Sunday Movie, Almost

You don't go to the French Film festival for cutting edge cinema.

As Pru pointed out when she declined my invitation to join me yesterday afternoon, most of the films that get shown end up becoming available on Netflix, so your motivation to go has to come from something other than a desire to read subtitles (not that there's anything wrong with subtitles because some of us love subtitled films).

Besides not having a TV, much less Netflix, I enjoy the festival for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is reveling in being at the FFF now that there are comfortable new seats (bonus: with cup holders) to spend hours in. Those years of camping out in seats with springs digging into our backsides and torn fabric are but a distant memory.

The film Pru had passed on was "Abdel et la Comtesse," a charming comedy about a Contessa with no sons, only a daughter to whom she couldn't pass down the nobility title of her late husband. To the rescue comes a jailbird named Abdel, who also happens to be an art-savvy thief who knows which objets d'art to take and which to leave behind because he's that well-informed about art.

Plus he ultimately has a heart of gold, a code of honor and the Contessa's veterinarian daughter falls for him, but only after Abdel teaches the Contessa to throw gang signs, walk like she doesn't care and take on a local gangster who looks to be about 10.

Plot aside, the movie gave me several French film staples that I love: a gorgeous, old chateau, a character who smokes everywhere and a love story.

Because I've been going to the festival for so many years, it always boggles my mind when I run into somebody without a clue what's going on. That was the case after Mr. Wright and I ate at Branch and Vine when we finished and the chef inquired, "What's next?" After sharing our intention to see a film at the FFF, she was gobsmacked. "Oh, so that must be what the crowds of people were about. I stopped by Carytown on the way over and it was mobbed!"

Okay, I can understand people not going to see French films, but how could you not even know about the four-day event? Especially since it's been going on now for 27 years. But I try not to judge.

Mr. Wright and I were headed back to the Byrd a few hours later when I ran into a couple of people I knew, another reliable perk of the FFF.

First there was the Frenchman, looking tanned and rested, whom I hadn't seen since he closed his restaurant so he could have more time to be with his aging parents in France. Next came the woman I'd met a few years ago at a music show when she first moved into the city. Introducing me to the woman she was with, she explained that her friend was a glass artist and that I wrote for Style Weekly.

It struck me that she was reducing us both to an easy description and I challenged her about how she'd describe herself as succinctly. I know her as a painter and a cyclist, but she admitted she'd have described herself as a graphic designer, which is how she pays the rent.

Funny how we reduce ourselves to what we do for money.

We'd all come to see "Le Collier Rouge," a film set in 1919 about a man conscripted into WW I. It's unfortunate for him because it happens shortly after meeting and falling in love with a woman at a nearby farm after she asks that he make a delivery of hay to her. The audience realizes that they're hot for each other because he's worn his Sunday suit to drop off the hay and she has put on a lovely white eyelet blouse to work in the garden while awaiting his arrival.

I mean, come on, some of us don't even shower unless we have a date, so I see getting gussied up is a sure sign of obvious mutual attraction.

The story, which was told in flashbacks, followed the man into the horrors of war (there were several bayonet-filled scenes I had to close my eyes for) as he became disillusioned with the chaos of war and slaughter of innocent men. In a moment that can probably be ascribed to PTSD, he eventually awards his dog his Legion of Honor medal in front of the entire village and gets carted off to jail for treason.

Naturally, it, too, had several standard issue French film cliches from using a bicycle as transportation to an old French house lit by oil lamps to a love story.

I'm telling you, I love French films for these familiar chestnuts.

After a leisurely morning and lunch at a bustling Garnet's, we headed to Carytown for the FFF one last time. Amazingly, we even snagged the same seats we'd had Thursday and Saturday evenings, minus the giant man with big hair who'd plopped down in front of me Thursday, necessitating craning my neck at an unnatural angle for the entire film just so I could read the subtitles.

But we hadn't allowed for the introduction of the French delegation, students and volunteers, a lengthy process that involves introducing every intern, every student, every Byrd Theatre employee, every actor, director and creative person involved with the entire FFF. I'd sat through it in the past and vowed never to do so again, but the organizers had slyly not included it in the festival schedule, so we'd been ambushed.

I'm here to tell you that I sat there for an hour and a half of the introductions and munched through a medium buttered popcorn before feeling like we were never going to see ""L'echange des Princesses" and giving up. Well, actually I just turned to Mr. Wright and suggested we blow this pop stand rather than devote any more time to waiting for a 3:15 movie to begin when it was already 4:30.

Au revoir, French Film Festival. I love you, but I've got limits.

Until next year...because. let's face it, I always come back.

Meaningful, Symbolic Gestures

I could see it beginning last night.

A simple supper at Garnett's with Mr. Wright on a Wednesday evening turned out to be a standing room only valentine's eve kind of a vibe. Our server - wearing a heart-red cullotte dress - confirmed my guess that we were likely surrounded by early celebrants.

The multi-day extravaganza that is Valentine's Day was upon us and we'd just come for food.

Or at least I had, since it's a holiday not high on my hit parade, though Mr. Wright later unveiled a non-Valentine's Day envelope of his own.

Walking with Mac this morning after two days of road trips for me, we crossed one of our usual corners on the way to the river, only to intersect with an ex of mine. Howdy, stranger is about all I said as we kept moving, but on the way back, two different strangers wished us a happy Valentine's Day.

Grocery shopping meant dodging wild-eyed men seeking flowers, cards and balloons and by the time I finished, I'd talked myself into going directly to Nate's Bagels. Semms they'd baked pink everything, sesame and poppy seed bagels in anticipation of hungry lovebirds (or just the expectations of the masses), but they'd already sold out of the pink everythings.

Since I was there to indulge myself, I didn't really care what color the bagel was. Priorities, people.

Once home from Nate's, I found my annual valentine in the mailbox from Holmes and Beloved. For as long as I've known this man, he sends me a kiddie valentine in a small red envelope inside a large white envelope addressed to me. He always signs both their names to demonstrate his aim is true.

And although I'm not at all into a big celebration on this day, I did need to get out after an intense day at my desk. That's how I ended up walking over to Coalition Theater - past couple after couple framed in the windows at Max's - to see "U Up?" aka a Valentine's Day sketch comedy show.

Turns out lots of people wanted to see comedy about love, courting and romancing tonight and most of them had been wise enough to order tickets online. Not me, so I put my name on a waiting list behind one other couple and sat down to wait.

There were sketches of all kinds from a Millennial Dating Game show where the woman had to pick from three guys she's already hooked up with to Trish and Dave's Extreme Date Night, which was a Bird Box date night ending with a lot of blood and bumping into each other.

Life without you is like a broken pencil. Pointless.

Multiple were the sex talks we witnessed, from one with Star Wars characters (spoiler alert: it involves a bikini and biting the head off a giant slug) to Harry Potter getting the talk from assorted teachers including Voldemort the virgin. Even the Terminator stopped caressing his Nerf gun long enough for his Mom to explain how babies were made. Naturally it involved a picture of a woman he'd never met.

I like that you're obsessed with me.

"Dine Another Day" involved James Bond and Doctor Killmore losing their dates when they can't stop battling for rhetorical dynamic dominance with each other and behave properly date-like. That meant lines like, "Mr. Bond, looks like you have a license to kill...conversation!" as his date stalks out of the restaurant.

You are the nuclear accelerant to my heart.

One of the smartest sketches involved a couple pulling out their argument card decks, using whatever card would help them best their mate in verbal sparring. He pulls out the "turn the table" card or the "spread the blame" card and next thing you know, she resorts to pulling out the "trap" card. You can imagine how that ended.

Tell me about your fiancee, the tuxedo salesman asks. "She likes music, naps and lunch, just like me."

For the "Divorce Doctor" set, couples were looking for reasons to consciously uncouple so they could celebrate the myriad pleasures of being divorced. When one woman took issue with her mate for buying Miracle Whip instead of Duke's mayonnaise, it was in pursuit of a divorce. Heated words were exchanged, with the woman yelling that Miracle Whip doesn't have enough oil in it to be called mayonnaise so she's outta there.

"Speak it!" a guy two seats down from me called out passionately to the couple. He doesn't care about them breaking up, just about mayo superiority.

Richmond, taking their Duke's seriously since 1607. Valentine's Day, not so much.

Off With Their Heads

When things don't go as planned, there's always cake.

Mac and I had a date to eat dinner in service of my hired mouth and then get our culture fix with a play. Simple enough.

Except that when we got to the restaurant I was supposed to be reviewing, it wasn't open. Oh, sure, the sign on the door said they were open daily until 10 but it was only 6:30 and the place was locked, closed up tight. The open sign hung dark and unlighted.

Could it have come and gone already?

Rather than ponder what was up, we got right back in the car and made a beeline for old faithful, My Noodle & Bar, and the front treehouse booth, where we both pretended to look at the menu when really, we both knew we'd be ordering the exact same thing we get every time we go. My same old broccoli and chicken and her same old chicken noodle soup.

Mind you, we do it only to make ourselves feel like we're not the creatures of habit that we clearly are. But then, didn't I read somewhere that most people order the exact same thing from their neighborhood Asian restaurant every single time they go?

Perhaps we are not so pathetic as I thought.

When my food arrived, it seemed somehow more meager a portion than it typically is, a fact confirmed when Mac looked across the table and asked, "Isn't that a smaller serving than usual?"

I know, I know, size shouldn't matter, but when you're hungry, it does. And it wasn't just me because once Mac got busy with her meal, she looked up with disappointment. "There's only one fish ball instead of two," she complained and as the resident chicken noodle soup expert, I didn't doubt she was correct.

Rather than focus on the failings of our favorite dishes, I suggested we adjourn to Garnett's to share a piece of cake and make everything better again, an easy sell considering even my sweet tooth takes a backseat to Mac's.

