight, we made plans to meet at the Magpie at 6.

And a good thing, too.

From 6:15 on, there was a steady stream of people coming in search of dinner only to be told that there was no room at the inn.

Holmes arrived without his lady love (who was under the weather), so it was like the old days pre-girlfriend, when we used to have dinner together regularly.

They were out of our first choice, a South African Chenin Blanc, so we improvised with a bottle of the Bodegas La Cana Albarino, an understated little gem that got us rolling.

Trying to use our time wisely, we immediately ordered the wild boar hushpuppies with honey, pomegranate and rosemary oil.

Holmes was a tad hesitant but how can you go wrong with fried bread? And the wild boar was a minor note, not an overwhelming thing.

As usual, classic rock was the order of the day at Magpie, although there was enough classic R & B to keep me from sticking a steak knife in my ear.

Talk of the Velvet Underground led me to point out how important they were to David Bowie, a fact I had recently read.

The bartender overheard and eagerly asked me, "Did you read that piece on Bowie in "Rolling Stone"?"

Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I had, leading to a gush-fest as the two of us unleashed our inner Bowie groupies.

Like me, she had been taken with the descriptions of Bowie's penchant for walking around naked and his, ahem, long, weighty member swinging in the breeze.

In fact, she said her boyfriend had tried to talk to her while she was reading about it and she had told him not to bother her for twenty minutes.

Exhibit A: I sit at the bar because I don't think you get these kind of conversations at a table.

By the time we finished that passionate discussion, my braised pork cheeks in lobster broth had arrived and Holmes dug into his oyster, leek and roasted garlic soup, sharing tastes with me.

The rabbit and candied pecan sausage was all the better for the sage custard and bleu cheese that accompanied it. When it comes to sausage, Chef Owen is a master.

By that time Holmes had started talking to the guy next to him and they'd established when they'd graduated (within a year of each other) and what friends they had in common.

He instructed me to order dessert, knowing it is an area of expertise for me, and I chose what the server likened to a Twix, with chocolate and caramel over shortbread, sprinkled with sea salt over orange creme Anglaise.

To accompany it, we went Italian with splits of Tiamo Prosecco, savoring its fresh and fruity lightness with our very candy bar-like finish.

When the last bubble was swallowed, we beat feet for CenterStage and the Richmond Symphony.

Once in our seats, Holmes immediately cracked me up by looking down at his tie and nonchalantly observing, "And Holmes' tie tonight is from the deceased partner's collection."

Turns out his partner's widow had gifted him with her dead husband's ties.

Is it just me or is that kind of gruesome but hysterical, too?

Leading off tonight's symphony performance of all Romantic Period music was Grieg's "Suite No. 1 from Peer Gynt, Opus 46."

I had no reason to think I'd recognize it and yet, within seconds of it starting, Holmes leaned over and said exactly what I was thinking: "Classic Bugs Bunny."

Yep, totally familiar from cartoons. Hey, we all have to start our classical music education somewhere and Elmer Fudd is as good a place as any.

For Rachmaninoff's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Opus 43" a grand piano was rolled onstage and soloist Katherine Chi came out in a stunning black gown with a sheer front and back.

The energetic piece required so much energy from her that her cheeks began to quiver with her movements.

"Like jelly," Holmes grinned, trying again to make me laugh.

The final piece was Finnish composer Sibelius' "Symphony No. 5 in E-Flat Major, Opus 82," like the other pieces, conducted by a guest Bulgarian conductor (who graduated in 2001!), Danah Rachev.

Being the non-musician that I am, I just wallowed in the music from the first horns through the growing pace as it went from slow to a fast finish.

Afterwards, Holmes, ever the musician with classical training, sniffed, "It took him the first fifteen minutes to find the melody."

May I just state for the record that there are worse ways to spend one's life than looking for the melody.

It's been my modus operandi as long as I can remember.

Love Among the Ruins

2012-02-04T17:26:00.002-05:00

For about ten minutes there, I thought I was going to get a private screening.

Then just moments before the showing of "A Foreign Affair" at Movieland, a few people straggled in to see the Billy Wilder comedy I'd never even heard of.

Made in 1948 and shot mostly in Berlin (where apparently they still had horses and carts in the streets next to cars and bikes), it was like an old newsreel with its bird's eye view of the badly bombed-out city.

As in, "Let's go to my apartment. It's only a few ruins away from here."

The story was about a Congressional committee going to Germany after the war to check on the possibility of "moral malaria" infecting our peacekeeping troops.

Seems we were worried about our soldiers flirting with Frauleins and "soaking their feet in sparkling Mosel."

Because it was a Billy Wilder film, the dialogue was smart and funny. "Never let another woman tell you how you look. Ask a man," our hero tells the Congresswoman from Iowa.

I'd take that man's advice.

The kissing scenes were great. Early on when he first wants to kiss her, she puts her defenses up, opening file cabinet drawers between them to keep him at a distance.

When someone suspects that she might be interested in a man, a fellow Congressman scoffs at Cupid, saying, "You can't shoot an arrow through steel."

Eventually, she buys a sexy, black dress and some lipstick (after being chastised by siren Marlene Dietrich for her "scrubbed face") on the black market for her evening with the hero.

He thinks he's taking her to the Officer's Mess for dinner but she's got another kind of evening in mind, suggesting the dive bar Lorelei instead.

"I want it dark and gay and with music."

Let's just say he falls prey to her charms there.

By the last scene, he's picking up chairs in the bar to hold her off and she's tossing them aside to kiss him.

With romance like that, I didn't care how many other people were in the theater (six).

Ain't love grand?

Or, as the heroine said, "What a waltz we had!"

Baby Help Me Remember It All

2012-02-04T01:34:00.003-05:00

I am one of the rest of us and quite proud of it.

So when WRIR throws itself and the rest of us a birthday party, I go.

No, not always; I've been to five and this was their seventh.

I go because it's a great way to support Richmond's independent radio station.

Ten dollars is a small price to pay for multiple rooms of diverse music, storytelling, comedy and burlesque.

I go because practically everyone I know goes to it. And some I didn't know until tonight.

You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a DJ. Music lovers of every ilk are there.

A woman walks up and says, "Hi, Karen" and says something about being "Anonymous" on my blog.

She guessed who I was by my (40 Euro) tights and tells me she reads it to get ideas of what to do.

I admit it; I love the compliment.

The pretty people come (Michael and Matt) and say wildly flattering things to me in the first five minutes I'm there.

The homebodies come in their adorable vintage shoes.

The prickly one comes not only smiling but looking dapper.

The long-time music buddy comes with tales of a predictably madcap show I missed.

I go because they serve birthday cake and it's chocolate with white icing, a favorite of mine.

It will surprise no one who knows me but I am one of the first people to get a piece.

I grab a corner (more icing!) with no black decoration since we all learned last year that it turns your teeth black in a most unattractive manner.

I go to hear music any way it's presented. And, I'll be honest, without earplugs.

I hear a drum circle from three feet away and I feel like the drum rhythms have me rooted in place unable to move away, despite the volume, until the drums stop.

Sweet Fern, aka Allison Self and Josh Bearman, play un-amplified in the main hallway next to the food table.

Only the small circle of us who surround them from two feet away are able to hear their Carter Family and Johnny Cash covers over the din of the crowd.

Allison finished with what she called a dirty song, Lucille Bogen's "Shave Em Dry," throwing out the f-bomb and sex references to the rapt group surrounding her.

I loved watching people hear her do it for the first time.

I go to hear Baby Help Me Forget's last show, knowing lead singer and showman extraordinaire Jamie will end up shirtless and on the floor.

It's emotional because it's the end for the band. "It's been a good run," Jamie says. It has.

Their set the last night Sprout was open will go down in the annals of great Richmond shows.

I go to see the awesome light show Dave Watkins puts on behind the bands. The groovy factor is high.

I go to hear White Laces demonstrate for the second time in two weeks why their continuing musical evolution is an amazing thing to behold.

Just when your body starts moving and you expect to get locked in a groove, the tempo changes up and you know you are being challenged.

And you like it a lot.

As if all that weren't enough, I am told I was thanked. And I see the proof.

Why wouldn't I pull out the cute tights for a party that good?

Young at Heart

2012-02-03T16:50:00.000-05:00

"Wake up and smell the bok choy!" I was told by a long-time friend to great hilarity on my part.

Could there be a better synopsis of a three course lunch than my friend's call to acknowledge certain things while we lingered at Amour?

It's Friday so we planned a late lunch, sliding into the front table with a view of Carytown just as the last big table was finishing up their boisterous lunch.

We began with Kir Royales and my friend telling me a story about ordinariness (apparently a legal term) and how great my Vienna tights look.

That's easy for him to say; he's the one who got them for me.

Succumbing to the allure of a three course menu (because why do two courses when three are available?), we settled in for the long haul.

While Jimmy Durante sang "Young at Heart" we ordered more food than anyone should need for lunch, even on a sunny Friday.

I chose the bistro salad (Manakintowne greens, grape tomatoes, Parmesan, toasted almonds, with a honey balsamic vinaigrette), the steak grilles aux legumes (Chef's blend seasoning seared sirloin with red onion relish, parsley and chive salad vinaigrette and, wait, was that bok choy?), topped off with the chocolate creme brulee with sea salt.

My friend, not to be outdone, had a crab cake followed by rare duck breast and then the tart tatin.

And while he had to be somewhat good because he at least intended to go back to work for a while (after a Kir Royale, it should be noted), all bets were off with me, so I also chose the wine pairings.

My steak called for a Bordeaux, and the Chateau Garat Bel Air gave me the black currant weight to stand up to it.

For the dessert course, I savored a Muscat de Rivesalt Ambre, aged for at least two years I was told and a worthy partner for the dark chocolate of my creme brulee.

I then enjoyed an Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Blanc de Blanc, basically a champagne from a few miles outside of Champagne.

As I drank my bubbles, my friend crowed about his tart tatin and Calvados pairing, a combination of which he is inordinately fond.

When he got near the end of this classic close to a meal, he suggested I have a bite,

"I can't," I protested. "I'm too full!"

"What?" he said, dramatically putting a hand to his ear. "What words did I just hear you utter?"

Okay, maybe not so full I couldn't appreciate the classic pairing of apples and apple brandy.

I'm at least wise enough to realize that there is a reason the French have been savoring this pairing for centuries.

By the time we broke camp and headed out into the late afternoon Carytown madness, we'd covered his hair shirt moments (not to divulge too much, but butter was involved), travel companions who are different than girlfriends and the appeal of an absinthe drip.

"Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder," he noted dryly.

That all depends on with whom you choose to drink absinthe.

On Jimmy Durante's advice, I plan to limit my absinthe sharing to those who are young at heart.

Besides, for a lunch as good as today's, absinthe would have been superfluous.

Never let it be said that I can't wake up and smell the bok choy.

Smile Like You Mean It

2012-02-03T00:22:00.010-05:00

I got it from all sides tonight.

The swine was on the wall and on my plate. The relationship advice came from a sculptor who no longer believes in art. The travel advice came from a Sicilian with whom I discussed South Africa.

Ghostprint Gallery was hosting a preview of "Chroma Shift: Leslie Herman and Neal Iwan," two VCU graduates with very different work.

Herman's prints and drawings spoke to the music lover in me. "The "Strokes" was all cigarettes, coffee cups and five young men looking in different directions.

"Ian Curtis" was a face and a hand holding a microphone, compelling for the engmatic nature of Curtis' expression.

A couple of the prints were for shows I'd seen. "Okkervil River: Richmond" was for the show they'd done with Wye Oak last Fall that I'd so enjoyed.

Probably my favorite was "Explosions in the Sky." an ink and gouache on paper that called to me (well, except for the $750 price tag), partly because I'd been at that show,but also because of its whimsical imagery.

It was of a woman's face with a hat and veil, but the hat morphed into something fantastical with twigs and explosions trailing off the top of the page.

It perfectly encapsulated visually what it feels like when you hear Explosions in the Sky playing their dynamic post-rock.

Meanwhile on the other side of the gallery, Neal Iwan's oil paintings showed a variety of domesticated animals.

"Swine," a painting the artist said took him five hours to finish, showed that tastiest of animals, pigs, clearly represented without any embellishment.

Next to it, "Crowded" showed more pigs, these with occasional drips of paint through them. Iwan is an artist who likes to let the paint do what it does.

By the time I arrived at the show, two of his paintings had already sold, including my favorite, "The Herd."

Dabs of brown paint emerge from a lime green canvas to describe a herd of horses running toward the viewer.

Here the brushwork was more loose and evocative than definitive; I found the immediacy of it captivating.

The artist indicated that it was indicative of the direction his work has been taking of late.

I ran into an old friend at the show, a sculptor and former long-time teacher at VCU.

We talked art for a while but his disgust with the direction art took several decades ago left him with little tolerance for the lack of questioning in contemporary art.

I only hope I never get so jaded that I can't appreciate the latest generation of artists coming up.

He did tell me a sweet story about him and his girlfriend ("We see each other three times a week. Not on Thursdays!" he clarified), whom he'd met in the 80s.

"We liked each other then," he said, "But both our egos were too big. We got back together a few years ago and now everything's wonderful."

His grin looked awfully satisfied.

That's the secret, I guess. Find someone, send them packing and then reconnect decades later for a happy ending.

With new-found knowledge and my stomach growling, I left J-Ward for Six Burner and some sustenance.

On the actor/bartender's effusive recommendation ("This is the smoothest wine in the world"), I had the Domaine la Bouissiere "Les Amis de la Bouissiere," a Cotes du Rhone also described as "midnight in a glass."

And as long as we're talking about smooth and midnight, it should be noted that tonight's music at Six Burner was not the usual.

Vintage R & B (Spinners, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Lou Reed, Barry White) made for a livelier vibe than usual, delighting the bartender and giving me something I don't often listen to.

But tonight was not so much about music as food.

I love how Six Burner's menu changes every day, but it means that sometimes I just can't pick only one thing.

Accepting my gluttony, I started with roasted eel and sauteed sweetbreads with pickled watermelon radishes (so pretty!), turnip-braised cabbage, lardoons and XO sauce.

Besides being an exquisitely beautiful presentation (a food fashion spread on a rectangular plate, so to speak), it was a perfect balance of rich and tart, with the sweet/spicy XO sauce lending an extra kick to all of it.

Granted, I could have stopped there. Instead, I ordered the confit pork belly cassoulet with Spanish Chorizo, Olli prosciutto, apples and local speckled butter beans and crowder peas.

At its essence, it was pork and beans with apples and of course it was so much more than that.

The toothsome beans and peas were as impressive as the variety of swine products and the sweet cooked apples the ideal contrast to the salty meats.

Then the food coma set in.

Fortunately, a guy had sat down one stool away from me, so I figured now was the time to seek out some after-dinner conversation since I was unable to do anything more strenuous than talk.

He turned out to be a Manhattan transplant who lives near VCU and loves to eat out and travel. He justified both by explaining that he was Italian, Sicilian specifically.

"Where in Europe have you been?" he asked right of the bat.

My answer of England and Scotland didn't satisfy him.

"You need to go to Italy," he instructed. "You need to do Venice first, then Florence and Rome. I can already tell you'd love the food and wine."

He graciously said I needn't do Sicily until I'd seen the other three first.

I managed to stop him from lecturing me about my Italy omission by bringing up South Africa, a place we'd both been.

He told a story of a Londoner he'd met in South Africa who'd lectured him about seeing everything you could now because there was no guarantee any of it would be around for future generations.

Naturally he felt obligated to pass on that lecture to me.

When he asked how I'd ended up in Richmond, the conversation took a turn and I took charge.

Despite fifteen years here, he had almost no idea of what to do at night besides going out to eat.

Oh, my new Italian friend with the New York accent, let me tell you some of what there is to do in this town.

I'm happy to say that by the time I finished with him (and my wine), he was leaving for Balliceaux, a place he didn't even know existed (despite living six blocks from it) to hear No BS, a band he'd never heard of before I told him about them.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said when he got up. "I hope I'll see you around someplace."

No problem, toots. It's just what I do. And if you do go out, you're bound to eventually see me.

I get it from all sides and I give it right back. With a smile, mind you.

Always with a smile.

Standing Room Only

2012-02-02T03:40:00.004-05:00

If romantic comedies are date movies, does that make historical dramas about sex nerd date movies?

Not that a movie was even necessary after a killer meal at the Roosevelt.

Some of us have been on an Italian wine kick here lately, a need easily satisfied by Gabriele Rausse Vin Gris de Pinot Noir and its delightful fruitiness.

Although I'd brought along stellar company, there were plenty of friends around to stoke the conversational fires.

One had seen U2 at the Bayou in 1982 and one had played the Bayou when he was 15. One came in after finishing his honey-do list.

Meanwhile, my partner in crime and I ordered enough food for an army. First was the white sweet potato and Surry sausage hash with a soft-cooked egg and Tennessee truffles.

It was the kind of dish that would make a perfect breakfast after a rambunctious night before. Or the perfect start to our dinner.

Next came the charcuteie plate and it was easily the most creative of those I've seen in some time.

A generous slab of lamb neck terrine was to die for and came with Olli salami, sugared bacon, lardo and duck liver pate.

Yes, it was a heart attack on a plate and yes, it was out of this world.

A witty friend came over and commented that, unlike me, she hadn't had the plate because she doesn't eat all those things, "Unlike Karen, who'll eat babies."

Not true.

Next up was Lee's fried chicken sliders with house-made pickles and kimchee mayo (this could be the ultimate picnic sandwich).

Last up was a chicken breast with gnocchi, local mushrooms, chicken oysters and a decadent foie gras sauce.

If we'd had any sense we would have skipped the movie and stayed there to digest such a feast and sip a little more wine.

But, no, we soldiered on because we're the types who can't resist a book turned into a play turned into a movie about Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung.

"A Dangerous Method" was playing at the Westhampton.

That's right, a movie about the fathers of psychoanalysis and analytical psychology and the beautiful patient who liked to be spanked.

If it sounds simplistic, it wasn't. The rivalry and differing schools of thought that kept the men from collaborating made for an enlightening, if somewhat stagey film about the power of talk.

It was basically one long conversation, with magnificent shots of Zurich and Vienna in between.

I know plenty of people who'd have been nodding off at so much talk, but, fortunately for me, I also know a person or two who would be as caught up in the history, the development of theory and the extensive analysis as I would be.

Walking out after it was over, the manger asked what I'd thought of the movie and I told her.

"We expected bigger crowds for it," she said. "Even on the weekend, not many people came."

Well, duh. Surely a catchier title would have helped.

Considering Freud's debate with Jung over the basis of all action, I'd suggest "It's All About Sex" would have brought in far more viewers.

Still, it's doubtful that they'd have been like us and afterwards had one long conversation about the book turned play turned film.

But then they probably wouldn't have wanted to eat blueberries and listen to the Pet Shop Boys afterwards, either.

You can live your life lonely
Heavy as a stone
Live your life learning and working alone
Say this is all you want
But I don't believe that it's true

I like to think that the blueberries balanced out the charcuterie because who among us can get through the day without one or two good rationalizations?

The spanking, however, I could do without.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

2012-02-01T15:50:00.001-05:00

Spring fever is rampant in Richmond today.

Luckily I was meeting a friend for lunch, so I already knew I'd have an outlet for celebrating the first day of February and the 72-degree temperatures that rolled in with the new month.

At Aziza's on Main, the front door was propped open and a warm breeze blew into the nearly-full restaurant.

We took one of the only two tables open, right in the center of the room, and got the ordering out of the way so we could talk.

She told me about the recent Hill and Holler wine dinner in Charlottesville that I had missed (with good reason but hopefully not the next one), including all the juicy details.

