To Fall Down at Your Door

Language is power, life and the instrument of culture, the instrument of domination and liberation. ~Angela Carter

Let's call tonight an evening of deja-vu in the Ward.

When I saw there was a touring pop-up photo exhibit at Black Iris Gallery, I considered starting my evening there. When I saw that it was an exhibit of large-format black and white photographs by Bill Daniel, the deal was sealed. That's because back in the dark ages of 2010, I'd gone to Gallery 5 to watch Daniel show a trove of lost and found music acts filmed between 1965 and 1987 and it had been fascinating.

As much as I'd enjoyed that, why wouldn't I want to see his photographs of skateboarders, punk bands, graffiti and the like from the past 35 years?

That's a rhetorical question, by the way.

The photographs were such snapshots in time, from the airborne skater with a Circle Jerks sticker on the bottom of his board to the punk singer - Fender guitar slung to the side and guitar pick between his bad teeth - playing the cowbell. Or put another way: it was an era when so many punk musicians were wearing Black Flag t-shirts to prove their cred.

Daniel captured the punk ethos in photo after photo, never more so than in a shot of a dingy music club door with a handwritten "NO MOHAWKS!" sign on it, in front of which was a mohawked guy in mid-jump in front of it. Another showed an old VW van modified with three sails atop it, presumably to increase the van's infamously slow pace.

Gawking at a photo of two '80s show-goers (her shoulder pads and bangles, his eyeliner and piercings), I heard my name and turned to see my favorite artist/DJ couple. After chatting about the exhibit and her new baby chicks (one of which she said likes to ride on the back of a full-grown chicken like it's a pony or something), we reverted to our favorite topic: what we're reading.

After mentioning Roberto Bolano, she asked if I'd ever read the English novelist Angela Carter, a new favorite of hers. Negative, I said and we launched into one of our standard procedure book talks (like we do) that involved her recommending Carter highly for her feminist, magical realistic style of writing. Sounds right up my alley.

But it was when she asked what was new with me that I had that moment. Where do I start when I run into friends I haven't seen for a while? In this case, I may have mentioned the update to my relationship status and having just returned from a long weekend at the river.

"Ooh, I like a man with a house on the river," she enthused with a knowing smile, since they live in his house on the Chickahominy River, a charming place, complete with chickens, that I'd visited last year. So she knows.

When I departed Black Iris, it was for some theater at the Basement, where I immediately ran into Foto Boy and his betrothed, an actress/director who was looking fabulous and theatrical in a way I could never pull off. Our first stop was at the bar in search of  alcohol for her, caffeine for him and sugar for me. Hey, whatever gets you through the play, right?

We were all there for the preview of TheatreLab's production of "Gruesome Playground Injuries," a play with which I had some familiarity, having seen a staged reading of it back in 2011. I said it was a night of deja-vu, after all.

Despite the intervening years. its poignant yet disturbing story had stayed with me. Imagine two kids who meet in the school infirmary at the tender age of eight; she's throwing up non-stop and he's ridden his bike off of the school's roof. Because boys are dumb.

The hook is that they immediately bond over shared maladies, touching each other's wounds and scars, while over the next thirty years, they continue to see each other periodically, always due to one or the other's sickness or injury. And to be clear, it's a story with many, many funny moments despite the gruesome injuries.

A dungeon is a place where people can go to languish.

They're both damaged souls and whether it's a fireworks accident that causes Doug to lose an eye or Kayleen's self-medicating and cutting, the two continue to share an increasing bond of personal pain throughout their friendship/love.

I don't want my first kiss to be with you. AND I just threw up.

When I'd first seen it, I kept hoping that they would acknowledge their feelings for each other, but there were always hospital beds and comas and psychiatric institutions keeping them distracted from their true feelings.

The top ten things anyone has ever done for me were all done by you.

As with any two-actor production, it's all about the chops and chemistry of the actors and Jeffrey Cole and Rachel Rose Gilmour nailed their characters in all their dysfunction and tragedy. Cole singing in a thick Scottish brogue while trying to dance with Gilmour to the Proclaimers' "500 Miles" was nothing short of masterful. And hilarious.

One particularly clever device was that the scenes didn't play out in chronological order, so we saw them first as children, then young adults, then back to teens, then slightly older adults and so on, while music marked scene transitions and the passage of time. From Aimee Mann's "Save Me" through David Gray's "Please Forgive Me" to a cover of REM's "Everybody Hurts," the music helped with the ten- and fifteen-year jumps the script made while providing time for the actors to change clothes onstage.

TheatreLab, you never cease to impress me.

As an added accompaniment to the theatrics we'd come to watch, throughout the production we also got a symphony of jackhammers blasting Broad Street just outside the Basement's door. It was the sound of the city desperately trying to finish up the Pulse construction for the touted completion date and while the cacophony was superfluous to the story, it did add a certain city grittiness.

Punk photographs, an emotional tour de force of a play and an unexpected chance to catch up with two favorite couples along the way. Exactly what a city woman needs after languishing at the rivah for a few days.

And by languishing, I mean having the time of her life.

Sea Shell Millionaire

It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Say you're laying in bed at night and hear the distinctive sound of seashells hitting together just outside your bedroom.

It's not entirely unlikely, even in an urban jungle like Jackson Ward, because on my March foray to Cape May, Mac and I had scoured the Wildwood beach, with me scoring 17 sand-crusted conch shells which I loaded into a couple of found bags and toted home like a true tourist.

Since returning from Wildwood two months ago, the bags o' shells have been sitting on my balcony awaiting their fate. When I did my big Spring cleaning of the balcony last week, I'd moved the bags off the balcony and on to the first floor roof adjacent to the balcony to get them out of the way.

Of course, then I'd promptly forgotten about them, at least until Sunday night around midnight when I'd been awakened by the sound of shells banging against one another.

It certainly wasn't enough to get me out of bed to investigate, but I did glance out the bedroom window (which overlooks the balcony), only to see nothing unusual. One could say that darkness and uncorrected vision didn't make it any easier. If there was a roof prowler or seashell thief out there, they were tucked out of sight, and since I take getting my 9 hours of sleep pretty seriously, I gave up caring.

Imagine my surprise then when I went out on the balcony this morning and spotted the bags of shells ripped open with seashells scattered around the roof. Climbing over the railing to retrieve them - my first time walking on that roof since I moved in 9 years ago - I couldn't help but wondering who could have possibly taken most of the shells out of the bag.

A cat? My neighbor? A wild critter? That last one isn't quite as unlikely as it seems since I once woke up to find that some animal had climbed onto my balcony and removed cans from the recycler, presumably to lick, and left them sitting on the balcony floor. My neighbor's bathroom window faces over that same little roof and I noticed the window screen was sitting on the roof instead of being mounted in the window, so was he (or his goofy girlfriend) a suspect, too?

Beats me.

I finally knocked the New Jersey sand out of the shells and lined them up along one side of the balcony, sort of a repeating motif of long-gone animal homes, all fully intact and most still displaying their opalescent salmon-colored interiors. Souvenirs of a post-Nor'easter beach vacation that required gloves, hats and long pants but delivered long, windy walks, gingerbread architecture and tasty local oysters.

All I can say is, if I go out there in the morning and the shells are rearranged, I should probably have some serious concerns. But if something happens worth investigating during the next 9 hours, I make no guarantees.

Let us not forget what that wise sage Betty White once told us: "Get at least 8 hours of beauty sleep. Nine if you're ugly.

I don't want to brag, but last night I got eleven. Sleep before seashells because a woman's got to have her priorities straight.

Never Being Boring

We went out to laugh and laugh we did.

How can you not laugh at the idea of a Free Love Nursing Home? You know, the kind of place that plays the Pet Shop Boys all the time because the Sixty and Sexy crowd still dig it. Now imagine a cuddle puddle of residents doing Jello shots in a king-size bed, while one taps his vein and bellows, "This IV's empty, Nurse!"

Hilarious.

I was supposed to be at a potluck birthday party and concert tonight and then yesterday it was switched to last night, a shame since I already had plans for last night. So with a free night staring me in the face, I asked Mac to join me at Comedy Coalition for a good laugh.

The Man About Town greeted us in the lobby, bowing low and juggling a beer. We talked about how neither of us was at the International Film Festival or the opening of the new Valentine Museum exhibit, yet here we we were on a Friday night, eager to chuckle at the very least and secretly hoping for major belly laughs if we were really lucky.

The Daily Mix, the clever group of improv comedians who'd had us in stitches with their Free Love Home sketch, were merely the warm-up for "Sounds Good To Me," an improvised piece of musical theater that had another, larger group making up and singing songs on the spot, while accompanied by two guitars, a drum box and a shaker.

The audience suggested the location of the sketch - a carnival - and they were off and running.

There were times Mac and I were laughing so hard we were doubled over and couldn't even watch what was unfolding onstage. I love to laugh anyway (on my recent sistertrip, one had commented that I laugh at everything, a slight exaggeration) so tonight was a golden opportunity to let it out after a busy, productive week.

The carnival sketch involved disgruntled clowns, an elephant living in knee-high poop, a greedy carnival owner and his capitalistic fairy godmother, carnival worker protests, imaginary red noses and corn dogs, lots and lots of trampled corn dogs.

Undoubtedly the high point was the Sexy Dance, which hysterically allowed everyone onstage to show off their good and bad dance moves (as Mac so profoundly put it, "We've all got them both") while the woman doing the Sexy Dance undulated in ways that were both reminiscent of the King of Pop and are now seared into my brain for eternity.