The funny part was, after that she told me that in one of the blogs she follows (besides mine, of course), the woman shared that she she avoids sweets. "And she has the most beautiful skin, I guess from not eating sugar," Mac concluded.

Well, we'll just have to make peace with the skin we have because there's no way either of us could be that disciplined. Or even want to, no matter how magnificent our complexions might get. Next topic.

Naming the dessert choices once we got to Garnett's, our server got only as far as "coconut cake with caramel and chocolate ganache" before we both gave her the look and she asked if she should stop right there. Ladies and germs, we have a winner.

Sharing a massive slice, I told Mac that the only way it could have been better was if it had been chocolate coconut cake with caramel and chocolate ganache. She rolled her eyes, so I'm not sure she agreed with me.

From there, it was back to J-Ward to leave the car and hoof it over to the Basement to see 5th Wall's production of "Lizzie, the Musical." Because nothing makes for good show tunes like the tale of a 19th century axe murderer.

Conceived of as a punk rock opera, the play got high marks from both of us for its all female cast (well, if you don't count the band led by the fabulous Starlet Knight, which allowed a couple of men in) and a lesbian love story subplot.

So. Much. Girlpower.

As for what drives Lizzie, that would be Daddy who visits her bedroom and takes what she shouldn't have to give. As if that isn't awful enough, he also kills her beloved birds and leaves them in a bloody sack. Meanwhile her sister is all riled up by their stepmother who has replaced the daughters in her new husband's will.

Knowing all that helps explain a lot when both parents wind up bloodied and dead like the pigeons.

Using mic stands as props they could throw, kick, flip and, yes, even sing into, the four characters - Lizzie Borden, her sister Emma, her lover Alice and the show's highlight, Bridget the Irish maid - pump their fists, flip their hair and generally convey full-on '80s riot grrrl style.

In fact, when Lizzie comes onstage in a red satin bustier and skirt after wielding her axe, intending to destroy evidence by burning her bloody clothes, the feeling is just this side of a #MeToo moment. Here is a woman who has zero shits to give.

That she's ultimately acquitted of the crime felt particularly satisfying given the years she'd had to suffer in silence. Because the more things change, the more they stay the same. Kudos, 5th Wall, for choosing such a timely topic.

Murder, girls kissing and coconut cake. What more can you ask of a Wednesday night girl date?

Betting on Bond

It wasn't just the absence of David Niven, it was the non-stop violence.

When I first heard about the Byrd Theater doing a Bond series, I was excited enough to jot down dates for two films: "On Her Majesty's Secret Service" and "Casino Royale." When I got home that night, I looked up both films to make sure a) they were of the Bond era I enjoy and b) that I hadn't seen them. Bingo, 1969 and 1967 and neither plot was familiar, so both dates went into my calendar.

Next I invited two favorite Bond lovers to join me. "On Her Majesty's Secret Service" may have had everyone's least favorite actor playing Bond (George Lazenby) but the movie was great fun and wildly '60s, so that was a win.

Now imagine my consternation when the day before we're set to go see "Casino Royale," Mac informs me they're showing the 2006 version. Hell, I didn't even know there was a 2006 version, not to mention my complete lack of interest in a 21st century Bond movie.

But I was the one who'd done the inviting, so I felt compelled to sit through what was really an action movie starring Daniel Craig for the sake of friendship and good manners. I could have admitted my error and cancelled the plans, but how petty would that be?

At least there was a fine dinner first. The three of us met at Garnett's, where we were the sole occupants of the dining room. And while each of us has our standard order (farmer's salad, Cobb salad, tuna nicoise salad), a special of BLT with avocado and cilantro aioli caught everyone's attention.

Caught, but didn't overcome longtime habits. Both of my Bond buddies opted for their standard order, while I alone broke bad with the BLT special. Which, I might add, was stellar, mainly because of the cilantro aioli that had been made that morning that elevated the sandwich to something incredibly fresh-tasting. Equally as strong was the soup du jour, a racy tomato gazpacho that has also been whipped up that morning and tasted like a summer day full of tomatoes and peppers.

I don't want to brag, but some of us made the right call. Marble cake with chocolate and white icing - good, but nowhere near as fabulous as the orange creamsicle cake we'd had the night before at the beach - finished us off.

Where I made the wrong call, though, was in agreeing to a movie with more explosions, shootings, fights and destruction of property than all the movies I've seen in the last decade combined. Make that two decades. I avoid action movies like some people avoid subtitled art flicks.

What was funny was when manager Todd was introducing the film and asked if anyone had come expecting to the see the 1967 film with Niven, Peter Sellers and Ursula Andress, because if they had, he suggested going directly to the box office to get their money back. I sat quietly because I was there with my invited guests, but, man oh man, I really wanted out. It only got worse when he warned us that this was a very dark story with a flawed Bond, but also an action movie that lacked the typical Bond gadgetry.

Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.

If, in my typical Pollyanna way, I had to say what I liked about this 21st century Bond movie where bodies stacked up like playing cards and I had to close my eyes through every violent scene (so, roughly 3/4 of the flick), it would be that I enjoyed seeing Judi Densch as M.

The only other redeeming quality, which Mac pointed out, was how well 007's clothes fit him. We're of the shared opinion that there's nothing like a fit man in fitted clothes. Can I get an amen?

Fortunately, there was the occasional humorous exchange to break the tension:
Bond girl: I'm afraid I'm a complicated woman.
Bond: That is something to be afraid of.

Beyond that, nada.

And truthfully, if I'd gotten to see the satiric Bond flick I'd been hoping for, besides David Niven's urbane sophistication as Bond, I'd have seen John Huston as M and that would have been almost as good. Not to mention all the groovy clothes and swingin' attitudes that come with a '60s film.

Afterwards, my Bond buddies insisted I shouldn't have made the sacrifice. They'd both seen it countless times, so they'd have understood if I'd changed our plans.

Forget never saying never again. My new rule is I never need to see another Bond movie made after 1985. Life's too short.

And for mere mortals like me, you only live once.

Pointing No Fingers

Infidelity never looked so good.

By that I mean, the 50th anniversary 4K restoration of "The Graduate" that the Byrd Theater was showing tonight was pristine. I don't think it's looked that good since 1967.

"This is the best possible way you'll ever see this movie," manager Todd told the assembled masses and he wasn't kidding. Never have the various colors of Mrs. Robinson's half slips or the details of her blue eye shadow been so vivid.

I started at Garnett's for dinner only to arrive during prime happy hour (it's been a while since I've seen a pitcher of beer served) and just barely manage to snag the only stool available at the counter.

In the tiny kitchen was the always charming Mac who greeted me by catching my eye in the mirror behind the counter. It was enough to get my attention and a smile from him so I had to assume that the baseball-sized mound of chicken salad on my green salad was his doing.

To my left was a guy eating solo and our server's innocuous inquiry about his day turned into a highly detailed account about his company's move and how they planned to spend $30K on renovations, but then the contractor upped the price to $140K, so the company balked and it was lowered to $100K, but then they demanded a $35K deposit.

Her eyes glazed over even before mine did just listening to him ramble.

It was hardly surprising that there was a sizable crowd for "The Graduate," but I have to admit I was surprised by how many young people were in attendance. I'd have been curious to know how many of them were seeing the seminal film for the first time.

Then, too, I wondered how certain dated details registered with them. Like beer cans with two holes punched in the top because it was the pre-pop top era. Or how Mrs. Robinson wore actual stockings and a garter belt, not pantyhose. How Mr. and Mrs. Robinson had to get married because she got pregnant. How the drinking age was lower, so it was okay to offer a 20 year old scotch or bourbon.

For that matter, stop for a moment and consider that Benjamin's father buys him a full scuba diving suit and accessories and complains that it set him back $200. I overheard a guy sitting behind me say it would be at least $1200 today and even allowing for jaw-flapping, I'm sure it wasn't a cheap gift then or now.

And although the movie had its dated moments (clip earrings, opera gloves, lots of teased hair), it held up beautifully for how it melded the story with Simon and Garfunkel's songs and delivered that most sought after ending of all: true love triumphing.

Sigh. Thank you, Hollywood circa 1967.

From there, I headed to Vagabond for music because I have been out for live music far too infrequently the past few months and I think it's affecting me and not in a good way.

The low-ceilinged Rabbit Hole downstairs was mobbed when I walked in and as I stood in the back looking for a way into the crowd, I spotted a girlfriend all the way across the long bar.

Starting toward her, we met in the middle only to return to her corner for a better vantage point. The first band finished their set and we took the opportunity to catch up because, as she said, women gotta talk and men don't always.

Because her relationship is in a state of uncertainty at the moment, she told me that after crying for 48 hours, she'd resolved to take a deep breath and focus on herself. That means she'd been at yoga before this, as well as cutting back on caffeine and drinking, doing whatever she thought would make her feel good.

And we both agreed that going out for live music always makes us feel good, with or without drinking, which is how we'd both ended up here tonight.

Keyboardist/singer Calvin Brown and his band then took the stage and proved that their brand of soul was just what we needed. The jazz critic came over to join us for a bit while the band began weaving its R&B spell over the room.

Brown had written a song or two about Instagram, "Because that's the world we live in," (causing the critic to joke, "I'm waiting for their song about MySpace"). When the singer bantered with the crowd between songs, he was pleased when people responded.

"I like when you answer me like that. I'm a church boy!" he said to applause before launching into "Cool."

I like when I go out looking for true love and end up letting the music wash over me until I feel good. Sure beats yoga.

Keep On Pushing

I have many talents, but being on camera is not one of them.

That's a cold, hard fact I first learned back in college when a friend tapped me to star in his film project to wooden results.

Oh, sure, I can talk to a brick wall or any complete stranger, but a camera? Not my forte.

Before being asked to try again, Mac and I had dinner at Garnett's where we admired the recently refurbished floors, talked about her Uncle Bootsy and ate our favorite salads like we do. Both of us briefly (and foolishly) considered ordering something different than our usual, but why mess with complete satisfaction?