I told her about the mutual friend who'd made my day by inviting me to hear his band, drink wine with him and meet a favorite winemaker.

We're both big fans of Aziza's food and today I enjoyed a rich Chorizo and white cheddar quiche with a salad of mesclun while she did her favorite, the tuna, white beans and arugula with a side of stuffed grape leaves.

The only way our lunch could have been better would have been if we'd been sitting at a farmhouse table outside somewhere with a bottle of wine.

Say, like in Orvieto, where she's headed for a trip this summer.

We talked about her travel plans and mine, her work and mine and her personal life and mine.

In all likelihood, we'd have lingered indefinitely but the sunny day called, so we walked down the block to Globehopper so she could get some caffeine.

Standing at the counter, one of the servers looked at me and asked where I worked. Home, I said.

"But I know you," she insisted and, indeed, her face was familiar.

The owner looked back and forth at us and asked me, "Do you go to the theater?" All the time, said I.

"Twelfth Night!" the girl exclaimed. "Front row, right?"

Yes, I agreed, now recognizing her as one of the actresses from the recent staged reading that Richmond Shakespeare had done.

Who knew that the actors noticed the people in the audience, even those of us who sit in the front row?

And once again, the three degrees of separation in Richmond were randomly demonstrated.

Moving down the counter to pay for her coffee, our sweet tooths took us right to the Rice Krispie treats by the register.

She scooped up one the size of a man's fist and we adjourned to the back garden (although not to the kissing bench) to enjoy the sunshine and savor a childhood treat.

I don't know how people go back to work after a sunny interlude like that.

Luckily I didn't have to.

Of Language and Love Songs

2012-02-01T01:40:00.000-05:00

It's a rare night when I can sandwich in Tennessee between Romania and Prague.

Things got rolling at the Grace Street Theater where the VCU Cinematheque series restarted for the semester with a Cannes double award winner, "Police, Adjective."

I've stated for the record that I'm a huge fan of this (free) film series which shows independent foreign films that never quite made it to Richmond.

Tonight's gem played to a nearly full house and given that it was Romanian New Wave, deservedly so.

The movie about an undercover cop who is tailing a high school kid suspected of selling hash had less to do with cops and crime and everything to do with language.

When his superior insists that he initiate a sting operation to arrest the kid, the hero resists because he doesn't want to ruin the kid's life merely for being irresponsible.

The payoff comes when the boss challenges him on why not. The hero doesn't want it on his conscience that he's ruined a kid's life.

It's at that point that the dictionary comes out and the boss has him look up conscience and discuss it. Next comes looking up moral, then police.

Everything comes down to interpretation of language and, frankly, this language geek couldn't have been more amused at a black comedy about the language police enforcing word usage.

As if that wasn't pleasurable enough, I found myself seated next to a former Media General colleague (and his partner) who was also let go in the great recession of 2008.

When I asked what he'd been up to, he regaled me with stories of his travels since he retired/got laid off.

Their last trip had been to Rome, Florence, Sienna and the hill towns of Tuscany.

Telling me a hilarious story about a bus driver who drove them up a mountain in his own car because it was a holiday and the taxis and buses weren't running, he advised, "You have to go to Florence."

I'll get right on that.

Their upcoming trip is to Amsterdam, the Riviera, the Loire Valley and Paris ("because it's on the way," he insisted).

I like his version of being laid off even more than my own.

After bidding the travelers goodnight, I headed over to City Dogs for a Tennessee slaw dog with mustard, onions, chili and cole slaw.

Pig and cabbage was just what I needed to fortify myself before the next portion of the evening.

Meanwhile, a quick stop in the ladies' room provided a wealth of reading material on the chalkboard walls.

My favorite: "Love guys with beards? Become a whiskerina! Visit beardleague.org."

Somehow I wasn't surprised to learn about the Follicles of the James Stache and Beard League. I know I have more bearded male friends than not.

Why shouldn't they have a fan club?

And on that pleasant note, I got myself to Balliceaux for Oceans versus Daughter, which is usually three Americans, one Brit and one Czech who came together in Prague and have been making music ever since.

For the recent past, though, lead singer Flanna has been back in the colonies and touring the northeast with two members of our own indie royalty, Kevin and Marshall of Marionette while her band is back in Prague.

She did the first couple of songs solo, pairing her lovely voice with just keyboards before having Marshall and Kevin join her onstage to fill out her sound.

Telling us she was going to sing a song about poison cake, she called to the guys in the kitchen, asking if they made poison cakes.

Somehow they heard "poison snakes" and there was some back and forth before the song began.

And the songs were exquisite; "Fire" was about being destroyed by a guy ("You hurt me, I hate you. I hope that you die in a fire") while she said "Don't Try" was about listening to that little voice in your head.

Midway through she told the crowd that she had CDs (pay what you will), T-shirts and tote bags.

"This is my QVC moment," she explained before suggesting that Marionette do the same.

"It's over there," Marshall said with his usual understated charm. "Y'all know."

We do.

We were also treated to Flanna joining them for two Marionette songs, including the first track off their upcoming EP, a song called "Shades of Doubt."

It was quite a song. In the over four years that I have been seeing this band, they continue to impress me as they develop musically and lyrically.

Then it was back to OvD and the trio finished up with "Take Care," a fitting close to their set.

When the night is through
The light of the moon awakens you
And the day has come again for you
I'll take care of you

Despite the happy ending, the crowd (me included) called for one more and Flanna alone returned to the stage for "Lips of Justice."

I've been several places
In my heart you've come along
My trailing train

And then the show was over and the room was filled with people raving to each other about what we'd just heard.

A friend summed it up. "When I look back on my twenties, I'm going to think of how lucky I was to have heard shows like this at Balliceaux."

The fact is, at any age a person could look back and remember how lucky they were to have nights like this.

I'll send you a letter
I'll write you a song
Please hold your horses
It won't be too long

Viola da Gamba for Dummies

2012-01-31T01:07:00.001-05:00

It's not as hard as I would have thought to find someone to go hear Bach with me.

I offered up wine and cheese (and not just any cheese, but my favorite, Taleggio, and to an Italian yet) as an incentive and was able to find a willing music-lover to go to the Modlin Center with me to hear the "Three Sonatas for Viola da Gamba and Harpsichord."

Yet again I got sucked into that labyrinth of a campus but we managed to get excellent seats fairly near the front despite a good-sized crowd and our last minute arrival.

With no real idea what a viola da gamba was, I appreciated the soloist taking the time to explain about the six or seven stringed instrument once so popular in Renaissance and Baroque times and now largely unknown.

I'm sure part of that is the gamba (legs) part of the instrument. Holding a stringed instrument the size of a cello between your legs with no stand under it has got to be quite an inner thigh workout.

Likewise for finally learning that the harpsichord is a plucked and not struck instrument. Clearly my musical education ended after elementary school's autoharps and "This Land is Your Land."

Despite being surrounded by the walls and stage of Booker Hall, I found myself transported to an 18th century drawing room and the kind of entertainment that might have been put on for a small group of friends and family.

All three sonatas were beautifully performed by visiting soloist Lisa Terry on viola da gamba and UR's Joanne Kong on harpsichord, with the last one being the most affecting.

Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't recognize Bach unless I had a program.

But reading how rarely these sonatas are performed, it seemed like a stellar opportunity to go hear them.

And isn't it about time I did?

When they were over, Terry invited the audience to come up and see the instruments and ask any questions.

A student, and probably a music student, made his way up on stage to ask if he could play it for a minute and she happily handed it over.

In doing so, she told him that the elaborate wooden scroll at the top of the viola was not original to the instrument.

"It should be a fat lady's face, but I didn't like that," she explained. "So I had an English scroll put on instead."

Women like that don't have any trouble getting a guy to go hear Bach with them.

The rest of us work with what we've got...and augment with Taleggio.

Mirror Ball Lunch

2012-01-30T14:16:00.000-05:00

You think you know a friend.

She's someone you see all the time at music shows, so you know you have that in common.

The two of you have talked about a mutual preference for warm weather and the cute clothes that go with it.

But when you meet for lunch at Crossroads and really get to talking, you discover that you have The Trifecta in common, too.

Over her grilled cheese and your BLT (both on the server-recommended sourdough), you lunch with someone who knows exactly what it's like when life decides to clobber you not once or twice, but three successive times.

And yet here we both were.

Still, it's rare to find someone who can relate to losing your job, your partner and your health before you've even had time to get up after the previous loss.

For her, it all happened in a two-year period; for me, it was a mere eight weeks.

So with techno music blaring (she said, "I feel like there should be a disco ball in here," and she's a dance party fanatic), we talk about how life's 1-2-3 punch had changed us.

Consensus: life is way too short.

She used to be a perfectionist and now she's far more laid back. I used to be an early riser and now I go to be a couple of hours before I used to get up.

We both cherish the free time that our reduced incomes allow for. We welcome the challenge of living on less and enjoying life more.

Neither of us can be bothered to sweat the small stuff. And once you've been run over by the triple play of life, it's all small stuff.

So if you see us at the show tomorrow night, we'll be the ones grinning like we've got the greatest lives around.

The way we see it, we do.

Atta Boy

2012-01-29T18:09:00.000-05:00

It's a wonder everyone isn't sick right now given the see-saw rhythm of the weather this January.

And of course some people are.

Like the one who canceled our 3:00 plans this afternoon with the message, "My head is all stuffed up again and my throat feels scratchy. I think I should stay in and load up on the Vitamin C and chicken soup."

Well, that's what a smart invalid would do.

Instead, after I wished him a speedy recovery, I get another message asking where we might walk to get him some good chicken soup.

In Jackson Ward, folks needing home-like food go to Mama J's where a sign hanging over the kitchen door says "Home."

So I met the incapacitated one on an agreed-upon street corner and we walked over to Mama's for some life-giving chicken and rice soup for what ailed him.

Me, I got a plate of fried chicken with cole slaw and a corn muffin because nothing's wrong with me except a chronic case of the hungrys.

I'm not sure if it was the lively crowd at the bar where we sat, our personable server looking out for us or just the anti-inflammatory properties of chicken soup that help mitigate the miserable side effects of a cold, but the unwell one seemed a tad further from death's door by the time he finished his soup and half his sandwich.

Or perhaps it was partly my amusing tales of how some men woo a woman the first night they meet her.

Or how some young men can let a great girl slip between their fingers even when she shows up at the most unlikely of locations.

Whatever the reason, when offered one of Mama J's decadent cakes, I was all ready to demur when the congested one said yes to the butter cream cake.

It was a great choice for me since that's one of the few of Mama's cakes I haven't had.

I've never heard anything about the medicinal effects of a four-inch thick slice of layer cake but I can easily see where it would have beneficial psychological qualities.

Although I seem to recall that sometimes just having good company can be enough to make a person feel better.

Between soup, cake and non-stop conversation, I'd say our interlude at Mama's was better than a trip to the Doc in a Box for the patient.

And certainly for the invalid's finger-lickin' companion.

Welcome to Salon G

2012-01-29T02:05:00.000-05:00

Some people I can have fun with no matter what the circumstance.

So even when it's impossible to get the server's attention, even when the restaurant is out of not one but two of the wines we tried to order (one bottle, one glass), even when after asking for a food menu we are never given the chance to order food, we persevere.

After all, we haven't gotten together in three weeks and we are just happy to be in each other's company.

Still, it rankles to have so much go wrong when we choose a place I had previously written off but decided to give yet another chance.

Sometimes I am too forgiving.

After the painful process of getting wine and then being ignored right up through trying to pay the check, we knew enough to vacate the premises.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times and I need never return to your establishment.

And yet the evening was redeemed almost immediately.

With a short drive to Bistro 27, we entered a bustling dining room, found two stools at the bar and were greeted enthusiastically by the handsome bartender who'd gone from being a long-hair to looking like a male model with his freshly shorn locks.

They weren't out of the wine we wanted (Pont de Crillon Cotes du Rhone), 27 guy was in the stool next to me to say hello (and ask me about Happy Hour at the Hipp) and the bartender said, "The Chef and I were just saying last night that Karen hadn't been in for a while."

Truth is, I had been in less than two weeks ago, but neither of them had been working so my visit had gone unnoticed except by my partner in crime who was not there to act as my witness tonight.

Unlike at our previous stop, we had no problem ordering and by that point in the evening, only the Wagyu Kobe-style beef cheeseburger was going to do it for me.

A juicy burger smothered in Fontina and mushrooms and an abundance of fries paved the way for conversation about making your feelings known in a relationship, taking off one's bra immediately when it gets a red wine stain and how 36-year old men are old enough to decide with whom they want to sleep.

Don't get us started because we just feed off of each other and we have opinions about everything..

After dinner we pulled in some fresh meat to join the conversation about restaurants good and bad.

By the time I drove my friend home, we'd moved on to a discussion of the kind of place we would open if given the opportunity.

Let's just say it would involve scintillating guests, well-priced wine that was always in stock and attentive servers. A small plate menu and a traditional menu. Not a single TV screen. Lots of couches.

And great music, always the perfect music.

People would come, not to chat with the person they arrived with, but to be part of a bigger discussion of ideas and philosophy and art.

Friend and I would facilitate by introducing worthy conversational partners and tossing out discussion points.

Yeesh. Give a couple of bookish types some Cotes du Rhone and next thing you know they're fantasizing like a couple of schoolgirls.

That is, when they're not laughing uproariously at themselves.

Absinthe for Modern Masters

2012-01-28T03:09:00.002-05:00

You go to the VMFA with a person in 1992 and next thing you know, they're expecting you to go again in 2012.

And yet, it's hard to know where to start when showing someone the museum for the first time since pre-renovation.

It seemed easier to start with the present and work back, so Mocha Dick got our attention first before heading into the 21st Century galleries.

With only two days left to see it, I made sure we checked out "Modern Masters: Sean Scully and John Walker," an exhibit of monumental paintings and a dozen colorful photographs.

It was interesting because Scully was born in Ireland and Walker in England, despite the fact that both are now long-time U.S. residents.

Walker embraces his English past with enormous paintings of the Maine coast, evoking a sense of wind and water and even including local mud on the canvas.

Scully, on the other hand, goes for the opposite of his homeland, preferring to paint the colors of Moroccan tents and photograph Santa Domingo's bright, sunny colors.

From there we moved on to the 20th-century American galleries to fawn over Thomas Hart Benton's Colonial brides and swoon over a color poet's depiction of bohemians.

We lingered in front of "The Underworld," a painting of the occupants of NYC's early subway: a showgirl and her protector, an immigrant family, a messenger boy.

Once we reached the art saturation point, it seemed only logical to go upstairs to Amuse and see how we could be amused there.

Greeting me on the corner of the bar was the absinthe drip, long absent since the Picasso exhibit left last year much to my disappointment.

I couldn't have been more pleased to see it returned to its rightful place and full of iced water, awaiting a call to the green fairy.

But first things first. We found an Italian wine on the menu that was irresistible. Tormaresco Neprica, a blend of Negroamaro, Primitivo and Cab Sauvignon, was intensely colored and softly balanced.

I'm finding a lot to like about Italian wines lately.

There was only one other person at the bar, a guy with whom we chatted about the weather (a weather wimp, he'd wanted to ride his motorcycle but the rain had put him off) and he was followed by another lone wolf, this one with a tiny diamond earring and Chuck Taylors.

Both regulars, the bartender told us after they left.

I was glad to hear that Chef Greg was back in the kitchen after being gone to help with the birth of his little one.

Since every first time visitor to Amuse is required to get the mussels and Surry sausage dish, we did so for my friend's sake, but augmented it with a cheese plate that had some spectacular Humbolt Fog on it.

A friend who works at Amuse shared a story about a girl he'd been dating, someone I'd seen him with at Balliceaux last month.

Apparently he had lost interest in her once she put him in a headlock.

Oh, well, easy come, easy go.

Dessert arrived in the form of a lovely sticky toffee pudding but the real treat was the arrival of the green fairy.

There was never any doubt that I was having a drip, but my dining companion decide to give it a shot, too, convinced that the appeal was the process of watching the water drip through the sugar cube.

Not so, I explained. The attraction is the unique effect that absinthe has on one's mood and the sweet level of contentment it brings.

Sipping our absinthe in the manner of 19th century artists like van Gogh, Hemingway and Toulouse-Lautrec led to a discussion of Pernod, which, while similar, is not made with wormwood.

To be scientific about it, we ordered a Pernod (which came with a carafe of iced water) and proceeded to sip it in an attempt to compare it to absinthe.

Not even close.

The nose was far more delicate, the effect less unique. And, to be honest, I missed the little bit of sweetness that the sugar cube had imparted.

The bartender had a ready solution, dispensing a packet f raw sugar into the Pernod and stirring it in.

Okay, it was better that way, but still couldn't hold a candle to the absinthe.

And so we were back to the traditional absinthe drip, the only one in a Richmond restaurant and as integral a pleasure of the VMFA as the Golden Hare.

After all, it's not enough to just visually experience the art. One must imbibe like the artists in order to fully appreciate the mindset from which they came.

In a parallel world, we would have then gone down to "The Underworld" and joined the late night people for a ride home on the subway.

Absinthe on our breath, yes, but with a pleasing contentment about the hours spent at the museum.

Relatively Speaking

2012-01-27T16:35:00.001-05:00

When it comes to taking a road trip for lunch, it's hard to beat a 70-degree January Friday.

Destination: Bistro Bethem in Fredericksburg. Company: my aunt, who, at barely twelve years older than me, is more of a friend than an aunt.

Let's just say I once dated a guy older than she is.

Our relationship is based on our similarities (my father, her brother, wishes we would both get married and settle down), a love of good food and wine and the ability to talk for hours.

She comes from Warrenton, a shorter drive, so she was already facing the sunny front window and enjoying her wine when I arrived.

Our handsome young server, a Mary Washington student, brought me a glass of Borsao Tres Picos Garnacha because if a spring-like day in late January doesn't call for rose, I don't know what does.

For lunch, I went with the braised pork barbecue with Virginia-style sauce (tomato-based) and slaw on a branded (with a "B") challah roll and a salad of mesclun.

In a lucky happenstance, I'd worn a dress with a low-scooped back, allowing me to eat my 'cue and sip my rose while feeling the sun shining on my back.

On January 27th, no less.

Which isn't half as interesting as the tidbits divulged about my parents by my aunt during the dessert course, where we indulged in the coconut cake of which we both are so fond.

She knew where all the bodies were buried.

My father and his army buddy lived in an apartment in the basement of my mother's parents' house in Washington?

Scandalous.

My father's first wife found a letter from my mother to my father while they were still married?

Holy shit, batman.

She told me about my Dad bringing my Mom to Richmond to meet his family despite my Grandfather's prejudice about Catholics.

I'm telling you, I heard all kinds of juicy information that neither of my parents had ever let on.

She shared that my father thinks he's the luckiest man alive because he found my mother and married her all those years ago.

Tell me something I don't know.

Small wonder he's always pushing marriage at my aunt and me.

He hit the jackpot And he's smart enough to know it.

So to that we, the unmarried, toasted.

So Doggone Willing

2012-01-27T00:09:00.003-05:00

A friend is fond of telling me that he's scared to go places without me.

Considering his time living in London, Paris and Maine, what he means is that he's scared to do things in Richmond alone.

So when he suggested we check out Happy Hour at the Hipp, I was more than happy to spend some time at J-Ward's newest social gathering with him.

He had some concerns that he'd need to wear a bowtie and he doesn't own one, but I assured him that the event didn't require one.

That said, there was a lot of cologne in the room tonight.

I had not a clue what to expect, so the valet parking, the crowds of well-dressed people, the booming bass of the club DJ and the abundance of friendly men came as a bit of a surprise.

