The Circle is Unbroken

A woman needs situational friends, the kind whom you only see on specific occasions, say a Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society.

I have sat next to the same older woman with twinkling eyes on at least half a dozen occasions and we always find so much to talk about, whether our respective neighborhoods, her years volunteering at the VMFA or changing women's roles.

For today's "Rightful Heritage: FDR and the Land of America" lecture, which had attracted me for its focus on the Civilian Conservation Corps' monumental effort to build national parks, parkways and nature refuges, she had a sentimental reason for coming.

"I remember Franklin Roosevelt being President," she said of the man who, as we were soon to learn, was as avid a conservationist as his fifth cousin, ex-President "Uncle Teddy," espousing the progressive philosophy, "Conservation is the basis for permanent peace" and envisioning national parks as dispensers of our heritage.

Pretty rad for the time.

Most surprising fact gleaned from Douglas Brinkley's effortlessly delivered lecture: FDR ran a tree plantation and whenever required to fill out his occupation on a form, always wrote "tree farmer." Pretty far-removed from his image of Hyde Park, cigarette holders and a monocle, eh?

A woman needs gay friends because who else would write something such as, "I saw you on Sunday at the food event on Broad Street with your "baby doll" dress on, but I was too far away to yell so I thought I'd do it here."

Nope, never comes out of the mouth of a straight man (because they would have no clue what a baby doll style dress is), so it's flattering to know someone notices, even from a distance.

A woman needs married friends because they're so accommodating, if not always as well-trained as one might expect.

We used to meet up regularly with the blessing of his wife (a far less adventurous eater), at least until he took a three-year position that resulted in a daily work schedule and our get-togethers petered out. When I bumped into him at a booze panel last winter, he set the ball in motion by instructing me to call him.

It only took half a year to make it happen tonight at Castanea, a place he'd never been. Naturally, he began by detailing his parking difficulties and concerns with the neighborhood, as he is inclined to do being a white suburbanite out of his comfort zone, although for food, he'll venture most anywhere.

Recently that had been Mama J's Kitchen where he and his wife had been made to feel like regulars, had enjoyed a terrific dinner of soul food ("those greens...that cake!") and generally fallen for the irresistible combo of good food, welcoming atmosphere and agreeable prices (albeit where they were the only white people, which, we agreed, is exactly the situation more white people need to place themselves in).

A Southside resident and regular at Southbound's bar ("It's so close!") he regaled me with tales of the wonder that is the new Wegman's, having joined the 24,000 other people who'd visited it on opening day, although he'd purposely ignored the carts and only looked.

The rest of the story is that they've been back three times since, spent lots of money and the two of them are besotted with the place. He went so far as to suggest that Whole Foods and Fresh Market just go ahead and close up shop since they're now superfluous.

"They've got mushrooms I've only seen on television!" he said with obvious fungus lust.

Much of his praise was for the seafood section and the impressive whole fish displays from which fillets are cut on demand and myriad oysters for roasting abound, but he was also drooling about the cured meat and cheese offerings, which so tempted them that he said they made dinner of bread, meat and cheese three times last week.

"You'll have to go check it out," he tells me. Will I really? Having an embarrassment of fresh produce is really only meaningful if the market's in your neighborhood and south of the river, west of Huguenot is nothing close to mine.

Since we'd last gotten together, he'd become a devotee of sour beers and a decision maker at work, resulting in his insistence that I pick and choose what we'd eat tonight. For me, being bossy is like breathing, so when I'm actually asked to call the shots, I don't even pretend to demur.

After choosing monkfish, a mezze of sauteed zucchini and a smoked pancetta pizza, we settled back with a bowl of olives which led to a discussion of the Olivator, a tool for inserting bleu cheese (or, I suppose, anything sort of soft) into an olive. I'm not kidding, the subject got him so worked up that he pulled out his phone to show me the single-function device, which, it seemed to me, operated pretty much identically to a syringe.

Not a good visual, I know.

"Let's check the 'don'ts,'" he insisted, confusing me at first. "Still no cell phone? No TV? No air conditioning?" No, no and I've always had central air, I just choose not to use it.