And speaking of that, nothing could have pleased the two of us more than seeing that chocolate chocolate cake was in the house tonight, its frosting as soft as my cotton dress trying to stand up to another dog day of Summer (my apartment was a toasty 94 degrees when I left).

Luckily, the air conditioning at the Hoff Garden was set on full blast when we arrived for Sneakpeek: 2nd Annual Afrikana Film Festival's launch. The system struggled a bit once the room filled up with other devoted movie fans for an evening of short films by directors of color and the sunset beamed its warmth through the big window, but eventually recovered.

The trio of films came across like a trilogy of up-to-the-moment commentary on race relations in the 21st century.

First was Johnny Ray Gill's difficult "Strange Fruit hanging," an emotionally charged music video shaped as a tribute to victims of police brutality. It was painful to watch because the reality for blacks in this country is painful.

The next film was black and white, produced by Ava Duvernay and titled after Common's album "Black America Again." It featured the musician rapping the title track - a protest song of the highest order - to a percussionist in between emotionally charged scenes of women in white singing and dancing on urban streets.

His message was plain: "We write our own story."

The final film, "Hell You Talmbout," had a fascinating story behind it, in part because one of the filmmakers, Denzel Boyd, was from Richmond and in the audience tonight.

It began with children in a schoolroom and roll being called, the names being those of blacks killed by cops and went on to feature a group of kids in white t-shirts with a large "X" on each dancing behind a master tap dancer (in the same shirt) performing to Janelle Monae's Trump-era protest song, "Hell You Talmbout."

During the Q & A afterward, recent VCU graduate Boyd explained how the project had come about with a grant of $8,000 and two partners (one a filmmaker, the other a tap dancer). Since his degree was in graphic design, he was tasked with the visual elements of the film, which they completed in a single day.

I have to say, for one so young who'd been part of his very first film endeavor, he handled the non-stop barrage of questions and comments from the crowd admirably, admitting that they'd seen video of a Seattle tap group dancing to the song and taken their inspiration from that.

And while he hadn't felt any particular calling to address social injustice issues before making the film, he was feeling differently as a result of it. He also admitted (to appreciative laughter) that he was hoping to hear from Janelle any day now.

Then came the announcement of the theme for this year's 3-day Afrikana Film Fest  - Black with a Capital B: Celebrations of Black Personhood and a tease about one of the festival's guests.

When Talib Kweli's name was announced, the crowd roared its approval. Can. Not. Wait.

Tonight was also our opportunity to buy early bird festival passes at a discount rate (no dummies, Mac and I both did before they sell out) and it was after we'd done so that I got tapped to take a turn in front of the camera talking about Afrikana.

When I tried to get out of it based on my skin color, the brains and beauty behind the festival was having none of it. "That's exactly why you're just the person to do it!" she told me. Clearly she had no clue how lame I present when a camera is rolling.

But I did it anyway (with Terrance Trent D'Arby playing overhead) for the cause.

I did it because I think Afrikana Film Fest represents what Richmond is trying to become in terms of race relations. I did it because I attended the very first Afrikana screening back in fall 2014 and scores of their events since.

I did it because I want cultural happenings in this town to resemble the Prince concerts I went to in the '90s: a colorful mix of black and white, old and young and everything in between.

Just don't judge me for how poorly I convey my convictions. Really, I have other skill sets.

Company Charm

If you're going to hang out with someone who's still getting his feet wet in the Richmond scene, it only makes sense to offer up a wide variety of experiences.

If you're going to start by going to Garnett's for lunch, go late.

Even on a Sunday afternoon, regulars know that the more traditional lunch hours tend to be the busiest, but when you don't plan to arrive until 1:30ish, you can anticipate soon having the dining room to yourself. Completely.

You can also expect the servers to be gracious enough to tailor the soundtrack to the remaining guests' taste (or, perhaps, era? hmm...) and in this case, the result was vintage soul: Al Green, Marvin Gaye and the like. Whether the wine pours got more generous or they just felt that way because of the wide-ranging conversation, I really can't say.

In any case, it was an ideal setting for a discussion  of how some people can sleep to music or read and watch TV and the consensus, at our table at least, was that music and reading are all-encompassing and not meant to be multi-tasked.

If you're going to leave the city for the Lilly Pad Cafe on an afternoon when the Pinewood Boys are playing, you'd best bring your luck.

We came in from the back door because that's the new entrance now that they've fenced off the outside "patio" - and I use that word loosely because it's really more of a concrete slab - and joined the line at the bar waiting for service.

I couldn't have been more surprised when one of the bartenders recognized me and welcomed me back (we have a guitar player in common) or less surprised when the wine we ordered came straight out of a 1.5 liter bottle of Woodbridge Chardonnay.

Meanwhile, even though the chalkboard behind the bar clearly stated, "No buckets after 4!" I know I saw at least half a dozen fluorescent plastic buckets full of canned beer pushed across the bar and scooped up by thirsty/drunk customers headed outside for music.

It wasn't my first Lilly Pad rodeo or even my first time hearing live music there but never have I seen the place so thoroughly packed, with people occupying every square inch and plenty of them standing around for lack of a place to sit.

That's where the luck comes in and I wasn't shy about scouting for unused chairs at otherwise full tables and dragging them to a shady spot near the stage. Voila! The first time visitor I'd brought along now had a front row seat for the Pinewood Boys and a river view, although, like the musician that he is, he commented on the dobro being played before even noticing the water.

Best of all, there was a stellar breeze and that, combined with our shady spot, made for the best possible introduction for a newbie to a particular kind of Richmond summer pleasure.

I heard my name a second time when a food friend and her husband walked by en route to the bar. When she commented on the large crowd, I said I'd never seen it so crazy, which is how I discovered that they live barely a mile away.

"We don't usually come on Sundays for that reason but it was such a nice day!" she explained. The temptation of the Pad must be mighty when it's so convenient.

Not everyone has all their teeth at the Lilly Pad and the percentage of smokers is unusually high even for tobacco-loving Richmond, but this was the first time I ever saw someone come in with a firearm tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

When the band began playing "Will the Circle Be Unbroken," my musician companion, a pro, remarked that that usually meant it was the last song and I, a Lilly Pad pro, let him know that we should now be alert to the status of the wooden gliders.

Yes, they were both currently occupied, but I knew chances were good a lot of the crowd would head out once the band stopped playing.

The music hadn't been switched over to classic rock radio for more than a handful of songs when I spotted and we scored one of the gliders and made ourselves at home. From there, we had far better views of the incoming and outgoing boat traffic, including the snack boat, its lighted "open" sign still on even once it tied up at the dock.

We watched people arrive in their boats, climb up on the dock to pull on jeans or shorts and t-shirts over their bathing suits (the sign on the door of the Lilly Pad is quite firm: shirts and shoes required for service) and wander over for a beer or a bucket.

Our decision to sit facing west meant we had spectacular sunset views over the river and only after admiring the dramatic sky for a while had the sense to turn around and see the moon making its way up the still-blue sky. Before the sun even fully set, one of the servers stuck his head out of the door and hollered, "Last call!" but we weren't the only ones who stayed put until our glasses were empty.

If you're going to head back to the city for dinner and you're still trying to ensure a memorable experience, My Noodle's dining rooms provides charm few first-timers can resist and food reliably fresh and delicious.

We got the far tiki booth - the one without the curtain for privacy - near the sound system which poured forth two hours worth of gems ranging from Roxy Music to Nirvana unplugged while we devoured dumplings, inhaled entrees and sipped a Rittenhouse Rye cocktail.

If you're going to sum up a 10 1/2 hour Sunday, consider the delight of the first-timer (seemingly extensive), the multiple soundtracks live and recorded (consistently enjoyable) and the number of weapons brandished (zero).

Bonus points awarded for eating the sandwich named after me. A bon vivant always notices.

Authentic Frontier Gibberish

Good thing I'm well-seasoned.

Age had a lot to do with what audience members did and didn't laugh at. See also: what they did or didn't get.

We'd gathered a quintet for the Byrd Theatre's screening of "Blazing Saddles." It was the second time I've ever seen it, the first also having been on the big screen, if that tells you anything.

My main memory? That it had been  a landmark film for being the first to include farting. No, really, that's what stuck.

Funny, a few decades go by and it's a completely different animal than you recalled. Sort of like the difference in reading "Lady Chatterly's Lover" when you're 17 and rereading it at 40. Same book, far different reads, who knew?

Not only was my younger self no fan of Westerns, but I find physical humor tiresome and sometimes disturbing. It was time for a reassessment.

Manager Todd took the time to remind the crowd that the movie had been made in a less politically-correct time, but what he didn't explain was that director Mel Brooks had been making an equal opportunity comedy and that none of it was intentionally malicious.

And yet, from the very 1970s look of the opening scene - you know, the one that's supposedly set in 1874 - everybody looked Old West via the '70s. Guys wore their dusty jeans with Liberty of London print button down shirts like guys really wore then. Cowboys had haircuts like Richard Carpenter and John Davidson.

They said you was hung
And they was right.

Barely into the film, the n-word is said for the first of countless times and the woman to my left muttered, "Oh, this is going to be offensive." No doubt being on her phone had prevented her from hearing Todd's clear warning. "Faggot" references repeatedly got uncomfortable moans from the crowd.

Of course, Harvey Korman was hilarious as the governor's henchman, whether getting visibly excited fondling a statue while talking about land snatching or hitting his head on the window frame every time he looked out of it. His ability to play creepy (in the bathtub with his rubber toys or begging for a feel of Lilly's ample breasts) only gave dimension to his character.

Anyone could pick up on that.

But did the younger people in the theater get the jokes referencing Jesse Owens, Randolph Scott or even Candy-grams?