And while she was singing and dancing that improvised masterpiece, Mac and I were cracking up so hard we almost couldn't breathe. The kind of laughter where you don't even hear the next funny line because you're still laughing so hard.

But it's no surprise, really. These are the same people who, after the city mounted an Arts District sign on the new bus stop across from them, posted: "It's official. Guess we gotta start making art now."

News flash: they already are. As Robin Williams so succinctly said, "Comedy is acting out optimism."

How could someone like me not love a good evening of comedy? Have we met?

The Winter of My Discontent

Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, snow is glistening
A beautiful view, 'though me without you
Walking in a winter wonderland

Gone away is the heron
Here to stay solo Karen
No cause for a song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland

On Brown's Island, I can see a snowman
And perhaps built to be Parson Brown
He'll ask if I'm married, I'll say no, man
Though Mom says she can't die until I am

Later on, I'll feel dire
Wanting for talk, not desire
To face once again the want of that friend
Walking in a winter wonderland

Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, streets are glistening
A monochrome view, still moi without vous
Walking in a winter wonderland

All alone on the pipeline
Still it feels like a lifeline
Thinking of this song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland

In Jackson Ward, I could build a snowman
And pretend that he's the one I seek
I'll have lots to say to Mr. Snowman
Until my neighbors take me for a freak

When it snows, ain't it thrilling
Though my legs got a chilling
We'll talk and we'll play, the fun, brainy way
Walking in a winter wonderland
Walking in a winter wonderland

Small and Sweet

'Tis the season for reclaiming the 'hood.

Finals are over, apartments are being emptied out and Jackson Ward's true population - those here for more than a few semesters -  gets pared back to its devotees: the musically-inclined scientist, the couple who were original pioneers, the slightly OCD porch painter, the perky dog-walking couple.

All of a sudden, parking spaces reveal themselves where parent-bought vehicles recently occupied valuable real estate. For a change, the VCU circulator vans aren't endlessly circulating outside my open windows.

Practically as soon as the latest rains of May let up, visions of strawberry picking began dancing in my head. Setting my recent mental machinations aside, there's a lot to be said for doing something as simple and honest as picking food from a field, even if it's only 8 pounds' worth.

And if not in May, then not at all, at least in these parts.

At the uncivilized hour of 9:07 (notable in and of itself), I was calling a friend - the one with a fiancee and two kids, so plenty of berry lovers, making him a sure bet to say yes - inviting him to join me for a morning of migrant labor-like activity.

I have plenty of friends I would never think of asking to join me for such a thing, but he's not one of them.

Both of us were flattered when the woman who provided our picking baskets complimented us on our wide-brimmed hats, but once in the fields, we saw that it was more about the novelty value of them than anything else.

Easily 98% of the people out there, adults and children, were hat-less despite the clear sky, bright sun and morning heat. What self-respecting fruit picker doesn't wear a little shade?

I don't want to come across as some sort of expert field hand because I'd never picked a strawberry until I moved to Richmond in '86. For whatever reason, I took to the ritual that led me out of the city every May and got me bent over green rows looking for the reddest berries.

Maybe it's a continuity thing. So much has changed about my life in those three decades, but some habits I hang on to. There's never been a summer where I didn't go stay at the beach. I can't remember the last time I drove over a bridge without having at least one window down, even in winter.

I can't help but acknowledge that picking strawberries satisfies something in me, providing a, what, connection to who I was? Remnant of who I thought I'd be? Excuse to do something mindless and yet productive, so unlike how I earn my living?

Too complicated. Eating warm berries out of the field soothes the soul and stains the fingers.

Does a body good every May.

Crank Your City

How many Richmonders does it take to change a light bulb?
Ten. One to change the bulb and nine to talk about how great the old bulb was.

I bet I hadn't been in Richmond a month when someone told me that joke as warning for how resistant to change people here were. So why did that joke come to mind at tonight's community stakeholder meeting about bike lanes in Jackson Ward?

Since I seldom bike anymore, my interest in the meeting was as simple as my interest in anything related to J-Ward: I've lived in this neighborhood for over a decade, so when something's going on here, I'd like to at least be informed. That's why I went to meetings about the bus rapid transit, why I attended sessions about the Maggie Walker statue and why I was present at weekly charrettes about re-imagining Brook Road.

Arriving at the Speakeasy behind the Hippodrome, I headed for a table with two young guys I didn't know, the better to meet others. One was involved in bike advocacy and the other was a VCU journalism student required to attend a city meeting and report on it. That he also used to bike-deliver for Jimmy John's meant he understood the dog in this fight, too.

In no time, he was asking my name and noting it in his memo pad so he could quote me in his piece. Yes, I'd like to see dedicated bike lanes in Jackson Ward.

Council woman Kim Gray opened the meeting by saying that some local business owners had contacted her with serious concerns about the proposed bike lanes on First (which connects the city to Northside) and Second (which connects the city to Southside) Streets, fearful that dedicated bike lanes would be the death knell for their businesses. She empathized completely.

Ugh. I knew right there that this was going to be a long meeting.

The bike guy from the city was admirably even-keeled despite the adversarial vibe coming off half the room as he explained that the city was considering applying for a DoT grant that would provide 4 federal dollars for every $1 the city spent in doing a feasibility study and, assuming it made sense, creating bike lanes on those streets.

He made it very clear that the two streets would retain parking on both sides of the streets, with one of the current vehicular lanes being converted to a dedicated bike lane, a change already established as doable because of the limited amount of traffic on First and Second Streets that could be easily handled in one lane.

Heaven help me, that's when the moaning, beating of breasts and general lamentations began.

Business owner after residential owner took up valuable microphone time to whine about how difficult it can be to park in J-Ward. Several even had the gall to say that they expected to be able to park in front of their home at all times.

My question is, why on earth are you living in the city if you aren't happy unless you can park easily? Do you also complain about the dings on your bumper where parallel parkers have grazed your bumper with theirs in tight spaces? Give me a break.

As if their myopia about the addition of bike lanes (despite studies having proven that business increases and profits go up when bike lanes are added) wasn't enough to make me want to knock their heads together, consider this.

Mr. City Bike Guy made it quite clear that tonight's meeting was solely for the purpose of gathering opinions about whether or not to even apply for the grant, and if they did, part of the funds would be used to do a study to determine if the lanes would be best placed on those two streets or elsewhere.

Meanwhile, we've got all these people whining about how inconvenienced they'll be in their cars if we put in bike lanes.

Never mind that people speed terribly on both those one-way streets, making them extremely unsafe for pedestrians and cyclists, a situation that would be addressed with only one lane for cars because they'd have to slow down to the speed limit. It's called traffic calming and Floyd Avenue's bike boulevard has proven it works.

One speaker had the gall to complain that her customers wouldn't be able to (illegally) double park and run in to get something if there was a bike lane. Boo hoo.

Fortunately, there were a goodly number of cyclists of all ages there to remind some of the change-resistant that not everyone bikes for recreation. Plenty of people bike for transportation (20% of Richmond residents don't have a car), a proposition that can get pretty dicey given the lack of respect for cycling in the Ward.

I listened to question after question and it was apparent that many people really just wanted to maintain the status quo and ensure that cars remain top priority, while greener options like biking and walking take a backseat.

Finally, I raised my hand just to ask the question that would make sure everyone was hearing correctly: putting in these bike lanes wasn't going to take away parking spaces.

How many stakeholders does it take to accept change see the potential of adding bike lanes to under-utilized streets without sacrificing parking?

Looks like Jackson Ward is okay with being the burned-out light bulb. What a shame.

Going to the Rec

Jackson Ward, the more I get to know you, the more crazy about you I am.

While today was officially my second visit to the new Black History Museum located in the former colored troops' armory, it was my first actually taking in the exhibits, although the upstairs galleries were closed because they're installing the next temporary exhibition right now.

A small group of people who'd arrived just before I did joined me to watch a 30-minute film about the neighborhood narrated by people who'd resided, gone to school and lived their full lives here.

Several of them recalled when the armory had been used as a rec center and enlargements of old black and white photos on the wall spoke to the nights it became a destination for mixers, socials and dances, with the women wearing stylish '40s and '50s strapless dresses with full skirts and tulle petticoats.

One woman recalled growing up on St. James Street, skating the block and playing outside all day with the dozens of other children who lived there, while mothers carried out their domestic duties indoors.

Another talked about what a big deal it had been to him when Armstrong High School had gotten a black principal. Oliver Hill, Jr. recalled seeing his mother walking a picket line to integrate Miller and Rhoads' tearoom.

But my favorite source was the man who ticked off where the businesses of life used to sit in J-Ward. He said there were two grocers, one at Clay and Prentice (a street I've never even heard of) and one at Brook and Clay.

Given what I know about Brook Road's legacy as a shopping route for farmers in the county, I wasn't at all surprised that Brook and Clay was also the site of Max's Drug Store (as opposed to Standard Drug at First and Broad), John D's Bar, Cameron's Service Station and Hall's Bar, the latter a tad further up on Brook.

This guy reminisced about taking dates to High's Ice Cream Shop at Second and Clay after church services. Several people mentioned Ebenezer Baptist and Sixth Mt. Zion as hubs of local activity.

Hill, who'd been part of the integration of Chandler Middle School, remembered being appalled at then-Virginia social studies textbooks, which portrayed slavery as a benign institution where everyone was just one big happy family.

Right, except some members of the family were bought and paid for.

Walking out of the auditorium after the film, one of the men looked up at the ceiling and said, "This used to be my old gym."

As I was soon to learn in the galleries, the armory had been converted to Monroe Elementary for colored kids in 1898, used as housing and a recreation center for black troops during WW II and used by various schools for its gym and facilities after that.