He admitted he could only give me so much crap about my lack of phone because his wife still has a flip phone and can't text. "And I'm not allowed to bring it out for any reason when we're out. It has to stay in my pocket, no matter how badly I need to check something."

First, brilliant woman. Second, how civilized. Can we make this official policy?

The first dish out was the monkfish with Victory Farm pac choi sauteed with hot pepper and a salty tapendae on the side, a strong start because the pac choi was every bit as stellar as the rich fish. A huge party at a nearby table must have slowed down receipt of our next course, so I casually mentioned to our overwhelmed barkeep that I was hoping the pizza showed up soon and it did.

As delicious as it was tardy, the pizza hit the spot nicely.

The zucchini, however, never found its way to us, so we punted by ordering double chocolate gelato, declining an offer from a nearby writer who's leaving Richmond (at least for the time being, since they always come back) to buy us drinks and then by offering her our last two slices of pizza, for which she was giddily grateful and promised to stalk me on Facebook so she could buy me that drink another time.

A woman may not need a stranger owing her a drink, but it's not necessarily a bad thing, either.

Always Second Choice

It's like I'm living at the beach.

Because all my windows are open, the warm, humid air outside keeps rolling into my apartment, the result being that every floor, every wall, every mirror and window is glistening. A wacky breeze periodically rattles the shades.

Everything looks and feels damp, not that there's anything wrong with that. My hair has given up.

Walking back through Carver yesterday, I encountered two guys standing under an open garage door, arms crossed, enjoying the warmth of a gray, rainy day. But when I said it felt beachy, one guy disagreed. "It's a few months too late for the beach," he says. I'm not that picky.

Anytime is a good beach time to me.

I'm pickier about movies, so while the rest of the world is busy seeing "Star Wars," I saw "Spotlight," a well-acted film based on true events that showed the actual work of tracking a news story and not just a Hollywood scratch-at-the-surface take on the often-grueling work.

Says the woman who's never been any sort of investigative journalist.

This week is already feeling like a blur, let's see, there was Richmond Ballet's "Nutcracker," resplendent with fresh costumes I didn't recognize, a glamorous new sleigh and at least a couple of sets I don't recall ever seeing. The overall effect was lovely and succinct, touching down at two hours including intermission.

Out on the sidewalk at 4:00, we navigated treacherous puddles to set our sights on Castanea for a nosh to accompany a little holiday Cava. With the staff a bit less than punctual, the chef ably filled in as bar man, pouring our bubbles and being amusing before returning to kitchen duty to make our bacon-wrapped dates and bruschetta with chicken liver mousse.

For the record, my first time at Castanea without eating gelato.

Holmes calls to say, "I wanted you to know you weren't my first choice," and explains that someone has dropped out of his birthday dinner, so he'd like to invite me to the all-family gathering at Belmont Food Shop.

Walking into his house, immediately it's a party. His nephew, affectionately known as L.A. Ken (for his post-RVA adopted home), joins us to pre-game and for the walk over under ominous skies thundering and lightening like it's August.

"I don't think it's ever thundered on my birthday," Holmes observes to himself as he helps Beloved maneuver around a puddle.

As many times as I've been to Belmont, I'd never eaten on the special event side, so I couldn't resist looking around. "Being nosy?" our server Andy asks upon discovering me in the pantry. "This is where I hide."

Explaining that I'm the only non-family member at this shindig, Andy's there for me. "You just tell me if you need anything stronger." Rose was plenty because the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree and with Holmes as colorful as he is, well, so goes the fam.

Aunt Martha told me she saw Frank Sinatra in Pittsburgh in 1943 when she was 16, before she knew what the big deal about Frankie was. She confirmed for me that girls did indeed scream through the show. Erica and I found that we were kindred souls when it comes to photography: take a zillion shots and cull the herd. Simple. Brother Jerry told me that I should have been Holmes' first choice to invite to the party. L.A. Ken posed the question: Kurt Cobain or Jim Morrison?