I know how we can run everybody out of Rock Bridge.
How?
We'll kill the first born male child in every household.
Too Jewish.

Mel Brooks can write that, he's Jewish.

The audience's difficulty with 1974 language was apparent every time a character said the n-word, chinks, red devils, faggots, bull dykes and a host of other words we've long since excised from decent conversation. But hearing such derogatory terms, albeit representing 1874 mores, was impossible for many millennials tonight to even hear without wincing.

I saved my wincing for the uniformly offensive references to rape, except for the one about people stampeding and cattle raping, which was just silly.

I'd better sit up.
Need any help?
Oh...all I can get.

Corniness abounded, from a cheesy pop song to accompany the introduction of the Norman Rockwell-like town of Rock Bridge - a sun-drenched scene complete with children skipping, business owners waving and neighbors chatting - to a man being dragged across the muddy street hollering, "Well, that's the end of that suit."

The king of corny, conveniently seated next to me, ate it up with a spoon and asked for more.

What's a dazzling urbanite like you doing in a rustic setting like this?

I'm still no fan of physical humor and really have no interest in seeing a woman or a horse punched, but at least now I can appreciate for their place in the slapstick canon a string of sight gags the likes of which was pure Mel Brooks.

What surprised me was how many of the movie's pithy phrases are just part of the lexicon now. I had no idea that "Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges" came from this film. Ditto the scene where Gene Wilder uses Cleavon Little to lure two KKK members.

I was one of the people who roared when he said, "Where the white women at?" and the friend next to me did, too, whispering, "It never gets old!"

Baby, please, I am not from Havana!

In the bathroom after the film ended, I overheard a youngish voice saying, "I didn't think it was going to be so hilarious!" No?

Whether because of or despite the passage of time, I most certainly did. But then, some of my companions refer to me as "Susie Silver Linings," so of course I'm always expecting the best.

And what could be better afterward than a post-film discussion that lasts as long as the movie and includes dinner and dessert?

I can't speak for the younger members of the audience, but dazzling urbanites and white women of an age laughed like it was 1974.

But That's Another Story

The first non-rainy day in almost a week began with a discussion of my first make-out sessions.

Technically, my day began by walking over to the garage to pick up my recently-inspected car, except I was completely sidetracked when I spotted the magnificent fins of a 1961 Chrysler Imperial - white with blue interior - in one of the bays.

It was, as the B-52s sang, as big as a whale.

One of the mechanics I know saw me eyeing it and nodded in agreement, smiling. "Now, that's a ride!" he said, encouraging me to get closer and admire its interior. Peering inside at those generous bench seats, I had an immediate flashback.

Tommy Aquilino was the first boy I ever made out with and it happened in his ancient-even-then blue 1962 Chevy Impala on one of those giant bench seats where there was plenty of room for wayward teenage limbs. Mentioning this to the mechanic, he laughed and talked about how much more comfortable they were than the bucket seats that replaced them.

No kidding. It was like being on a couch but without your parents in the next room.

My walk took me down to the the T Pot bridge to see what so much rain had wrought - a churning, brown, debris-filled river - but over near the climbing wall, a calm cove looked like a turtle sanctuary with over a dozen of varying sizes clearly visible from the bridge.

First I pointed them out to a kid, then a couple stopped to look with us, then a group of worker bees on their lunchtime march joined in until we had as many people looking at turtles as turtles. Having attracted a crowd, only then did I walk away.

Knowing full well that the pipeline would be inaccessible, I took the canal walk instead but got off at 10th Street, mainly because I'd never noticed the sign for it before and I'm always up for a new route.

Standing at the corner of 10th and Canal, a parked car began to back up, then I heard my name from inside. There sat the familiar faces of two French chefs clearly up to no good, or at least trying to convince me they were hard at work. Or about to be. After lunch maybe.

Not as familiar but just as satisfying was 10th and Cary, where I passed two guys sitting on a stone wall eating lunch. When they said hello, I complimented one of them on his startlingly green eyes, joking that he'd undoubtedly heard that many times before. "And you've got gorgeous hair!" he responded as I sailed by.

What kind of fool am I for never having taken 10th Street before?

The gold standard for green eyes - fellow cinephile Pru - picked me up for dinner and a film and we immediately came to the realization that it's Restaurant Week so 40 eateries were out of the running entirely tonight. Reverting to our habit of days long gone, we decided on Garnett's where we scored a table next to the half open Dutch door.

Again I heard my name and there was the chef I used to work with back when I put in time at Garnett's for the morning coffee shift. We hadn't seen each other in years and the last place we had was right there.

"Feels pretty natural, doesn't it?" he cracked. It did, indeed.

With a blue sky for a view and warm spring air coming through the screened door, we had what can only be called a typical girls' night out meal: salads (Cobb, Farmer's) followed by enormous pieces of cake (chocolate chip, coconut) neither of us could fully finish despite valiant attempts and trades (her chocolate chips for some of my cake sans icing).

When we finally threw in the towel, Pru spoke for both of us when she observed, "If only I'd stopped eating four or five bites ago, I wouldn't feel so uncomfortably stuffed right now." Amen, sister.

When we got to Carytown, I realized I hadn't brought a wrap, but she came to the rescue with a little something she'd picked up in Paris and brought along just in case.

"I'm always prepared, like a Girl Scout," she tells me, going on to share that she's always prepared, despite having quit Girl Scouts pretty quickly.

 "I said 'Screw this, I'm missing Hogan's Heroes!'" A child like that doesn't belong in the shackles of Girl Scout-hood.

Once at the Byrd Theater, the woman at the concession stand asked if we wanted anything and I begged off, saying we'd just had cake at Garnett's.

"Omygod, their cake is so amazing!" she gushed, her face lighting up. "And it's huge so I know how you feel! I love that place." You and every other cake lover in town, sweetheart.

Tonight's cinematic masterpiece was Billy Wilder's 1962 gem, "Irma la Douce," and when Pru returned from the loo, she had Holmes and Beloved in tow, so we were suddenly a foursome. I was relieved to learn that I wasn't the only one who'd never seen it, although I continue to dismay Pru with the movies I've yet to lay eyes on.

How, she wondered, had I not seen a movie with a character known for her colorful tights?

The Byrd's manager Todd described it as "a good time and a little bit risque for its time,' but I was in love with it from the opening credits in absinthe green, right on through the obvious matte sets of Paris ("Ah, it's just like I remember it," Pru wisecracked) to the bustling depiction of Les Halles with countless shots of bloody sides of beef and pigs' heads.

Besides the Technicolor glory and period detail of the streetwalkers' outfits/make-up/hair, the main attraction was watching Shirley MacLaine and Jack Lemmon effortlessly and hilariously inhabit their characters.

When he learns she sleeps naked except for a sleep mask, the incredulity on his face alone was worth the price of admission - which, I happen to know, is about the same price as a sleep mask.

Who sleeps that way? My guess would be girls whose first make-out sessions were in Renaults. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course.

Music and Passion, Always the Fashion

Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind. ~ Kipling

So call me a word junkie, but the most curious kind of junkie.

Question: In a post-fact world, when we read words telling us that Barry Manilow is gay - by the way, something we've known since the 70s  - are we to presume this is but another example of alternative truth and he really isn't gay? Has it come to that?

Or are they merely distractionary words meant to keep us from noticing something far more dire? Because Barry deserves better, if only for his chutzpah.

I clearly remember hearing a Casey Kasem Top 40 show where he told a story about Barry, Springsteen and Billy Joel having a conversation at a dive venue when they were just starting out and Barry insisted he'd be bigger than either one of them.

I'm inclined to think he was mistaken, but that's just me. Still, looks like he made it.

And speaking of words, I got a slew of them from my Dad yesterday when I showed up to help Mom with a few things only to discover she'd broken a temporary crown and was headed off to the dentist, leaving Dad and I to take care of her "honey-do" list. As if.

I mean, we moved a desk and rearranged the computer's wiring, but along the way he told me about why he'd given up cigarettes in 1991, a story I'd never heard. Hell, I don't recall he was still smoking as late as the '90s.

I should have known there'd been competition involved given my Dad's athletic nature. He told me how we were at the engagement party for Sister #6 when Sister #3 threw down the gauntlet, saying she could go longer without a beer than he could without a cig.

Three weeks later, she was drinking again while 26 years later, he still doesn't smoke. How had I never heard this chestnut before?

While we were planting moonflowers on the screened porch, apropos of nothing, he said, "You know, it's an extraordinary string of circumstances that led to me even meeting your mother. I was in the army and the first time I was supposed to ship out to Europe, I was sick. The second time I was supposed to go to the South Seas, but I had a sports injury. Finally, they gave me a choice of Fort Lee or Fort McNair and I sure wasn't southern enough to want to go to Petersburg." So he went to D.C. and somehow met Mom.

Those words would never have come out of him if Mom had been there.

But that was yesterday. Today's words came courtesy of Poetry Month and a reading at University of Richmond, where I arrived a tad late (that labyrinthine campus) and while there were no multiple seats together, singletons can almost always find a lone chair.

Reading first was lanky and bespectacled Peter LaBerge coming across more like a theater student than a burgeoning poet with his animated reading and ease in talking to the room, looking up between each line of verse as if to re-engage us or perhaps check who was looking at their screens.

His elegiac poetry concerned the difficulties of growing up gay in suburban Ohio and several pieces were devoted to gay people who'd been senselessly attacked outside Target or in Texas simply because of their sexuality (too soon to make a crack about that being a factor in Barry's decision to hold off...discuss?).

Admitting he wrote a lot of dark poems, he went for lighter, reading one inspired by a man who wore high heels on "America's Next Top Model" and took guff from another contestant who had a problem with it. Peter could not only relate, but, said, "There was a poem there."

And there was but honestly, it was very dark, too.

"Thank you all for using your time to come here on a Wednesday night," he said earnestly from the lectern. "It is a good use of your time, though."