Many of the displays are touch screen, using old photographs, prints and drawings along with narrative to explain important eras: Emancipation, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, Massive Resistance and Civil Rights, although being of an age, I'd just as soon look at the objects framed on the wall as on a lighted screen,

Let's face it, few things resonate the same on a screen as the actual object does. Looking at a leather slave collar with metal rings and a lock is a far more visceral (and disturbing) experience and one I agreed was best seen in real life.

Lean in when it gets uncomfortable, that's the advice I took away from the race relations round table discussion I went to at this very building last month.

But photo choices were strong, too, like the one of a black man with his toddler on his shoulders holding a protest sign reading, "President Johnson, Go to Selma NOW!" which spoke volumes compared to the picture of white kids protesting busing on Franklin Street in 1970, looking like petulant racists-in-the-making.

One thing that stood out about the Civil Rights era scenes was how nicely dressed the protesters were. The male VUU students at the sit-in at Woolworth's lunch counter wore overcoats and hats. You don't even see that at the symphony or opera anymore.

In the word nerd category, I was delighted to discover that J-Ward once had a resident and business owner (a shoe store at 506 E. Broad) at the turn of the century named St. James Gilpin, whose name wound up both on a street and public housing.

I wasn't entirely surprised to learn that a mailman named Victor Green had written something called the "Green Book for Black Travelers," listing out by location beauty salons, night clubs, restaurants, service stations and lodging that welcomed (rather than embarrassed or refused service to) black customers.

That said, I was incredulous that the book was still being printed as late as 1966. Except I shouldn't have been because of a story I'd heard at a history lecture a while back.

When LBJ and Lady Bird moved into the White House, they needed someone to drive their beagles from Texas to Washington and the black staffer they asked to do it expressed concern about where along the route would be safe and willing to lodge a black man, much less a black man with beagles.

So 1966, yea, our ugly past really is as unfortunately recent as that.

But what the galleries at the beautifully renovated Black History Museum really demonstrate is what a rich neighborhood I live in and how important it is to acknowledge the people, buildings and businesses that helped shape the fabric of Richmond.

I may be nothing more than one tiny little thread in that, but hearing the stories and seeing the photographs seems like a most excellent way to begin the leaning-in process.

Jackson Ward for the win.

The Enormous Sighs

Stayin' close, keeping it Southern.

It would have been wrong to have eaten anything else before a Tennessee Williams play, don't you think? Sure, I knew Mama J's Kitchen would be crowded at prime dinnertime, but there was only one of me, so I figured I had a much better shot at a seat than the groups around me.

Skulking about close to the bar, I spotted a guy easing out of his stool and quickly made my move, asking if it was now free. "Have a seat," the man said graciously. "Look at you, being all aggressive or else you're just a pro at this."

Ten years in Jackson Ward, my friend, I know how to score a seat in this place. Busy as it was tonight, it was nothing like I've seen it on some occasions and despite the hostess having told me that it would be an hour and a half wait for a table, people were being seated in far less time.

Waiting for my dinner to arrive, I was entertained by the dishwasher when he brought out a rack of glasses. "Look at those glasses glistening like diamonds!" he said to me smiling. "I am so good at my job!"

The woman next to me wanted the same drink she'd had last time she was in, except she had no idea what it had been. "It was red and fruity and really delicious," was about all she could offer the bartender.

When my plate arrived, it had three pieces of fried chicken instead of two and the bartender explained it away by saying, "It's because the breast was kind of small." For the record, the breast was nothing like small, but who am I to complain about extra fried chicken?

Only problem was that three pieces plus sides put me way over my full threshold, so I didn't get a slice of cake, despite the guy near me raving about how they finally had German chocolate cake (his was already boxed up while he finished his third drink), although it was the black and white cake I had my eye on tonight.

I had to thread my way through a crowd of fifteen or so to get to the door, but I bet they were all seated before I even got to Virginia Rep a few blocks away.

Tonight I was seeing Williams' "Summer and Smoke" for the first time and walking into the theater, the audience was rewarded with just the kind of southern Gothic set you'd hope for. A massive "stone" angel fountain with water spigots dominated, with Spanish moss hanging everywhere and two smaller Victorian-looking room sets in front.

This production has great sentimental value because it is Virginia Rep's artistic director Bruce Miller's final directing job after 41 years with the company. Appropriately, the evening began with the actors talking about the formation of Barksdale Theater, which eventually became VA Rep.

It was a fabulous story: In 1953, six young NYC theater actors risked everything by buying a dilapidated old tavern (no indoor plumbing, no glass in the windows) with plans to turn it into a theater. A week later, they did a reading of "Summer and Smoke" in the basement for no one but themselves.

You could move to New Orleans and have a mysteriously colorful life like your aunt.

Out of necessity, every morning, the group, with a bar of soap in one hand and a towel in the other, would head up to Taylor's Pond to bathe. Naturally, hearing this just made me curious about the pond and I intend to find it next time I go to a play at Hanover Tavern, you can be sure.

There are women who want to love and be loved in a physical manner.

Miller had brilliantly chosen a deliberately young cast - a nod to those actors who'd come to Hanover - and while it was a tad jarring at first to see a 20-something playing the father of a 20-something, the talented Charley Raintree pulled it off.

Remembering last night and anticipating the next one...

The story of a frustrated preacher's daughter and the wild and undisciplined doctor's son who lives next door had all the usual Williams tropes: mentally unbalanced mother, the Southern belle hoping to be saved by a man, traveling salesmen, a hot Southern setting, men in white suits, all enhanced by excellent staging and nuanced acting (it's almost painful to watch Alexander Sapp's character's dissolution over the summer, so believable is his acting).

I've settled with life on the most comfortable terms.

Not knowing the story added a great deal to tonight's experience because while I never expected a Williams play to end happily, I couldn't have anticipated seeing two characters effectively change mindsets with each other, she finally craving the physical and him the spiritual.

Amen, sister. I'm dewy at the thought.

Bruce Miller picked a hell of a way to go out, effectively marrying the nostalgic - the original troupe's first reading 63 years ago - with one of Williams' under-produced but compelling plays and making sure it was done incredibly well.

Sexual repression dealt with, now I'm ready for that piece of cake.

The Birds and the Bees

My extravagantly-planted garden and my attendance on it since it was planted have turned out to be a draw for bees as well as a guy (latent gardener?) magnet.

"Watering again? Looking great!" my neighbor calls out, exiting his sleek Jaguar. Doing what I can, I say. "If anyone can, you can," he assures me with a wave.

A man walks by yesterday as I'm examining it, trying to decide how many stepping stones I need. "Three," he advises after assessing the situation and wishes me well. Tonight, he walks by again to find me staring just as intently as yesterday.

"Still working on that garden?" he cracks. I apologize for not having had time to get the stepping stones he suggested yet. It's on my list, though. Why do I think I'll see him again soon to check on my progress?

Leaving for Cinema Noir, I pause to admire how lush and colorful everything looks after a good sprinkler soaking earlier.

"Looks great!" the new guy next door walking up to his porch tells me enthusiastically, as if we've had a conversation before. Standing near the pink and white English daisies, he tells me about all the birds he's seen in my birdbath lately, so I tell him the birdbath's history of being rescued from behind an old wooden schoolhouse slated for demolition.

We discuss whether I should add a bowl to the top of the pedestal for a wider bird bathing surface. Being a guy, he wants to know how heavy the thing is was, if it has a drain and what the bottom of the pedestal looks like. Heavy, no, flat.

"I dig it," he says with a big smile.

At Cinema Noir, the DJ is playing a brilliantly-crafted tribute to Prince, an ideal soundtrack for this dark day.

Earlier, I'd chatted with my downstairs neighbors - students and musicians, including two guitarists - to inquire if they had been Prince fans. No, but they'd heard he was dead.

"I never really got into him," one said with no real interest. "I mean, I knew him, but not really," the other said.

Sound of record scratching.

Wait, you don't seem to understand what this man represented, what he did to bring a combination of rock and funk to black and white audiences. How about his mad musical skills, his stellar production abilities?

By the time I finished making my "why Prince matters" speech to these two whippersnappers, they got it. "Man, I never knew any of that about him," one said, clearly impressed. Someone needs musical guidance is all I can say.

Tonight's short film, "Only Light" was about the $32 billion a year human sex trafficking industry, a heavy yet important topic, followed by a trailer for a documentary on the same subject, "Amazing Grace: Freedom's Song" by musician and cultural ambassador Yewande.

Afterward, during the Q & A, a man asked what he and others could do to make a difference.

"I knew nothing about this, but I want to help," he said. "I was brought here tonight by an intelligent woman or I wouldn't have even known about it."

"Repeat that part," Yewande told him to laughter, and the second time he referred to his date as both intelligent and beautiful. Smart man.

Best line of the night: "Sometimes, I think I should have said yes to some of those goat herders' proposals."

She was probably just minding her own business, tending her garden, when goat herders started showing up to talk to her. Now she regrets not taking them up on their offers.

I can totally dig it.

In the Zone

Even for my oddly-lived life, today had elements of the truly bizarre.

Of all the reasons I might have to wake up early, today's was among the least likely. I had to go have my picture taken first thing in the morning because of my writing.

Which writing? I have no idea and won't until the Virginia Press Association awards are announced in April, but higher-ups know my name will be among those called, and that, apparently, requires me to show off my dimples when I'd usually still be snoozing.

Say cheese.

That done, my next priority was voting, where I was happy to see a line of eager voters ahead of me. Sometimes it's just me and the poll workers.