Belmont never disappoints with food and tonight's shrimp with poached endive and avocado, short ribs with barley and root vegetables and chocolate silk pie did nothing to change my mind on that matter. Bonus points were awarded because instead of the usual 20s and 30s music, they had on the Beatles, the birthday boy's musical bedrock.

And while I'm taking a tally, let's not forget about all the holiday goings-on.

Dozens of cookies have been made, presents have been wrapped, nog has been repeatedly sipped. Despite the oddness of the weather, I'm ready now to join the Whos down in Who-Ville in singing, "Welcome Christmas." And Spring, apparently.

It's all good. I don't think I've ever worn a sundress on Christmas Eve. And shiny walls are festive, no?

Woman of Heart and Mind

You know how it is with traditions.

You start doing something in 2010 when you're still trying to figure life out and next thing you know it's 2015 and it's still going strong. Thanksgiving Eve festivities, that is.

That first year involved dinner out at the long-shuttered Bonvenu, followed by music at Cary Street Cafe. We've since refined the process.

By mid-day, Jackson Ward was emptying out quickly. By the time I left to meet friends for the evening, it was starting to look like a ghost town. Slightly better in the Museum District (more older people likely hosting turkey day, I suppose), the trip in between was absent its usual traffic.

Walking in to Holmes' humble abode, I found him and Beloved deep in discussion of their Thanksgiving plans, which weren't sitting well with her. After wrapping up that business by saying they'd make the best of it, he turned to me and with mock seriousness proclaimed, "And tonight, we're going to do our best to have fun with Karen!"

Good luck with that, friends. That was the signal to pour glasses of Beaujolais Nouveau and toast to another year's harvest and friendship.

With Holmes at the helm and some killer blue-eyed soul courtesy of Paul Carrick playing, we glided through downtown, noting the scads of reindeer in place but not yet lighted (Grand Illumination being next week), to Castanea's welcoming light.

There, it was a family affair, with Chef Philip in the back and his wife out front. Since she's actually a nurse, she made an attentive and thoughtful server.

Best of all, I discovered that she's the source of their outstanding world music soundtrack, a stellar melding of Spanish and North African music that plays like the background of the coolest party you've never been invited to.

A bottle of the house Cava got us started while Holmes described going to the hot and sweaty July 1970 Atlanta Rock Festival in an attempt to make up for having missed Woodstock. There, he said, he saw Mott the Hoople and Procul Harum, but skipped Hendrix because he wasn't playing until 3 a.m. "I didn't stay up because I was trippin'."

Said Karen and Beloved never.

He recalled relaxing on the ground when a guy came by and informed him, "I hate to bum you out, man, but I think you're lying in poison ivy." From what he recalls, he wasn't.

We began with bacon-wrapped dates over a mango cardamom sauce, then went to what the chef calls adult fish sticks - brandade balls coated and fried up crispy - and fat albondigas swimming in a tomato sauce with pine nuts and the kick of paprika, before moving on to pizza.

Debating our topping options, Holmes opined, "It's not pizza if there's not pepperoni," and that's exactly what we got, the crust as fabulous as the thick slices of pepperoni.

And since nothing is better while eating than gross stories, Holmes regaled us with his days as an orderly at MCV circa 1971 to '73, making $1.90 an hour. "All the drugs, toilet paper and soap I wanted!" he says with gusto. Also, it turns out, all the patient meals he cared to eat, which was probably a lot given that he was 19.

If it sounds nervy of him to help himself, consider that he was the "prep" guy, meaning he had to shave people and give them enemas pre-surgery. "Yea, I had to wipe asses."

Pass the pizza, please.

The only way to top a story like that was with gelato, so we did and for my fifth visit to Castanea, I broke bad and didn't get double chocolate with coconut, choosing instead mint chocolate chip that tasted of fresh mint in the most unexpectedly refreshing way.

By the time we departed the Bottom, things were looking even deader than when we'd arrived, so the only logical thing to do was head back to Holmes' Hideaway and crank some vinyl.