Chen Chen read next and his book was for sale tonight even though it doesn't technically come out until next Tuesday, so we were told to keep our mouths shut about that. He used humor and personal experience to write poetry about leaving China as a 3-year old and now not knowing whether his memories are real or imagined.

In "First Light" he wondered, "What is it to not remember your life?" He recalled his Mom telling him he'd have to be three times better than the white kids to be taken seriously, a surefire way to make a kid wish he wasn't Chinese. That and the frustration of being interchangeable in the eyes of white people.

He spoke of Paris and how it's impossible to be angry in Paris. Mad? Yes. Sad? Sure, but angry? Not in Paris, he asserted. I don't recall feeling angry in Paris last summer, so I think he's right on this one.

But mainly it was the underpinnings of a humorous observer of the universe that set his poetry apart.

Tarfia Faizullah, whom I'd heard read her challenging poems (about the lives of Bangladeshi women, about coming up in an Anglican school) as far back as 2010, was third and had a bit more gravitas then her predecessors.

Interestingly, she began by telling us that her dark focus had softened over the past few years, to the point that she added the word "illuminated" to her new book title in hopes of alerting readers to a shift in outlook. Some of her work dealt with being a brown-skinned woman and the assumptions that go along with that.

Eventually she pointed out her grad school professor, the poet David Wojahn, sitting in the second row, a fact that was making her nervous despite now living in Michigan, hanging around with fiction writers and long out of grad school. I can't imagine why when he was practically beaming with pride as she read a poem about water that had been inspired by signs pointing toward the city of Flint.

And while I wasn't beaming, my soul was most definitely feeling bathed in a calm I hadn't possessed when I walked in. It had been too long since I closed my eyes and let someone read poetry to me.

Coming back through the Fan, I stopped at Garnett's for a farmer's salad enjoyed at the counter directly in front of the open Dutch door, and every now and then, I could feel or smell a hint of Spring flowery breeze wafting in.

Since the soundtrack was right up my alley - guitar-driven indie rock, so New Pornographers, Wild Nothing, Real Estate - I didn't much need other amusements, so the two guys on a first date behind me were icing on the cake as they politely asked each other questions, each one proving a little more just how little they had in common.

Let me put it this way: the got separate checks.

Doing far better at connecting was the blond couple at the end of the counter - his stool swiveled toward hers, her hand on his arm to make a point - except that I found it a little weird that they both had on light blue and white gingham shirts.

When I asked the server who cut my slice of Almond Joy cake if she thought their matching attire was intentional, she said no. Seems that one day three Garnett's employees, including herself, had come to work in burgundy pants and blue denim shirts with no coordination whatsoever.

Randomness apparently happens. Hello, my life.

The two older woman at a table at the other end gabbed non-stop as if sharing state secrets, the only one of which I heard in its entirety was, "That's because the restaurant owner's mother was into horses." I only wish I understood whatever point that answer addressed.

Chances are there's a poem in it.

Popcorn-Eating Intellectual Scum

Someone should've warned him that small hands mean small crowds.

When the President is obsessing about the size of his inauguration crowd, pushing an "America first, f*ck the world" agenda and mandating a taxpayer-funded border wall, what else could I do but walk over to the Bijou with Mac for an anti-fascist thriller oozing political messages and dripping with tension?

Headed to  the front row of Westhampton Theater seats, I couldn't help but wonder why a guy was already comfortably situated in the back row. So I asked. Seems he's an introvert, but a little digging revealed that he likes to watch the goings-on of others from the safety of the back.

Who wouldn't razz a stranger over that?

Like the Bijou's co-organizer James said while welcoming the small crowd to the early show, "We don't know what's going to happen with Trump." What he didn't say was that we're practically positive it won't be good.

But the Bijou was there for us, screening the 1969 Oscar-winning film "Z" by brilliant political filmmaker Costa-Gavras who'd crafted a riveting story about how a non-violent opposition leader is killed by a right wing conspiracy and his murder covered up by the highest of government and police figures.

We were reminded by co-founder Terry how much this film had resonated with still-grieving moviegoers, debuting not long after both MLK and RFK had been assassinated. He suggested we take note of the movie's pell-mell pacing, tough to miss once embroiled in it.

The film opens with a government leader lecturing a room full of white guys about how eliminating ideological "isms" is much like ridding grape vines of mildew: yet one more chore that's got to be done.

Fascism: just another "honey-do" list.

The period details were fabulous - after all, it was 1969 - with men in flowered shirts open to mid-chest with gold medallions swinging, stewardesses in white gloves and pillbox hats and skinny Brit photographers in satin blazers and Nehru jackets. IBM electric typewriters everywhere. Music swung from '60s pop to traditional Greek.

And, of course, it being 1969, the requisite killer car chase.

But a sense of foreboding hung over every frame as you realized how insidiously the regime had commandeered control of people's lives in every possible way. Knowing the story was based on actual events in Greece in 1963 made it the most chilling kind of fiction, punctuated by the fact that the bad guys were only slapped on the wrist.

So how does the military retaliate? By banning practically everything: long hair on guys, mini-skirts, Tolstoy, Sartre, Albee, freedom of the press, sociology, modern music, Sophocles, labor strikes, popular music, the new mathematics and smashing glasses after toasts.

Even the letter "Z" is banned because it was used for graffiti (Z means "he lives" in ancient Greek apparently) as a tribute to the slain opposition leader. That's right, the government banned a letter. Mind-boggling, yes, but Costa-Gavras ably demonstrates that so is a government bent on deciding what the truth is, then expecting its citizenry to accept and regurgitate those alternative facts.

No surprise, a film about damping down political protest, suppressing the media and ridding the country of "intellectual scum" was bound to resonate a little too close to home right now. Well curated, Bijou.

It would be fascinating, given that Costa-Gavras is still alive, to hear the director's take on the appalling new normal we're still trying to adjust to. Absent his thoughts, Mac and I chatted with other film-goers about what a superb film we'd just seen and how uncomfortably relevant it felt.

Now on my third in the series, the Bijou's Facing Fascism film fest feels like hitting the jackpot for a fan of award-winning foreign films, but also a wake-up call to the hallmarks of a totalitarian government, probably the reason why James had made a point of saying that the Bijou was "a safe space, a community resource and meeting place," the kind of space people may need in the uncertain days ahead.

We did the only logical thing possible after walking home from the Bijou - we got in the car and drove to Garnett's to celebrate National Chocolate Cake Day.

Truth be told, we scored the very last slice of strawberry cake but it had chocolate icing to keep to the spirit of the day and we tucked into it with the Scissors Sisters providing a sassy soundtrack. Comfortably numb, indeed.

Fortunately, it's possible to celebrate such nonsense while still processing the complex ideas put forth in "Z," but it's also worrisome to think what the future may hold...or even how much future may be left. Without the right to assemble and a free press, what freedom remains?

"Z" was a powerful reminder of how quickly things can go south and that's exactly what must be prevented.

Because I'm here to tell you that no one is truly free when music and mini-skirts are banned.

Metaphor on the Floor

What do you think about coming? We haven't been out, so no idea how the roads are. We got 8-10 inches with drifts a lot deeper. Better not try. Another day?

In the spirit of not putting off 'till another day what I could laugh about today, I messaged my Mom I was leaving and hit the road to the Northern Neck.

Listening to and getting lost in a Christmas gift from a good friend (Art of Noise's 1999 concept album, "The Seduction of Claude Debussy" which I'd never heard before), I passed the bucolic - woolly sheep eating through snow to grass in a field - and the banal - yet another Tea Party sign, this one about draining the King William swamp while Trump drains the DC one - as I motored over perfectly dry, safe roads.

Fortunately for those of of us who enjoy an unusual sight, no one had drained the actual swamp I passed on Route 360, which was now unevenly covered in snow giving it a sturdier, more solid look than the usual soggy depths I can make out from a moving vehicle.

Job one at my parents' house was schlepping all remnants of the holidays to the third floor for storage, squeezing the dying Christmas tree through the front door to dispose of it and finally rearranging the living room because, well, because my Dad likes to rearrange furniture.

Always has. Growing up, my five sisters and I could count on the fact that our bedrooms would never stay the same for more than a year before he'd rearrange and sometimes, reassign roommates. These days, I just help him move the big stuff.

Along the way my Dad pointed out a lumpy bed in one guest room and bemoaned Sister #4's bed-making skills (he expects a quarter to bounce off the bed when made properly and is planning to school her next time on Remedial Bed-making 101) at the end of her last visit, while the mother who drilled in us in not calling people names jokingly (maybe?) called me a tattletale when I repeated something funny she'd said about Dad to him.

In other words, my parents are hysterical.

Dad decided he wanted a round grilled cheese for lunch, a sandwich we clamored for as kids, but since the stove-top contraption that makes them only makes one at a time, it's a lengthy process when you're making them for a brood.

Just as I'm putting the last round grilled cheese on the table, he announces with urgency, "We must have gherkins!" I don't disagree - gherkins really do complement grilled cheese beautifully - but pickles also require another family tradition: the pickle fork.

And not just any pickle fork, but the one from my mother's sterling silver flatware which is what we grew up using. As children, we were fascinated by its diminutive size and three curved prongs, not to mention how it really did snag a pickle better than a regular fork.

Now it feels like a relic from a bygone era, a gentler time when people took the time to fork a pickle instead of using their fat fingers.

Over lunch, we watched birds in the two feeders just outside the breakfast room jockeying for space and eating like it was their last meal and that's when it hit me: feed the birds.

We'd just put the Christmas tree out front, still wedged so tightly in its stand that Dad was going to wait for male help to separate the two and it was just standing there bare in front of the wide front steps. What if I put bird-friendly treats all over it to give it renewed purpose until it meets its maker at the wood yard?

Come on, I could practically hear an acoustic guitar strumming as someone murmured, "Groovy, man."

