it's all about who you know

I sometimes joke that Mr. Risky Business knows everyone, partly because he does kind of seem to know everyone, but also partly because he's never met a stranger. There would've been a time that I would've said the same thing about myself, but it's really not true. Don't get me wrong, I love meeting new people. I get high off of first impressions. But I am prone to occasional bouts of random sudden-onset shyness that attack with about as much predictability as the weather in Memphis in spring time and vary in severity from, "Ah, I'd rather not" to "OH MY GOD STRANGERS."

Not only does RB not have this issue, I think my sudden-onset shyness spurs him on to even greater feats because he so enjoys making me squirm just a little bit. And also, as we all know, I'm apt to say something monumentally stupid at times like these and that is pretty much always good for a laugh.

So on Friday night, we're down on South Main for the monthly art tour. He's painting and showing work, so Stef came down and joined me, and we did the do ourselves. I took her to the galleries that have become my favorites over the last few months, praised Allah for the good weather and got pretty punchy on free wine. On our way to make a drop-in at RB's gallery at some stage in the evening, a pitch-black coif of hair caught my eye as it floated by me on the sidewalk. I turned, and sure enough, it was Grace Askew (who RB and I recently saw play at Art After Dark at the Dixon and I recently wrote about on Live From Memphis).

Naturally, I share the sighting with RB later in the evening, not realizing that we'd be seeing her again in just a few minutes while I was face-diving into a soul burger at Earnestine and Hazel's. We'd just come back downstairs from a brief chat with Nate, the upstairs bartender, and a few trysts through the side rooms trying to reconnect with the unsettled souls of prostitutes in the nooks and crannies. It was just a few minutes after we'd returned to our table downstairs that she rolled in with a group of friends. RB decided to run out to the car to grab her latest album -- just purchased at the gig we'd been to -- and Stef and I, both being about three glasses of wine and two beers deep, proceeded to make love to the juke box and sing Al Green songs to each other. There was also a LOT of drunk dancing and arm flailing and I think at some point I attempted (and failed, poetically almost) to stand on a bar stool.

At some point during these festivities Grace and her crew escaped upstairs. The jury is still out on whether or not our dangerously high levels of OBNOXIOUS actually physically repelled them from the room, but the odds are good and frankly, I'll take that bet.

About this time, RB gets back and asks where Grace went. I quickly explain that I had repulsed her with my drunkenness. This seemed to require no explanation, so we headed upstairs to find her.

We found her kicking it with Nate, and RB got her autograph. She seemed thoroughly flattered and taken aback by the whole affair. I mentioned the story I wrote for Live From Memphis and told her the name of my LFM blog so she could check it out. And then, before I can word vomit anything too awkward or life-alteringly embarrassing, we skeedaddle back downstairs to join our party.

So with that under our belts Friday night, it really shouldn't have been any surprise to me that when we headed to the Barksdale Restaurant amid an absolute deluge of rain on Saturday morning, Mr. RB immediately made pals with our waiter, an adorable sass of a man whose flowery little accent I just could not get enough of. He spun tales for us about the Barksdale and local-celebrity-name-dropped a bunch of Barksdale regulars for us. Only you can just take out the word "us" and plug in "Mr. RB." At one point, he swung by the table to freshen up coffee and I nudged my coffee cup closer to him. He finished pouring Mr. RB's, flashed his pearly whites and headed off to the next table.

I didn't take it too personally, though. I don't think I'm exactly his type.


cheers,
elizabeth