Appropriately enough, he began by playing some live Buffalo Springfield, mainly because he'd seen them on November 19, 1967. Reading the liner notes, I learned that he'd seen them on the Buffalo Springfield annual Thanksgiving Tour, of all the unlikely coincidences.

The notes also divulged that on that tour, they'd been doing afternoon and evening shows and, sure enough, Holmes had seen them at the Richmond Arena one afternoon and BS had played DAR Constitution Hall that same night.

What band does that anymore?

I had no idea that Homes used to be a college DJ at UR, signing on saying, "Hi, I'm Holmes and this is the Feed Your Head show," before playing whatever the hell he wanted to, stuff such as John Cale's orchestral masterstroke, "Paris 1919," a baroque pop wonder that Holmes owns in multiple formats.

When Beloved and I requested some Joni Mitchell, he obliged with the sublime "Court and Spark" before introducing us both to the earlier "For the Roses" from 1972. She recalled "Turn Me On, I'm a Radio," but I didn't, although it didn't take long to see the beauty and sarcasm of the song.

Inside the album folder was a gorgeous picture of Joni naked from the back, standing on an outcropping of rocks in the ocean, sun glinting off the water, a picture I only wish someone would take of me.

We listened to so much music as we sipped the perfectly lovely Graham Beck Brut Rose, with Holmes only occasionally giving one or the other of us crap about our lack of knowledge or questionable taste. He justified it by saying, "I'm just an unmarried male curmudgeon in his '60s."

Things amped up when he pulled out a bottle of 120 proof Scotch and suggested we taste it. One sip in, Beloved recoils and says, "I think I hear Richard Harris when I smell this."  I stick to wetting my lips with it.

When he put on a 45 of Barbra Streisand's Barry Gibb-produced hit, "Woman in Love," he announced that it was a big drag song and began doing a pseudo-striptease for our amusement.

When he put on the soundtrack to "Shaft," he immediately asked our permission to turn it up and bathe us in Isaac Hayes' immersive soul sounds. Beloved and I wanted to hear the whole thing, but he was dissatisfied listening to what he called "incidental soundtrack music" and moved on to the Pretenders.

We were several hours into Thanksgiving before calling it quits. The two of them had to get up at a reasonable enough hour to make corn pudding, so we put a period on our Thanksgiving Even tradition with another evening of terrific company and entertainment under our collective belt.

My head had been fed, as had been my belly. Happy Thanksgiving Eve to us and many more.

Eating for Sport

Pin a rose on me. I helped a guy figure out how he wanted to die tonight.

It was while I was over-eating with two friends and blathering about how good the food, glorious food was that our server dropped in on the conversation.

"I know, right?" he said, joining right in. "There's a 600-pound man trapped inside this body and all he wants to do is eat. That's how I want to die...eating." He paused. "Or with a woman."

What about both? I asked him and his eyes lit up. "Yes! That's how I want to go. Food, a woman and well, you know." I did know. "Maybe with an egg cracked over us."

Be still my heart. This is a man I get.

And these are the kinds of conversation we were having while an eclectic world music station played everything from French torch songs to African percussion to Bollywood dance rhythms, making for a party soundtrack. The lighting may have been a tad bright and I have no use for a big screen with football on, but otherwise, Castanea was definitely working for us.

The fact of the matter is, my original plan had been to go hear a scholarly talk on the movie "Django Unchained" and then see the movie for the first time. See a little violence, learn a little something, you know, typical Tuesday evening.

But I'd run into a friend who wanted to go to the opening of the new Belle & James downtown instead so I donned opening party attire (as in, cute tights) and met a favorite couple there, where we ogled the gorgeous bar and arresting art.

There were so many more people crammed into the space than we'd anticipated, some looking incredibly stylish - a favorite sommelier - and others spouting cliches and platitudes - the mayor dubbing Belle & James a "New York City restaurant" before he'd even tasted a bite of food.

I ran into the parents of a good friend and was tickled to hear that he'd shared with his mother the dating advice I'd given him. She told me that since she'd married her first date, she hadn't had the life experience to advise him.

And while I don't date for sport (one of the pithiest descriptors I've heard lately), I definitely have had enough dating experience to advise a good friend when I can.

