Cheetos, Snails and Heartache

I felt frisky with a full moon due tonight, starting my evening at a motel.

Well, not an actual motel, but a motel-themed movie complete with motel-themed snackage.

In conjunction with the Library of Virginia's "No Vacancy: Remnants of Virginia's Roadside Culture" exhibit about motels along Route 1, which I'd seen and raved about here, they were showing Wes Anderson's directorial debut, "Bottle Rocket," a film which (no surprise) I'd never seen, much less on the big screen.

It's an established fact that my personal filmography is appalling.

They did it up right, too, with a spread of items you might find in motel vending machines, stuff like banana marshmallow pies, bags of chips, candy bars, Twinkies and glass bottles of soda.

Munching on Cheetos, I mingled with the small group of oddballs who, like me, would come to the state library for a crime comedy caper, overhearing a young woman say she'd never had a Twinkie.

I don't even want to know how this is possible.

After an introduction about the film (Owen and Luke Wilson's debut feature roles), we got down to the story of three guys in Texas, a 75-year plan for a life of crime and, most surprisingly, a sweet, little love story within all that.

The movie began with Owen Wilson uttering "ca caw!"

I don't know if you've ever had a man "ca caw!" under your window to alert you to his presence, but I have. Let's just say the film hooked me from the get-go.

To allow time for additional snacking, there was an intermission in the middle of the 90-minute film and during it, a guy I've run into at events before came up to talk to me.

He always asks me what bands I've seen lately and this time he also wanted to know who I thought was the best songwriter in Richmond.

For the fanzine he's planning on writing. And as if my opinion matters.

When the movie got ready to restart, he asked to join me in my row, which turned out to be interesting mainly because he laughed at stuff I didn't find funny and what made me chuckle didn't seem to effect him at all.

Translation: he'd never be dating material.

After the film and despite the junk food consumed in the name of motel culture, I headed south to La Parisienne for dinner.

The lights were low and a half dozen tables held duos and trios, so I took a seat at the bar where the dateless sit.

My server recommended the Laurent Miquel Nord Sud Syrah and who am I to ignore a recommendation from a Frenchman for an earthy wine with just a touch of minerality?

The music was stellar, pulling in songs by Donkey and Thom Yorke, although I think I was the only one paying attention when his "Black Swan" came on with its endless lyrics of "Cause this is f*cked up, f*cked up."

An autumn salad of greens, cooked apple slices, blue cheese and walnuts was followed by escargots and lots of crusty bread sopping of garlicy butter.

I was ready to stop there, but my server was having none of it, asking if I wanted more wine.

When I declined, he poured some in my glass anyway. "Just a taste," he winked.

It was half a glass, I pointed out. "That's a French taste," he insisted. As it happened, it went just fine with my dessert, a bittersweet chocolate mousse with Chantilly cream.

We got into a discussion of good chocolate, with his vote going to the Spanish for the best chocolate going. Well, he admitted, except for the Belgians.

"And I do buy Lindt," he said sheepishly, explaining it was an easy go-to because of widespread availability.

I didn't have the heart to tell him I buy Chocolove and not just because of the poetry inside.

True, it's made with Belgian chocolate but it's also made in Colorado, surely an abomination to a Frenchman.

I kept my secret so he wouldn't lose all respect for me.

My last stop was Balliceaux to see Those Manic Sea, a three-piece dressed in black, and with a twist on the cliched lead singer role: he isn't a real person.

Instead, a TV is mounted atop a mannequin and the singer's face and voice are on the TV singing while the band plays live.

I'd seen them last May and recognized the singer, Ben, at once from any number of other bands he's been in.

So I knew the drill and started scanning the room, sure that Ben was somewhere in the audience and, sure enough, there he was, near the back and grinning like a fool as the crowd watched him sing to muscular post punk sound coming from the live members of the band.

And speaking of that crowd, it was interesting, if a tad vanilla.

An unusually high percentage of guys were wearing suit jackets or blazers, including one who had on a navy pin-striped suit jacket while sporting a nose ring.

No judging here, just fact reporting.

I saw a girl in a black and white geometric sweater I swear I had in 1985. Who knows, maybe she bought it at a thrift store after I donated it.

It was some time after the song "Outlier" and before "Headache/Heartache" that the drummer left the stage and passed out his drumsticks to eager fans.

Remember the good old days when drummers used to just throw them into the crowd? When did things get so civilized anyway?

Next thing I knew, Ben was coming toward me, arms outstretched. Nothing like hugging the man whose face is singing the songs everyone is listening to.

We talked about the non-moving crowd, how they didn't seem to know how to react to the music. His theory was that usually the lead singer puts off an energy for the crowd to respond to so with only a monitor, they had nothing to feed off of.

The obvious thing would have been for him to jump on stage, but he's supposed to keep a low, unobtrusive profile at their gigs, so that wasn't going to happen.

After a discussion of shows I'd recently seen (he always asks) and how we both need to see new local super-group Avers, he melted back into the crowd who were still unaware of his double presence in the room.

"Thanks for helping us celebrate our birthday!" the guitarist said before the final song, about the time that balloons suddenly appeared bouncing around over the heads of the crowd.

Their set wound down with the guitarist playing that last song standing on the bass drum and the drummer attempting to fire something (confetti? t-shirts? a bottle rocket?) out of a tube which failed to ejaculate.

He shrugged, grinned and gave up, ending the set.

It was enough.

Short of a night in a Route 1 motel, I'd had a French taste of everything I needed for one full moon night.

"Ca caw" aside, that is.