When I mention needing pine cones, Dad tells me where on the third floor I can find an entire bag of pine cones (near the crib we all slept in and next to the rattan tiki bar) for my project. Soon I'm tying a piece of twine on each, slathering them with Crisco and peanut butter and rolling them in birdseed.

Mom, the least nature-inclined of human beings, tells me this tree project better not attract raccoons. I remind her she lives in the country, on the water and she's surrounded by snakes and rodents. "That's why I stay in here or on my screened porch," she wisecracks.

I ask her to make popcorn, taking a needle and thread and making garlands of what we don't eat to string on the tree between all the seeded pine cones, tedious work since popcorn isn't the sturdiest material to put a needle through.

"It's going to leave bird poop all over the walkway when they come to eat from it," she warns me with a smart-alecky grin. You already have bird poop under the other two feeders, so what's the big deal?

Meanwhile, Dad is in love with the idea. He's the one who fills the feeders twice a day, shooing away the doves when they scare off the chickadees, sparrows and finches, recognizing which cardinal family is which. It was his "The Complete Audubon," a book that seemed importantly thick to us as kids, that spurred us to wonder how there could possibly be so many kinds of birds.

As I walk by with my last popcorn garlands, he smiles widely and says, "You'll have to come back every week or two and replenish the tree!" I know Mom will never let that tree stay there for that long, so it's a moot point.

It was almost sunset by the time I left, meaning Mom had to state for the record her concern about me driving at night, which she apparently thinks I never do (how cute is that?). Fortunately, I made it home alive, so I can't  imagine what she's worrying about now. Unless there's a basketball game on.

With Lloyd Cole blasting, a friend came by to scoop me up for some quality non-family time, with the end result being we parked near Kuba Kuba and walked to Garnett's for dinner only to find that we were the sole occupants, but the music was good and loud, so we took the window table to make the place look as lively as it felt to us.

A music friend soon walked in to eat and then some people showed up to collect their to-go orders, my friend finished up and before you know it, it was just us again. I have to assume the snow and ice are still scaring off the weather wimps.

We finished with Garnett's newest dessert, banana pudding, a dessert that comes straight out of my childhood and while theirs was a far more refined version, it hit enough familiar notes to satisfy, especially on a day spent with the most eccentric parents I know.

"Apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Mom says under her breath when I call her on it.

Another day, pshaw. Always better to try. No telling what I'll miss if I don't.

We Built This City

The Presidential debate's got nothing on the Richmond Mayorathon.

Did the Clinton/Trump shindig begin with the director of a top ten museum clutching a doll representing "The Scream" while bragging about the upcoming Edvard Munch/Jasper Johns show? I'm afraid it didn't.

Did the national event have not one but two women moderators? It did not. Nor did it have a moderator who repeatedly called out candidates who rambled without answering the question, although she wasn't consistent about it, letting some people off the hook.

Did the prez debate begin with each candidate walking out to his or her own self-selected theme song? I don't think so and although some choices were regrettably trite - "I am the Champion, "Fight Song" or ~shudder~ Dave Matthews Band - it established early on that Richmond was doing this debate thing in our usual DIY way.

Did the unpleasant big business candidate in Monday's debate get showered in a spontaneous chorus of "boos" from the crowd when he went self-servingly off-topic in the very first question of the evening like RVA's unpleasant big business candidate did tonight? No such luck.

Did the main event have a pedophile on the dais main-splaining about how, despite being known as a fighter, he works well with others to accomplish things? Um, nope.

Well, did the televised debate have a candidate who would answer a question about the city's defects by saying, "The biggest weakness is Miss Mosby not being mayor" or fake pout because she wasn't getting enough applause?

And am I the only voter concerned about a would-be mayor referring to herself in the third person?

You don't think Monday's moderator would have had the balls to pull a speed round titled "Team of Rivals" and ask each candidate to say what person running they'd pick to be part of their team and in what capacity, do you?

Or have a candidate so clueless he would respond, "I'd pick a name out of a hat" when asked to choose a specific person, or another who could - with a straight face, mind you - refer to corporate pimp Berry as a "fine southern gentleman"?

It is to laugh.

Where tonight's local version of democracy in action aligned with the all-important Presidential debate was that there was clearly one candidate who'd prepared scrupulously to talk issues and past record and, best of all, even bring humor to the table while others were known to traffic in run-on sentences, platitudes and meaningless rah-rah.

On the subject of transit and how to sell regional transit to the counties, Jon Baliles pointed to the Broad Street corridor labeled in purple on the map and said, "We need to convince the people along the purple route that bus is not a four-letter word."

Boom. And, make no mistake, by "people," he means NIMBY-type white people.

Asked about increasing the city's walkability and bikability, Baliles reminded the sold-out crowd that, "Everyone knows Richmonders are equally bad at walking, biking and driving." Affirmations like we were in church abounded.

Even when reminiscing about the James when he was a boy growing up in Stratford Hills, he managed to elicit a laugh when he said, "Back then, you didn't go in the river for fear you'd grow a second head."

No, where the Presidential debate and Richmond's Mayorathon dovetailed was that any sentient voter could plainly see there was only one viable option to lead. Even the other candidates knew it.

When asked about who they'd want on their team if elected, three of them chose Baliles. Duh. Let's hope Richmond voters in five districts are that savvy in November.

Next to me was a couple who moved to the Fan from London two weeks ago with a table and chairs ("It's a long story," they said in unison when I asked), yet here they were, out trying to learn about the people who want to run their adopted city.

Leaning in, he asked me, "We're new here. Is there a runoff if no one candidate gets at east 50% of the vote?"

I explained that if no candidate gets a majority in at least 5 of the 9 districts, there most certainly is a runoff and he seemed satisfied with that as we exited the auditorium.

Using the warm, humid and breezy night that we agreed felt like beach weather as an excuse, Mac and I ditched the post-debate reception at the museum for the greener pastures of Meadow and Park, where we could hear Janis Joplin blaring from Garnett's open windows and doors from a block away.

Inside, the air was every bit as beach-like as outside, but the music was even more enjoyable at close range and we could sup and sip while rehashing Richmond's political spectacle and the folly of a proposed riverfront project to turn the wilderness of one of our favorite walking destinations, Chapel Island, into a manicured, concrete "park."

Our sense of being at peace with the world eating strawberry cake with cream cheese frosting in the soft night air while Jefferson Airplane blared only encouraged us to believe that yes, we can elect a mayor who will move Richmond forward without selling out or diluting what makes this place so distinctive and livable.

He's only got one head, but tonight proved that was plenty. Baliles is our guy. Even the Londoners said so.

Simmer Down

You never know where the surprises are going to come from.

I saw Hitchcocks's "Rear Window" on the big screen for the first time in 2009 and then a second time in 2011. Tonight I saw it again but with two major differences: I was outdoors and I was seeing it with a whole passel of people who hadn't seen it before, much less heard of rear window ethics.

Ever.

During dinner at a nearly empty Garnett's (there was a woman who'd dropped off her youngest at college and was having cake to help her deal with the trauma), I read the New York Times Magazine issue from December 15, 2015 (still not entirely sure why it remains in the reading box nine months later), mainly because the cover story was called "The Lives They Led" and was about obscure and notable people who died last year, so it was kind of fascinating.

And while I'd read that singer Leslie Gore of "It's My Party" fame was gay, I'd had no clue so many of her songs were about feeling like an outsider because of it.

I'd had no idea that there was a woman known as "Dust Lady" because of a haunting photograph taken shortly after the towers fell on September 11.

Or heard of Lee Israel, a two-bit writer who apparently faked a slew of correspondence by notable dead writers, a scam that led to a book deal about her literary thievery.

All dead now.

Showing my server a '60s photo of a mother and son sitting on a NYC stoop, a lit cigarette in her hand, I commented that you'd never see an image like that today and she agreed. "There's a simplicity to that that doesn't exist anymore. If they did it now, it would be so much more staged looking, so much less natural" she was sure.

Okay and there would also not be a cigarette in her hand.

Dessert consisted of a stranger's leftover frosting (she thinks icing is too sweet) and by the time I left, every seat was filled except mine. And despite everyone having someone with them, I made sure to return the magazine to the box in case others needed dinner company like I had.

Then I went undercover with the Baptists, as I do every August for their Classics in the Courtyard series. Just another heathen in a folding chair at First Baptist.

Trying to look unassuming, I began setting up my chair in the second row, only to have a woman ask me if I was with the James River Hikers. I admitted I wasn't, not sure if I needed to move my chair. She let me stay after I shared that I walk multiple miles every day.

The film had barely begun - Jimmy Stewart's window shades were just starting to roll up and Hitch had not yet cut to one of the many shots of the thermometer showing 90+ degrees - when I overheard a guy behind me ask, "Is this a murder mystery or a love story?" to which his friend replied, "Kind of both."

Kind of superfluous was the captioning, which I had to assume was on in case people couldn't hear all the dialog, but I'm pretty sure everyone there could hear the foghorns, whistles and cars beeping, so why did the captions need to show that inane information, too? It was just annoying.

It was not only an ideal summer flick, but a pretty great outdoor movie with all its references to heat. Beads of perspiration on Jimmy's face. A couple sleeping on their balcony. A composer mopping his studio in his boxers. Everyone's open windows.

As always happens when you're screening outdoors, the world becomes part of the experience. A cool breeze picked up just as it began raining onscreen and ended when it stopped.

As unfortunately also happens, glitches gum up the viewing. When the woman screams because she's discovered her little dog has been strangled, the screen froze, as if in horror.

Once we could have handled, but it kept happening, causing repeated pauses to correct it. Behind me, the "Rear Window" virgins were salivating to find out what was going to happen next.

Since I already knew that much, I focused on admiring the freeze frames of Grace Kelly, each one of which was utterly gorgeous, no matter where the frame settled.