The place was so packed that mingling was pretty much limited to the area immediately adjacent to where you stood, but luckily it was central enough that I spotted a few familiar faces and made do with those around me.

After an hour or so, the three of us left the movers and shakers behind to meet at Castanea so we could really talk. Despite all leaving in separate cars from the same place, I arrived a full 15 minutes ahead of each of them and the bartender warmly welcomed me back. When my friendsy didn't show up shortly, he asked if they could have stopped to canoodle, delaying their arrival.

I like the way he thinks, but it is to laugh. I told him no, that hell would have to freeze over first before their delay could be blamed on canoodling, and eventually she walked in the door and a bit later, he did, too.

You'd think people with GPS systems could beat a Luddite who still uses maps, but apparently not.

We were in wildly different wine moods, so she who wanted bubbles got a Lambrusco and he fell in love with Ancient Ruins Merlot/Cab Franc, resulting in a fascinating lecture on the many micro-climates and abundance of completely different soils at this Pasa Robles vineyard.

After one sip, I had to have Casa Ferreirinha "Planalto" Branco Reserva, a Portuguese wine that drank like a mouthful of rainwater (or ocean, according to my friend who praised its hint of salinity), with a finish that just dropped off at the end, like leaping off a cliff into the ocean. I only wish I was drinking it at the ocean.

Since it was their first time, they wanted to taste all over the menu and since I'm the last person to preach moderation with a glass of wine in hand, we dove right in.

Speaking of the sea, we got a bowl of it in the form of panzanella fruit de mar, a bright citric combination of mussels, clams, calamari, shrimp, anchovies, orange peppers, onion, olives and bread that was exquisite with my wine. So good, in fact, that the female half ordered a glass for herself to enjoy with the seafood.

We got our meaty fix with albondigas, Spanish meatballs noticeably absent any filler, with pine nuts and a chunky tomato sauce, before taking it over the top. Impressed as we'd been with both of those, when the cresto de gallo showed up, it rocked our night.

Perfectly pan-fried chicken livers had a texture to die for and the al dente cresto de gallo (looking like ruffled tubes of pasta with a cockscomb) equally so. A Marsala wine sauce gave the dish its richness while rainbow Swiss chard complemented the understated but definitive spiciness that had us all moaning with pleasure.

There's nothing more unappealing than an overcooked chicken liver where all you taste is that overpowering mineral quality that reminds you you're eating a filtering organ. This, I'm happy to report, was the furthest thing from it.

Make no mistake, we were full by this point, but having too good a time talking with our amiable Dutch server, taking in the terrific music playing overhead and discussing theater, Chartreuse-centric bars and sushi at 2:45 a.m. to notice.

Which may or may not explain ordering a shakshuka pizza sporting garlic, tomato, paprika and two runny eggs atop it. Smokiness dominated and the eggs imparted an obscene richness to each slice.

Given our bloated state, we moved on to cinnamon-spiked digestifs with a nose of orange and bitters that righted our world and prepared us to face the final frontier: dessert.

Part of the reason we'd come had been because I'd told my food-obsessed friend about the Sicilian pistachio gelato made from pistachio paste flown over from Sicily and he had to have it. She went with prickly pear, a beautiful rose-colored sweet thing, and I had - no surprise here - double chocolate.

We stopped short of licking the designs off the howl, but otherwise left little. If there's a better $3 dessert in town, please tell me about it.

When the chef came out to check on our satisfaction level, my friend let slip that tonight's visit represented his 646th Richmond restaurant visit and that, yes, he keeps a spreadsheet with notes.

I couldn't let the opportunity pass to point out that he also keeps a spread sheet on the qualities that make up the perfect woman. His long-time girlfriend sitting to my right, who's never seen that spreadsheet, was surprised to hear that she scores 56 out of 72. She thought she was a 60.

She may want to consider cracking an egg over herself. I hear some men like that.

I Got a Blank Space

Only peer pressure could get me to be part of the "in" crowd.