As I shuffled forward, something occurred to me. Since it was an open primary, perhaps I should use my vote as a voice against the evil that threatens to overtake our country.

Once at the desk, I inquired if it was possible. Grinning widely, the registrar informed that not only could I have either ballot I wanted, but that I was far from the first person to make the decision to jump party today. "But I can't tell you what to do." Her smile widens.

Heaven help me, I guiltily accepted the Republican ballot and voted, assuaging my conscience with the knowledge that although I have a Democratic preference, I could live with either one getting the nomination and winning, but I couldn't stand it if Trump did.

Never in my decades of regularly voting have I done such a thing and if my wildly liberal ancestors aren't rolling in their graves, they're applauding me.

Later, I told a black friend what I'd done, inspiring him to do the same, albeit with more judgment directed at him. He messaged me, "Sure, it was fine for you, Miss White Woman, but you have seen the look three brothers gave me when they saw me take that ballot."

Truly, I felt his pain.

I was nearly home from my walk when a well-dressed man stopped and introduced himself, explaining that he'd lived on the next block for the past two years and saw me all the time.

Next thing I knew, we were talking about public art, living in D.C.- which we both had - and how much Richmond has changed since the '90s when he left.

When we finally got around to discussing walking, I knew I'd met someone worthy. Sure, I do 6 or 7 miles, but this guy walks to Willow Lawn and back, for an eight mile constitutional. We compared walking Broad Street to Monument Avenue, geeking out on some of the things you see at street level that you miss entirely from a car.

After a half hour or so, he said he needed to go vote, but asked if I'd like to come over for a glass of wine or tea when he got back. Why not? "I'll call you when I'm crossing Belvidere," he said after getting over his amazement at my lack of a cell phone.

I had just enough time to eat a quick bite before the phone rang and I met him out front. "I went for Kasich," he told me, with the same guilt of a lifelong Democrat voting Republican as I'd felt.

So it was then I entered the 1870 house of a man I'd met less than an hour before. Enormous pocket doors, a kitchen where the old washing porch used to be, servants' quarters, a very handsome home, far more ornate than my 1876 house.

Then we sat down with our libations and dove into the deep end of the conversational pool with abandon. He told me how much he'd loved living in Cambridge and hated living in Boston and we compared notes on life in Washington. Since he's only been back for two years, he wanted restaurant and music venue recommendations.

It turns out his sister and I went to the same school, graduating within a year of each other. Like me, he's self-employed so we discussed the self-discipline that requires, along with its benefits, such as impromptu afternoon meet-ups with neighbors.

We were into our second hour of talking about the cultural shifts we'd seen in our lifetimes when I declined a second glass because I had work to do, but we agreed a walk is in order sooner rather than later.

Once that work was finished, I got ready to go to the Valentine for this month's Community Conversation, "Re-RVA: Revitalizing, Recycling and Re-imagining," thrilled that the weather was still so warm for the walk there.

I didn't get two blocks before I ran into my new friend for the third time today, this time returning from a meeting. Now that we've met, I think we're going to find we run into each other a lot in that way you never notice someone until you meet them and then suddenly they're everywhere.

Walking in to the Valentine, director Bill Martin greeted me by asking, "Did you vote?" My voting sticker was still stuck to my walking shirt, so I explained how I had voted a party I detest. "Lots of my friends did that today, too," he assured me.

So I'm not the only one terrified of the future, I guess.

It was by far the smallest group for one of these conversations I've yet to see, a fact no doubt attributable to voting day, but it was a dedicated one. When Bill was talking about re-purposing, he showed an image of the architectural salvage store Caravatti's, asking who'd been there.

Practically every hand in the room shot up. "Gosh, this is a recycling crowd!" he said, sounding surprised. It was, too, with people there who had specific recycling bones to pick with the panel of experts who'd come to speak.

When we were shown images of old WWI and WWII posters, one showed a thrifty housewife doing her part by saving cooking grease, straining it, storing it in a cool place and then, "selling it to your meat dealer."

"Anyone here have a meat dealer?" Bill asked to laughter. No, but my Mom certainly had a grease can with a strainer she kept in the cabinet and reused its contents often.

Shucks, I guess that means we didn't have a meat dealer, either.

Breaking into our small groups, we discussed single stream recycling, compost company pick-ups and why the counties make it so difficult for their residents to recycle, with several people making the point that the problem is not what we recycle but the over-packaging and single-use serving mindset that's overtaken consumers.

Good luck changing that.

Walking home, the air was still warm and while I was hungry, I'd had my conversational jones satisfied earlier and I knew I should get home to work, so I decided to stop at the Cultured Swine for a quick meal.

While I'm waiting for my BLTotally Awesome, the cook asks the cashier to look at the impressive Tarheel taco he's working on, at how amazingly beautiful its presentation is. Of course I'm going to stand up and take a peek at the N.C.-style barbecue he's laid out on a tortilla in three perfect meaty mounds.

"Sometimes I impress myself," he jokes, before finishing the taco off with a mountain of coleslaw and Swine sauce, only to show it off again. "Damn, look at this! Now it's even prettier!"

I came awfully close to changing my order, but I'm a huge fan of his house bacon because it's so thickly sliced it almost crosses out of bacon territory, plus he serves it with the freshest of mixed greens on a a baguette, a combo I love.

By the time my sandwich came out, I was deep into an episode of "Twilight Zone" called "The Four of Us are Dying" about a guy who could change his face to elude people, except that didn't always work out for him when he ran into someone from the face's past, like the boxer's Dad who hated him for breaking his mothers heart by running off and ruining his girlfriend's life.

So despite my intention to grab and go, there I was happily drinking a glass bottle of Sprite (zero profit in glass recycling, by the way), eating my Awesome and watching '60s television after waking up to pose, voting Republican, going to a stranger's house and talking trash.

I'm sure this day could have gotten weirder, I'm just not sure how.

Record High, Record Low

Cocooning goes against my nature. Who do I talk to if I'm home alone for days?

What I mean is, I woke up knowing that I was going to start my walk by heading to Kroger, not because I was in dire need of anything - although I did have a craving for waffles and I'm out of blackberry jam - but because I knew it would be an experience. Hell, earlier this week I got asked out just walking out of Kroger.

Trudging up Clay Street, I saw a girl headed back, toting two heavy-looking  Kroger bags. How bad is it, I wanted to know. "Really, really busy," she said with a smile. "Crazy busy."

Perfect, company!

I was amazed that they still had bananas, but not a single egg or rasher of bacon. "No eggs, what's wrong with these people?" a man asked me, shaking his head in disgust. The number of people clutching frozen pizzas was ridiculous.

Walking home with my jam, I passed half a dozen people making the trek toward Kroger and every single one of them spoke to me.

One girl wanted to know how bad it was and whether she had a chance in hell of getting what she needed for lasagna and baking cookies. One guy just rolled his eyes and told me without provocation that yea, he knew he was nuts for going today. Further up, a guy shoveling his walk invited me back for a chili party. An older woman wished me "happy snow day."

Snow makes everyone so friendly.

I detoured by Nick's Market where there was zero sandwich business, but several neighbors busy picking up groceries rather than facing the chaos of Kroger. While I was paying, they got a call from a Baltimore supplier saying they wouldn't be coming on Monday to make deliveries.

First world snow problems.

When I got home, I did the least logical thing: I cleared the snow off my car and shoveled the sidewalk and walkway, not because there was any point in it, but because of my Scottish girlfriend Irene's cardinal rule. She says if you're cold, get up and vacuum and you'll be warm in no time. Snow shoveling is the outdoor equivalent.

Back inside, I was trying to decide between reading and my to-do list when I saw a friend's post.

"I can now spend the rest of the weekend on the couch, as I organized my spice/baking cabinet. I have a WHOLE ROW of extract that is not vanilla."

Her friend responded, "Have thoughts of cleaning out my dining room hutch, but just in the thought stage right now. Maybe if I am bored tomorrow."

"Do it! It's so satisfying!" my friend goaded her. So, yes, I succumbed to that inexplicable urge that hits some women on snow days and got busy hanging pictures in the hallway and making phone calls I'd been putting off. Scrubbing the bathroom top to bottom, including the floor on my hands and knees.

She'd been right. It was incredibly satisfying, I immediately sat down and read two days' worth of the Washington Post, both of which had been delivered today. Snow news dominated.

Looking out the window, I saw that my car and walkway were again covered. Time to fetch the umbrella (ignoring the Canadian who'd told me back in the big 2009 snow that it was silly to carry an umbrella in the snow), go for another walk and see what was happening in the Ward.

In the hallway, I inhaled the heady scent of baking bread, alerting me to how my neighbor was passing her afternoon.

Once on the street, you know what I found happening in J-Ward? Pretty much the same stuff that happens here any other time.

A guy stuck his head out the door of his English basement to pour out the remains of a friend's PBR and we got to talking (he's given up drinking). Clutches of people were gathered on porches, drinking and talking. From inside a house, I heard a band practicing. A guy complimented my umbrella. GWAR Bar was just getting going.

Downtown was a ghost town except for people getting on and off buses. Vagabond had a sign saying they were closed tonight- "sorry for the inconvenience" - making me wonder why they didn't just acknowledge they'd be closed Saturday night, too. Surely another 24 hours of this weather all but guarantees they won't be open tomorrow, either.

Passing a guy with just a jacket on and no hat or umbrella, I was tickled when he smiled and asked if I was enjoying this wonderful weather.

Sure am. My only regret is that my beagle's not here because he adored the snow, so we'd walk five or six times on a day like this, his tail up and nose down sniffing in the snow.