All the starting and stopping was making for running commentary from behind, as in, "No, no, Lisa, get out of there!" when she was trapped in the murderer's apartment, or the clueless guy who saw Jimmy grabbing his camera bag for flashbulbs and whispered, "I hope he has a gun!"

Truly, I was amazed to hear so many people commenting as if this was their first time watching "Rear Window." How is that even possible in a crowd that definitely skewed pre-MTV?

When our hero mentioned needing a drink, the guy behind me said, "I need a drink, too. This is too much suspense!" Cover blown.

Not likely to happen with this crowd, friend. In any case, tonight proved that you haven't seen Hitchcock until you've seen it with the Baptists...and a few covert heathens.

And, yes, there will always be suspense.

Came in Through the Balcony Window

Because only a day that began on such an absurd note could end so hilariously.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't be washing screens after going to dinner and the theater, but I couldn't risk the raccoon showing up hungry like last night and finding a conveniently open window leading to my bedroom.

Why would a city raccoon climb a two story building to the balcony of my apartment at 4 a.m., you wonder? Well, to get to the empty soup can in the recycler out there, of course.

When his noisy visit awakened me, I experienced about a millisecond of fear (because it seemed unlikely a person could get up there) and then placated myself with assurances it had to be a 'coon. Finding a couple of cans and bits of newspaper in the middle of the balcony this morning seemed to confirm it.

Resolved: I will rinse my cans better.

I revisited the balcony just after Pru arrived to collect me for our evening out. I'd somehow managed to walk out without my keys, but not without locking my apartment door first. It was only when I went to lock the front door to the house that I realized my gaffe.

Rather than panicking, I suggested Pru smoke 'em if she had 'em and I'd be back momentarily, before going back to the balcony and removing the screens leading to my left bedroom window.

It wasn't the most pleasant of jobs just after showering (I confess, I hadn't cleaned those screens in the seven years since I put them in), but I at least had the good sense to reach in and snag a pillow case to place across the sill so as to save my legs from debris and dust as I clambered through.

Volia, keys procured and our night proceeds. Pru hadn't even finished puffing when I reappeared at the car.

Mom always said a woman must have an emergency plan when she finds herself locked out and mine simply involves breaking and entering. No big deal.

We joined the dinner crowd at Garnett's at mid-stream, but within 15 minutes, every table was taken and to-go desserts were walking out the door while a soundtrack that began with the unlikeliest sounding of bands - War  - supplyied a solid bass line and constant good mood groove.

Over my farmer's salad and her cheese plate, we swapped tales of July, mine of Paris and castles, and hers of pricey chairs used in the pursuit of wooing. It was a more than equal trade.

But the evening was soon to get even better.

First, imagine trying to explain the plot of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" to an Englishman who'd never heard of it. Pru had done just that today when sharing with a coworker what we were going to see tonight.

Something about blunt force proposals, kidnapping and treating women as chattel didn't translate well and her friend was gobsmacked that such a story had ever passed as family entertainment, much less a classic Hollywood musical.

But for those of us who are dance fans, few musicals showcase as many terrific male dancers as this one, and not just in stereotypical dance moves, but incorporating dance into lumberjack activities like rolling a log or chopping wood.

Say what you will about lumbersexuals, but it always appealed to me.

Once at the Firehouse, I chose front row seats, the better to see all that glorious dancing, and almost immediately we were engaged with the woman next to us about the program's artistic note from the new (and young) Nu Puppis, the performing arts collective presenting tonight's play.

Both the woman and I had immediately been affronted by the wording on the program, namely, "...an ensemble of 20 artists took an archaic beast of the Golden Age and turned it into a joyous affront to the senses."

Rather harsh, don't you think?

Don't get me wrong, I've got no problem with joyous affronts to the senses, but "archaic beast" seemed a tad dismissive of a production I admit to having a huge soft spot for. Granted, it pre-dates me, so I know no world where "Seven Brides" didn't exist, so perhaps my attachment is understandable.

But the woman next to Pru took umbrage with the reference, too, convinced it spoke to not just the script but to fans of it.

Who you calling an archaic beast, anyway, kids?

Before long, though, Pru had mentioned my recent trip and she was sharing her own Parisian memories of when she was 32, newly married and regularly visiting friends in Frankfurt, Germany so the new couple would have a base of operations to tool around France in a VW Bug.

You read that right. If there could be a more exquisite way to visit France in 1972 than in a Beetle with your new husband, I'd like to know what it might be. Go ahead, I'll wait.

"We usually stayed in pensionnes and hostels, but the one place we camped on the whole trip was in Paris," she shared, amazing us both with this unexpected fact. Wait, you could still camp in Paris itself in the '70s? Did it get any groovier than that?

Artistic director Joel explained that this young company was about to give us a non-traditional production that amounted to coloring outside the lines. His hope was that it would affect us in some way and change the way we see everything.

I'd have been happy with just singing and dancing, but I was certainly up for more. And, man, did we get it.

From the opening moment when the actor playing big brother Adam burst through a door in a leather shirt open to the waist to reveal a six-pack and sculpted pecs singing "Bless Your Beautiful Hide," to his references to plowing that included major crotch thrusting, this was not my mother's "Seven Brides."

It was better. So. Much. Better.

This young troupe managed to stay true to the original while completely sending it up, using sight gags, pop culture references and physical humor to mock man's baser instincts at every turn.

When Adam comes to town to find a bride and first sees Millie, the world stops, a spotlight fastens on each of them and the first few notes of Cutting Crew's "Died In Your Arms" ring out. "I..." is all we hear before they bump uglies.

After Adam's brothers kidnap the women of their dreams, Millie refuses to allow the men in the house given their bad behavior. "I won't sleep alongside you, Adam Pontipee," she tells him. The millennial women in the back responded by snapping their fingers in support.

I could have started a discussion group off of that alone, but refrained.

Hands down, one of the most hysterical lines came about after Millie has worked her magic on the brothers, teaching them manners and dancing, even "sewing" them new shirts so they can go a'courtin in town.

Coming onstage in colorful polo shirts, one of the brothers muses, "Where'd we get these shirts?" which was really shorthand for "How the hell did this woman change our lives so drastically, so painlessly, so quickly?"

It's a talent, boys. Kind of like what we were seeing tonight.

Nu Puppis did more than just dust off a golden oldie, they rewrote it for digital natives. When brother Gideon admits to missing his girl, Adam offers him a Playboy magazine and a pump bottle of lotion to take his mind off love.

Howard Keel and Jane Powell were probably rolling over in their graves right about then. And if not then perhaps when Millie slid into the splits as they posed like rock stars, who knows?

The avalanche caused by the women's screaming after they're kidnapped was smartly accomplished by a stagehand holding a white sheet onto which projections of avalanches were shown to a vigorous drumbeat. A rolling metal riser was labeled "tree," a place where shunned husbands could sleep or courting bachelors could pluck flowers.

Now that's some creative special effects.

Humor abounded, like when Adam's log-winded explanations of his bad behavior have Millie looking at her imaginary watch or when the brothers sing of having to make it through winter, all the while clutching their loins to a march-like beat.

When Millie has her baby, it's a faceless form whose arms fall off and is held by its head by father Adam. A mannequin form subs for one of the brides, being tossed and kicked about by her hapless suitor. Sock puppets speak for characters like we're watching a down on its heels high school production.

Truly, this cast and crew was having fun with every nuance of the archaic beast they'd taken to their bosom, managing to insert social commentary, blatant physical humor and every pop culture reference they've ever seen to bear on the tragic plight of men without women.

And that would've been plenty to make for a raucously enjoyable night of theater, but they took it a step further, nailing the big dance numbers despite limited room and having to work around the "American Idiot" set, Firehouse's concurrent production.

There was the classic barn-raising scene, only here a bed subbed for the river in the log-rolling scene. And the "Lonesome Polecat" number where the men moon over their women? Every hatchet was in place, every lean and swing of the tool matched by that of their brethren.

My mother's "Seven Brides" was never far from the surface, even when all the men were in their boxer briefs or Adam was spattered in blood.

Which, thankfully, I won't be tonight after all because the roving raccoon won't have access to me now that I've washed and replaced the screen next to where he does his middle-of-the-night snacking.

Bless his beautiful hide.

Dont Tell Me What the Poets are Doing

Wear sunscreen.

Twice over my birthday weekend, I heard that cheesy Baz Luhrman spoken word piece written as a mock graduation speech and played ad nauseum during its heyday. You know, the one written from the viewpoint of an older woman who's fairly sure she's figured a few things out.

Of all the unlikely birthday happenings - and there were several - one had to be the hour spent talking to my aunt/godmother, a woman I rarely see but with whom I share a passion for theater, ballet and the like. At 70-something, she has season tickets to the opera for the first time in her life. That fascinates me, that she's still trying new things.

I hear about the feminist meetings she went to when she was a young woman working at the World Bank on early computers and how strident she found some of the organizers. How even though she never had children, she's appalled at the parenting she sees today. How she resented being picked up from school and missing a school play because I was being born and my Grandfather wanted company at home.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded.

On the other hand, you will never be younger than you are today, so why not smile when the phones come out for birthday pictures? Although we're still tallying up the results, birthday photos appear to have been taken at Metzger, Nota Bene, L'Opossum, Acacia and Lucca. Only Garnett's was spared.

So. Much. Documentation. ("At least I'm not Instagramming it!" one photographer says).

The tasting menu and wine pairings at Acacia made for a beautifully leisurely meal with exquisite bites -white anchovies over radicchio, skate wing, venison over farro, melon soup, tuna tartare, calamari with curry - following sublime sips (thoughtfully chosen, as with Newton Cabernet Sauvignon or delightfully different as with Kesselstatt Riesling tasting of lime and stone fruit), set to a soundtrack that included Chaka Khan and Barry White.

Came home to a friend's message improvising a song about my extended birthday celebrating, a tuneful message that uses up every second of the recording mocking me.