Picking up my date involved more than driving to Church Hill, because there were beach supplies - a chair and two umbrellas - to be returned to their rightful owner before taking on a passenger. And while I'm happy to gets someone else's beach stuff out of my car, you can be certain my beach chair and umbrella are still firmly at the ready in the trunk.

You could say my optimism knows no bounds, but I've yet to rule out one last trip to the ocean this year.

With Pru riding shotgun, we drove straight to Castanea, ignoring available tables for seats at the more populated and generously-sized bar. Our bartender was affable and saucy - delighting in giving us a defiant "no" before granting every request - making for excellent patter as we selected what to sip and sup.

Wine arrived and we barely got through hearing a special  - cornmeal-dusted artichokes over heirloom tomatoes with Pecorino, pine nuts and mint - described before the two of us were nodding at each other, nudging each other, as in, yes, must have that.

At least we didn't resort to grunting at one another.

It must have been while we were moaning over the contrast of the rich fried artichoke and the bright end-of-summer freshness of the heirlooms, mint and was that a hint of basil (?) that the bartender set out to tempt us with more freshness, this time in the guise of today's cocktail.

Using local blood plums, they'd crafted a daiquiri garnished with a wedge of the gorgeous deep red fruit and while we surely didn't need one, our hesitation spurred commentary from the peanut gallery.

"We had them. Join the "in" crowd!" the guy next to us enthused. So while we didn't need blood plum daiquiris, we shared one anyway. I must not get offered blood plums enough, that's all I can say in my defense.

Meanwhile, the happy couple to our right get their dinner order and his was the cresto de gallo, a massive-sized portion ("We wouldn't have had, like, three things first if I'd known it was this big") of pan-fried chicken livers and rainbow Swiss chard in a Marsala wine sauce.

"I love a good Marsala sauce," Pru whispers, although significantly, without committing to chicken livers.

The guy who'd ordered it was large and muscular, but before long even he was lamenting the sheer size and richness of the plate of food in front of him. I told him he could probably sell bites to people at the bar, but he didn't take the bait. That said, it may be noted that he finished every bite.

Working on a theme after our first dish, we ordered skate wing in artichoke brown butter and ras al hanout with crispy roasted potatoes on the side. Despite occasional timidity with new foods and that it was Pru's first outing with skate, she embraced the dish as we talked about how its taste and texture falls somewhere between fish and seafood.

But mostly, we took our time savoring the buttery, spicy skate and then sopping the potatoes in artichoke butter. If you were trying to make a skate convert out of someone, this was the way to do it.

Another couple showed up and again decided on the bar for dinner, getting the bartender all excited. "It's a party at the bar tonight! This is what I'm talking about!" Maybe a memo had gone out to the "in" crowd without us knowing.

All of a sudden, we were just about out of time, necessitating decisions about gelato flavors and then choosing the exact same thing: double chocolate with coconut sorbet. Along the way, we tasted the melon as well as the fresh peach gelatos and felt like we were eating cream versions of fresh fruit.

"That's the idea," our server said.

Westward ho we went to Richmond Triangle Players to see a one-man tour de force: "Buyer and Cellar" starring Dan Cimo, a terribly talented actor whom I can attest from past roles is as able to play a woman as a man.

I know I'd gladly take his chiseled cheekbones.

That was particularly convenient given that in this play, he portrays someone very like himself (an actor), his boyfriend Barry (an underemployed and bitter screenwriter), Barbra Streisand (in all her idiosyncratic and vainglorious magnificence) and her housekeeper, Sharon (whose voice reminded me of Marge Simpson's sisters).

The first few minutes of the show were devoted to ensuring that we knew that this was a work of fiction, in no way related to real life events. "The premise is preposterous! None of this ever happened." Oh, and P.S. Barbra is known to be rather litigious.

"Enough people do her. Not me," Dan as Alex says. "When I tell you conversations that didn't happen, I'll just become her and you can fill in the blanks."

Ooh, the cattiness was just oozing from his handsome face.