Back home, I  busied myself clearing my car and shoveling the sidewalk, not that it'll make any difference besides momentary warmth and personal satisfaction.

And since I'm also not lowering my blinds today - it's far too charming a view not to enjoy all evening - I can watch my hard work undone by Mother Nature.

My work is finished, but tonight's Fretful Porcupine show has been canceled. Time to read...at least until it isn't. Cocooning is hard for some of us.

Tell 'Em, Mags

A tree grows in Jackson Ward. But for how long?

Just last week on my walk, the friendly neighborhood craftsman who greets me most mornings had introduced me to a neighborhood sculptor. They were both all riled up about a proposal to 1) cut down the oak tree on the triangle at Brook, Adams and Broad and (wait, it gets worse) 2) close off Brook Road between Broad and Adams.

In an effort to fight back, they were asking for signatures on two petitions to stop the madness. I gladly took both begin evangelizing for the cause and collecting signatures.

As a 9+ year resident of Jackson Ward, I know that tree well. It's a major source of shade and greenery on an otherwise leafless stretch of Broad Street. Back in 2014, I was part of a group of neighbors working on the "Ephemeral Plan: Brook Road," a four week brainstorming session to re-imagine that exact area as something more of a vibrant and artistic neighborhood center.

Of the five groups working on ideas for the triangle and environs, only one dared to suggest cutting down the oak tree. I have to be frank: these outliers were immediately dead to the other four groups. None of us could fathom why anyone would suggest taking down the only major tree on that stretch of Broad Street.

I began collecting signatures on Thanksgiving Day and didn't stop until I saw that an online petition (cleverly named "Woodman, Spare That Tree") had been created, a far more efficient way to get a grass roots movement going. I signed it and notified those who'd already signed my petition to do the same.

Look, I acknowledge wholeheartedly that Jackson Ward is the logical place to situate a statue commemorating the great Miss Maggie Walker. I was even okay with it being placed in the triangle, but not at the expense of that magnificent tree. As the petition wisely noted, Miss Maggie, a devoted steward of life, would not have endorsed this shameful act in her memory.

That statement may sound wildly dramatic, but I'm in complete agreement.

We've got the whole of Jackson Ward to place that statue. Under one of the few live oaks in the city would be just fine, lovely even. What southern woman doesn't like a bit of shade when the sun gets hot?

And if not there, maybe on a roundabout on Broad Street as has been suggested, or down on Leigh Street where Miss Maggie lived. Or Abner Clay Park? The median on Belvidere where people turn into Jackson Ward on Marshall Street? How about somewhere on that big parcel of land VCU bought at the corner of Leigh and Brook Road?

Anywhere, really, except a place where a fine, old tree has to give up its life and shade-giving properties for the cause. Because I can assure you, I'll be right there with the owner of Restoration Hardware and everybody else who has promised the city a royal battle if they touch one branch on that tree's trunk.

Mayor Jones, when you mess with J-Ward, you're asking for trouble. We're a passionate bunch.

Woodman, spare that tree. Just look at all the people who agree:

gopetition.com/petitions/woodman-spare-that-tree.html

History Period, Lunch Period

You want your historical speaker to have a sense of humor. You do not, however, want him to go beyond the time allotted.

Just ask the man a few rows behind me at the Virginia Historical Society who began snoring loudly at the 45-minute mark. Or the clutches of people who began leaving at the one hour mark.

It's not like today's subject - "The Quest for Loving: Race, Sex and the Freedom to Marry" - or lecturer Peter Wallenstein, a professor of history at Virginia Tech, were boring. But when people commit to an hour in the middle of the day to be schooled on history, that's all they want.

Wallenstein's humor helped the cause a lot with comments such as, "If you see two houses at the same time in Caroline County, you know you've come to a settlement."

Beginning at the end of the story of bi-racial couple Mildred and Richard Loving with Robert long dead and Mildred just buried, Wallenstein sat down and wrote 5,000 words after going to her funeral.

Only then did he realize he'd written an epilogue which now necessitated him writing the book that comes before it. We all know how that goes.

Highlights of this he shared with us today, such as, "Tell the court I love my wife and I want to be able to live with her in Virginia," which is what Richard told his lawyer during their trial for breaking the law stipulating that blacks and whites couldn't marry.

Interesting was his point that Judge Leon Bazile could have punished them with one to five years in jail, but instead banished them from Virginia, perhaps in part because the Catholic Bazile had married a Baptists woman against his family's wishes and they'd gone on to have a long and happy marriage.

An empathetic sentence, perhaps?

Fortunately Mildred, once settled in D.C.,  was the pro-active type who wrote to Attorney General Bobby Kennedy asking for help with their case. RFK referred her to the American Civil Liberties Union and a young lawyer named Cohen took up their cause mainly because he loved the couple's name and thus, what the name of the case would be.

Loving versus Virginia. How can you not win a case with a name like that?

Not only did SCOTUS rule in the Lovings' favor, but they went further, essentially transforming the law of the land. Wallenstein made a case for the same sex marriage movement years later using the template of the Loving case.

What goes around, comes around.

The over-abundance of material - he kept losing his place in his script and joking that someone needed to rewrite it for him and bring it to him onstage - caused one of his biggest laughs when he cracked, "Since I can't see a clock, I think that I have three more hours to talk."

Other jokes fell flat, slipped into his talk so dryly that most of the audience seemed to miss them entirely.

On the subject of being southern (at the time the Supreme Court ruled in the Lovings' favor, fifteen other states had anti-marriage laws for the races on their books), he said that when he asks his Tech students if they're southern, many say no "because we're from northern Virginia."

It's terrifying, right, that these are the people who will be running the country when we're old?

Although I wasn't part of the first wave to cut out on the talk, by 1:10, I had to, knowing a friend was meeting me at my house to go to lunch. Walking out through the VHS, the trio in front of me complained about the overly long lecture, saying a bell needs to go off at 12:50 to warn the speaker he's out of time and allow time for a Q & A.

Fortunately my patient friend was still waiting out front when I got home, so we strolled over to the Cultured Swine with me playing guide by pointing out the sidewalk grate that a man had fallen through yesterday. The caution tape was still up, looking ominous.

Do you know how many times I've walked over those grates on my daily constitutional?

Things were lively at the Swine with RTD columnist Michael Paul Williams picking up his lunch just after we ordered ours. The RTD's wedding correspondent was also scoring eats and stopped to chat with us while we awaited food.

My first choice had been the classic, a Sausagecraft rosemary garlic pork belly and shoulder sausage smothered in coleslaw, but they'd run out of pork belly sausage the talent in the kitchen informed me. No surprise there.

Instead I chose the BLTotally Awesome of house-smoked bacon, mixed dark greens, tomatoes and local mayo on a toasted baguette while my partner in crime had the Belly Mi, a banh mi-inspired pork belly sandwich with pickled veggies, sauteed veggies and bourbon-bacon pate, also on a toasted baguette.

The baguette, a key component of a true banh mi was perfect - nice chew, beautifully toasted, delicately flavorful. Both of our sandwiches exceeded expectations with the sheer quality of ingredients. My friend, not usually a brine fan, even raved about the pickled vegetables. Every bite of mine was a burst of fresh greens, summer tomatoes and smoky bacon.

No doubt about it, the place was warm, though, so when I spotted a nearby box fan just sitting there, I plugged it in and directed it at the small dining room. The wedding reporter praised my initiative. My friend joked about my endless supply of nerve.

But like the Lovings' case, it wasn't just about me. I did it for the greater good. Even in the South - and Virginia is the South, kids - swine so fine deserves a tad more air flow.

Everybody Was Around

My last minute change of mind paid off in spades.

The film sounded depressing, bluegrass wasn't calling to me, so why not spend a rainy, cold evening enjoying dinner in the neighborhood? Maybe I could even dig up some company.

Heading out for a bite. Are you around?

If you don't mind that I haven't showered today, because they haven't turned my hot water on yet!?!

Hell, I didn't care if he hadn't showered all week, I was just happy (and surprised) that I could message him at 7:15 on a Friday night and hear back that he'd meet me in 20 minutes.

Arriving at Lucy's, I found the tables full and the bar with one lone guest, an older gentleman eating dinner. Naturally, I took the bar stool right next to him and he seemed pleased for the company.

Within minutes, we were marveling at the coincidence. He lives in Montross, half an hour from where my parents live on the Northern Neck. Not only that, but in 1954, he and his father had surveyed my parents' small village, a place most people have never heard of.

While he ate (and raved about) his "non-spaghetti and meatballs," we discussed a host of topics: going to Redskins' games, that he'd had a double bourbon at his hotel before coming over (he doesn't like blended whiskeys) and that he was in town for the Episcopal Council, which he explained they are now calling the Episcopal Convention "so it doesn't sound so Civil War-like."

His affinity for bourbon and whiskey was, he said, a direct result of his Scottish heritage and when he learned mine was Irish, he chided me in a thick brogue for not having a drink in front of me. Given my Irish roots, he strongly suggested I try Redbreast 12 Year Single Pot Whiskey.

When I asked him if he knew that tomorrow is Robert Burns' birthday, he stood up and began reciting to me in a loud, clear voice.

My love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June
My love is like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune

Since it's not every day that a man recites poetry to me, I thanked him profusely and asked how it was he knew the entire poem. He said he used to recite it to his wife when he was courting her 48 years ago.

You can't help but compliment a man, not only his romanticism but on such a long, successful relationship, but I was also curious about why theirs had worked.

"I told my wife I had loved several women before I met her, but I'd never liked one as much as I liked her." No doubt about it, the man had a way with words.