Floss.

I do, every day, before I go out to have my evening adventure, having taken up the habit when I read that doing so could add six years to my life. Do you know how much fun I could have in those six years? When I told a friend this is why I took up flossing, she responds, "Of course it is."

We managed to close down Acacia, with Robinson Street long since having rolled up the sidewalks, me clutching three itineraries in my hand. How to choose?

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or what other people think of it.

After a sunny lunch at Garnett's with an old radio friend who insists on double chocolate chess pie to celebrate, I go into full birthday girl mode, meaning I had a massage (hella good birthday gift) and then went to Victoria's Secret to buy bras, including a purple one that fellow Gemini Prince would have given the thumbs' up to.

For that matter, as I got ready to go out tonight I listened to the radio playing all Dylan and Dylan covers in tribute to my fellow Gemini's 75th birthday today.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

That would be Leo and Bonnie, she another fellow Gemini. I love when you two remind me how little and how much I have changed.

Tonight's social companion is another fellow Gemini and when she comes to pick me up, I suggest we walk. My jaw drops when she tells me she's worn cute shoes and prefers to drive. Not ten minutes earlier, I'd chosen sensible shoes over cute, just about certain she'd show up ready to hit the pavement.

"Go put on your cute shoes," she directs me and I do.

Whether anyone at Lucca notices or not is debatable, but the feast we enjoy constitutes all the food - Maryland and Newfoundland oysters, an octopus and potato salad that could inspire poetry, clams in green garlic sauce, mushroom and Gruyere risotto, charcuterie and cheese, roasted calamari with fresh garbanzo beans and mushrooms - leaves us so full that even our shoes feel a tad tight on our feet.

Then I remember my mother's rule that everyone has a corner in their stomach for dessert, so we gorge on chocolate hazelnut crostada and panna cotta.

Travel.

And travel to romantic places while you still have a romantic bone left in your body. Like Dublin...or Vienna, Prague and Budapest...or Paris and the Loire. But definitely travel, and not with hot rollers or there will be ultimatums.

Advice is a form of nostalgia.

Power and beauty fade, albeit a bit more slowly with judicious use of sunscreen, but birthdays are forever. Or at least a solid week or so.

The Fourth Was With Us

Call me oblivious, but I'd never noticed the swift creek at Swift Creek Mill Theatre before.

It's not like I hadn't been there, I just hadn't heard the roar of the creek that I did today, undoubtedly a result of the almost non-stop rain we've had since Prince died. And roaring is no exaggeration. The original gristmill must have been wildly productive with that kind of water behind it.

Foto Boy and I were there for "Little Shop of Horrors," which, like the creek, I hadn't seen before. Oh, sure, I'd seen the 1986 film version but the play? Never.

And the eight-month run at Swift Creek Mill in 1986? That was the year I landed in Richmond and was far too busy adjusting to life in the county after Dupont Circle to pay attention to the local theater scene. Today allowed me to correct that.

Our pre-show lunch of salads, Nicoise and Cobb, at Garnett's ran long and as we slid into our seats a few short minutes before curtain, the woman next to us observed, "You're late!" and then smiled to show she was joking.

Everyone's a mother (or grandmother) at Swift Creek it seems.

Everything about the play was fun and well-executed, from helium-voiced Audra almost unrecognizable in a blond pageboy wig as Audrey, to Ian's earnest and nebbishy Seymour to Adam's shape-shifting takes on too many characters to count - the abusive dentist, the Life magazine reporter, the bum barfing on the street, Mrs. Luce - to the do-wop girls acting as a Greek chorus in bouffants, everybody hit their marks and projected energetic devotion to the comedy horror story.

Director Tom Width ably filled in for the actor who usually plays shop owner Mr. Mushnik, giving us a different "Little Shop" than most people have seen.

It was also a thrill to hear Audra and Ian sing "Suddenly Seymour," a song I've heard plenty of times at the Ghostlight After Party and any number of theater parties, but never live as part of the show.

Let's just say I can see why certain boys love to ham it up singing it after a few drinks.

And when all was said and done, the action wrapped up with a gaping Audrey II advancing on the theater audience while leaves and branches dropped down from the lighting to engulf us.

What else would we do during intermission but trek down to the creek to admire its high water and relentless rushing despite the enormous tree trunks clogging it? When I requested that Foto Boy snap me in front of this watery marvel, he tells me his cloud is full.

Do I even have a cloud, I ask of him. "No, of course you don't, you're Karen," he says. Which means if, as the cast sang, the meek will inherit, chances are slim I'll be getting any of that action, either.

Not meek
Don't have a cloud
Slow to notice a creek
Living out loud

Surely there's a song in there, right?

The Light, the Heat

It's 4/20. We know you're hungry!
~ sign outside the Village Cafe

Today is 4/20 (smiley face)
~ sign outside Rumors Boutique

A 420 Carol
~ tonight's show at Comedy Coalition Theater

With all that in mind, it only made sense to start the evening in a split level, just the kind of house where kids probably smoked pot to escape their southside ennui.

The occasion was another Designmonth RVA event, this one at a 1954 house on Riverside Drive that has been renovated from a suburban-looking cliche to what the architects referred to as "West coast modern," which involved re-imagining it by removing the split level and replacing it with an enormous vertical addition, moving the garage to the front and putting a massive garage rooftop patio atop it.

Besides more bedrooms than I can recall, it had a home brewing room (see: drain in center of floor), a closet that ran the length of thee master suite and was wide enough for a couch and gorgeous old azaleas in full bloom crowding the back deck.

One of the Modern Richmond crew referred to Riverside Drive as "Mulholland Drive Richmond" because of its view sheds and distinctly mid-century architecture. Driving out, I saw several houses that supported that theory.

Headed back to the Fan for dinner, I couldn't help but notice how much better at being pedestrians the VCU students are at this point. It's a shame, but by the time we train them in the art of walking around in a city, it's the end of the school year. Pity.

Today's warm yet dry weather meant that the top of the blue Dutch door at Garnett's was open, the screen door keeping bugs on their side of it, but allowing soft evening air to waft in.

The only two seats open in the lively restaurant were at the counter and we took them.

The two women behind us were discussing experiences with men in bars, a couple was enjoying a bottle of Early Mountain Rose as part of the date night deal and a young couple with twin babies was trying to have a meal despite two vocal babies.

When our server took a small hotel pan filled with boiling water to their table, it was to put a baby bottle in it to warm the milk. Impressed with her ingenuity, I complimented her on such cleverness. "Yea, I was pretty proud of that," she grinned. "I used to babysit a lot."

Before we'd even finished our salads, we ordered double chocolate cake and the check because we knew "A 420 Carol" was starting soon. Walking by Gallery 5 to Coalition Theater, the throbbing sounds of a punk show reverberated out while black-clad and deliberately disaffected-looking kids milled about outside smoking cigarettes. It could have been 1982.

Ah, youth.

Using the characters and premise from RCC's recent improvised series "High There" about a guy who inherits a head shop from his stoner Uncle Jim, tonight's special edition focused on owner Jonathan's indifference to the high holy day for potheads while his staff wants to close up and experience Bongzilla, the $11,000 bong that's the shop's centerpiece.

Ho, ho, ho, Merry Spliffness and good luck finding the true meaning of 4/20 and all that.

The staff wants to close the shop and party while he wants a good night's sleep (early morning meeting) while they keep the shop open for the expected 4/20 consumers. Further complicating things is that it's his anniversary and all his wife wants is to celebrate that ("He is a boner, but tonight, he should be my boner").

But, of course, Jonathan's sleep is interrupted repeatedly through the night, beginning with the Bob Marley poster on his wall coming to life as the ghost of Uncle Jim, complete with long multi-colored dreadlocks and lots of beads.

"Every mistake I made, I put a bead in my hair," Marley tells Jonathan. So glad that's not a universal rule.

Poor Jonathan, all he wants to do is sleep - "My mellow is 18 hours of sleep a night. Don't harsh my mellow!" - but all Uncle Jim has done is prepare him for a series of ghost visitors to keep him up.

The ghost of 4/20 past showed him how much fun he used to be, frequently using "Full House" analogies, reminding him of nights capped by a group sing of Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes," while the ghost of 4/20 present, wearing Redskins pajamas and stuffing jalapeno potato chips in his gob, wanted to know why he wasn't celebrating 4/20.

"Because I'm sleepy and I want my store to be profitable tonight?" he asked. In the voice of Moses, host of 4/20 present thundered, "Oh, what have you become?" and proceeded to show poor Jonathan how dull the party was downstairs without him.

An ongoing source of laughter was how none of the ghosts could remember their role, always identifying themselves as the "ghost of Christmas, I mean 4/20 past, present or whatever." Sounds to me like ghosts are freelancers who take whatever jobs they can.

You wear as many hats as you need to to make rent.

Wearing black satin elbow-length opera gloves ("These gloves feel amazing right now" said the first-time satin wearer) and a black shroud, the ghost of 4/20 future points out Jonathan's grave marker and shares that if he doesn't change, his High There shop will wind up becoming a Blimpie's when he's gone.

"Which would be perfect if Blimpie's came back," Future opined, momentarily unconcerned about Jonathan's fate for the sake of a good sub.

Laugh-out-loud improvised moments were constant, including a Matthew Broderick/Godzilla reference even some of the actors didn't get ("Huh?") but was quickly explained. Once Jonathan realizes that he really does have a wonderful life, he tells his girlfriend, "It's our anniversary! Roll me into a blunt and smoke me like one of your French girls."

That was the cue for the staff to toast each other with blunts and begin singing "In Your Eyes" again.

The end, except not really, because the sound guy immediately cues up the real "In Your Eyes" and everyone in the audience went out on a high note, possibly even hungry, definitely not harshed.

And my mellow? Nine hours of sleep a night. Yea, I'm pretty proud of that.