In the short time waiting for my friend to arrive, three guys introduced themselves and I heard a club mix of "Na, Na, Hey, Hey, Kiss Him Goodbye."

It's not every day I sit in a darkened bar with dance music playing and everyone checking each other out.

Once I had company, we got a table and tried to order drinks. My friend's order of a sidecar slightly flummoxed our server who had never heard of such a drink.

While he went to discuss it with the bartender, my friend and I played catch-up with our lives.

He told me about the problems of band members who lose sight of the bigger picture and the satisfactions and frustrations of researching family genealogy.

I told him about receiving unexpected warnings (beware!) and being made to laugh.

After the first couple of hours, a band, Doors Wide Open, replaced the DJ.

Of the smooth jazz quintet my friend dryly observed, "I know they're good, but it sounds like the Weather Channel."

Not long after, though, he also commented that the sound mix was crystalline clear.

Unlike some places his band has played and where I've heard bands (the Camel), the sound was stellar.

We decided to take ourselves next door to Ettamae's and on my way through the lobby, a man stopped me and said, "Hey, you're 27 girl!"

By the same token, he was 27 guy; we'd run into each other eating there on several occasions.

It's s small world in Jackson Ward.

At Ettamae's we took the table right over the oven so we could smell my friend's pizza baking as we chatted and sipped our Septime Malbec.

We picked up a discussion we'd begun a few months ago about the state of his relationship.

He continues to tell me about his dissatisfaction and I continue to recommend that he change what isn't working for him.

"Right," he said as if summing up our talk. "So you're willing to come home and get in my bed so she can find us and walk out?"

Not exactly, although I see where that would be helpful in expediting the end of things for him.

We parted ways on Second Street, him to go home to a girl who is not satisfying his needs and me to meet a friend for dinner at Arcadia.

I'm inclined to think that my evening had more possibilities than his.

My friend was well into a bottle of Kila Cava when I arrived and she and the bartender were already buds.

Buds enough that he already knew a few salient facts about me. Before long, I knew a little about him, too.

Like he was recently out of a long-term relationshop and still understandably hovering on the fringes of a personal life.

I empathized with his being in that place because I inhabited it for several recent years.

He turned out to be a terrific asset to our girltalk, adding in the male point of view and offering advice when we solicited it.

He explained how some guys need a long time to start over after being out of the dating game. How some have a tough time admitting their feelings. It was all very enlightening coming from a man made wiser by love.

At my recommendation, Friend had the chicken thighs with spaetzle and I chose the rock shrimp mac and cheese with aged Gouda cream sauce.

And because it was a lot of arduous talk about guys, we also got the Yukon Gold and sweet potato fries with truffle oil and sea salt.

While we were carbing out, the bartender told us about his parents' long-time happy marriage, then distilled down his relationship goal for once he gets back in the game.

"I want someone I can chase around when I'm ninety," he said simply.

Now there's a worthy goal.

So I guess it's not too far-fetched to say that my goal is to find someone who wants to chase me around when I'm ninety.

But he can't be scared to go places without me. That role is reserved for a certain good friend.

Don't Call Me a Leaver

2012-01-26T17:04:00.000-05:00

"You are such a Q and A leaver," a fellow history nerd observed abut my departure after today's Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society.

And I'm not, at least not usually. But, in my experience, the VHS crowd's questions don't usually grab me.

The lectures, on the other hand, frequently do.

Like today's topic, "Abolitionist Art and the Slave Trade" by UVA's Maurie McInnis.

Using Englishman Eyre Crow's painting "Slaves Waiting for Sale, Richmond, Virginia" as a starting point, the lecture painted a realistic and heartbreaking story of the local slave trade.

I was fascinated to learn about RVA's slave trading area on Wall Street near 15th Street, between Main and Franklin.

Close to churches, retail and government, the buying and selling of human beings took place in close proximity to every other aspect of daily life here.

McInnis showed images of long-gone buildings, newspaper ads for slave sales and sketches done at them.

We saw the blood-red flags that were hung outside buildings to indicate that a slave auction was taking place.

Significant was that Crow's painting depicted blacks not in the stereotypical, caricature way but as individuals.

Instead of the usual theatrical scene of the auctioneer, his painting depicted well-dressed slaves waiting their turn to be sold.

Well dressed because the sellers almost always bought new clothes for their human chattel so as to get the best possible price for them at market.

Needless to say, this insider's look at the abominations going on here were endlessly enlightening to the Brits in the mid-19th century.

To a 21st century audience, it was just a compelling yet disturbing look at an unfortunate chapter in our history.

And while I didn't stay for the Q and A, I did make an unlikely friend beforehand.

An older man sat down next to me and with a few questions, I learned that he used to write for a weekly newspaper.

Presently he's collecting the bon mots put on church signs to speak to passersby.

He told me a few he'd seen and I shared a personal favorite, "If you drink a fifth on the third, you may not see the Fourth."

He liked it so much he wrote it down, laughing and asking where I'd seen it.

It had been on a church I'd driven by last summer on the Northern Neck near where my parents live.

Not only did he know the tiny town where they live, he'd actually been in their house years ago.

I was aware that lots of people had been in the house because of stories we'd heard from locals since my parents bought it in 1985.

"If you go up to the third floor," he said with the familiarity of someone who had," You can see what a well-made house that is. And the view of the river there, well, you can almost see to Urbanna!"

It's been barely over a week since I was on the third floor of my parents' house looking out a window at the Rapphannock River and here sat a man who knew that view from that exact same spot.

So, yes, James, I am guilty of skipping out on the question period.

But what was I going to hear from the audience that was going to top meeting a stranger who'd admired the river view from the exact same place I'd done so many times?

I could say that for me Banner Lectures are all about what happens before and during the talk.

And, yes, next time I promise to stay for the Q and A.

My Sun and Shadow Salon

2012-01-26T02:49:00.001-05:00

When I grow up, I want to curate.

Doesn't matter what. I'll curate music shows, maybe a few gallery shows, you name it. I just like the idea of being in charge of deciding what's interesting.

So you can see it was only logical for me to end up at the Anderson Gallery for the curator's talk about the outstanding new sculpture show.

Michael Jones McKean, sculptor and curator for "you, you sun and shadow" was giving an overview of the exhibit by showing images of the pieces as we sat in one of the galleries.

In a perfect world, we would have followed him around the galleries as he talked about the actual pieces, but there were far too many people there tonight for that to be possible.

Revert to Plan B.

Instead we sat and stood to hear his thoughts on the challenges of assembling a collection of objects in this space in this building in this city.

Looking every inch the intense young sculptor that he is, McKean talked about the ego blow of getting told no when he requested a certain piece for the show.

He told of the weekly meetings over the course of a year with the Anderson director to keep her abreast of his curating progress.

Or, as he put it, "We'd have these rap sessions and we'd just be freewheeling."

That's the kind of enthusiasm I want going into the curatorial process.

During the Q & A period, someone asked about the correlation between McKean's own work and the pieces he chose for the show. Did it represent something he had not yet achieved?

"There's some jam inside the works that I want to taste," he explained with a metaphor only an artist could deliver so quickly and sincerely.

Walking around the show afterwards was a fascinating look at the state of contemporary sculpture.

Delicate river twigs were woven into a small geodesic dome.

The figure of a man levitates off the floor, feet in the air to greet visitors to the gallery (per the artist's instructions).

Pedestals appear to be recognizably square only to have completely unexpected sides when viewed all the way around.

A mix tape is made out of the dust of every bone in the body.

That, I would venture, is a collection of incredibly interesting stuff. That's why I want to curate.

While looking at the show, a guy I'd met six months ago came up and re-introduced himself.

He made my night by telling me that he's been reading my blog ever since. In fact, he said it had inspired him to get out more and do some of the stuff I'm always writing about.

Even better, he said I sound like I'm always having fun. How's that for the most random compliment a blogger could hope for?

With that kind of good will floating my boat, we bid farewell to art and hello to Lemaire's crowded bar.

By the time we made one loop around the bar two stools had opened up and we made them our own.

With a minute to spare, we scored a bottle of one of the Discovery wines, the Renoto Fuedo Maccari Nero D'Alva/Syrah blend full of dark fruit and tannins and we were set.

In the course of drinking the bottle, we discussed the age-old "but is it art?" question. There were some pieces in the show that challenged my companion's concept of art, making for some lively conversation.

At one point, two girls walked by teetering on impossibly high heels and I said something about it to my trusty sidekick.

Moments later, a guy came up to us and commented about how the girls couldn't even walk in those things. I offered up proof that, with enough experience, you can walk in anything.

Likewise, with enough experience (and I may be approaching that point), I figure I could curate any number of things.

People would be my first choice. I'd like to assemble a salon of interesting types to join me for conversation. shared witticisms and storytelling.

And you know why? Because there'd be jam inside of each person and I'd want to taste it.

See? I'm already talking like a curator.

Side by Side

2012-01-25T02:27:00.006-05:00

J-Ward Girl shouldn't have to work outside her jurisdiction.

But when a friend (one of my favorite people to talk music and guys with) who lives in Church Hill tells me she still hasn't been to the Roosevelt, I feel duty bound to fix that.

It's not like they've got a glut of places to eat on the Hill, either.

Strangely and for the first time, when I walked into the restaurant, it was empty. I'd never seen it empty.

That lasted about five minutes and then they were off and running, but for a moment it was like a parallel universe where everything looks the same but is somehow very different.

Although my friend and I had planned to just have a drink, we gave in to the menu.

I got tonight's special of fingerling potatoes, cucumber, lump crabmeat and poached shrimp with honeydew/vanilla dressing, enjoying the unusual combination.

Despite allergies to practically everything, my friend ended up with a grilled Belgian endive salad with pears and pecans that disproved her assumption that she'd be unable to find things to eat there.

This is why I need to get my friends out of their houses and show them the bigger world.

I'm doing it for their sakes.

Once I'd finished introducing her neighborhood to her, I left to meet another friend in sore need of a symphonic evening.

And I sure didn't need any affirmation that the Singleton Center was where I wanted to be tonight.

It wasn't rocket science. It was the American debut of "Bon Seni Variations" composed by VCU's own Doug Richards. A commissioned symphonic piece based on Turkish folk music and jazz. Several of the soloists had also played at the premiere in Turkey.

Not to make presumptions, but there was a reason the local jazz DJ, one of the best sax players and my favorite jazz drummer were all in attendance.

I said the same thing to them all before the performance. "Too good to miss, isn't it?"

Beginning with a singer doing an a capella version of "Bon Seni," that theme went on to weave in and out of the composition in various alterations by the VCU Symphony.

The soloists traded off with the orchestra and the whole thing was a layering of Middle Eastern sounds so dense you couldn't hear it all.

Not that I didn't try.

When it ended, the crowd was on its feet and rightfully so. What an interesting piece of new music had been dropped in our collective lap on this January night.

You could tell that many people must have come solely for Richards piece because the almost-full crowd had thinned a bit after intermission.

Which was too bad because they missed Dvorak's tribute to Native American and Negro music, the "New World" Symphony.

The man can call it a tribute to whatever he wanted, but it sounded like that Romantic music that my friend in the symphony is always mooning about.

Let's just say Neil Armstrong took the "New World" symphony to the moon with him for a reason.

But if I was going to write an essay on "How I Spent My Tuesday Evening," I'd start with the national premier of a Richmond-written symphony.

Right here in Richmond.

Friends don't let friends miss that sort of thing.

Once Was Enough

2012-01-24T03:11:00.003-05:00

It was all about the paradox of intimacy aggressively explored.

After setting the tone with some soft and dark fruited Franco Serra Dolcetto d'Alba, it was time for some art.

And not just any art, but a retrospective, "Dancing with the Dark," a career-spanning look at the work of painter/printmaker Joan Snyder from 1963 to 2010.

UR's Harnett Museum was having a curator/artist talk so not only could I see Snyder's work but I also got to hear her talk about it tonight.

Striking in black and purple with her curly white hair, she explained how she created pieces that read from left to right like a piece of music.

Her colorful works often included words and female imagery, whatever that's supposed to be.

But her talent was in exploring intimacy, sometimes aggressively and sometimes very sweetly.

During the talk, she blew off minor details, leaving them to the curator to fill in, but spoke passionately about her work.

That feeling was echoed in an etching called "My Work...1997" in which a scattering of words surround a central heart-shaped form above the declaration: “My work has been absolutely faithful to me.”

Apparently she's repaid that fidelity with her own devotion and an exhaustive catalog.

During the Q & A afterwards, a student asked her if it was easier to work in a large or smaller format since she's done both.

"I can do anything," she answered honestly. For an artist who didn't even start creating until her senior year of college, that's quite an arc of a career.

Walking the galleries after the talk, the development of her talent was clear in the chronological progression.

Life events were incorporated into her work. Things like giving birth, her first affair with a woman and a tribute to her current partner ("My Maggie") chronicled her life.

And the colors! She sometimes printed the same print but the colors used on the drawing varied widely, giving completely different feels to essentially the same piece.

The show was the largest retrospective of her work ever done and by the time I took in everything, it was dinner time.

Since we were in an area I don't often frequent, it seemed like the perfect chance to check out the recently-relocated Phil's and see how it had fared in the short move west.

Not as big, still too many TVs, a bar of what looked like neighbors and regulars and the same reliable menu.

As long as you can still get a vodka limeade, I guess it's the same old Phil's.

We kept it simple (what else, it's Phil's?), me with the (square) fried cod sandwich and my partner in crime with the Reuben (and an unfortified limeade).

He's a real slow eater and our server (who looked original to Phil's) kept trying to take his plate away from him before he was finished.

Eat and go, that's just how they roll at Phil's.

We lingered long enough to have a piece of French silk pie and cringe at the local radio station playing (seriously, commercial radio in a restaurant? it's not fair to do that to people trying to eat!).

For the final chapter of the evening, it was mix tape time again, these two courtesy of Richmond's best band photographer and his main squeeze.

His was a compilation of some of the bands he'd most enjoyed shooting in 2011 (Dum Dum Girls, Netherfriends) and hers was songs she loved in 2011 ("Civilian" and "My Terrible Friend") and, whoa, my first time ever hearing a Beyonce song.

I love having friends who make great mix tapes and give me copies.

Hearing other's people's music taste is so revealing, so intimate, even when you think you know them.

It takes a special kind of friend and a lot of other good music on the mix to make me listen to a Beyonce song, even once.

As I'm learning, there's a first time for everything.

Suitor Lessons Now Available

2012-01-23T02:33:00.002-05:00

How much can fit into a twelve-hour escapade?

A scenic drive down Route 5 on a monochromatic day with the most sublime silvers, greens and browns coloring the landscape.

The final hour of the forty-painting exhibit "Seeing Colors: Secrets of the Impressionists" at the Muscarelle Museum at William and Mary.

French highlight: Pissarro's "Snowscape with Cows at Montfoucalt" for its ability to convey cold and capture the exquisite winter light.

I get chilled when it drops below 65 degrees and I wanted nothing more than to be standing on the street in front of the house in the painting.

American highlight: John Singer Sargent's "Portrait of Ralph Curtis on the Beach at Scheveningen" because he was such a fascinating man and it shows in his every beautiful brushstroke, no matter who he's painting.

And grains of sand in the painting? That's my kind of intensity.

Must-see companion show at the Muscarelle: "Modern Masterworks on Paper: Cezanne, Munch, Bonnard and Friends," a show of prints every bit as interesting.

By the time we finished, the show was officially closed at its only mid-Atlantic venue.

And we still had that beautiful drive back through winter fields and forests.

A supper of seafood chowder and wine at an undisclosed location.

The final night of the Israeli Film Festival at the JCC.

"The Matchmaker," a coming-of-age story set in Israel during the Six Day War, showed love and lust of several age groups: teens, dwarfs, middle-aged Holocaust survivors.

Favorite reference: "suitor lessons" where men seeking matches were given coaching by a woman to make them better at wooing others.

Question: could we still use such an instructor? Discuss amongst yourselves.

The last course: Analissa Primitivo with double chocolate cake and chile chocolate cinnamon pie at Ipanema.

Because after feeding the eyes and ears, it was essential to feed the nose and mouth.

Finishing up with a new mix, a "Goodbye Mix," that includes everything from Jeff Buckley's "Last Goodbye" to the Beatles "Hello/Goodbye."

Biggest surprise/most eclectic choice: Petula Clark's "Kiss Me Goodbye."

And then you look up when the mix ends and it's been half a day.

Twelve hours and all you've done is take a road trip through the fog, see a departing exhibit of tradition-bending art, take in a 2010 film nominated for seven Israeli Academy Awards, make dessert and wine your evening meal and listen to a swan song of a mix.

Funniest line of the day: "People live like this?"

Rhetorical, of course.

No More Ill Than a Molting Canary

2012-01-22T13:31:00.001-05:00

Life was easier in the '40s.

If you were fat, single and unhappy, all you had to do was have a mental breakdown and go on a cruise and, voila, love would arrive.

Or at least that's the way it went down in "Now, Voyager," the latest instalment of Bette Davis Month at Movieland.

Because I'd never seen it, I was unprepared to see Davis as the frumpy, unwanted spinster daughter with enormous eyebrows that no doubt kept men from looking at her.

She was certainly no "Jezebel."

Her mother was one of those characters so evil that I could only hope she'd die off and leave her poor daughter in peace (but not before telling her, "Every woman wants a man of her own." Oh, really?).

Once we got past the reinvention of Davis' character and she left on a cruise, things got good.

First of all, that was the time to go on a cruise. Her room aboard the ship was bigger than some hotel rooms now.

People dressed for dinner, met for breakfast (where he promised to greet her as "Miss Vale" and not say out loud that he loved her) and sipped cocktails while playing shuffleboard.

She met a man, unfortunately married, but obviously the love of her life and the words and kisses flew.

Her: I'm not going to struggle with you.
Him: No telling what primitive instincts you might arise.

Hell, I'd kiss a guy just for saying that.

This was the movie where he repeatedly lights two cigarettes, handing off one to her as a sign of, what, shared passion? Smoker's breath?

"I'm still horribly in love with you," he tells her at a party. Not terribly in love, but horribly. The best kind.

The kind where you kiss her through her veil because you can't take the split second to move it.

But this was one Bette Davis movie without a happy ending, so they didn't get the moon, only the stars.

And you know why?

"Some girls aren't the marrying kind."

Hey, don't judge us.

A Toast to the Mallet Master

2012-01-21T23:02:00.000-05:00

No one wants to be informed that they're giving the toast as the bubbly is being poured.

But as the oldest daughter, that responsibility fell to me.

I'd driven up to suburban Maryland, a place I despise, solely because today was my Dad's birthday celebration and it's a big year for him, one that ends in a zero.

Because of that, pretty much my entire extended family was in attendance. All five sisters with husbands and children, aunts, uncles, the whole gang.

I honestly can't recall the last time we were all in the same place.

And while I have no need to do it again anytime soon, the chaos of so many people eating, drinking, looking at old photographs and just catching up was great fun.

I especially enjoyed an album of photos from my Dad's youth because he grew up here in Richmond.

There were shots in front of their house on Colonial Avenue, in front of the Richmond Dairy where my grandfather worked and even a newspaper clipping of my Dad as one of "five husky youngsters playing at Humphrey Calder Playground."

Even funnier, there were photographs of me and my sisters in nearly identical little girl dresses (why would you do something that corny with six girls?) as well as of us with bad 80s hair.

It's astounding how big our thick, straight hair got during those years.

My brother-in-law pulled out a long-forgotten picture of him and me and our respective main squeezes at the time sitting on the dock at Kerr Lake after water-skiing (more correctly for me, after attempting to water-ski).

Did I ever look that impossibly young? Yes, apparently I did.