We had plenty of time for more because my friend had called the restaurant to have the bartender let me know he had misplaced his wallet and was running behind. "Running behind a good-looking woman, probably!" my new friend cracked.

"Smelly and tardy," the bartender, who knew my friend well, joked.

I was surrounded by comedians.

But he did arrived shortly thereafter, in time to meet my Scottish-blooded friend and bid him farewell as his cab back to the hotel arrived. "Get her a drink, will you?" he asked of my friend. "She needs some whiskey!"

What I needed was food, so our first order of business was ordering. We both agree that the meat and cheese plate is the most unique in town (on tonight's was medium-rare skirt steak, toothsome and flavorful) and added to that the 404 pickle-brined chicken wings and the winter salad of kale, fried Brussels sprouts, toasted pine nuts and lemon vinaigrette, a combination so good we agreed it was crave-worthy.

Since it had been months since we'd gotten together, we chewed and caught up at the same time (sorry, Miss Manners). I knew he'd moved into the house he'd bought (hence the lack of hot water) but wanted details of progress.

The kegerator is hooked up and functional, he informed me. He already foresees summer parties with white wine in it and friends like me in attendance.

Maybe it was while he was telling me about his dating life (upcoming) or perhaps when I was hearing about the architectural detour his job may take that I heard two familiar voices behind me and a favorite couple showed up to take the two stools next to me. "Your bangs look perfect!" he joked instead of his usual comment on their length.

I'd wished for company and it was coming out of the woodwork tonight.

They offered me a glass of their Rose (why not?) and took our recommendation on the meat and cheese plate (the sounds of pleasure coming from her were reminiscent of "When Harry Met Sally") while my friend and I went back to our conversation.

He was interrupted and asked to look up and provide the VCU game score (they won) while explaining to me that his generation feels compelled to Facebook stalk someone before they date them. Call me old school, but I consider this tragic.

It was relevant because he was soliciting my advice on which restaurant best suits a first date. He didn't want anyplace near her house because she probably already goes to them regularly. He didn't want a place where he knows most of the staff. And he didn't want to risk certain Ethnic cuisines in case she was a picky eater.

Although, I say go for it. He was telling me that he once took a girl out to a trendy place only to learn she didn't eat beef, most vegetables or anything much besides chicken breasts. "Once she told me that, the date was pretty much over," he said, grimacing. I'm with him on that one.

When we turned our attention back to the newly arrived couple, they gave us their thoughts on what works and doesn't in the Devil's Triangle, how much they want to eat at Perly's and why they didn't go to the Jewish Food Festival (parking issues last year).

Then they graciously shared their apple crisp a la mode with us while Holmes explained about disco-era Rolling Stones songs to all of us and questioned why he never hears his favorite Steve Miller song ("Space Cowboy") played. Some questions have no answers.

It wasn't long after that all three of my friends began packing up to pack it in after early wake-up calls and full days at work. Hugs all around while I went over to chat with another favorite couple at the end of the bar and the others headed out into the rainy night.

I stood with my coat on as we talked, until finally they insisted I sit down, have more wine and chat for real. Why not? My day had gotten a late start and I had no place to be.

So many unsolved mysteries! Why would a restaurant with a focus on catering not participate in bridal fairs? How important is it for a restaurant to have someone focused on social media? Do people really pay off concierges at hotels? How many flasks are too many?

Next thing I knew, it was almost midnight and the place was closing down.

And to think I began this evening thinking I was going to go sit in a darkened theater by myself. I'd have missed so much: poetry, compliments, sarcasm. Advice on whiskey and a steady stream of friends.

'Twould have been a waste...of bangs and all those conversations I apparently had inside of me.

Hello, Officer

It was a more or less situation inspired by girls' talk.

On a night almost too cold to go out, Pru picked me up, considerately turning on the seat warmer on my side before she even arrived. We were on our way to the Criterion to see "Big Eyes," Tim Burton's telling of the saga of the painters behind those dreadful sad-eyed naif pictures from the '60s.

Growing up, our next-door neighbors, the Nearings, had them in their mod rec-room and even as a kid, I questioned their artistic value. Now it was Tim Burton's turn.

Buying our tickets, the only topic on everyone's lips was the cold. One guy behind the counter said he'd gone outside for a minute and returned with watering eyes, making people think he was crying. Nope, just freezing in his flimsy uniform.

Popcorn in hand, we took seats in front of the only other two people in the theater to watch previews, including a dreadful-looking one for "Fifty Shades of Gray." When it ended, we spontaneously looked at each other and said "nope."

"A Little Chaos," on the other hand, the upcoming period piece about the gardens of Versailles directed by and starring Alan Rickman and Kate Winslet, got an immediate thumbs-up from us both.

I'd read plenty about the story behind "Big Eyes" about how an untalented man passes off his wife's paintings as his own, creating a worldwide demand for the cheesy pictures of sad-eyed children while secluding her away almost constantly to produce more of them to pass off as his own.

A lot of the charm of the film was Burton's recreation of late '50s and '60s San Francisco, depicted as a hip and happening artistic mecca - jazz clubs, art galleries, basement espresso bars ("What's espresso? Is that like reefer?") and nearly vertical hills - all shot magnificently in the colors of a mid-century postcard.

While it seemed like the overarching theme was about the age-old struggle between art and commercialism, I was struck by the underpinnings of circumscribed gender roles that defined the characters.

A young mother who has left one bad marriage falls into another for fear of losing custody of her daughter to her ex-husband. The new husband offers security at a time when women were asked questions at job interviews like, "What does your husband think of you working?"

While the characters were written a bit broadly for my taste, the story stayed compelling because it was based on a true one. How in the world did this man get away with claiming to be the artist for so long without anyone finding out?

It was a reflection of the kinder, gentler time that it took place that the mystery was eventually solved in a  court of law when the judge ordered both to paint and the husband produced nothing while Margaret Keane effortlessly painted another of her big-eyed children.

Imagine having been on the jury and watching that play out.

Perhaps most satisfyingly, the end of the film showed the real Margaret Keane alive and well and, according to the caption, still painting every single day.

As we stood to put our coats on and bundle up against the cold, the man behind us shared that it had been the real Margaret sitting on a bench in an early scene. Nice that she's finally getting her due.

When we walked out of the theater it was 19 degrees, unfortunate because no heated seats awaited us. Discussing the movie as she drove me home, we marveled at how recently women had been without any discernible power in relationships.

Arriving in front of my house, we continued our discussion, moving on to other topics: the beach house she's rented for next summer, my recent trip to Florida, an upcoming play we need to see, her house-hunting efforts, a Woody Allen movie she recently saw and wants to watch again with me (for the points it raises about relationships). Girl talk.

We chatted for a good 50 minutes at least, until finally she cracked a window and said she needed a cigarette. As we moved on to the bubbles we've been drinking and the books we're reading (and how neither of us has stopped thinking about "Gone Girl"), suddenly there were blue and red lights flashing behind us.

Mind you, we were parked directly in front of my house.

An officer gets out of the car and slowly approaches us as we're giggling about what in the world he could want from us. We haven't been drinking, much less speeding, so we're pretty sure we're innocent.

Turns out he's suspicious because we'd been sitting in the right lane of Clay Street - flashers on, of course - for over an hour. He asks Pru for her license which she eventually unearths after dumping out the entire contents of her wallet.

While he's going back to his squad car to run it through his computer, Pru applies lip gloss. I don't because I'd just reapplied at the theater. The officer returns to hand her back her license, along with an admonition not to block traffic in the future.

Surely our men in blue have better things to do than this.

Once he walks away, we burst out laughing and begin to wrap our our rambling conversation, promising to get together soon, before I sprint for my front door.

There are some things you can't cover up with lipstick and powder. Girls' talk in the right lane is one of them.

The Days of Flies and Deer

Curiosity about a building I'd seen was all it took.

The Virginia Historical Society's banner lecture was "Sheltering Arms: A Legacy of Caring" given by Anne Lower from her book of the same name, out this year on the 125th anniversary of the hospital.

If it weren't for one of my walks having taken me down Clay Street across from the Valentine where I saw a handsome three-story building labeled "Sheltering Arms," I doubt the lecture would have piqued my interest.

Lower had my attention immediately when she explained that the original St. James Episcopal Church had been in Jackson Ward before moving to the "west end," over on Franklin Street in the heart of what is now VCU.

I couldn't have been more surprised to learn that Episcopalians had once gathered in J-Ward.

That was relevant because Rebekah Peterkin was the daughter of Reverend Joshua Peterkin of St. James church and she was the founder of Sheltering Arms.

With the limited powers of a 19th century woman, she convened her sewing circle to help establish a hospital for needy patients in the city.

Their first building - Clifton House on 14th Street - located behind the governor's mansion was donated and opened in 1889.

Lower made it sound like a community effort with doctors volunteering their time and bringing their own instruments, even painting walls, while farmers donated food and hunters donated deer.

Women, of course, donated time and endless fund-raising efforts.

After Rebekah died in 1891, the hospital was moved to the stately Grant mansion on Clay Street, the handsome building that had first caught my eye.

In the old photograph Lower showed, nurses wore floor-length white uniforms and she told us that they lived on the third floor of the mansion.

We heard about the formation of the Florence Nightingale Auxiliary and their community efforts - scout canned food drives, the Bal du Bois ("the most beautiful of parties," Lower called it), sorority fundraisers - to keep funds and goods coming in to Sheltering Arms.

Showing a picture of the operating room on Clay Street, Lower pointed out the three big windows, "Opened for fresh air during surgery, but also letting in flies because there were no screens then."

She said the windows had a great view of the countryside looking east.

