Porno for Political Philosophers

Schneider's dead. And that's not even the most interesting obituary I read in the paper today.

That honor would go to writer Florene King, whom I'd never heard of when I awoke, but whose work I'm now determined to explore because of this sentence from her Washington Post obituary: Miss King, who once wrote pornographic novels for fast money, was a punctilious prose stylist who became an essayist and pretense-flaying satirist along the lines of a latter-day H.L. Mencken or Dorothy Parker.

Sign me up. One quick question, though. I could be making fast money writing pornographic novels? Why am I just learning this information now?

Of lesser import but kind of fascinating was actor Pat Harrington's obit, not because I watched a lot of "One Day at a Time" (I didn't), but because I learned that the man who played the clueless chauvinistic building superintendent had a master's degree in political philosophy in real life.

Damn, that's a hella good actor.

Closer to home, I started at Reynolds Gallery where Richmond's art elite regularly gather at openings and tonight was no exception. Richard Roth's "Speed Bump," Leigh Suggs' "Double Vision" and Tara Donovan's "Slinkys" attracted an "A" list of local talent, mainly women and I happily chatted with all the ones I knew.

Suggs' intricate hand-cut pieces were a marvel to inspect at close range, at least when I could get the social set to move from in front of them so I could actually see the art. I know, I know, see and be seen.

It was a completely different scene at ADA Gallery for Tom Condon's "Haptic Fugitive" (and, yes, I learned a new word tonight- def: based on the sense of touch), a series of direct positives that resembled nothing so much as the images of a black and white kaleidoscope.

What was cool was hearing eager-beaver VCU students cornering him to pepper him with questions. How did you do these? It looks like you manipulated this part, did you? Was that done in the darkroom? When I left, he was explaining that he'd decided not to include his recent large-format digital photographs in this show because they had such a different feel than these.

From there, it was a short walk under my umbrella to Richmond Comedy Coalition for the premiere of "High There," a new weekly improvised sitcom. "You can't binge-watch this one! This is appointment-only comedy!" host Ryan warned us.

As if I binge-watch anything.

Set in a head shop Jonathan inherits from his uncle, each week's episode begins by opening the envelope with the week's premise. Tonight's was - drum roll, please - the pilot episode. Time to establish characters and scene, in other words.

After an appropriately corny theme song, we watched and laughed as Jonathan and his girlfriend Eve (who intends to be president once she's 40 and can't decide if the weed connection in her past will be a pro or a con for her run) acquaint themselves with their new property.

They're not exactly experts on weed or paraphernalia.

To help them out, they have two staffers, one of whom, Townsend, has been quietly embezzling $25,000 since Uncle's death and the other, Grace, a dizzy type, who, when told that no matter how big a number is, you can't divide it by zero, says enthusiastically with a big smile, "That doesn't mean anything to me, but I'm gonna Google it!"

Talking to Eve about her political aspirations, she wonders, "Are you, like, a liberal or a little bit cuckoo?" Because those are the choices in politics.

Laughs came courtesy of young Jonathan's travails, but also the vintage TV commercials between acts that about brought the house down. A vintage Doritos ad, one for a cheesy '70s bar called Al E. Gator's, complete with ferns and disco dancing, a pineapple burger at McDonald's "for a limited time only" (thank you, Ray Kroc) and a Pepsi commercial that focused on why Coke had changed its formula, all had the crowd in stitches with disbelief.

That's just how corny TV was in the olden days, I'm afraid. Toni Tennille haircuts were everywhere.

Naturally, weed humor abounded, such as when Jonathan mistakes a vaporizer for a "pen with a light" and employee Grace brings him up to speed, informing him it's called an "El Discreeto."

Also helping him learn the ropes is new-agey Waylon who runs a bookstore upstairs and knew Uncle. When the $25,000 shortage is discovered, Waylon says, "I'd offer to lend you the money but I run a Mom and Pop bookstore," which got a big, knowing laugh.

Luckily, Waylon has a philosophy for Jonathan's first day of business blues and it's this: Things work out, you break even and then everybody dies.

Fortunately, not anytime soon. There's seven more weeks of laughs at High There and the best part is you have to be there to find out what happens. It's the showing up that appeals to me most.

Just this morning, a friend messaged me to say he couldn't make our planned movie date next week. He excitedly tells me his consolation was finding a European streaming site that allowed him to watch the new Tarantino film last night.

Nice, but no help for me, I write him back.

You have computer and Internet, it's just not as social, he assures me. I remind him that I don't watch movies anywhere but in public places with others, the way god and MGM intended.

He points out that I sleep late and am sometimes late for appointments now, changes from ten years ago, so there may be hope for me yet. I dismiss this entirely.

I see a cell phone in your future, he audaciously writes (which is doubly funny since just two days ago I got an email from another friend wishing me a happy new year and asking, "Will you buy a cell phone in 2016? I don't think so but doesn't hurt to ask."). As if.

Then he asks what movie I'll go see without him. "Maybe I'll see if I can find that one online. Then we can discuss."

Not entirely certain, but I think he's suggesting an appointment-only movie discussion. I hope my sigh of disgust doesn't transmit through the Interwebs.

Am I an alarmist to think that this is how the world will eventually separate itself, into those willing to show up for life and those just as happy to experience it alone and on a screen?

Excuse me, I may feel the need to pen an essay or perhaps a pretense-flaying satire on the subject, but first I've got a punctilious pornographic novel to write. Pen name: El Discreeto.

Fast money, baby, to be spent out and about in the real world.