Hours into all this strolling down memory lane and catching up, my bossiest sister (#5) decided it was toasting time, to be followed by (hazelnut/chocolate) birthday cake time.

As I'm helping her pour dozens of glasses of Blanc de Blanc, she leans in and says, "You're doing the toast."

When the competitive sister (#3) hears this, she hisses, "How come you're giving the toast?" as if I've usurped her job or something.

She does consider herself Dad's favorite.

To my defense comes the most introverted sister (#2) who says loudly enough so that even the non-family members can hear, "Because she's the OLDEST!"

I do not once in my entire life remember being introduced by one of my sisters that it wasn't with the clarification that I am the oldest.

Just in case there was any doubt.

So with no time to prepare something well-thought out, cameras were turned on and I stood up to toast a man who has shaped the woman I became.

"You talked to us. You listened to us. You taught us to play croquet. To the best Dad any six daughters could ever ask for."

Brother-in-law #3 waited a beat and then raised his glass to my Dad.

"And that was a lot of listening!" he said to great cheering.

But what smart man doesn't want to listen to the talkative females around him?

And my Dad has always been a very smart man. Which makes me a very lucky daughter.

Smoke Over Blue Moon

2012-01-21T02:40:00.005-05:00

It was a mere 56 years of music from start to finish tonight.

Appropriately, we began with the VMFA's sold-out screening of the documentary, "Elvis '56," followed by a panel discussion.

Yes, sold out. It's become perfectly clear too me that this town is full of Elvis fanatics. Me, I'm just a documentary dork, but this crowd came for The King.

Organizer Trent Nichols got things rolling saying, "Welcome. I think I saw Elvis sitting over there." From behind me I heard some middle-aged woman say exasperatedly, "I wish."

In fact, it was local rocker Wrenn Magnum, magnificent in his black pompadour and period-appropriate duds.

The 1987 film was outstanding, eschewing the usual talking heads that dominate a documentary and instead showing clips from the dozen TV appearances he made in 1956 as well as many of Alfred Wertheimer's photographs taken during that ten-day period when he shot 2500 images of the then-unknown Presley.

I was thrilled with the narration of the film, which was done by Levon Helm in his distinctive Arkansas accent.

The panel included Wertheimer, who noted that after a flurry of interest when he took those pictures, they were basically forgotten until Elvis died in 1977.

Since then, he said, a week doesn't go by that someone doesn't contact him about using a photo or ten. That one gig has become his life's work.

"I'll be on this job when I'm dead," he said without a trace of irony.

As someone who didn't keep up with Elvis' music, I'd have to say the highlight was hearing his cover of "Blue Moon," truly a thing of beauty.

I say that as I sit here typing and listening to it.

From the museum, we left for Cellar Door. That's not the royal we; I was in the company of a DJ since it's National DJ Day and all.

Tomorrow is Squirrel Appreciation Day and I'll try to celebrate that, too, once I figure out how best to do so.

With a bottle of Santa Julia Malbec, a Pumphouse (grilled cheese, spinach and tomato), a bowl of the Rope Swing (Peruvian chicken soup with quinoa, veggies and pasta) and a plate of Romesco (artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers and olive tapenade on crostini), we had plenty to occupy us.

By the time we finished all that, it was time to high tail it to Strange Matter and the best free show bill I've heard in a long time, including lots of my favorite music from a cave.

Walking in, a guy I know only by the way he introduced himself to me last year ("I'm an old rocker"), came up and said to me, "I knew you'd be here."

Yea, there's a big surprise.

Snowy Owls played their best set yet (no less than four other people said the same thing), getting the show off to a pitch-perfect start.

Super Vacations, a psych-punk quintet I'd been told I'd like, came next with their fast and short songs. I did like them, although not so much the singer's habit of tossing beer cans into the crowd.

White Laces, this time playing as a quartet (I've seen them as a duo and trio, too) and doing lots of new material, expertly played to my taste with loads of reverb and bass.

Old Rocker complained about too much reverb, but I begged to differ. No such thing.

After their set, I ran into Kyle, leader of The Diamond Center on my way to the bathroom.

He gave me a sheepish look and explained that he wouldn't be playing his twelve-string tonight.

I have to assume he was warning me since I have been known to gush every time I hear him play that thing.

"I thought, 'Oh, no, Karen's here and I'm not playing it," he said apologetically. "But I'm playing the Rickenbacker."

For the record, I'd be the last to complain about hearing a Rickenbacker and I told him so.

"Someday I'll have a Rickenbacker 12-string and we'll both be happy," he said.

I can't wait.

Until then, I was more than happy with their smoke-laced set of psychedelia, the closest musical thing we have to a non-drug-induced high in Richmond.

It was quite a leap from Elvis' "Blue Moon" and yet a perfectly natural progression.

On today of all days, I'm sure any of the DJs at the show (and there were many) could appreciate the beauty of it.

Well-Oiled Bearings

2012-01-20T13:50:00.003-05:00

I can only aspire to be the Mary Boykin Chesnut of my era.

Her detailings of Richmond's social scene during the Civil War are a window into another period and the way people spent their free time.

Kind of like what I do every day, except without the hoop skirts and muddy streets.

I learned about Mary at today's Brown Bag Lunch talk, "Social Life in the Confederacy," given by Kelly Hancock at the Museum of the Confederacy.

That's where I heard how President Jefferson Davis, known as somewhat of a tightass, allowed himself to become "unbent" at White House socials.

How he continued the tradition of New Year's Day Levees, a tradition borrowed from the British, with the public invited to share in the festivities and the Armory band playing.

I loved hearing about Varina Davis' 19-year old sister, described as "having a keen sense of humor and being exceedingly clever."

No doubt those attributes contributed to her two broken engagements and the out-of-wedlock child she had by the age of 28.

And the man who finally corralled her? He was described as moving "into and through the most elegant or simplest assemblages on natural rubber tires and well-oiled bearings."

If I had any intention of being buried, I'd want that on my tombstone.

Mrs. Standard, a local 40-something, was known to have a home which came nearer to the salons of Paris than any home in Richmond (or America, for that matter), according to a gentleman who visited there many times.

She was also known to collect the best and brainiest men and was considered to be a "she who must be obeyed."

She, along with other affluent Richmonders, lived on Franklin Street (she near 8th), a grand place where soldiers would parade themselves when they got new uniforms.

Mrs. Randolph (a dark-eyed brunette) held "democratic suppers," which had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with everyone bringing a dish.

So, yes, that would be a Major General walking into the party clutching a jar of brandied peaches.

The Mosaic Club flourished despite no officers and no rules; it was all about music, talk and improv, described at the time as "the clashing of bright minds in hospitable and cultural homes."

And parlor games were apparently very popular.

Hancock described one as starting with two hats, one filled with slips of paper with unusual words and another with questions written on them.

Guests drew one of each and then had to create a story, poem or song using both the question and the word.

Call me shallow, but I was fascinated by the stories of the fun and frivolity that went on in this town against the backdrop of war.

And I was impressed by Mary Chesnut's devotion to her diary-keeping.

She was lucky, though, she didn't have to get home from a show at 2 a.m. and sit down and write it up right then.

Even so, I hope my stories of Richmond's social life are half as interesting to people a hundred years from now.

And if not, hey, this dark-eyed brunette did her cleverest.

Not the Betting Kind

2012-01-20T00:44:00.004-05:00

"You bet your tights it will sound awesome," I was told.

I didn't have to. A musician friend had invited me to a house show at the Montrose Heights Potluck Palace (also known as his home) and I had responded by saying, "Sounds awesome!"

He told us all that it was going to be one of the best shows of the year and he's a guy who knows what he's talking about when it comes to music.

So rather than betting my tights, I put them on, made a pesto, roasted red pepper and bacon pizza and rode with other J-Ward friends to the East End.

The potluck offerings made for a smorgasbord of taste delights: seafood casserole, vegetarian chili and jalapeno cornbread and a decadent mac and cheese.

Even better were the desserts: apple pie and ice cream, Country Style Doughnuts (come on, we were in the neighborhood) and drumsticks of the ice cream variety.

As a friend noted, "I love parties where people bring ice cream." I agree, which is why I had a Drumstick.

And a doughnut.

Self-restraint goes out the window at a good house show.

While we ate, P.J. Sykes played DJ with his turntables spread out on a Star Wars sheet-covered table (his wife said the sheet was from 1983 and his childhood), dominating the living room visually and sonically.

P.J. is an inveterate record collector, sometimes buying entire collections of mostly crap solely for the one or two treasures he finds among them (tonight it was the "space" record).

Playing first was C.J. Boyd, who'd had a tough week.

He'd just come back from a European tour where his electric bass had been stolen, the one he'd learned to play on and had had for eighteen years.

He ended up getting arrested at an Occupy Congress event while trying to defend a fellow protester who was being roughly handled by the cops and now he was just happy to be out of jail.

"That's what life's about, adjusting to shit," he said philosophically.

He played upright bass and electric bass (a friend having donated his since he no longer played it) and sang, layering both.

His music was downright trance-like, very intense.

Following him was Netherfriends, a band that sounds plural but really just showcased the multi-talented Shawn playing guitar, drum pad and Casio keyboard.

I'd checked him out online beforehand and been impressed with what I'd heard.

A friend at tonight's show had seen him play at the Hopscotch Festival last year and assured me I was in for a treat musically.

Lush and hooky songs aside, could this guy dance!

Even confined by his instrument set-up, he danced up on his toes James Brown-style, put his palm out to accentuate a lyric (stop in the name of showmanship!) and generally turned his multi-layered sound into a full-on performance piece.

"You gotta fight for your right to party," he reminded us in song.

My friend and I were a little put off by the people who didn't come into the room for his set but kept talking loudly in the other room.

"They're just rude," she said dismissively.

And the loss was theirs. I don't think they realized what an amazing show was being put on in the living room while they chatted away throughout his set.

The last slot was filled by tonight's host, Dave Watkins, he of the looping dulcitar and the endless variations of sound he can create.

Somehow my friend had never seen Dave perform, so I watched her sit transfixed by the intricate melodies and harmonies he created.

When he promised that the next song would be kind of weird, a friend took that as a cue. "I'm gonna sit down for weird," she said, taking a place on the floor.

But weird to Dave is music to the ears of an audience and anyone who can make music blowing into his stringed instrument is a somebody I want to hear.

Even more so when he arranges a dinner, invites out-of-town musicians to come play at his house and I'm on the guest list for the unfolding of it all.

Not only did I not have to sacrifice my tights but I also got impressive music and unexpected Country Style doughnuts.

You know, they say that's what life's about, adjusting to shit. Tonight's shit was stellar.

Adjusting was a real pleasure.

Blood Brothers Let It Bleed

2012-01-19T03:58:00.008-05:00

It began, innocently enough, with the story of a gold cocktail dress.

So right there you know it wasn't my dress.

A friend and I met at Lemaire to partake of well-priced wine and so that she could tell me about the dress she'd finally found for a big party this weekend.

Nothing about my upcoming weekend requires a cocktail dress, so I had nothing dress-related to share.

Still, we started with a bottle of Rias Baixas Albarino while listening to tales of the James Beard Foundation dinner recently held at Lemaire.

Judging by the storyteller's face when describing Chef Bundy's butter-poached Rappahannock oysters with Kite ham, it was clear we'd missed quite a meal.

We took that as a cue to order and I chose the smothered Broken Arrow Ranch Bandera quail with stone-ground Ashland grits, rainbow chard and "sawmill gravy."

Because, you know, if I'm going to get my sawmill on, there's no place like Lemaire. I kid because the succulent little bird with the gravy-covered grits was very much a take on comfort food.

We befriended the guy sitting next to us when he noticed that my girlfriend hadn't finished her scallops.

I explained that she's just picky and that the seared jumbo sea scallops with white beans and escarole in ham hock broth were actually quite good unless you were eating them and dreaming of a big old steak like my friend was.

He turned out to be a new visitor to Richmond from Philly, here on business and eager to hear more about the dining scene.

We talked about our local strengths and then shifted the talk north. He was fascinated to learn that I'd been to Morimoto in his home town and we compared impressions of their tasting menu.

A woman at the end of the bar overheard us talking and chimed in to get some foodie talk, too.

She was a citizen activist, here from godforsaken Northern Virginia for the duration of the Gen Ass, and eager to find authentic (her word) local restaurants.

By the time I wrote down the first three that she needed to try, I was inviting her to join our little ad hoc group.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the bar, I spotted a friend ordering wine and within moments another came into Lemaire for a burger.

It was one of those nights where I had all kinds of company, familiar and new, with no effort on my part whatsoever.

Just sit here and they will come, Karen. Why, I think I will.

Gradually the business travelers had to leave to go to bed and it was time for me to say goodnight to my girlfriend and go find some music.

At Ipanema, the music was going strong when I arrived with sidekick in tow, and the guy at the door stopped me to ask for my ID.

"Really?" I asked. "You really need an ID from me?"

At the point, two of the staff sitting nearby looked at him and instructed, "She's fine," which was code for, "Dude, she's plenty old enough."

The bartender, a former Sprout friend, high-fived me in greeting and then was gracious enough to pour some Primitivo for us.

The attraction at Ipanema tonight since I'd already eaten was the Blood Brothers, Jamie and Duane, playing the vinyl that they love so well.

If anyone is concerned that the music of the sixties isn't being properly revered, they obviously haven't heard these two modsters trading turns on the turntable.

Longtime friends, they try to outdo each other with their choices. You'll see one pull an album out and just hold it in his hands for a second, trying to determine if it's got the perfect next song to play.

It was when they played the Stone Poneys' (featuring Linda Ronstadt) "Different Drum" that the crowd in the room lost their ~~shit~~ desire to gab and began dancing.

You and I travel to the beat of a different drum
Oh, can't you tell by the way I run
Every time you make eyes at me.

And of course once you get the crowd dancing like that, you have to play just the right thing to follow it, in this case the Spencer Davis Group, a good match energy-wise but not nearly as recognizable to the crowd.

Still, it was a well-made choice, a skill set the Blood Brothers have in spades.

We heard girl groups ("Be My Baby") and bad boys ("Get Off of My Cloud") and the floor had dancers as often as not.

Coming out of the bathroom, a guy recognized me but he had to tell me his name before I knew who he was.

It was an enthusiastic member of Team Sex, a bicycle collective known for their speed in scavenger hunts whom I hadn't seen in ages.

The people you meet after answering Nature's call.

But there were lots of familiar faces in the crowd of vinyl and/or sixties music-lovers. The pastry chef, the server from a favorite wine bistro, several DJs.

From the end of the bar, the Blood Brothers spent the evening pushing out tunes to keep sidekick and I happily ensconced on a bench watching the parade of humanity whilst sipping our earthy red wine.

Did I mention how cool they looked doing it and how much fun they were obviously having?

Cause I know it was obvious how much fun we were having listening to them. Who needs a gold cocktail dress when you've got the Stone Poneys?

Or the Blood Brothers?

You cry and moan and say it will work out
But honey child, I've got my doubts
You can't see the forest for the trees

You Just Had to Be There

2012-01-18T14:23:00.000-05:00

It was like a meeting of the Elvis fan club.

The group of people who gathered at the VMFA for the "Conversations: Elvis at 21" talk today included multiple people still plenty passionate about the King.

The speakers were photographer Jeffrey Allison and musician Terri Allard and they weren't so much lecturing as nurturing a conversation with the audience.

"Some of you are all about Elvis," Allison noted right off the bat. "I saw some blue suede shoes." And it was true.

Allison, also the Mellon Collection Educator, talked about what gave the photographs in the exhibit their definitive look.

Wertheimer was using a Leica SLR, the images were framed as he shot (so there was no cropping in the final prints) and he used only available light.

The quiet of the camera and the absence of flash meant that the photographer could be almost invisible to his subject, making for more naturalistic photos.

But it was during the audience's participation that the true fans showed themselves.

One spoke of her vivid memories of having seen Elvis at the Mosque.

"I tried to go onstage and tear his shirt off," admitted the middle-aged woman in the blue suede shoes.

"We were complete maniacs about him," another said without apology.

Yet another remembered her family being recently stationed in Japan and hearing Elvis on Armed Forces Radio and the effect it had on her.

One said that she recalled Elvis coming to her high school in a small town in Arkansas to play when he was barnstorming around the South developing his following.

In every one of their voices, you heard the passion of a true fan who had lost none of her enthusiasm for the long-dead singer.

Elvis has been recognized for having been an unusually focused man at 21, but his long-time followers are certainly no less so today and I guess I hadn't realized that.

Allison asked what other singer had achieved as lasting an effect and a response of "Michael Jackson" was all but shouted down.

To the devoted, Elvis is apparently the real thing and no one can be acknowledged in the same breath as the man.

Many of the people in the audience were following up the talk with seeing the show, but since I'd already seen it, I headed west for lunch.

I was meeting a friend in the restaurant business who's always eager to eat places he hasn't (and surprisingly, he hasn't eaten at a lot of places).

That's how I'd introduced him to Ettamae's and Stella's. Today it was Black Sheep, although I'd originally suggested Amuse.

It would have been terribly convenient for me, but he shot that down because he was coming in work clothes and wanted someplace he considered more casual.

Like everyone else, he was charmed by the place, ordering the Falldorf Salad, a creative take on a Waldorf salad with clementines in addition to the usual suspects, and a Diet Cheerwine.

Then there was me, the feminine one, whose delicate appetite demanded that I go to the opposite extreme with the Green Eggs and Lamb.

The eggs were baked with Derby Sage cheese and spinach and the two large links of lamb sausage gave me all the salty I could hope for to accompany the sweetness of my Abita Root Beer.

That would be sweet, as in sugary. Unlike several of my male friends, I disdain diet sodas.

Everyone decides which real things are important to them. Imagine hanging on to that devotion for fifty years.

I might not be in the Elvis fan club, but I'm hugely impressed by anyone who inspires long-lasting passion.

Just to be clear, though, I have no intention of wearing blue suede shoes to prove it.

Pickin' and Grinnin' to Sangiovese

2012-01-18T02:48:00.004-05:00

You can try keeping me in by inviting me to dinner, but that doesn't mean I won't suggest going out at some point.

Which is to say that after the veal and the bottle of Mulderbosch Rose were savored near an open window (yes, on a fine January evening), I made a case for adjourning to Carytown Bistro for a little bluegrass.

I've been told that I can make a very convincing argument when I want to.

Since it was my first time there for music since it changed from Bin 22, I didn't know how much of a crowd to expect.

The place turned out to be nearly full with a lot of people standing to hear Tara Mills (Charlottesville) and Chloe Edmonstone (Asheville) play their bluegrass.

They'd rounded up a local bass player and part-time RVA mandolin player to round out the sound and shoehorned themselves into the alcove up front.

The reluctant contingent and I got glasses of the Tuscan Il Bastardo and managed to grab a couple of recently available seats in a community booth right up front.

The set featured the violinist Chloe and the bass player Zach each singing lead vocals for a song, changing up their sound considerably.

Chloe's voice reminded me a bit of Allison's, always a good thing.

Josh Bearman of the Hot Seats arrived during the break, convenient because he was on next.

In his defense, he'd just finished his shift on WRIR, so it wasn't like he'd been dawdling.

But he and band mate Allison Self, who've dubbed themselves Sweet Fern, know exactly what they're doing and the two launched onto their set effortlessly.

Josh is a master at stage banter, one very funny and superbly talented guy.

Allison's big, beautiful voice was made for "old timey" music and between her ukulele and his guitar/mandolin, they pulled off a stellar performance, only resorting to a lyric sheet for the encore demanded by the audience.

With a Carter Family cover, songs about tried and true love as well as one about being a single gal, there was a little something to make everyone happy.