The story took place around the time Babs' book "My Passion for Design" (in which she was also principle photographer) came out and revolved around her building a shopping mall in the basement of her Malibu house, a place to store the accumulations of her wealth. Th hook was Alex being hired to "work" in the shops, not that anyone but Babs ever visited them.

Meanwhile cultural references - Chloris Leachman in "Phyllis," Bea Arthur, Marcus Welby, Shirley Booth in "Hazel" - abounded. Good luck with those, millennials.

Seamlessly throwing out references to Babs and her roles that any fan would recognize ("You know, wearing a mink hat for tugboat travel" and, you bet your life, I know exactly what scene he's talking about) and the outfits in her dresses shop ("Irene Sharaffs and Cecil Beatons"), he establishes his diva expertise.

Things got even more hilarious the first time La Streisand visits him in the doll shop. "What can you tell me about these dolls?" she challenges in her distinctive Brooklynese, throwing down the gauntlet to the new employee.

"Okay, so Mama wants to play," Alex says smugly, garnering a huge laugh from the crowd.

The script was full of clever lines like that ("I'm not bothered by the shameless manipulation, like in "The Prince of Tides"), even playing off stereotypes for laughs (Babs: "How can anyone not like the Jews?" Pause. Alex: "I'll have to ask my grandmother next time I see her").

Cimo was masterful at switching characters, each person's voice and mannerisms so distinct that there could be no doubt who was talking at any given moment.

After various tentative conversations with his employer, Alex is invited upstairs, first to see the recreated Connecticut barn and yard and then to the Big House. "This was 'Hoarders' on a higher plane," Alex marvels. "This was relentless acquisition with no financial restraints."

Can't say I've ever experienced such a thing. I mean never. Ever.

And I don't want to spoil the play for you, but if you've been wondering all these years why such a star stayed so long with a bully like Jon Peters, I now know the answer. Babs claims he could always figure out what to do on Sundays and she never could.

Which probably means that Jon Peters was part of the "in" crowd and Barbra was only nouveau cool.

You'd think a mink hat on a tugboat would have done it. Somebody should've told her all she needed was a blood plum daiquiri to qualify.

You can fill in the blanks from there.

Just the Night in My Veins

It's my legs and mouth that give me away every time.

My evening began with a drive to Williamsburg (going way back for David Gray's "White Ladder" and the Pretenders' "Last of the Independents") that required navigating through three major thunderstorms and trying to stay out of the way of maniacs going 70 mph when visibility was so bad that I couldn't see the cars' lights in front of me.

Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to slow down when I'm driving blind.

My destination was a cocktail party at one of those fake town center kind of places (didn't even know Williamsburg had one, to be honest), not that I knew that when I set out. I'd been invited by the magazine I write for down there, meaning I'd know exactly one person: the publisher.

Fortunately, she was good enough to introduce me around as her "favorite writer," which made me feel a bit like a show pony being trotted out, but what do I care as long as she gives me interesting assignments and pays me well?

Among the more interesting local business owners I met were a European chef, a woman who owns an independent feed and seed store ("Tractor Supply is my enemy") and a guy who gives flying lessons and air tours.

There was also a woman who'd adopted a Pekingese-poodle mix from the SPCA at 5:00 and had to immediately park the mutt with her son so she could come to the party. The guilt was killing her as she downed ham biscuits and Sauvignon Blanc.

The one kind of person I hadn't expected to meet was someone looking for freelance writers to write for her Tidewater magazine, but then maybe this is what they call networking. It felt more like stumbling into a lucky break.

When a couple of businesswomen found out I lived in Richmond, they were thrilled. Would I be willing to accompany them on a night out on their dime so I could show them some of my favorite places? Well, sure, I might be able to fit that in.

I waited for a break in the black sky and pouring rain to say my goodbyes so I could hopefully make it back in time to be part of the inaugural Second Thursday in Scott's Addition, or at the very least, catch the opening of Juan Perdiguero's show at Ghostprint Gallery's new location on the Boulevard.

Ghostprint was hopping when I arrived and everyone was raving about the new space. What was striking for me was that I'd last seen it in May when owner Geraldine had first taken the gritty space, so I'd yet to see her renovation of the former motorcycle business.