That's the kind of details I go to these lectures for. Imagine a time when  operating rooms were open to views and flies!

The rest of the history interested me less - the move to northside where they no longer delivered babies or did surgery, the decline in need for free care once Medicare was put into law and how Sheltering Arms reinvented itself as a rehabilitation facility.

All well and good.

For me, I have a new appreciation of the Grant Mansion and next time I walk by, I'll try to imagine those long-skirted nurses working and living in that lovely house.

I'll probably even try to figure out which windows were the operation room ones so I can envision the view.

And then when I get back to Jackson Ward, I'll completely suspend belief and try to imagine Episcopalians in my neighborhood.

It must be true. I heard it at a Banner Lecture.

Lucky Me

The first rule of the Down Home Family Reunion is you don't leave.

That is, if you live in Jackson Ward, you don't want to risk giving up your parking space because chances are, you won't easily find a replacement in the neighborhood all day and night today.

Fair enough. After a wildly busy week (I was away five of the last seven days), it didn't take much incentive to keep me in the 'hood for food and music.

All afternoon long, cars had been driving down Clay Street, music blaring into my open windows, for the most part classic R & B such as Roberta Flack and Rick James.

People were gearing up for the show.

Bound for the Rogue Gentlemen down Leigh Street, I got a backside view of the stage and Proverbs Reggae Band giving it their all for the crowd.

Walking down St. Peter Street past endless lines of cars circling the block for non-existent parking spaces, I saw a cop at the end near where the street was blocked off.

Pointing out that at least he could hear the band despite not being able to see it, he said, "I've been working this festival for ten years and I like it fine from right here."

Amen, brother.

At the Rogue Gentlemen, I found the bar empty and took a stool at the end where the music (Killers, Black Keys, Kooks) was easy to hear.

Starving after this morning's nearly seven mile hike, part of it along the Northbank trail, I proceeded to order far too much food.

Lemon verbena tomato gazpacho with pressed melon, pine nuts and buttermilk got me started on solid footing with the exquisitely melded flavors of summer.

A man came in and sat down at the bar around the time my pork crepinette - a good-sized flattened sausage patty - was delivered.

Vermouth-soaked cherries complemented the saltiness of the sausage and a soft-cooked quail egg added richness.

On the side was frisee with speck and pistachios, making for a decadent plate of food.

Midway through tucking into it, my sweet corn agnolotti showed up and I immediately switched over to that for fear of overindulging in pig and not being able to fully appreciate the little dumplings.

Floating in a pale orange sea of paprika butter and ringed with heirloom yellow cherry tomatoes and sprinkled with Pecorino Toscano and bits of guanciale (cured pork jowls), wonderful flavors all, it was the purity and sweetness of the summer corn in the agnolotti that was the undisputed flavor star of the dish.

As it should be.

Like the tomatoes and melon in my soup, there is no better time to be savoring them.

Walking home, I saw that people were arriving in droves to add to the already teeming crowd, so I went to get my chair and join the other music lovers in the park.

It was between sets so Al Green was blasting from the speakers and I found a place to set up with an unobstructed view.

People watching was great because so many people were styling for the festival and despite it being held in a field, there were lots of high heels.

After a while, a guy came over and asked if I was ready for the show.

Telling him I was, he said, "You look comfortable. I like to see that!"

Not long after, a woman came by passing out fliers reminding people to vote (not that I ever forget).

Then the guy came back to ask if I was alone and although I told him I was waiting for a date, he took that as a cue to stand behind me and tell his friend what a terrific singing voice he had.

To prove it, he began singing.

You must be a special lady
And a very exciting girl

The Elegba Folklore Society's dancers and drummers performed next and then there was an unexpected lag for Ray, Goodman and Brown.

After all kinds of delay tactics, MC Micah "Boom Boom" White admitted that there had been some mis-communication and that the band, who had been here earlier, had thought they were due at a much later time than they actually were.

The good news was they were just arriving, but with set -up and sound checking, it was practically 11 when they took the stage.

Their set had supposed to run from 9:30 to 11. Oops.

"It's been a long time since we played Richmond," singer Billy "Get Down" Brown told the crowd. "We used to play DJ's Supper Club!"

A woman in the crowd corrected him. "TJ's Supper Club. And I was your waitress!"

With a full band behind the three singers, they took us back to the days of love songs, even doing the synchronized hand gestures and dance steps to every song.

They'd been introduced as the band who were originally called as The Moments and known for their incredibly tight harmonies.

Their mouths were barely open before it was clear that all three voices were still spot on.

Referring to Barry White-like songs that women love, Billy said, "All you gotta do is sit on the bed and drop the needle on the record and let Barry sing. Then I say, take it off, baby. Well, we got a song just like that for the ladies here."

He wasn't lying. From "With You" ("loving you is easier than breathing") to "Look at Me" ("I'm in love") to "Lovely Way She Loves," it was music made for scoring.

When someone in the golden circle yelled out a request, he said, "Yes, honey, we're gonna do that. We're gonna do two way street and three way street."

Given the band's late start, I think everyone in the crowd was worried that they'd have to cut their set short.

The woman nearest me about lost it when they kicked into "I Don't Wanna Go," but everyone seemed to have their favorites.

"Special Lady," the song the guy had been serenading me with earlier, got the full singalong treatment with men and women doing separate parts.

Things got groovy when all three singers were introduced by name, zodiac sign and birth city,

I was impressed that Kevin used to sing with Luther Vandross but also bowled over that Billy's voice still hit those notes on the hits I recognized.

The crowd, meanwhile, danced and even sang along like they were back in high school.

Of course, the most reaction came for "Love on a Two-Way Street" and people began singing at the top of their lungs.

"It's the Richmond Tabernacle Choir!" Billy said as we sang and an extended arrangement took the song long past the three-minute mark.

It was a shame we only got a 45 minute set, but life's not always fair. Killer harmonies helped make up for fewer songs.

As I made my way toward home among clusters of people dragging chairs, I heard more than one ask a companion, "Where did we park?"

Happily, some of us didn't have that concern. We'd never left the 'hood.

Down home is right here.

Rotting My Gut Out

Couple dates: all the fun, none of the pressure.

We agreed to convene at his house for a glass. Next thing I knew, the soundtrack to "Casablanca" was playing, "oui, oui" jokes were being bandied about and the last of the Gruet Brut Rose was being poured.

Everything goes so much faster when there's three people.

We talked about the upcoming gallery closings at the VMFA and the need to make it to the Corcoran before it closes. My friend showed me some of his "B" movie collection, warning me about how bad (so bad they're good) some of them were.

I was solicited on where to eat after my friend announced he was so hungry he could eat a whole cow (can we start with the good parts?) and while my first suggestion went over like a lead balloon ("Isn't that in eastern Henrico?"), my second got a 2/3 majority vote almost at once.

We piled in the car for the short drive to the Continental Divide, housed in the former Mint.

Not hesitating to ask strangers to move so we could have three stools together, we took up residence at the end near the service bar.

The music was loud, the place was hopping and we all spent a few minutes with the extensive tequila menu.

One of the guys behind the bar recommended 123, an organic tequila with which I was familiar, having had a flight of blanco, reposado and anejo at Casa del Barco a while back.

"Organic frickin' tequila?" my friend blustered. "I want it to rot my frickin' gut out! It's tequila!"

I knew what he meant even if the way he expressed it had not exactly been true.

Seeing my familiarity with the tequila menu, the woman next to me began chatting me up and soon told me that she was in sales and really, really liked talking to people.

After hearing about her cousins' restaurant and her family's restaurants and her career trajectory, I could believe it.

When she asked how long I'd been in Richmond, I told her and she perkily announced, "That's as long as I've been alive!"

See, honey, we do have something in common!

Actually, she was a delightful person, waxing on about the importance of doing something you love and never trading more money for less happiness.

As if I have to be told, sitting there in my $2.50 thrift store dress.

Although I'd been to the Divide once, I hadn't eaten, so correcting that was my first order of business. Deciding what I wanted was a snap once I spotted black bean nachos on the simple menu.

As a certifiable black bean nacho fiend, I felt obligated to see how these stacked up to my exacting standards.

The thing is, nachos are a very personal thing and one man's epic nachos are another woman's plate of "meh."

Here's what I don't want on nachos: meat of any kind, lettuce, black olives. Here's what I do: tortilla chips (preferably blue, but at least a mixture of yellow, blue and red) that are not overly salty. Cheese (and not goat, Feta or cheese dip) layered throughout and not just melted on top. An abundance of black beans. Tomatoes, onions and a small amount of jalapenos.

Sounds pretty simple, right? That combination is harder to find than you might think.

Not to give anyone a big head, but I was more than pleased with my plate of nachos. Sharing them with my couple date, they munched heavily and agreed heartily.

But once their tacos showed up- two behemoths to a plate, his pig, hers cow- they left me to the responsibility of finishing the plate, a task that soon had me feeling as over-stuffed as a birthday pinata.

After an existential conversation about following your bliss and an analogy on the part of the woman next to me that trivialized the subject appallingly, her evening's companion showed up and, lo and behold, was a friend of mine.

"You know each other?" she asked in amazement. This is Richmond, my dear, and if you go out regularly, there will often be someone who knows someone that you know. It's simply a numbers game.

The taco portions were ridiculous - two overstuffed tacos with enormous piles of black beans and rice- and neither of my companions cleared their plates, even though this is America.

Breaking my mother's first rule of dinner (no sweets without a clean plate), when we left there it was to go have dessert and ensure that we all ended the evening in a food coma.

When I got home, I was still so full I felt like I could pop, so I did what any overfed Jackson Ward resident does when she gets home at 10:30.