Which was a good thing considering I'd dragged the dinner party with me out into a balmy sixty-degree night to partake of a little mountain music.

Doesn't sound like much of a sacrifice to me.

Fortunate are those I can convince to join me. Dessert can always wait.

The Talkie Type

2012-01-17T01:58:00.001-05:00

How often do you see a silent movie two nights in a row?

But then how often is there a brand-new silent film at the movie theater?

After seeing the previews for "The Artist" several times, I was pretty sure I'd enjoy it.

And I did, except for the man with the oral fixation chewing loudly on a plastic straw one seat away.

Just for the record, that was after he'd polished off a sandwich (wrapped in foil), a canned Diet Coke and a king-size fountain soda

But I digress.

After all the silent movies I've seen in the past four-plus years at the Silent Music Revival and James River Film Society events, I've actually seen a fair amount of silent film.

I mean, I'm no Jameson Price, but I've probably seen more than your average bear.

But I think the most recent one I ever saw was 1948 and even then, it was highly unusual to make a silent film that late.

So of course a French film director decides last year to make a black and white silent film tribute to Hollywoodland.

Count me in.

The hero looked like a matinee idol (and had the greatest smile in his eyes), the photography was exquisite and the music perfectly attuned to the scenes.

I know Kim Novak is upset about them using a snippet of music from "Vertigo" but it didn't bother me.

The romance was suggested but never developed, only hinted at.

But you should have seen the way they smiled at each other Oh, it was romance.

What I was curious about was what the audience's reaction to seeing a silent film would be.

Besides hearing every cough (and straw chewer), you clearly heard comments ("That's a gun") and reactions (a woman's audible gasp when the hero carelessly stepped off a curb and almost got hit by a car).

Everything unfolded but not with words, only with movements, gestures and nuance.

Which I can (and did) totally appreciate as far as telling the story went.

But no words? In a romance?

In a movie, fine, but that would never fly, at least for me, in real life.

If you're going to go romantic, it's got to be wordy or just shoot me now.

Postcard from Puerto Rico

2012-01-16T01:48:00.000-05:00

Much as I enjoy attending, I can't begrudge the cessation of the Silent Music Revival.

You see, the organizers are going to Puerto Rico for a few months.

They have the loveliest habit of up and going away for months at a time to work and live in other countries before returning to Richmond.

So tonight's event was the last one for an indefinite amount of time.

To commemorate such an auspicious occasion, Jameson chose a perfect marriage of film and music.

A 1926 movie, "Now You Tell One" starring Charley Bowers played while Nick Coward and the Last Battle improvised a score.

NC & the LB did a superb job of matching their music with the story of a Liar's Club competition and the man off the street who's brought in to spin a tale.

No surprise, he wins the gold.

Afterwards, he swears his story is true, tells a man he loves his daughter (she turns out to be his wife) and is eventually chased by the broom-wielding husband right up until "Le Fin."

Good old twenties slapstick circa Buster Keaton, but by a far less well-known comedian.

I was happy to see that there was a good-sized crowd since no one wanted to miss their last chance for a while.

Being a seasoned veteran, I knew to get there early and grab front row seats while also allowing enough time to say fond farewells to the soon-to-be departed couple.

And while I hate to see them go, I can't help but envy people who are leaving below freezing temperatures for sunny climes.

For people who will be wearing shorts while I continue to layer and wear gloves.

For people who will write music based on where they are and the experiences they're having.

For people who always come back to this city energized and ready to make music and things happen.

Wait a minute....

Hell, if I had any sense, I'd be joining them.

A Little Night Music

2012-01-15T01:19:00.002-05:00

I played a mother surrogate tonight.

It's not like it sounds. My friend Holmes has three season tickets to the Symphony. He usually takes his girlfriend and his Mom.

But Mom's in Florida at the moment, so I was runner-up for the pleasure of dinner and Masterworks.

We met up at Arcadia, took our positions at the bar and had a splendid time drinking the Cline Cashmere Red Blend and catching up.

Because they're inescapable these days, we began with the deviled eggs, here served over basil gremolata.

Holmes continues to insist that $6 for three egg halves is a bit much, but it seems to be the going rate all over town.

I started with the apple and arugula salad with candied walnuts, bleu cheese and cider apple vinaigrette, regretting only that the kitchen was over-generous with the dressing.

The black tiger shrimp ceviche over polenta with shaved greens and orange curry oil, a dainty portion, followed, but it was the girlfriend's Braveheart Black Angus strip steak that stole the show.

We also gave a nod to the obscenely rich potato pave with thyme and Parmesan.

As we sat there enjoying our food, the bartender popped a bottle of bubbly and Holmes commented, "It's like a woman sighing."

For a guy who was told by a date once to watch "The Notebook" because he wasn't romantic enough, I found that sentiment quite poetic.

It also led to us getting glasses of Cava to accompany our chocolate torte with chocolate gelato.

The torte oozed butter in the best possible way and the gelato was sticky with the heavy creaminess that defines good gelato.

Good thing we had the crisp-tasting Cava to cut that richness.

We barely made it up to Center Stage after lingering over our final course but managed to slide into our seats minutes before showtime.

When the concert mistress walked out to begin things, Holmes commented, "How does she play in those shoes?"

She did have on cute shoes, no doubt about it. But when you have to wear conservative black onstage, your shoes are your only outlet for razzle-dazzle.

I usually defer to him on musical matters since he's a talented viola (and guitar) player, but before I could do so, he went on, "And look at the third chair's shoes!"

Hers were the tallest of stilettos and yet she seemed to have no problem whatsoever playing her instrument.

The program was definitely an interesting one, beginning with Piazzolla's extended tango in five parts, "Tangazo," written in 1968.

I loved everything about it: the knocking on the violins, the tapping of the bows to the instruments, the alternate slow and quick tango pace.

I'm sure that that was an analogy for something.

Applauding afterwards, I turned to Holmes to rave about it and he responded, "He should have scored a Bond movie!"

Yea, a Bond movie's seduction scenes, for sure.

Next up was the featured player of the evening. Guesting was guitarist Jason Vieaux on Rodrigo's "Concierto de Arnjuez for Guitar and Orchestra."

When Vieaux walked out in an open-collared black shirt, Holmes sniffed, "Man, if I'd known, I'd have left the bolo at home."

In fact, he looked quite dapper in his black shirt and black bolo, a gift from his absent mother.

The piece went back and forth between the soloing guitar and the orchestra, highlighting Vieaux's virtuosity.

During intermission, I ran into local rocker Prabir with his Mom (clearly good sons take their Moms to the Symphony) and learned that they'd been as thrilled with that first piece as I'd been.

Prabir said he'd been eagerly anticipating hearing it ever since he found out it was being performed tonight.

Okay, good, so it wasn't just my overactive glands responding to the seductive music of an Argentinian from a family of Italian immigrants.

We returned to Bolcom's "Commedia for (Almost) 18th--Century Orchestra," written in 1971 and based on the idea that the bite of a tarantula can only be relieved by music.

With its unexpected sounds and references to traditional classical music, it offered something for every taste.

Conspicuously absent during the piece were the concert mistress, the second violin and the cello soloist, all of whom reappeared at the end of the piece, having played their parts off-stage.

Just a composer's idea of comedy, I'm figuring.

Last up was Mozart's "Symphony No. 39," which meant nothing to me but thrilled Holmes since he'd heard No. 40 performed before but never No. 39.

I only wish my musical savvy extended to knowing which Mozart pieces I've heard played live.

Hell, I'm lucky he even deigns me worthy to accompany him given my appalling lack of classical music knowledge.

More realistically, I'm lucky Mom's out of town every January.

Faithfully Yours in Fantasy

2012-01-13T23:42:00.000-05:00

Faith can mean so many things.

I used to consider it a supreme act of faith that my 90 plus year old neighbor planted bulbs every Fall, fully expecting that she'd see them bloom come Spring.

Once you've had your heart broken, certainly falling in love again is an act of faith and people do that all the time.

It's that range of definitions of faith that make up the fifteen productions in this year's Acts of Faith Festival, which previewed tonight at the Empire Theater, right here in lovely downtown J-Ward.

Some choices are obvious, like "God of Carnage" or "Jewtopia" while some require a closer look to figure out the faith connection.

"Always...Patsy Cline"? Er...? "Ain't Misbehaving"? Um...? Okay, "The Tragedy of Macbeth," sorta, kinda.

Tonight's preview offered brief snippets of all the plays, hopefully whetting the audience's appetite for seeing the full productions.

The brief scene from Henley Street's "Lord of the Flies" reminded me how unsettling that book had been back when I read it in school.

"Shakespeare and Galileo," which I actually saw when it was first produced at the Carpenter Science Theater, imagines that Shakespeare went to Italy and met the great scientist.

This one was obvious. Galileo's description of the moon was the perfect melding of art and science, aka a higher power.

There were plenty of humorous moments, too.

We were told by the director of the Seminary Shoestring Players from Baptist Theological Seminary that he'd started the group because, "I thought it was a good thing for students going into the ministry to learn how to act."

Major laughter greeted that remark.

Likewise there was tittering for Cadence Theater Company's scene from "August: Osage County" where the woman says, "Men always say crap like that, as if the past and future don't exist."

You guys know better, right?

Despite most people probably not even noticing, one moment that brought a smile to my face was during the Patsy Cline song, "Walking After Midnight."

Instead of a band, she had a pianist accompanying her tonight and for sheet music, he was using an iPad.

That's right, touching the screen periodically to go to the next page of music to play a song from the fifties.

He must have had faith that technology wouldn't fail him in the midst of the performance.

And while I'm a card-carrying heathen, one thing I appreciate about the Acts of Faith Festival is that they have talkbacks for every play, inviting audience members to share their take on the issues presented in the plays.

So it's safe to say that once the festival begins, I'll catch a few of the plays and maybe even share my opinion with a roomful of strangers.

I moved from faith to fantasy by going to Eric Schindler Gallery for the opening of Lily Lamberta's new show "Pageant Style Puppetry and Folk Art."

Lily is the brains and talent behind All the Saints Theater Company and the fantastical puppets and masks used in the Annual Halloween and May Day Parades, two events I love participating in.

Her fanciful mounted heads look down from walls oozing personality like no actual stuffed animal ever could.

"Grandma Forest" had lace eyebrows."Watchman of the Woods" had a burgundy velvet head wrap with tassel.

"Winter White Caribou," the piece I coveted, was extravagantly feminine, pink, lacy and with delicate twig antlers.

From the front brightly lit gallery room to the second room represented a colossal shift in mood.

In that space, Lily had crafted a luminous shrine to her parade works. This, I knew, was Lily's world.

Enormous puppets, heads, hands and skulls hung from the walls with fairy lights strewn around them.

Familiar faces from past parades looked down, including George Washington, whom I remembered from the Founding Fathers-themed parade.

It was here I found the artist herself, dressed in a short black taffeta prom dress and cowboy boots, looking like she was having the time of her life among the capacity crowd.

But she didn't seem in the least surprised about all the people raving about her work, snapping photos of it or that she'd already sold three pieces.

And why should she? As far as I can tell, being an artist is a full-time act of faith.

Ardently Pursuing Health

2012-01-13T15:33:00.000-05:00

You'd be surprised how many Frenchmen want to walk around with lipstick kisses on their cheeks.

Or maybe you wouldn't.

A friend and I walked into La Parisienne during high lunch mode. The place was positively bustling with activity and after the sharp windy cold, it felt warm and inviting inside.

The owner walked up to greet us, offering his cheek for a continental greeting. Being a regular customer, I obliged.

Today's frigid temperatures made Zee Onion Soup too appealing to pass up and my friend shared her frites and mac and cheese, so there were carbs galore.

Midway through our meal, the owner came back for a second kiss on the other cheek, much to the amusement of the two lawyer types at the adjoining table.

"He's your blotter," one observed. Indeed.

A belated Christmas present from my favorite Gemini came in the form of a book, "The Happy Table of Eugene Walter: Southern Spirits in Food and Drink" along with a card saying, "It's hard to pick out a gift for the woman who has read everything."

As we sat in front of the south-facing window, my friend noted that she liked this place so much because it was so cheerful and I knew what she meant.

Let's just say that it wasn't our first lunch there together.

We talked about couples and finances, emotionally unavailable men and married couples with open marriages.

And, for the third time, the owner came up looking for a replacement for the lip print that he had inadvertently wiped off.

He must have read the same article in today's "The Telegraph" that I had.

The science reporter confirmed that it's far healthier to greet someone with a Continental kiss than a handshake during cold and flu season.

Still, if I'd known how much kissing I was going to do at lunch, I'd have brought along extra lipstick.

Love Letters and Longing

2012-01-12T23:24:00.000-05:00

If only all evenings could start with unabashed romanticism and end with lust.

The love part was courtesy of a VMFA lecture, "My Faraway One: The Letters of Georgia O'Keeffe and Alfred Steiglitz," given by Sarah Greenough, who edited a book of the same name.

The couple were extensive letter-writers (25,000 pieces and barely a tenth of them went into the 800-page book) and their output detailed life when they were apart, the development of artistic ideas and their thoughts on other artists.

When they met, she was young, disarmingly frank and had a strong sense of independence.

I'm quite sure I would have liked her.

He was married, established in his career and absolutely besotted, sometimes writing her two and three times a day with some letters 30-40 pages long.

Now that's what I call smitten.

I loved hearing about how they described their longing, both physical and emotional, for each other in great detail.

Georgia wrote, "I'm getting to like you so tremendously that it scares me some times."

The full frontal nude photographs he took of her before they got physical (on what he called "Virginity Day") were gorgeous despite the understandable tension in them, given their unconsummated love.

Greenough was a terrific lecturer, imbuing the letters she read with the passion and longing with which they were written.

She said she'd debated whether or not to include the explicit sexual references (a rare dilemma for an art historian, she laughed) and decided that given how important their sex life was to them both, it was a requirement.

Hearing portions read aloud, it certainly warmed up the room nicely for this attendee.

So with that for foreplay, I moved on to Richmond Triangle Players to see "2 Boys in a Bed on a Cold Winter's Night" with the handsomest theater critic I know.

The two-actor play (both from NYC, although one was British) was a one act story set in 1987 at 4:30 a.m.

In bed, naturally.

Kissing and grabbing each other all the way, two guys have left a club and gone back to one's apartment to have sex.

Which means that the play got off to a fine start with full frontal male nudity, delighting the mostly male crowd.

I do think I was one of a very few females in the audience who also enjoyed it.

The story centered around the eternal one-night stand dilemma where one person just wants to leave afterwards and the other wants to talk about feelings.

The eighties references were fun; the visitor looks at his host's CDs (New Order, Bronski Beat, Erasure and "the ever-popular Material Girl"), only to squeal "Ooooh, the Carpenters!"

They reminisce about watching "Dynasty" on Wednesday nights and getting home at 10 a.m. from Saturday night club outings.

And of course they discuss AIDS and their fond memories of a pre-AIDS social life. You know, because it's 1987.

For a play about one-night stands, it had enough universal truths about love and relationships to make it mostly relatable, no matter the orientation.

Mostly anyway.

Can't say I could relate to the explanation of what a guy wants ("In the following order, you want me to slap you, f**k you, love you"), but that was probably just me.

And, okay,"Strength is sexier than weakness" resonated for my team, too, on some level.

But not like a Steiglitz letter.

"You have given me, I can't tell you what it is, but it is something tremendous, something overpowering that I feel as if I had shot up suddenly into the skies and touched the stars."

You don't write that to someone you want to have a one-night stand with.

Dirty Poem Inspiration

2012-01-12T15:52:00.000-05:00

Poe said "The death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world."

Operating from that premise, author John Milliken Thompson gave a talk at the Library of Virginia about his new book, "The Reservoir" about a young (and pregnant) woman found floating in the city reservoir in 1885 and the sensational trial that followed.

Working from an actual murder case, Thompson researched extensively to learn about the case, only to realize that because the characters were obscure people, not much was known about them.

Well, that's just a challenge to a writer (who referred to himself as a "haphazard plotter"), so he took it upon himself to imagine the thoughts and conversations of the people involved and the search for the seducer.

"Search for the seducer," is that a great phrase or what?

So his book is a fictional telling of real people's stories, minus the "dirty poem" that was central to the case ("Pretty raunchy," he grinned. "We've got nothing on them back then.").

He said his editor had referred to it as "In Cold Blood meets Cold Mountain."

And while I'm not much of a fiction reader, the "romance wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an historical crime story" sounded pretty fascinating.

A lot of the people in the audience, many of whom had read the book already, ate their lunch as he talked.

I held out to meet a friend for midday eats at the Franklin Inn, home of the best $3.95 burger in town.

He was late so I sat at a table with my back to the front window with the server noting, "You have a good spot there in the sun."

Indeed I did and the old-fashioned peach-colored roses on the table smelled almost as pretty as they looked, so the wait was actually very pleasant.

So of course I gave him a hard time for being five minutes late.

We caught up over lunch and I heard tales of cookie parties (a friend was counting on me to be there and I let her down...for music), venue parties ("Everyone was plastered by 9:00") and potential jobs (his and he wouldn't take it if it was offered, apparently).

There was even gossip about former co-workers.

With no seducer in sight and my own haphazard plotting skills, it was not exactly a poetical ending to my mid-day interlude.

But then, no beautiful woman had to die, either.

Rainy Nights and Wednesdays

2012-01-12T02:11:00.000-05:00

To quote a bad '80s song, I love a rainy night (or day for that matter). You just have to have a plan, a blueprint, if you will.

Trusty sidekick suggested udon at Akida and I suggested free jazz at Balliceaux. Next thing you know, we had a plan.

Clearly we weren't the only people craving Japanese because when we walked in, there was only one open table.

The chatter around us was noisy; next to us it was low-key and all in Chinese and behind us, it was girl talk ("So after a couple of drinks, he asked me to go to Puerto Rico with him and, like, that would have been so cool, but I just met him, so how could I?").

Sidekick had been correct; the damp weather was perfect for soup. He went with the seafood variety and I did yard bird, slurping noodles shamelessly.

Once the place began to clear out, we realized it was probably getting close to show time and headed over to Ballcieaux.

We needn't have concerned ourselves. As I've learned, jazz musicians work on jazz time, which has no relevance to actual time.

Our timely arrival did garner us the couch and with a couple of glasses of Monferrato "Bricco del Conte" we got comfortable with our liquid Italian and did some people watching.

Glows in the Dark was a new experience for him, although he'd heard me rave about their Mondo Italia Dance Party nights.

Tonight's set wasn't drawn from Italian crime movies, but, as always with this band, movie music reared its head with some arrangements from John Carpenter movies.

Our plush seat turned out to be a liability when Reggie Pace was doing the percussion thing since he had his back to us.

That may not seem like a big deal, but seeing that guy play triangle is a treat.

For most ear-catching tonight, I'd have to go with Scott Burton's guitar on "Manhunt," which you'd have had to have heard since my musical vocabulary is insufficient to describe why I liked it so much.

Full disclosure: during the break, I inadvertently scrambled Sidekick's brain with a little nothing of a statement.

Headlining was HighLife, a band that described itself as "coming from New York or Ohio," except that then someone yelled out "Or Waynesboro!" which was apparently where the lead singer was from.

What was most interesting was that before they began playing, they rolled out "blueprints" which supposedly provide the flow of the music and the band takes it from there, improvising along.

HighLife did a full-on audio assault, playing without stopping for a good 45 minutes making discordant sounds, beautiful music and everything in between with non-stop drumming, trumpet, sax, bass and guitar.

After an introductory part full of noise (no other way to put it), they moved into a groove, best signified by the bobbing heads of the Glows musicians watching them.

It wasn't hard to tell that they liked the direction the band was going in.