It's such a tremendous space - incredibly high ceilings, enormous windows fronting the Boulevard, brick walls painted a clean shade of white - and one ideally suited to Perdiguero's large-scale black and white paintings of eagles caught in mid-flight.

Exquisitely rendered with detailing of the contrasting dark and light of the birds and their movement, the technically flat surfaces gave a sense of birds flying around the outside of the room.

The first familiar face was the philosophy professor and former neighbor who'd been named-checked at the Cornel West talk last week and I paused to give him props on being recognized. He tried to act like it was no big deal but since he'd written a book about West, I knew perfectly well it must have been a huge deal.

It was satisfying making him admit that. No shame there, my friend.

"What are you doing here?" said a deep voice from behind me and it was the music promoter with the ubiquitous toothpick in his mouth and perpetually-raised eyebrow. We quickly got off on a discussion of art, editors and vision when I heard a second voice.

"I'd know those legs from across any room," said the blue-eyed politician and former neighbor (what was this, a Floyd Avenue reunion tonight?), hugging me and joining the discussion, which soon morphed from art to bad city fiscal policy (the mayor had "checked out" despite having a year left on his term), how to keep the creative class in the city (hint: improve the schools) and the folly of the Redskins training facility (the city pays $500,000 per year?).

Somehow that led us to a sports round table and, yes, I was able to keep up. I knew about duckpin bowling - a teenage favorite of the promoter - because my Dad used to be a duckpin champ (although I didn't know Richmond had had lanes), although I had to admit I'd never heard of candlepin bowling. I'm happy to say I'm now up to speed on the sport.

Talking about how it would be no skin off the city's nose if the Redskins abandoned Richmond (much the way they once did Frostburg, Maryland) led to talk of the Baltimore Colts sneaking out of town in the middle of the night back in 1984 since all three of us remembered it happening. Johnny U, you're breaking people's hearts here.

Oh, the tangled tangents we wove while the art opening swirled around us.

By the time we broke camp, the opening was winding down and the rain had let up a bit, so it was a good time to take my hugs and slide on out into the night.

Only problem was, I had no other plans. I'd eaten at the party, seen the art I'd come to see, and now what? Second Thursdays was over. I wasn't in the mood for a drink, I was in the mood for ice cream, which I didn't really need.

Or so I thought until I got home to a message from a friend saying he was in the neighborhood.

I'm home. Can we get ice cream? I quickly messaged back. "I have to stop at the drug store and get Lactaid first," he responded. "Leaving now."

This is what happens when you have old people for friends. Okay, he's actually younger than me, but he looks older, moves slower and has a host of things wrong with him that I don't, so he may as well be older.

But now I had a partner in ice cream, so I was happy. I grabbed my umbrella and went outside. It was 74 degrees with a light but steady rain falling, making for just the kind of night to wait outside for a friend and enjoy the weather.

Once he finally arrived, I directed him to Castanea where I'd had a stellar lobster roll followed by gelato for lunch the other day. The new spot is part restaurant, part gelateria and all good.

Once there, we oohed and ahhed over the flavor choices and my friend asked what paw paw was. "It's like mango fornicated with papaya," the server said, offering him a taste. Now there's a description for the ages.

When he asked what I wanted, I explained that I was trying to will myself to have something other than what I'd had the other day: chocolate double with coconut sorbet.

"Well, that's a new batch of chocolate double and it's got 45% more cocoa than last week's batch," he said, pretty much sealing my fate. "Have you tried it with the coconut sorbet? It's like a Mounds." Tried it? I thought I'd invented it.

That's right, same order, different week. I can be so predictable sometimes. My friend did chocolate double with hazelnut, pronouncing it fabulous as we ate at a front table.

Nearing the end, I warned him I was going to lick my bowl in public and he laughed, saying he'd recently come across the picture of me he'd taken a few years back of me attacking a cream puff at Aziza, a close-up shot of mostly my mouth and the chocolate-covered puff.

In other words, he's seen it all before.

All except for the fruits fornicating, I don't think he's ever seen that. Another night, old man.