I went for a walk. Up one block and down another, enjoying the relative quiet of the neighborhood's brightly lit streets, running into people walking their dogs, a couple of guys trying to entice a feral kitty to eat out of a can, some guys chilling in their tiny front yard, music tumbling down the steps from inside the house.

I meant to walk for ten or fifteen minutes but the night air was so soft and the sliver of moon so expressive and clear, that every time I looped back around within sight of my house, I kept on going.

Keeping on my cute summer sandals may not have made for the best walking shoes, but this wasn't exercise, per se; this was more like the passeggita the Italians do in the evenings: a leisurely promenade after a filling meal, an excuse to see and be seen and work off some of that full feeling.

Just the thing after a filling couple date.

And unlike a regular date, I don't have to wonder if they'll want to see me again.

They will. Rumor has it I'm a fun fifth wheel.

Walking the Beat

A man approaches me at a crosswalk.

Stranger: Can I give you a compliment?
Me: Sure.

Stranger: Those sure are some pretty legs you have.
Me: Thank you.

Stranger: I saw you walking before and was thinking you don't often see legs that nice.
Me: Not bad for an old lady.

Stranger: You don't look old, you look great. Do you have a boyfriend?
Me: Yes.

Stranger: Do you want another?
Me: Nope, one man is plenty for me.

Walk resumes.

Just Do It Again

There's a good reason I can't have a dog.

Four years after my beloved beagle died, people still ask me when I'm getting another dog.

Recently, my aunt sent me an e-mail telling me she knew of a beautiful dog ("very much your kind of dog") for me, a six-year old male springer spaniel (brown and white) named Scout.

"He is housebroken and has a wonderful disposition - would love to accompany you on your morning walk," she wrote using her most convincing words.

I told her what I tell everyone who asks me why I haven't gotten another dog: my lifestyle isn't conducive to being a dog owner anymore. I leave my house and never know when I might be back.

Case in point: today.

I walked out of here around 3:30 to walk three blocks to Steady Sounds to hear live music. The in-store performance was scheduled from 3-5 p.m. so already I knew I was late.

Walking in, I found I'd missed the first musician but Brandon Seabrook was setting up, so I began perusing the bins and chatting with the two people I knew.

The ukulele player did his best to make a case for me getting on Twitter, saying he'd looked for me and couldn't find me and insisting that my pithy writing would garner me scads of followers. Somehow, he wove in Ted Nugent and his millions of followers, but I didn't quite see the connection.

Then the DJ and I discussed the upcoming Neko Case show and debated whether Frday Cheers could ever be sold out. Can you sell out an island?

But when Brandon Seabrook began playing (and making guitar faces of the highest order), there was nothing to do but focus on his incredible shredding - both guitar and banjo- which, while loud and crazy energetic, was also rhythmically melodic, not just noise, so you could hear the music in it.

The crowd wasn't large but it was mostly guys (and I'm guessing, many of them guitarists), all of them staring so intently at Brandon as if they could absorb his technique or intensity through osmosis.

After a disparaging comment about his home, NYC, he mused, "Maybe I should move here. Anyone need a roommate?" Bring it on, man, you'd be a great addition to the scene here.

Once he finished, I agreed to accompany a friend (who, incidentally, was wearing an empty gun holster at his hip and had a cat's tail pinned to his pants) to Tarrant's so he could get a slice of pizza before he passed out.

Paying for the two records I'd found, we walked the three blocks over, talking about how clueless both of us are about all things sports. He aspires to change that while I don't.

Clueless was putting it mildly because we soon found ourselves in the middle of mass red, white and blue hysteria. Tarrant's was barely a block from the street event showing the USA - Portugal soccer game on a giant screen outside and people were flooding the streets to get over there.

Ducking into the takeout back door, my friend ordered his slice of pineapple and mushroom pizza moments before the first clutch of fans burst through the door.

Once he'd procured his slice, we headed back to Steady Sounds with me giving him an earful about why pineapple doesn't belong on pizza. We were eager to leave the soccer world behind and make it back in time to see Wreckless Eric play. The word was he'd be there by 5:30.

He wasn't, so we set up camp on the bench outside at the bus stop and soon attracted a bunch of friends who'd shown up for the show. The running joke was that we were there to confuse bus drivers (who kept pulling over for us) when all we were really doing was loitering with intent (to see Eric).

After a while, a girl who lived over the record shop appeared saying she'd seen the crowd and was wondering what was going on.

When someone told her Wreckless Eric was coming, she doubled over, shrieking, "Get the f*ck out!" She stayed.

Our little crowd began to grow with more Eric fans and we wiled away the time dividing ourselves into two camps: those who can accept pineapple on pizza and those who cannot. We further subdivided on the subject of chicken on pizza (I'm also firmly in the anti-chicken camp).

Music talk revolved around lead singers who leave bands and then make records that sound identical  to the band's. What's the point?

Eventually, a big car with New York license plates pulled up and the man had arrived. A bunch of people rushed to help him unload his equipment while the rest of us headed inside.

Just this morning, I'd read a piece in today's Washington Post about Eric, who's playing the Black Cat tomorrow night in D.C., all about how he's been rediscovered by another generation, partially due to the reissue of some of his '80s and '90s albums. About damn time, kids.

With no fanfare, Eric took up his battered-looking green guitar and announced in his thick Sussex, England accent, "Okay, I'm ready to do this. I guess."

And do it he did, playing songs about fever, about leaving England and "School," about the perils of getting hit at grammar school (and boys warming the toilet seats for other boys).

Mid-set, a couple of guys went upstairs and came down with their bikes in hand, causing Eric to remark on what a haphazard thing that was. "I know what I'm doing. It just comes across as haphazard sometimes. F*ck it. Because we all need some haps in our hazard."

Talking about his current tour ("I get in my car and drive, get out and play while people stare at me and get back in my car"), he said he'd been through Tennessee and South Carolina and went off on what the food options are on the road, naming a bunch of chains. "People who go to Panera look like Elvis Costello fans," he observed to laughter.

"This is a song about driving around the country at night and it doesn't end properly because I couldn't be bothered," he said.

Sysco trucks are rolling through the night
Delivering the stuff that people like

That's the thing about Wreckless Eric: his songs are smart, cleverly written and almost always full of observations about life. Add in his vibrant guitar and outsider energy and it's easy to imagine what a misfit he must have been from the early days of punk on.

I was out of time
I was out of step...
Everyone says it's a fool's game...
I wouldn't do it differently
I'd just do it again

The crowd of 40 or so - young, old and in-between - stood reverently watching his every move, aware of the fact that we were in the presence of someone who mattered...then and now.

"You've got lives to live, so I won't detain you," he said before the last song, "(I'd Go the) Whole Wide World," his debut single from 1977 and still a damn fine song.

When I was a young boy
my Mama said to me
There's only one girl for you
and she probably lives in Tahiti
I'd go the whole wide world
I'd go the whole wide world just to find her

Granted, Wreckless Eric had arrived late but more than repaid the crowd with a stellar set and a lot of self-deprecating wit.

That said, by the time it ended, I was dizzy with hunger, so rather than head home, I strolled down the street to Saison, knowing it was fried chicken night.

In my musical delirium, I'd somehow forgotten about the soccer game going on, so when I walked into Saison, it was to screaming fans watching the game.

Asking one of them if the stool next to him was free, I sat down and ordered a quarter chicken, dark meat, and began rifling through a 1960s book on the art of photography (the guy next to me warned me that it was boring), finding it fascinating for its pictures of how to photograph a horse, how to shoot a crime scene and how to light a movie set.

Apparently I can't trust a soccer fan's opinion on photography.

When my chicken arrived with potato salad and a cauliflower and cheese medley, I put the book aside and tore into the food while soccer fans went berserk first over a USA goal and then moaned when Portugal scored and the game ended.

Once sated and the game over, I turned to the guy next to me to ask how he'd ended up at Saison tonight. Answer: sheer luck. Out of towners, he and his buddy had stumbled on to it.

The two - one from Albuquerque, the other from Portland) had been at a wedding in Suffolk and were staying the night in Richmond before flying out tomorrow.

Despite having only been in town for an afternoon, Albuquerque was already impressed with what he'd seen in Richmond and wanted me to tell him more.

Rookie mistake asking me to tell you more.

I felt like preconceived notions were being shattered when he expressed surprise that despite Virginia being an ABC state, Saison had such a terrific variety of booze on its back bar.

For all I know, he was surprised I wasn't wearing hoop skirts and calling him "suh."

Kidding. He was pleasant in every way, even raving about the multiple courses of food they'd had as well as the beauty of the city.

He has a second office in Austin but he said it's gotten so expensive there that he's thinking of eliminating it. His initial take on Richmond was that we had all the charm of Austin without the sheer numbers of people or higher cost of living. All true.

By the time we finished chatting, it occurred to me that I had no idea what time it was. Walking home, the sky said post-sunset and once home, the clock said I'd been gone for going on six hours.

And therein lies the problem. What if I'd left for Steady Sounds, expecting to be gone two hours, with plans to walk or feed the dog when I returned?

Given I'd been gone three times that long, I'd either have returned to find a hungry, cranky beagle or one with his legs crossed in agony for needing to pee. I just couldn't do that to him.

And it happens all the time. I leave thinking I'll be home shortly and life intervenes, someone suggests something, I decide to keep going, I run into someone or a thousand other unexpected things lure me away. Because they can.

And I like it that way. No responsibility, nobody needing my attention. Selfish? Lazy? Indulgent?

Now you know why I can't have nice things like dogs.