When the audio onslaught ended all at once, I had t assume that they'd finished every stage of the blueprint.

Once again, Sidekick admitted to some brain scrambling, this time from the music.

Udon, funky free jazz and scrambled brains. If that's not a recipe for a rainy night, I don't know what is.

Skinheads and Bacharach

2012-01-11T02:29:00.000-05:00

I'm quite sure I'd never heard Burt Bacharach's "The Look of Love" performed live before.

But then I'd never been to the Canal Sessions at Current (at the Hat Factory), where acoustic resigns supreme on Tuesday nights.

The last time I'd been in that space, it was to hear local band At the Stars, so it had been a while.

It wasn't crowded, so we grabbed a table with a view, ordered malbec and black bean nachos and settled in for some acoustic goodness.

Tabb Justice did some covers by Elvis Costello and the Clash, as well as some (very funny) original stuff, including a song about the girls who work the Chamberlayne Avenue corridor.

Let's just say glands were mentioned.

He was the one who'd pulled out the Bacharach chestnut and done a decent job with what could be called a cheesy song.

Donna Contessa and her twelve-string acoustic guitar began with Joni Mitchell (including the sublime "A Case of You") and went on to Joan Baez and Shawn Colvin.

Paul Pearce played his guitar with conviction and a beer nearby.

He got props for doing "Take the Skinheads Bowling" and a few hollers of support when he chose to cover Husker Du.

We heard another brief set from Tabb when he returned to do an original song about a guy called Brother Love whom he used to live over twenty years ago.

Apparently Brother Love saw the world through rose-colored glasses and Tabb did not at the time, resulting in a song to that effect.

Perhaps most interestingly, Brother Love happened to be in the audience tonight.

I didn't see any rose-colored glasses, though.

The show closed with a duo of Sean and Andre who covered everything from Cage the Elephant to Oasis.

With any luck, Brother Love went home and listened to "A Case of You" to restore his rosiness.

If he was smart. And he looked like he was.

Tell Us a Story, Karen

2012-01-10T02:14:00.003-05:00

Why wouldn't I want to hear strangers tell me details from their lives?

Exactly. So once again I was at Balliceaux for Secretly Y'All: Tell Me a Story and another round of themed storytelling.

With one terrific twist. I knew half of the storytellers tonight.

Walking in to the place, I kept running into people I knew who were on tonight's Found-themed roster.

As much as I like hearing great stories from strangers, even better to hear them from friends.

And like every Secretly Y'All event, the stories ran the gamut despite the shared motif.

The romantic in me loved the story of how a friend found a fax which led to meeting a tall redhead on the opposite coast with whom he's now been for fifteen years.

Best part: watching his wife, kneeling on the floor behind the chairs, reacting to his words.

The heathen in me cheered at another friend's story of leaving the seminary after fellow students tried to pray the devil out of him.

Best part: his call and response to get the audience to shout "Amen" at the end of his story.

I got my tragedy fix when a girl told a story about her Dad going to rescue her younger sister in the river they were tubing, leaving her, the older sister, to fend for herself by saying, "Sorry, Anna," as he swam away.

Best part: the girl's determination not to lose her tube (unless she died) because her Dad had put down a $100 deposit on it.

I got my comedy fix with the story of a girl whose mother sprayed her hair with the daughter's urine (you had to be there) and later told Dick Cheney abut it at a party.

Best part: the line, "So my Mom went and bought some drug-testing kits from Sharper Image."

And the best part of the story about going to get the four-pound dog boots for a winter in Buffalo?

That's right. Leaving the fake note ("Every time I see you bending over the copier, I want to bury my face in your...) in the mall food court for Taco Bell employees to find and read to great hilarity.

And speaking of bending over, you should have heard the one about a guy hired to break up, ahem, "funny business" in the men's showers at a downtown gym.

Who wouldn't want to be in the audience for such fine storytelling?

Always a listener, never a storyteller; that's my motto.

It's All About What Follows What

2012-01-09T03:38:00.002-05:00

We have a consensus, ladies and gentlemen; we are glad the holidays are over.

It's about time to get back to the business of going out and having a good time for no reason other than that it's Sunday night.

That's the spirit that landed us at Secco with a small crowd of like-minded people tonight.

With an Italian-speaking server, tales of Perugia and a leaning in that direction already, it was more or less a foregone conclusion that we would end up with an Italian wine.

The Benotto Monferrato Rosso "Nebieul" came with a promise on the menu that it would make any Italophile grin (it did).

Since I'd come with a Secco newbie, we tasted around the menu so he could get an idea of the pleasures of the talented kitchen.

The fried Barcat oysters with a pickled ramp creme fraiche were to die for. The subtle brininess of the oysters under the perfectly fried breading should be on every oyster-lover's must-eat list.

The sweetbreads with roasted fingerling potatoes and sauerkraut enticed even the non-gland eater among us who had only memories of his mother eating such things.

He was just as satisfied with the house-made gnocchi with lamb ragout and preserved lemon, a dish I'd had and knew to be a perfect balance of flavors

Our first and last course came on the slate (I heard a customer ask, "How many slates do you have anyway?") with Brillat Savarin, a butter bomb, the luscious Hayley Hazen Bleu and melt-in-your-mouth Bresaola, a meat I could eat all night.

As we ate, a DJ friend came in for a beer and joined another guy. Before long, he was showing off his latest library book find: a book last checked out in 1928.

I am enough of a book geek to find that absolutely fascinating. From the little we saw of the text, the flowery language was of the kind rapidly fading ever since 1928.

Our loss, in my opinion.

Once sated with food and wine, we moved on to music at Commercial Taphouse, listening to the Scott Clark 4-tet from a window seat up front.

We'd have sat down closer since my companion had never heard them before, but every seat in the place was taken when we arrived, a fact which didn't surprise me since I know how good these guys are.

Ever since they stole the show at RVA JazzFest, I try to see them whenever possible.

Drummer Scott Clark never fails to impress with his impeccably controlled yet energetic playing and with trumpet, sax and bass filling out his compositions, we just sat back and took it all in.

They played several new pieces tonight, with "Clockwise" probably my favorite.

Although much of the crowd faded before midnight, we stayed until the end, happy to be hearing live jazz to end our weekend.

Forget small talk and holiday soirees, give me a terrific meal and a little night music.

Or as someone said last night, it's like hearing the Smiths followed by Belle and Sebastian.

You not only have to understand the why of that, but bring chemistry to the mix, too.

Any night of the week.

Palm Sunday Brunch

2012-01-08T15:17:00.000-05:00

As eager as I was to have my palm read, first I had a date with Jezebel.

I couldn't let Movieland show the Betty Davis classic (which, of course, I'd never seen) and not partake of the tale of a Southern bad girl.

Of course, it was a 1938 take on 1852-53, so while it was a highly romanticized depiction of the South, a lot of it also fed into the stereotypical images of it.

Even so, I tend to happily agree with, "Time ain't so important. The longer I live, the more there is of it."

But when a servant tells her, "The toddies are for the gentleman," or her beau says, "It's red! You can't wear that to the Olympus Ball!" I know with certainty that I would have been as talked about as Jezebel had I lived back then.

Advice on how to handle a woman when she get out of line (whip her with a switch, spread lard on her welts and then buy her a diamond brooch) was downright egregious, if period-appropriate.

But a 1938 film requires redemption so the bad girl goes off with her dying love, despite his having married someone else, so that she can save her soul.

Did I mention how miserable I would have been as an ante-bellum woman?

Give me 2012 and a meal at Ettamae's, where they were offering palm readings as a side with your brunch.

I inhaled my light as a feather silver dollar pancakes, sausage and fruit so that I could bare my palm and hear about my past, present and future.

Life line: very long, although she wouldn't go as far as 103. But close.

Intelligence line: very deep, very straight. No one can convince me I'm not smart, she said.

Heart line: showing some major trauma in the past but also showing new possibilities, especially notable because it looks to occur at a point where my head and heart lines have a new, if tenuous, connection.

She read it in my palm, so it must be true.

So I'm guessing that Jezebel's palm looked nothing like mine.

Or as a beau of hers put it, "I like my convictions undiluted, same as I do my bourbon."

Nothing wrong with a little undiluted belief.

Nostalgia is a Seductive Liar

2012-01-08T00:11:00.012-05:00

"I get sentimental over the music of the ’90s. Deplorable, really. But I love it all. As far as I’m concerned the ’90s was the best era for music ever, even the stuff that I loathed at the time, even the stuff that gave me stomach cramps." ~Rob Sheffield

Best era for music or not, I joined a roomful of people at Steady Sounds tonight for a screening of a documentary with a positively awesome title.

"Kill All Redneck Pricks: A Documentary Film about a Band Called KARP" was being shown by its filmmaker, Bill Badgley and although I wasn't familiar with KARP, I am a documentary dork and as such, couldn't resist the siren call of that title.

As I anticipated (and discussed with a few female friends I ran into), the ratio of male to female was about five to one, which is understandable because KARP was a post-hardcore band.

Spanning the years from 1990, when they formed in Olympia, Washington, to the recent past, the film told a story of three nerdy kids who formed a friendship and then a band.

A really loud band.

The trio was part of the riot girrrl/DIY era of the early nineties which meant there were soundbites from members of bands like Bikini Kill and Bangs fondly recalling the glory days of the Northwest music scene in the early '90s.

Surprisingly for the nineties, there was plenty of show footage (for the pre-cell phone era), so the film provided a fascinating look and listen to how the band developed before drugs (naturally heroin given the era) and tragedy (boating accident at 28) ended their career as KARP.

How fitting that a film that has already played Glasgow and Paris and is on its way to San Francisco,D.C. and Portland made a stop in Jackson Ward.

And people wonder why I sing the praises of my neighborhood so loudly?

After a Q & A period with the filmmaker, the crowd mingled for a while and I headed out in search of a low-key bite to eat.

Garnett's provided exactly what I wanted: the surprise of a friend working the kitchen, two girls at the bar discussing the pleasures of Boston and a Scuffletown chicken sandwich to quell the recent grumblings of my stomach (particularly fierce during the film but overshadowed by the volume of the music).

And from the nineties, the music moved back to an entirely different kind of nostalgia, that of the sixties with Keely Smith doing popular standards.

Like my earlier encounter with the nineties, I enjoyed the look back but am much happier in the present.

The way I see it, there's so much more pleasure in what could be over what was.

There I finally said it. Sorry, Rob.

The Most Brisk and Giddy-Paced Times

2012-01-07T02:12:00.001-05:00

Standing on a corner in Jackson Ward and the familiar faces just keep coming.

The aviator, the intrepid trekker, the DJs.

Inside, "Invisible Weight," a show by Sean Mahan displays paintings on wood of figures connecting, floating and being.

"Sewing 4," already sold when I arrive, depicts a young girl and old-fashioned sewing machine. Its purity is striking.

In the back gallery, "Moving Moments" by Erin Tobey takes a whimsical look at tables crashing through rooves and sisters transmuting into furry, winged creatures.

A friend buys a piece of a figure taking in air through a pipe to help her confront her asthma issues..

At 1708 Gallery, "Everything is Under Control," a video piece by Sara Pomerance is part of a larger video series, "Telling Tales."

The short clips of her family and friends leading their lives is melancholy and mundane, like far too many people's.

And because it is Twelfth Night, Richmond Shakespeare presents a reading of, what else, "Twelfth Night" with its themes of merriment (Jeff Clevinger's Sir Toby perfectly nailed the drunken shenanigans of an instigator) and love, always love.

"Love sought is good, but given unsought is better."

It was suggested to me that it could also be phrased as, "I want you to want me."

Daylight and champagne discovers not more."

Avalon, mobbed and with a steady influx of people, provides duck pizza, pepperoni pizza,Thurston Wolfe Family Red (at the owner's suggestion) and questions of growing old.

Moments after our server told us it was last call, I look over to see a girl applying deodorant at her booth. Fortunately, there is no one else sitting with her.

I have seen many things in bar, but never anyone addressing their pit wetness. I suppose it was her last chance to find someone tonight.

Meanwhile, my long-time companion (eight hours at this point) hilariously and half-seriously explains to me that our friendship can be traced back to Abe Lincoln.

Everything hinges on something else and a perfect storm was required to bring it to fruition.

Twelfth Night, or What You Will. That's exactly what we're figuring out.

Annihilation Matches

2012-01-05T23:48:00.006-05:00

I did my best to lower my debauchery quotient tonight and still had a very fine evening.

Desperately seeking culture, I began at Quirk Gallery for the preview of the new exhibit, "Grab It!" a show about annihilation and humor.

The premise of it was pretty basic: if the world is actually going to end, what soft and cuddly things do you need?

Seven artists interpreted this challenge in a variety of ways. Each collection came in a suitcase, the better to grab and go.

One group was all knitted objects, another was all animals. Phil Barbato (the master of soft art) included only one creature, a pink octopus holding a toothbrush.

Personally, my teeth are of no concern to me when we get to the end.

Diane Koss' choices were arranged in two fabulous suitcases, one purple and one pink.

I only wish my luggage was pink and purple. One figure hung from the ceiling and others reached their tentacles up toward it.

I loved how Brigid Bartels used a Starlite blue train case to hold her grouping. It was exactly like the train case my Richmond grandmother used on visits to us when I was a kid.

The award for most masculine went to Oura Sananikone's collection of a plush pair of glasses (so like Oura's own), a bow, arrows and quiver (but soft), a knife and a bottle of spirits, all done in black, gray and brown.

Clearly Oura was thinking more rationally than emotionally and the result was decidedly right-brained.

As I made my way toward the front of the gallery, I made a stop to look at Matt Lively's show, wishing I could afford a print of his "Deer Treehouses," a fantastically detailed image of a treehouse in the deer's antlers.

Up front, I ran into a friend, a Frenchman, with whom I chatted about the cold. He asked me where I was headed.

Appropriately enough, it was to La Parisienne for music and a bite.

"Maybe you will meet your match there," he said encouragingly. I said I wasn't necessarily seeking a Frenchman and he broke it down for me.

"I'm from Northern France," he explained, "but most men from there are a little cold, very practical. You'd be fine with a man from Southern France or even an Italian. They're neighbors, so they're like the French in what matters."

Questioning what that meant, he said, "They're going to want to pinch you and touch you."

I see.

La Parisienne was my destination because, despite several lunches there, I'd not experienced their Thursday night dinners with live jazz.

Walking in, the first person I saw was a friend, another Frenchman, already clearing his work-weary head with the music. He invited me to join his table.

Before long, the owner came over to welcome me, a gracious habit I saw extended to every person who came in the door.

The three-piece combo playing under low lighting gave a warm vibe to a space I knew only as a lunch hotspot. Okay, this was going to work for me.

Happily, I wasn't the only single (male or female) in addition to work groups, couples and girls' night out tables.

The wine was perfectly lovely, Chateau Cissac. tasting of blackberries with a little spice.

Out of nowhere, a bartender friend walked up to our table and hugged me, shaking his head and saying, "You know everybody."

Not even close. Still, it's nice to happen into an impromptu get-together and he joined us.

Since it was my first dinner foray, I wanted a sampling of what was on the menu.

The country pate wrapped in pastry was venison tonight and came with a winter slaw to cut the richness.

The wings were marinated in Harissa paste so they packed some serious heat. The tartine au jardin with goat cheese, radish and olives was a rustic pleasure.

But I'd have to say my favorite was La Parisienne's take on French onion dip, oh-so much richer and tasting of caramelized onions than the American version could ever hope to be.

It was served with a crepe chips, an ideal use for leftover crepes at the end of the restaurant's day. Crisply fried and lightly salted, they were addicting, especially with that dip.

Our little group alternated listening to the music with chatter about cruises ("3 a.m. and I'm walking the deck with two drinks and smoking cigarettes. What are they gonna do, throw me off the boat?"), retirement ("I don't want to live any one place, just travel non-stop") and crowded bars ("The Fire Marshall was standing outside just hoping he could close us down").

Turns out that the weekly live music nights have brought in a procession of jazz musicians who try out on the spot for a chance at getting into the weekly rotation.

Singers, horn players, you name it, they stop by, listen a while and play a song or two after the break to see if they're worthy.

I love the democracy of it, a subject we also discussed tonight (the French version versus the American version).

So much good wine, food, music and talk tonight that I forgot all about the Frenchman's prediction.
.
Besides, everyone knows you never find a match when you're looking for one. And your match never comes in the package you expect.

The jury's still out on the pinching.

More Than This

2012-01-05T16:36:00.002-05:00

It's not just about keeping up with me; it's also about being able to appreciate the musical references.

So if I decide that, after days of frigid temperatures, I want to walk to a favorite neighborhood spot for lunch, it's not just about the vicarious pleasure I get introducing someone to a place I frequent.

And even though it's Ettamae's, it's not just about the corned beef (although it could be since the chef makes both the corned beef and the bread) and the cumin pork (stellar, as always) sandwiches, although those are two superb ways to impress a newbie.

No, it's about the other luncher cocking his head mid-meal, smiling and saying, "All this and Bryan Ferry, too," because "More Than This" is playing.

It's about commentary on the poetic lyrics of "I Melt with You" or the optimism of "There She Goes."

But at the end of lunch with an evocative soundtrack, it's about someone else besides me wanting to know the source of the music.

Pandora, I'd already guessed, but we wanted to know the starting point.

Crowded House. But of course.

Either one of us could have guessed as much, but only one of us could arguably improve on Pandora's take on that musical sound and era.

And that, I would say, is who you want to invite to walk with you for an impromptu lunch on a January afternoon.

Nobody Else Wants Them

2012-01-04T03:52:00.004-05:00

Note to self: unbridled cheese consumption paired with an abundance of South African wine may result in ten-hour evenings.

Not that that's a bad thing.

My favorite illustrator picked me up and took me to Six Burner where we wiled away the early evening drinking the tannic and mouth-filling Left Bank and inhaling cheese.

The Brie was light, the Mimolette cheddar bright orange and from a cave (like I like my music), the Point Reyes Bleu a creamy stinker and our personal favorite, the Crottin, a gloriously barnyard-tasting goat cheese I must seek out again.

We finished with a chocolate terrine with marscapone, dried cherries, pistachio crumble and clementine syrup. Unbilled, but one of the best parts of this enormous dessert, was the pistachio brittle pieces arranged atop it.

From there, she left to go home and make her husband salmon and deposited me and my bottle of Obvio Malbec on the doorstep of my partner in crime.

It's beginning to seem like the longer you know somebody, the better the talk, the company and the laughter are.

A decade plus is a long time. And that's not the Obvio talking.

Her Manly Appetite

2012-01-02T23:04:00.000-05:00

I don't eat a margherita pizza like a Neopolitan woman, or so I was told tonight.

We were at Stuzzi for dinner and because it's Monday, the place was a zoo. Once I scored a stool, I waited for my girlfriend to show up.

In the meantime, any number of people came in, including several bearded regulars to whom the bartender asked, "Peroni and pizza?" to imperceptible nods.

You have to appreciate a woman who knows what men want.

One guy told me that he knows better than to bring a friend on Monday nights given the mayhem. Now he tells me, I thought.

Once my friend made her belated arrival, we began with a bottle of Prosecco and traded tales of our recent exploits (she'd discovered that cayenne and chile powder are not interchangeable).

Working our way through margherita pizzas, the owner came over to say hello and observe our eating progress.

My plate was empty but my friend's was not. She'd eaten the center of the pizza, leaving the circular outer crust intact.

"That's how the women in Naples eat their pizza," he explained. "Only three hundred calories if you eat the center."'

Meanwhile you could have rolled a marble across my plate it was so empty.

I'd be a disgrace to Italian womanhood except that my ancestry is Irish.

