Cult of Personality

The day has nowhere to go but up when breakfast involves watching a stranger vomit.

For the record, the guy was a passenger in the back seat of a car stopped at a traffic light across from where my friend and I sat eating and looking out a big plate glass window. He opened the door, barfed and closed it, re-opened it, barfed again and closed it.

At that moment the guy in the front passenger seat locked eyes with me and I gave him the thumbs up. He cracked up and returned the gesture as the driver pulled away.

Must have been a helluva Sunday night is all I can say.

Tonight was all about fighting fascism, so a friend and I were among the 100 or so people who gathered at Babe's of Carytown for a reading sponsored by Chop Suey Books. It was a diverse crowd of anarchists, middle aged people, crazies ranting about the monument removal, millennials and more than a few people taking notes.

A good representation of Richmond, in other words.

In the spotlight was Mark Bray, author of "Antifa: The Anti-fascist Handbook," which came out shortly before the Charlottesville debacle, making him a hot commodity these days.

He read from the book, but the bulk of the evening was devoted to taking questions and although everyone played shy at first, eventually the questions came hard and fast and he shared what he'd learned from talking to 60 anti-fascists from 17 countries.

"Fascism is colonialism and imperialism come home to roost," he told the room and surely I wasn't the only person marveling at the astuteness of the statement.

He emphasized that the goal of antifa (and let's face it, almost everyone I know is anti-fascist) is simply preventing fascists (neo-nazis, white supremacists, KKK) from having a platform to spew their venom.

Come on, who's not on board with that?

But his greatest passion was discussing the history of fascism and anti-fascism because, well, he's a history professor at Dartmouth. But he was also part of the Occupy Wall Street protest, so he had plenty of street cred as well.

Plenty of the discussion centered around freedom of speech and whether it's a slippery slope to deny fascists a platform, but for crying out loud, we're talking about fascism here. Did we learn nothing watching Hitler, Mussolini and Franco take over after being given platforms?

What I thought was especially notable about tonight - besides the interior of Babe's with its disco ball, aquarium, paneled walls and Jell-o shots - was that over 100 people came out on a Monday evening for a book reading (unheard of and I would know since I'm usually one of 6 or 10 people at readings) about an unlikely subject like anti-fascism.

Richmond, just let me say that your coolness goes far beyond new restaurants and trendy breweries.

There were so many questions and such passionate discussion that it was close to 9 by the time we strolled down Cary Street and settled on the patio at Can Can for dinner. Lucky us, there was only one other couple out there enjoying the warm night air and they were just finishing up.

I don't know which impressed our server more, the choice of Henri Bourgeois Sancerre La Porte du Caillou or that I travel with my own metal straw. She took it for environmental savvy but I also pointed out that it keeps my lipstick off the glass and dishwashers appreciate that.

"You're so considerate!" she marveled. Too many restaurant friends not to at least try.

My crabcake was thick with lump crabmeat and the accompanying baby kale, arugula and mango salad provided a nice counterpoint to the crab's richness, while my companion's plat du jour - half a grilled chicken with obscene garlic mashed potatoes and toothsome haricots vert - was equally over the top for such simple components.

Nothing like a brasserie to overfeed us while we savored the breeze and watched the street theater of Carytown unfolding a few feet away.

And while we were bound to see a few obviously drunk people (one woman, leading her friend out of Can Can, slurring, "Did you have a good time? See? Monday's as good as Friday for having fun!") given that we were across the street from Weezie's, at no point did anyone pull up, open the car door and barf in front of us.

Sunday night, Monday night, Tuesday night...the way I see it, any one of them can be just as good as Friday night.

Considerate types know it just depends on what you're doing. And sometimes, who you're with.

Doing Nothing Until It Means Something

Lawyers and porn, that's the stuff good evenings are made of.

After a trip to the thrift store and a couple of great scores, I got busy writing late in the day and by the time I came up for air, it was heading toward 6:30.

Time to get cleaned up and see what the evening had in store.

I walked into Amour to a staff remark about the bad weather being all my fault, momentarily forgetting about the tropical storm bearing my name and causing all this unpleasantness.

My intention was to indulge in the Fall rendition of the l'heure heureuse menu, hugely appealing to a starving writer at four small plates for a mere $14.

It was barely ten minutes I was there and in came a lawyer to join me at the bar. We recognized each other because we'd met a while back at Belmont Food Shop.

He must have been a regular because when he saw me looking at the happy hour menu, he highly recommended the roasted beets with candied walnuts and lemon goat cheese over frisee with a honey citrus vinaigrette, having had it recently.

Paired with a half glass of Chateau de Valcombe Costiere de Nimes, it was stellar, so he was right.

Both of us ordered the steak gougeres of grilled flat iron with caramelized onions in a Roqueforte puff pastry with a cabernet demi-glace, but I savored mine with a small pour of Chateau Beau Rivage Bordeaux while the lawyer stuck with coffee.

The lawyer started talking about a magnificent pork chop he'd gotten at Libbie Market about the time I ordered my bratwurst gratin with red onion, potato and Comte, a small crusty crock filled with big flavors.

To go with that cheesy goodness, I had Chateau Jacquet de la Grave Bordeaux while I explained to him that Berkshire was not a brand of chop as he thought, but an heirloom breed of pig.

I know from Berkshire, having recently had the best chops of my life which had come from a Berkshire poppa and a Tamworth momma, which I told him.

"I didn't expect you to know so much about pigs," he said, surprised.

Sir, you don't know me so you couldn't possibly know what I do and do not know.

Let's just say I wasn't sorry when he paid his bill and went back to the office.

Seems he had a brief to finish tonight.

That said, it was barely ten minutes before the owner's lawyer came in for dinner and I had fresh legal company.

What is it with me and lawyers lately?

This one was much more pleasant and far less predatory.

While enjoying a buckwheat crepe filled with poached seafood and wild mushroom-tomato ragout, I sipped on an exquisitely juicy and elegant Henri Bourgeois Sancerre La Porte du Caillou, the epitome of everything a Sancerre should be.

This lawyer was also a biker and he told me about some of the trips he's made, most of them sounding like far greater distances than I'd care to traverse with pedal power.

We got off on a tangent about the law, first about when women got the vote and then about workplace harassment, allowing me an opportunity to share some of my favorite workplace stories from the past.

Between the boss who kissed me in the elevator after a job interview to the co-worker who slapped me on the ass while complimenting said backside, he was aghast that such behavior was still going on in 1992.

I'm here to attest that it was.

By the time he left (seems he also had a brief to finish tonight), it was time for me to go, too, so I could catch the 10:50 showing of "Don Jon" at Movieland.

I was curious to see Joseph Gordon-Levitt's screenwriting and directorial debut, especially given the rave reviews I'd read.

Well, raves once you got past the porn, they all said.

I wasn't going to let a little porn get in the way of a good relationship movie.

As you'd expect for a movie starting after 11 p.m. on a rainy, Wednesday night, the theater held only a handful of people when I arrived.

The film began with JGL's character explaining how porn is better than a real woman, despite the fact that as a bartender, he can get any women he wants any time.

Frankly, it's a little depressing.

Watching porn is just part of his everyday routine, like pumping iron and making his bed, and we see it.

Ten minutes into the movie, three people behind me got up and walked out. Not porn fans, I guess.

Don Jon's a Jersey type- wife beater, chain, pumped-up body- and he and his two best friends hit the bars to pick up girls, preferably nines and tens, as they score them.

His short buddy justifies going out with plainer types, saying, "Twos and threes are some open-minded ladies."

When he meets a true 10 (Scarlet Johansson), who's looking for storybook love like in the movies, his buddies warn him, "This is a long game," meaning she'll take work to bed down.

By work, they mean, taking her to lunch and dinner and having to talk to her before getting naked.

What's amazing if that JGL somehow makes a guy like this likable.

She holds out on him, saying, "I don't want to do anything until it means something," but even once they do start having sex, he's still on porn sites.

A lot. Like 46 times a day. Says the only time he can get lost in himself is with porn.

When she discovers this by looking at his computer's history, they're through.

He defends himself by saying, "Any guy who says he doesn't watch porn is lying."

Okay, guys, is that true? I'm really curious.

On the advice of a casual friend, an older woman in a class he takes, he tries to address his porn habit as an addiction by giving it up.

As it happens, he also starts talking to her about his issues and eventually he's comfortable looking her in the eye and getting lost in her when they're having sex, something he'd never been able to do before.

Once again, an older woman saves the day.

Plain or not, I like to think we're just more open-minded.