He also told us that the traditional wine to accompany pizza in Naples is il Grotta del Sole Gragnano della Penisola, saying that they carried both the dry and sweet versions of this sparkling red wine.

We opted for dry and enjoyed glasses of the very purple and slightly bitter bubbles, although I still have no idea how well it pairs with pizza since mine was long gone.

Even the music had a decided Italian influence with Patrizio Buanne breaking up the Van Morrison and Band of Horses with which it was interspersed.

My friend thought Buanne's voice was so romantic that she jotted down his name so she could share it with her boyfriend.

But then, unlike me, she probably has a boyfriend because she eats like a woman.

I'll know for next time.

My So-Called List

2012-01-02T14:09:00.002-05:00

While 2011 wasn't my favorite year ever, it had some good music to redeem it, at least from where I stood.

So here, in no particular order, are the albums that defined the past twelve months of my life along with my rationalizations for why they captured my head and heart.

Yuck: "Yuck"
Last winter, back when a musician friend first told me how much I'd like this album, I was unprepared for how quickly it would become a mainstay in my CD player. Whether I'm making my ears bleed with Yo la Tengo-like distortion and Dinosaur Jr.-like guitars or getting moony to some sweet slower lyrics, this collection of songs has something for every one of my moods.
Favorite track: "Shook Down" because Yuck isn't just a '90s noise copycat.
The show: October at the Black Cat, here

Washed Out: "Within and Without"
A chillwave artist named Ernest sounds like the set-up for a bad joke, but I've been a fan of his beautiful sounds since I got 2010's EP "Life of Leisure" and made it my beach record. The new full-length is even lusher and longer, meaning Ernest can take me further into his world of swirling sounds.
Favorite track: "Eyes Be Closed" because it sounds like the beginning of an evening with a lover.

Wye Oak: "Civilian"
Charm City never grabbed me like it has the past few years, first with Beach House and this year with Wye Oak. These two musicians can make a lot of noise and the resulting dream pop has enough full-on shoegaze to satisfy my needs while they can also do the earnest folk-based thing to balance it out.
Favorite track: "Holy, Holy" because girls and guitars are the root of all energy.
The show: September at the National, here.

Other Lives: "Tamer Animals"
Sometimes you hear a band and it just stirs your soul. That's how I felt about Other Lives, but the first time I heard them was live and their majestic folk pop made me wish I could make time stop. There is never a throwaway note or word sung with this band and I will sing their praises to the world.
Favorite track: "Dark Horse" because horns and folk music make me swoon.
The show: October at Black Iris Studio, here.

Bon Iver: "Bon Iver"
Believe me, I hate putting something so obvious on my list but even if no one else had, I would have had to. If "For Emma, Forever Ago" was the soundtrack to having your heart broken, this one is the sound of a man in love and so it's even more beautiful, if that's possible.
Favorite track; "Calgary" because his lyrics are poetry. "I was only for your very space." Sigh.
The show: July at the National, here

Raphael Saadiq: "Stone Rollin"
I'm happy to see how many performers are trying to keep R & B alive, or even resurrect it from what it has degenerated into. When I listen to this album, it sounds timeless to me, like it could have come from decades ago. Saadiq is mid-forties, so he may actually have memories of the music he is perpetuating. And thank god he is.
Favorite track: "Just Don't" because Stevie Wonder should always be an inspiration for the ages.

Sleepy Vikings:"They Will Find You Here"
I happened into these guys at a show and fell in love with their spacey guitars, chill drumming and overall jangly pop as they played their entire set seated. I won't deny their shoegaze influences but it's filtered through something simpler and more earnest.
Favorite track: "Calm" because it wears its emotion on its sleeve and that's a wondrous thing.
The show: June at Sprout, here.

Joy Formidable: "The Big Roar"
Last year's EP "A Balloon Called Moaning" made my best of list but I still had to put their first full length on this year's list. I worship at the altar of music from a cave and Ritzy and company deliver with an audio assault; her little girl voice and big fuzzy guitar (not to mention immense pedal board) are the stuff my late night dreams are made of.
Favorite track: "I Don't Want to See You Like This" because it charges ahead and leaves the weak behind.
The show: March at the Black Cat, here.

I know, I know. No one else could possibly have come up with this oddball assortment of favorites and call it their best of list except me.

But in my world, it's new music that makes the world go round. Well, among other things...

Once Around the Block

2012-01-02T03:02:00.001-05:00

I got an invitation to First Dinner, as in first of 2012.

So I took a left, a sharp left and another left with a bottle of Montand Sparkling Brut Rose in hand and ended up at an intimate little dinner party.

To make it even better, a big window was open, the better to savor this unseasonable first day of the year.

How fortunate for me that other people want to cook and share.

Both the crab, tomato and fettuccine dish and the pink bubbles held their own against stories of music and lives past.

Actually the conversation was wide-ranging, touching on greed, PDAs on a bus and spontaneous singalongs to Bryan Adams (no, not me).

Speaking of, the music was vintage (Billie Holiday, Frank Sinatra) until it was romantic and melancholy (Jens Lekman, Badly Drawn Boy) but always worthy of keeping an ear cocked.

I'd like to revive the salon tradition and play host.

The good dinner parties are where you only have wise and witty people to talk to and no one wants to leave.

The best are where you leave only because you know that it won't be too long before it'll start, again.

High Noon at Split Rock

2012-01-01T15:11:00.003-05:00

It was called a First Day Hike.

When the first day of the year is sunny and mid-sixties, can there be a better thing to do than take a hike through the woods?

Pocahontas Park was offering what they called a First Day Hike at noon on New Year's Day.

And while I rarely venture to Chesterfield County, the thought of traipsing through the forest today sounded appealing.

I wasn't the only one. The Park Ranger was expecting twenty people and 87 showed up.

Before we left the boat ramp area, he warned us that we might see people packing pistols on the trail since that was now legal.

Ah, Virginia, with every step forward, always a backward glance.

And because this was a 21st-century hike, he provided his cell phone number to the group in case anyone got lost.

This is the world I'd prefer not to have to inhabit.

But I digress.

The hike was short, only two and a half miles, but covered very hilly and steep areas, making for a satisfying way to sweat out New Year's Eve.

It hadn't occurred to me beforehand, but visually winter is a wonderful time to be in a park. With the canopy of leaves absent, the vistas are endless.

With so large a group, the faster walkers immediately took the lead, which put me right up front with the Ranger's nine-year old son leading the pack..

The group made stops periodically so that the Ranger could tell us a bit about forestry maintenance or local history.

He admitted he was also catching his breath and I'm sure that was true of many of the stragglers.

In between stops, he called to his son to slow down and the kid and I looked at each other, grinned and kept right on.

We stopped at the grave site of a woman whose family farm once occupied part of the park grounds.

Her gravestone was still visible and the Ranger mentioned the many graveyards in the park.

Further on we came to Split Rock which had a romantic story to explain its separation.

The rock had been the favorite place of the dead woman who had visited it every day as a place of contemplation.

Supposedly, three months after she died the rock split, desolate at her absence.

The ranger pointed out that the rock resembled a broken heart. That was worth pondering as I looked at it.

A handsome man with slightly Indian-accented English approached me there and said with a smile, "You are keeping up a good pace and we are lagging behind. Good for you."

It was a nice cosmic balance to the Ranger's continuing admonitions to slow down.

Wandering up and down the trail's hills, it felt like the sky was just barely above the tree tops and it was hard not to marvel at the beauty of this January day.

When we reached the end of the trail, the Ranger gave us two trail options to return to the boat ramp area.

My Indian friend and I chose the longer path because the Ranger said it would have fewer people and we were ready to lose the crowd.

In the half mile back, we learned that we'd both gone to the University of Maryland, both had relatives scattered around Maryland and both had been dissatisfied with the pace of the walkers in the Monument Avenue 10k when we'd last walked it.

But mostly we admired the variety of trees, stepped on stones to cross water and walked as fast as we wanted to.

"I had some extra drinks last night," he explained as if he were the only guilty party. "It feels good to be out and doing this."

Amen, my new friend. I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else.

On a Crowded Avenue

2012-01-01T02:39:00.005-05:00

After being knee-deep in Italian lately, I decided to go all French all the way for New Year's Eve.

After a champagne cocktail, my NYE date and I had a simple little supper at Bistro Bobette of steak frites and Chateau de Vaugelas Corbiere.

It was as filling as it was well-prepared. Adding to my pleasure was running into a guy I used to see on my walk everyday (minus his dogs), one of my favorite wine geeks and the always-friendly Bobette staff.

My date had shown up wearing a muff, absolutely making my night. She and I had just recently been discussing when the last time was that anyone wore a muff.

I can only aspire to find one of my own.

After a leisurely supper, we abandoned the Slip for Amour, where we found the party in full swing when we arrived in the last hour before ball drop.

I had never spent New Year's Eve in Carytown.

Despite our recent cow, we savored a small plate of duck breast with rosemary/red onion relish with Lucien Albrecht Cremant d'Alsace Brut Rose.

Hearing the Flamingos' version of "I Only Have Eyes for You" in Amour caused our conversation to stop mid-syllable as we both let the very romantic song wash over us.

Call it New Year's Eve sentimentality. Or just a really beautiful love song.

A server to the owner said, "When you're through doing whatever it is you're doing, I need two coffees."

To be clear, he was shaking a plastic box of money at us, in a most "alms for the poor" kind of way.

Positively hysterical.

Dessert was a divine espresso/hazelnut panna cotta with a chocolate wafer.

Long after the ball had dropped and the exodus of ball rats was a distant memory, there was a woman on a horse sitting outside Can Can.

Sure, we'd seen plenty of mounted cops earlier, but this was just a woman in a sweater on a horse.

The people-watching on Cary Street in Carytown (flip-flops and glitter) was exceeded only by the people-watching on Cary Street in the Slip (far too many size 16s squeezed into size 8s and wearing 5" heels).

I left lip marks on French cheeks all over town. We'll call them Happy New Year prints.

As I sit here, I hear fireworks going off in Jackson Ward.

May 2012 be everything 2011 was not.

Eve Hands Off the Apple

2011-12-31T02:37:00.003-05:00

Before Richmond had a Listening Room, there was Ashland Coffee and Tea.

It used to be the only place I knew of with a guaranteed no-talk policy during shows.

So with an invitation to head there to see The Hot Seats, we took a drive up 301 for an evening of bluegrass.

We got there in time to score a table right at the corner o the stage, affording a great view of the flying fingers of The Hot Seats.

Our waitress looked like Carole King in the '70s and had a low-key wit that made her endearing.

When she brought our food, we all noticed the absence of roll-ups.

Rushing off and returning with them, she said,: "And here's some silverware so you can eat with dignity."

I especially appreciated it since chili can be ugly when eaten with one's hands.

My partner-in-crime amused me with stories of a friend who had been busy "finalizing the loopholes on her New Year's Eve resolutions."

I found that to be laugh out loud-worthy. If I were going to make resolutions, I'm not sure I would have remembered that important step.

The Hot Seats have many strengths, not the least of which is their range.

From Flatt & Scruggs to Porter Wagoner to John Prine, they have a knack for finding the covers that most closely align with their original and hysterical material.

Introducing "Jail Song," banjo player Ben held them up a second, saying, "I'm not in tune. I got this one mixed up with the other jail song. Sorry."

I can't help but like a band with multiple jail songs.

The song "Peaches" provided one of my very favorite lines of the night (and there were many). "You can always find your type if you like 'em over ripe."

Fruit (low hanging or otherwise) as metaphor for women?

The song "Soft John Blues" got plenty of laughs with lines like, "Gotta get me some of those pills."

A statement of our time, Viagra references seem to be cropping up surprisingly often in songs, as in the zydeco tune "Can't Rooster like I Used To."

The band brought up guitarist Ed's brother Dave to add "traditional bluegrass trombone" to a few songs.

That brass and strings combination is one of my favorites and it's everywhere these days.

The Hot Seats' set moved along at a fast clip with a dozen songs in each set.

Introducing one, they said, "Not all bluegrass is supposed to be happy. Not only is this one not happy, but discordant."

Unhappy and discordant, what more could you need on New Year's Eve eve with trains whizzing by every few minutes?

Okay, house-made chocolate cake slathered in ganache, but we had that.

Another thing I loved about the band was their musicianship; they endlessly and effortlessly switched instruments, demonstrating the range of each performer.

After the encore, our server came back to bring us our check and thanked us for being such great customers.

Telling us that lots of shows brought in picky people, this one had not and she appreciated it.

Susan Greenbaum shows, she said, brought in the worst.

Why? I guessed that it was because the audience would be largely female.

Cracking wise, my dinner partner asked, "Aren't all women picky?"

"She's not!" the server said, pointing at me. "She's perfectly nice and reasonable. You should keep her."

As if I were up for keeping.

I'm not sure whose eyebrow went up higher, mine or my seatmate's.

We walked out into the mild late December air of Ashland and began the leisurely drive through rural Hanover County homeward.

Among an evening of great lines, I'd have to give the honor of funniest yet deepest line to: "Can we just have intellectual honesty?"

Only if you're given the dignity of using silverware to eat while a talented and humorous band plays.

And a Honeycrisp apple.

First Shots, Hold the Pickle

2011-12-30T14:22:00.001-05:00

VCU, we have a love/hate relationship with you.

A group of us at the bar at 821 cafe were discussing how glorious the city is these days with the students gone.

Walking, biking and driving are exponentially easier than when school's in session. Certain restaurants (like 821) become accessible in a way that they aren't most of the time.

Which is exactly how my friend and I ended up there for lunch today. That and we were both starving.

We're one of those rare couples where the female orders the regular Coke and the male wants the diet version.

But he also uses the carcinogenic pink packets for his coffee, so there's really no hope for him.

I tried to talk him into sharing the black bean nachos with me but he was hankering for a burger, so with an order for both we were guaranteed more food than any two people could need or eat at one sitting.

And not just any burger, but the Union burger with Swiss, bacon, Portobellos and fried onion rings. The thing sat up about 5" high.

I teased him by calling it a heart attack on a plate, which is not to say it wasn't incredibly delicious.

One of the servers greeted me with, "Long time no see," a crack on us both having been at the same dinner party last week and then, rolling her eyes, told me she knew that I'd order the nachos.

Just call me Karen, the predictable.

From a few stools down, I heard, "So, did you enjoy the ballet?" and, lo and behold, there was the scientist having a massive Friday breakfast.

Who has two large glasses of orange juice at one sitting?

We indulged in a little "Nutcracker" nerdiness about what we'd seen.

We talked about our New Year's Eve plans with him saying he goes to a Northside party that always includes fireworks, a bonfire and gunshots fired at midnight.

I admitted that I had never heard of those NYE traditions until moving to RVA but now look forward to the sound of shots to ring in the new year.

As my friend and I shared the nachos and burger, we talked about what Santa had brought us, including the bottle of rum his sister had given him.

He doesn't drink. Merry Christmas.

That doesn't stop him from scanning the back bar (he is a bartender, after all) and we both wondered about a gaudy bottle which turned out to be pickle-flavored vodka.

Repulsive as it sounded, we were assured it makes stellar Bloody Marys, not that either of us drink them. Or vodka at all, for that matter.

We totaled about 2/3 of the nachos and half the burger before throwing in the towel and making plans to start the new year with a first together.

Leaving 821, I said hello to a couple of musician friends sitting in a booth and looking like they were enjoying their Friday feast as much as we had.

If they'd decided to open their mouths and start singing, I'd have sat down on the floor to listen.

It's not that VCU doesn't bring much of what I love to the city's fabric. It's just kind of special when the city is down to just us regulars.

And many of them are friends. As 2011 winds down, I raise my glass of Coke to them all.

Patrick x 4

2011-12-30T03:07:00.009-05:00

What an interesting evening of guys this turned out to be.

It began with a man carrying an ax at the Roosevelt.

As in, there was a huge ax handle sticking out of his backpack tucked discretely beneath the bar. Right next to me.

I was only mildly concerned until he informed me that he'd come directly from the hardware store and that he'd also bought a roll of plastic.

Uh huh. Sure.

Upon further conversation, I learned that Patrick, a recent transplant from San Francisco, had just bought a load of wood, all of which was too wide for his Church Hill fireplace.

Wisely, he'd bought an ax to chop it to fit. The plastic was to move and then cover the pile.

Uh huh. Sure.

Like the bartender, he'd been one of the "Lincoln" movie extras before getting bored with the whole process.

"I saw Daniel Day-Lewis do a scene, I saw Spielberg and then I was over it. Anyway, it was more of a bro-friend-fest. It was lots of guys I knew and we talked about music, Richmond and grilling meat."

Sort of sums up mankind, doesn't it?

Actually, a friend and his wife stopped by the bar to say hello and knew Patrick, a photographer with an awesome drooping Civil War mustache, and vouched for him.

It didn't much matter at that point since I was 45 minutes into our conversation by then and had decided to take my chances on talking to an ax murderer on my own.

My reassurance came when he told me he was going to the Drive By Truckers show at the 9:30 Club tomorrow night and borrowing his brother's Cadillac Escalade to make the trip.

He promised to wear his helmet in the Escalade, making the entire conversation worthwhile.

Once Patrick climbed aboard his motorcycle and took off, I turned to my right-hand neighbors and began chatting with the three guys on that side.

Somehow, they were all Patricks, too.

Luckily, by that time I'd finished my Gabrielle Rausse Vin de Gris and moved on to the Blenheim Cab Franc.

One can't face her second, third and fourth Patricks for the night without a bit of fortification.

And the Patricks varied widely. One was a P.E. teacher, one wanted to discuss restaurants and the third engaged me in a discussion of spirituality after death.

While entertaining them, a quartet came up behind us and tried to order the Barboursville Octagon, which the Roosevelt was out of.

The bartender's recommendation was to sub the Linden Hardscrabble Red and I took the opportunity to second that opinion.

Sharing my tale of a recent evening devoted to the Hardscrabble, I heartily recommended that they set their sights on Linden and convinced them to do so.

Meanwhile, I savored the roasted fennel and oyster stew with smoked bacon, fennel pollen and lemon oil. Divine and obscenely rich.

They were an eating out bunch, the Patricks, so once the conversation turned to how La Grotta had the best steak in town (no doubt much to the disgust of the vegan Patrick, also a fan of German hip-hop), I ordered the crostini with local beets and ricotta.

The crostini was a thing of beauty with thinly sliced yellow beets atop a thick layer of ricotta perfectly salted.

Eventually two of the Patricks departed, leaving me with the Philly Patrick who assured me that I'd love Cape May (I'd heard the same from multiple people before) and that he'd be at the Balliceaux show I'd soon be attending.

But only because I told him about it.

Even better, the Hardscrabble group stopped by to rave about the wine I'd chosen for them and left me aglow in heir gratitude.

Then it was on to Balliceaux and a most diverse crowd.

Long before I ran into Patrick #4, I saw several familiar faces: one of the members of Photosynthesizers, the band I'd come to see, who'd friended me after our first meeting ("I've been reading your blog, too" he told me) a guy who wished me Happy New Year "and all that pagan stuff" and a handsome gay friend who kissed me not once but four times on the lips ("Why don't you ever ask anything about the real me?").

I have to assume my pheromones were in full effect tonight.

A guy walked up behind me to get a drink and leaned in, taking a deep breath. "Mmmm" he said, "your hair smells so good. So do you."

For the record, I wear no scent.

Turns out he'd just come from the Republic (the smelliest place in town) so, in comparison, I'm sure I did smell pretty good since I didn't reek of cigarette smoke.

A guy who'd been hired by the band to perform magic tricks approached me and made balls appear and disappear, stuck his finger through a non-existent hole in my hot pink scarf and even made the three of clubs dance after I'd chosen it from the deck, before leaving me to entertain the masses.

A charming guy (who turned out to be in the band) guessed me for a Leo (I'm a Gemini) but had high praise for my legs and their potential.

When he challenged me on not having seen the band before, I retaliated with specific shows and venues and he was forced to acknowledge his error in misjudging me.

Well, except for my legs and their potential.

He also told me straight up that I wasn't from Richmond or the West Coast. His guess? Boston or D.C.

Points were awarded for accuracy.

Photosynthesizers played an outstanding set, necessitating much dancing amongst the crowd. Hip-hop fan or not, there is a singular pleasure to live hip-hop done as well as they do it.

The magician returned and changed into a high school English teacher and I was rewarded with someone with whom I could discuss Shakespeare, the Iliad and punctuation.

I don't often meet a guy to whom I can recommend "Eats Shoots and Leaves" but he was one.

During the last song, the hair smeller returned, questioning the force field the gay friend had thrown around me.

Since when am I so interesting?

It was probably a good thing that the lights came up.

Mom always said that it's best to take raging pheromones home at a reasonable hour.

Okay, she didn't really, but she ~~could~~ should have.

Truth in Tostados

2011-12-29T00:06:00.001-05:00

"T o live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." ~ Oscar Wilde

I am many things to many people, but not a one of them can stand it when I get low.

My natural tendency is toward optimism; the glass is always half full if you ask me.

I wake up raring to go and I rarely turn down a chance to do something that sounds interesting.

Even so, my state of mind had been wavering in a much lower place than usual for a few months now.

To be frank, I felt dangerously close to just existing.

Friends noticed and didn't like it, but had no idea what to do about it.

My mother expressed concern about the absence of my sunny side and strongly suggested online dating, as if that would do the trick.

And while I have several close friends who found love online, I knew that wasn't likely to be the solution to what ailed me.

Instead I went back to doing what I do best: living my life in the way that makes me happiest. Doing the things that matter to me.

But I also started reaching out beyond my usual circle and including some of the people I've known in the past but hadn't spent much time with lately.

Sometimes it backfired and I was sorry I hadn't gone out alone as usual, but sometimes the company was exactly the Rx I needed to return to fully enjoying myself.

Turns out I was lonely and just needed more company more often.

As practiced as I am at living life, I am a highly social creature and had been spending way too much time in my own company.

So there you have it.

Instead of sharing details of my dinner (Pescado's China Street), my companion (a friend for only the past couple of years), what we talked about (moving, admission of feelings, travel) and what happened around us, I offer a rumination on my life.

Merely existing might be easier, but I can't imagine it would be nearly as satisfying.

How's that for oblique?

Mars Disarmed by Venus

2011-12-28T03:37:00.012-05:00

Collaboration came highly recommended by a poet.

Two visiting poets, both former Richmond residents.were stopping at Chop Suey and I was doing my poetic duty taking a first-timer to hear them.

Everyone needs to hear poetry read out loud now and then, even more so when the subject of Mars and Venus comes up.

Especially me since it had been months since the last reading I'd been to. That's too long for someone like me.

Waiting for the reading to begin, I perused a book on unusual buildings only to find a Venetian floating theater used during the Italian Biennial and modeled on the kind popular in the 16th through 18th century in Italy.

It makes me happy to know that there are such things in the world, even if they are in Italy. Look at the stage or look out the window at the passing scenery, oh my!

Jay and Kristin Snodgrass read to the small crowd in the back of the store while their nine-year old daughter made commentary from the floor.

When Jay introduced himself, she said, "Everybody knows that, Dad."

Progeny as peanut gallery.

He now lives in Florida and had done poems about oil slicks on the Gulf coast; many were titled simply "Slick." South Florida and clouds were other topics.

Favorite line: "What passes between us is wafts of conversation."

Kristin was the one who highly recommended collaboration, a process she called "great." She brought it up by way of introducing some collaborative poems she'd worked on.

She mentioned that usually each poet read a part of a collaborative poem at a reading. Immediately, an audience member volunteered to read with her.

He was a fine reader, too, and his voice added a lot to the reading.

Afterwards, the Snodgrasses marveled at the changes around VCU since they were last here ("Chili's?" they asked appalled) and it felt more like friends talking than poets and audience.

Now that my companion had been indoctrinated into the world of poetry readings, we moved on to dinner at Acacia.

From the moment we walked in, it was clear that Richmond was eager to escape home and hearth. The place was mobbed.

We scored a couch and wine and sat down to wait for two seats at the bar.

All at once the packed bar patrons moved to tables and we were two of very few there, which was nice for a change.

It was especially interesting for my sidekick, the poetry reading virgin, since he hadn't been to Acacia since they moved from Carytown.

Thank goodness someone is bringing him up to speed in all the important areas. That's all I'm going to say.

A lover of all things Italian, he chose a bottle of the Kelerei Kaltern-Caldaro Pinot Grigio, a perfectly beautiful wine that reminded him of Italy and reminded me with its aromas a of flower and peaches just how good Pinot Grigio can be.

We started with the house made Coppa with pickled pumpkin and mesclun. The thinly-sliced and flavorful coppa was outstanding, made even more so when we learned that it was the chef's doing.

Poetry works up an appetite, so I went on to the braised pork belly and miso sugar toads with maitake puree and a balsamic reduction.

Yes, I know pork belly is everywhere these days, but sometimes I just need a hunk of fat with a little meat attached. I'll work it off, I have no doubt.

The bacon-wrapped duck breast my dinner partner got was making him very happy, and a bite showed me why.

I have to assume the kitchen was thinking that duck simply isn't rich enough so pig was required to augment it.

We lingered over wine until we were the last customers in the place, talking about the wording of booty calls, unconventional lifestyles and how young is too young to meet and make a relationship work.

Luckily, we had nothing but time.

Or, as The National put it, "We're so disarming, darling. Everything we did believe is diving, diving, diving off the balcony."

And from five floors up, too. There's a kind of poetry to that.

Evening in 3/4 Time

2011-12-27T02:32:00.000-05:00

Obviously, it had been a few years since I'd been to see "The Nutcracker."

For instance, I didn't realize until 6:40 that the performance began at 7, not 8:00. Fortunately for me, my partner in crime was able to get it together as quickly as I was.

And I remembered it as a nearly three-hour extravaganza whereas we were out on the sidewalk by 9:15. And that's with an intermission.

Ballet for the ADHD set?

Everyone's got favorite parts in this old chestnut. I'm enamored of the snake charmer dance for the sinewy athleticism and grace of the dancer who plays the snake.

But for sheer soul-swelling and heart-melting it's the music of "Waltz of the Flowers," that makes me wish I ~~was being waltzed~~ could waltz.

And part of that is the pleasure of having the Richmond Symphony performing the music.

I was pleased to see a friend, the talented Nicholas Lewis, down from the north playing that bass clarinet that he does so well.

Looking around during intermission, I only saw one familiar face; the scientist was in attendance, hardly surprising since he'd once taken me to a dance performance when he'd scored some free tickets.

He was out of reach to inquire if he had any chocolate (he usually does at any kind of performance) so I put thoughts of chocolate out of my head as the lights came down.

After walking out of the theater at the mind-blowing hour of 9:15, we went down to the Belvidere for a bite and to try to figure out why people kept clapping and interrupting the flow of the dance.

Our stay there started with a big laugh when the bartender greeted us with, "Oh, I see you made it to the second date!"

We corrected his misconception and moved on to food before the kitchen closed.

Over smoked salmon (really, who does it better in this town? Belvidere's is like butter) for me and a grilled portabello sandwich for him, we listened to a guy tell us about how he lost his dream girl after five years.

As he explained it, there were no relationship issues, he just screwed up.

He owned right up to it.

And now he's ready to find the right girl. His qualifications? That she really like him.

That's it. After realizing that looks were not the key, he just wants someone who would enjoy him.

Boy, could it be as easy as that?

Maybe that and some chocolates to show he's not going to rush her.

Waltz time is plenty fast enough.

An Awful Hole

2011-12-24T23:33:00.000-05:00

Every Christmas Eve I go see "It's a Wonderful Life" at the Byrd Theater.

Which means that every year I wait in line to see a movie I know practically by heart in a sold-out theater.

It always starts with a singalong of Christmas songs to the organist's accompaniment, including a fabulous Power Point presentation that dates back to the '90s and provides the lyrics for easy reference.

New this year was a "canine chorus" to one song, created by the organist blending chords or something like that (or so I was told by a nearby music geek) to get the barking sound.

Also this year was a new high in the level of obnoxious attendees.

Moments after the film started, just as we were seeing the first of downtown Bedford Falls, a guy in the back row answered his phone.

"Oh, hey," he said loudly enough for me to hear rows away. "Yea, I'm at the Byrd watching a movie..."

The sheer nerve of it was startling. When he continued, several of us proceeded to shush him until he hung up.

Further along in the movie, he talked some more. Loudly and inappropriately, he acted like he was watching a movie in his man cave and could say whatever he wanted.

And then for something truly new and different on Christmas Eve at the Byrd, management came in and asked him to leave (he declined), tackled him and removed him.

The movie continued uninterrupted until the girl behind me got bored and started giving time updates to her mother every five minutes, as if that was going to make the movie end sooner.

Sometimes she talked to the screen. "Are you kidding?" she asked disgustedly at one point to something Jimmy Stewart said.

But that's okay. During the singalong to "White Christmas," I had been struck by an emotional feeling of shared holidays with strangers.

And this is a film that can bring a tear to the eye of strong men; as a friend and I discussed the other night, both of us have seen it happen to unlikely guys.

And if any movie can make you appreciate your own life, this is the one.

"Strange isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

Mine may not be perfect, but I'm absolutely certain I'd leave a hole.

Argyle Evening

2011-12-24T04:18:00.000-05:00

Zeus, Shackleford's, Balliceaux.

Gruet, fillet, Ghost.

Empty, busy, over-capacity.

A guy with a rhyming first and last name said, "Wow, those tights are radical."

Funniest line heard tonight: "Shut up! You like kissing."

Tonight's lesson, kids? Thrift store shopping does not a hipster make.

Walking in Blue Suede Shoes

2011-12-23T16:33:00.000-05:00

It's not like I was ever an Elvis fan.

By the time I got into music, he was old news.

As I got older, I grew to appreciate his seminal role in American music and became more enamored of his crucial role in cultural history than anything else.

Which makes the new show at the VMFA, "Elvis at 21: Photographs by Alfred Wertheimer," as good as an early Christmas present to me.

I met friends there today for the members' preview to see the large-format photographs of Elvis on the cusp of stardom.

The exhibit has photographs from 1956 when Wertheimer was given unlimited access to the up and coming young singer as he toured, recorded and gathered girls.

Best of all, several of the pictures were taken in Richmond when he did a two-night stand at the Mosque.

The series of pictures of him kissing a Richmond girl in the back hallways of the Mosque are provocatively intimate.

My favorite is the iconic one of them touching tongues before kissing, not because of that part but because of the way he has his hands on her waist, as if to secure her in his orbit.

There were photos of him in Broad Street Station when he arrived by train and was carrying his radio. The building's interior and trestles are instantly recognizable if you've been in the Science Museum much.

The photograph of the Jefferson Hotel luncheonette was endlessly fascinating to me.

First of all, I hadn't even known that there was such a thing in the grand hotel. Stacks of soup cans awaited lunchers along with signs touting sandwich specials like "Grilled cheese 20 cents" and "Smithfield ham 40 cents."

Secondly, the shot of Elvis and the same girl talking and eating at the lunch counter is notable for how unbothered they are by anyone. Just two kids having a date.

But it wasn't just the Richmond photos that caught my eye.

One of him on the Steve Allen show singing "Hound Dog" to an actual Basset Hound with a top hat was sweet, although less so when I learned that the point of using the dog was so that Elvis would sing to it and not be swiveling his hips.

Another of Elvis on the train with a portable record player on his lap shows him lost in listening to the music playing, no doubt his own recent recordings. His profile is incredibly young and beautiful.

After seeing the show, my friends and I went down to the Best Cafe for lunch and to talk about what we'd just seen.

As a huge fan of photography and cultural history, I will undoubtedly see the show again.

Getting to see glimpses of the man before the myth is tantalizing.

One picture showed Elvis reading fan mail with a pile of shredded letters nearby. It was his practice to tear them up once he'd read them. He felt that their contents were no one's business but his own.

True that, but how fortunate that the photographs are still very much ours to linger over.

Laughter is the Drug

2011-12-23T02:16:00.004-05:00

We're getting down to just the stay-heres.

As the city continues to empty out for the holiday, it's an easy time to meet up with friends because no place is especially crowded.

I started at Avalon to meet a friend for a drink and we were two of five people at the mostly empty bar.

As the friend who'd recently given me tights from Vienna, he was disappointed I hadn't worn them.

Next time, I promised.

He told me what was wrong with a restaurant we'd recently visited and we plotted about where our next dinner out would be while an '80s soundtrack played.

I'm telling you, neither the Smiths nor the Cure could have guessed their staying power back then.

After a couple hours' worth of chatting, I stopped by to pick up a girlfriend for company the rest of the evening.

She plied me with turtles while she finished dressing (cute! cute! cute!) and we were off (like a dirty shirt, as she likes to say) to Six Burner

Actually, it was for a bite to eat.

The place was livelier than I expected, with several large groups and lots of conversation in the air. The soundtrack was vintage (Cat Stevens, Scott McKenzie) and muted.

The bartender is also an actor.

He immediately told me that he'd seen me at the Richmond Shakespeare reading last week when he'd been part of the cast.

I'd seen him, he'd seen me. It was a match made in heaven.

I began with the South African "Left Bank," a red blend accompanied by a satisfying bowl of bucatini a la carbonara with a 63.5-degree duck egg, bacon and Parmesan-Reggiano.

The perfectly cooked al dente pasta became a decadent delight once I broke the egg over it. Bacon and eggs with pasta, what's not to love?

We joined in conversation with the group of guys who sat down next to us. They shared stories of gas siphoning, shotguns and wedding valets.

The bartender started a new tap, the Flying Dog Oyster Stout, and asked if it appealed to any of them.

"Oyster stout, it kind of creeps me out," one guy said. My friend, however, found its slightly briny finish nicely done.

That led to talk of Chetti's Cow and Clam and its infamous oyster shooters. I was surprised to find my friend knew the place even better than I had.

Walking outside into mid-sixties temperatures and rain-slicked streets, she commented on how New York the moment felt (except cleaner).

I won't lie; I'm reveling in this unseasonable weather and if I can have my windows wide open tomorrow like I did today, I'll be thrilled.

As it is, my windows will be open when I go to sleep tonight.

We finally left Six Burner behind for Balliceaux and the Mondo Italia Dance party.

My friend had never been but I'm a huge fan of Glows in the Dark playing music from Italian cinema while a '60s Italian movie plays on the wall behind them.

There are always lots of breasts, shoot-outs and car chases, not to mention porn mustaches, and it's great fun.

We got there, got a comfy couch to sit on and the music began. The only thing was, there was no visual.

So the band played and the music was awesome with the addition of Bob Miller on trumpet and Lauren Serpa on flute, but still no film.

I found our during the break that the DVD player was broken and thus we were without moving pictures tonight.

Pity.

It was a little disappointing but understandable, so we instead focused on the music, especially when Eddie Pendergrass came up and joined the band to do vocals for a few songs.

My friend and I agreed that we love a) men with soulful voices, b) guys who remind us of Elvis Costello and c) men who move rhythmically and unselfconsciously.

In other words, we had a visual after all.

We used the break to people-watch (impossible to resist at Balliceaux) when we weren't giving each other advice (who is the student and who is the master?) and sharing stories about our firsts, resulting in an awful lot of laugh attacks.

My name is Karen and I am becoming addicted to all this laughter.

Plenty Festive

2011-12-22T03:36:00.003-05:00

Fight the Big Bull got gory for the holidays.

Tonight was their Christmas singalong show at Balliceaux. Having seen them do "Thriller" one Halloween, I wanted to see their take on this holiday.

By the end of the first set, the jam-packed room was overheated and people were complaining about how hot they were.

A cardboard bull came out to start their second set. He was gored with a toy sword and candy canes flew out from behind the bull.

The crowd then moved the bull's form over their heads like a crowd surfer.

With an ad hoc choir in front of the band, they played Christmas carols and songs while the talented musicians of this supergroup.took turns soloing with Matt White conducting.

My partner-in-crime followed me up to take seats on the back of a booth for a better view of the show and the crowd.

All those horns, bass and drums made for some lively music for the season.

When the server came by, my charming and witty companion reported to him that I hadn't been singing along with the crowd.

"That's not very festive," he reproached me.

First I'd heard that there were singing requirements.

Walking out into the night of the Winter Solstice and the balmy 65-degree air was a breath of fresh air.

Might be just what I needed.

The Art of Destruction

2011-12-21T16:30:00.005-05:00

One site-specific installation divided by the eager hands of a few dozen adults and children and it becomes history.

Jonathan Brilliant's "Stick Stack" show at the Visual Arts Center ended today with people like me stopping by to pull apart the room-sized piece of sculpture made entirely of wooden coffee stir sticks held together by tension and compression.

Wisely, I arrived in time to take in the installation in its entirety before the mayhem began.

It was truly beautiful, open and airy in an almost lacy way with undulating curves around pipes, columns and walls.

Arched openings yielded to different ceiling heights in the structure; it felt like a magical place inside.

And then the group of excited children and eager adults were allowed to begin dismantling it all. Because no adhesives were used, it was a matter of gently prying apart a section or two to take home.

Some people were more interested in letting loose the tension and having sticks fall around them.

I took the time to pry out a section about three feet wide and tall, my personal part of Brilliant's RVA contribution of his "Have Sticks, Will Travel World Tour."

While the structure as a whole would never again exist exactly like what I'd seen just moments before, I now had my own piece of it for the ages.

The problem was that I had walked to the Visual Arts Center. And while it had been pouring on the walk over, it had been manageable because it wasn't cold and my umbrella was large.

Walking the mile and a half home with a section of unglued sticks under the umbrella was going to be considerably more challenging.

But art lovers persevere and I made it home with only one small piece having become dislodged.

With a bit of personal tension applied to it, I was able to reattach it to the larger piece and it's already been hung on one of the cantaloupe-colored walls in my kitchen.

I think a piece of art made form the detritus of commercial coffee consumption is the ideal thing to greet me when I go in my kitchen to make breakfast each morning.

Since I've never been a coffee drinker, I expect the irony of the piece to be a delicious daily reminder of Brilliant's "natural environment," the coffee shop, only without the alluring smell.

Frickin' brilliant.

A Sociological Experiment

2011-12-21T02:50:00.004-05:00

If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Boy, that could cover a lot, couldn't it?

My absence had been noted, but it's a busy season. Still, I had missed the Roosevelt for the food as well as the ever-changing company.

Blenheim Cabernet Franc ushered in the evening tucked under the poinsettia at the far end of the bar. As Josh pointed out, "That's your place."

Yes, in a corner as much as possible.

Tonight's special was Littlteneck clams with ham, Sea Island peas in a ham broth that proved to be not only a stellar combination but later became the starting point for a lesson in peas from the Chef.

I found out at the end of the night that I was the only person who'd ordered this savory dish full of chunks of salty ham and with a broth worthy of endless bread sopping.

My dessert was dubbed long-term coconut cake. It provided a lovely finish to my meal although we got so busy talking that the bartender asked if I was eating it in layers because it was taking me so long to finish.

Eating and drinking yielded to storytelling at a neighbor's. Who doesn't like being asked to share their stories?

I've got a million.

The best tug of war discussions come down to semantics. Words, always words.