Cult of Personality

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

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

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

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

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

A good representation of Richmond, in other words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Use Your Nouns

Poetry about cleaning toilets was prelude to a marriage being parsed.

All I knew was that it had seemed like forever since I'd last been to a poetry reading, so walking into Chop Suey and seeing the metal folding chairs set up between the tables and shelves of books felt instantly familiar and comfortably reassuring.

We'd arrived early enough for me to pick up "Meet Me in the Bathroom: Rebirth and Rock and Roll in New York City 2001-2011," a book I'd been coveting all summer, before snagging seats in my favorite row, which just happens to front the art book section.

This works out well because I can pull interesting titles and gawk ahead of the reading. Tonight's temptation was a book on Degas (how could I not be drawn to his New Orleans work and a scene of a cotton market with no less than 14 figures in it?) and another on photographer Walker Evans (especially images depicting the south in the '30s), which I couldn't resist sharing with the nerd who'd accompanied me.

Poet Ryan Kent was reading from his new book, "This is Why I am Insane" to a fairly full house of friends, family and random poetry reading-goers like us. He apologized more than once for the "cuss words," and while I'm no angel, I do get tired of "shit" being used as an all purpose noun to encompass anything everything.

Also, it may be me, but I never again need to hear about dick hairs on a toilet in a poem.

That said, his poetry read like songs and he wrote without pretense, using references to what he knew - older women, cars on lawns in Petersburg, drinking - almost always ending his poem at exactly the right place. For a change, a poet who made brevity work.

Some of his phrases were wonderfully evocative, from  "Watching her walk with all the right swing" to a reference to "A stalemate of cars in traffic on 95." Visuals sprung from his words.

He ended with the most recent poem he'd written, which he sarcastically called an upper. I've heard Sylvia Plath did something similar.

Leaving Chop Suey, we decided to walk to dinner, striking out first at the Stables at Belmont and second at Belmont Food Shop, so we decided to forsake Belmont entirely and make our way to Kuba, Kuba.

As you'd expect for any night of the week, Kuba, Kuba was close to capacity but we spotted two empty bar stools and promptly claimed them before anyone else could. Even though it's been eons since I'd been in, I knew without opening the menu what I was getting.

Not having to read gave me time to start eavesdropping on the two men next to us who were trying to decide if Guy #1 should jump ship on his marriage. Guy #2 wanted to know if after they'd gotten married there had been a honeymoon period where everything seemed idyllic and hopeful.

Negative.

Guy #2 pressed on, curious about why #1 was ready to give up. Many reasons were listed, but #1 summed it up by saying, "She's a great woman but she's not the woman for me."

So he'd made up his mind.

Guy #2 immediately shifts into next stage mode, suggesting what #1 needed tonight was a hook-up and Tinder was just the place to find one.

That gave #1 some bluster. "I could get four girls in ten minutes," he bragged. Down, boy. It's a woman's prerogative to swipe.

They toasted his success with using a device to mend his broken heart by raising their glasses: #1's of Coke and #2's a Sierra Nevada. Now that I think about it, it was a pretty lame toast, probably fitting for a self-proclaimed pretty lame marriage (or, perhaps more accurately, marriage attempt).

Then they celebrated the manly way: by ordering three entrees to share between the two of them. My guess is that #1 is going to move on just fine without the missus. Besides, doesn't everyone get a starter marriage?

Distraction arrived when our waitress showed up with our order and it got within 6" of the counter before she swooped them up again and deposited them in front of the two guys on the other side of us.

"That was just a tease, a look-see," she joked to us as they ate the food.

Our own arrived shortly thereafter and I was pleased to taste that no matter how many years go by in between visits, I can always count on the shrimp and mussels in Tasso ham and garlic broth for plump seafood, tons of ham and killer broth for endless sopping.

It's a dish guaranteed to make me sweat garlic tomorrow...in a good way.

When our server brought the check, she did so with a look of contrition on her face. Seems she'd charged the duo next to us for our meal and now she felt obligated to charge us for theirs. Since theirs was cheaper and ours had been delicious, we couldn't complain.

But who's complaining? Poetry, dinner and music on my breezy balcony is enough to make  anyone wax poetic.

Jam Up and Jelly Tight

With a last quarter moon in the sky and Jupiter aligning with Venus, I doubt my evening could've been much groovier.

Cue finger snapping.

Given my penchant for poetry, where better to begin than a reading at Chop Suey Books featuring the varied poetic stylings of Cecily Iddings, Simeon Berry, and Sandra Beasley?

A small but devoted cadre of verse lovers filled the chairs and aisles as Simeon took his place facing us to warn of the weirdness of his poems ("They own a lint collective," hello?). He was an excellent reader, easy to understand, never stumbling over words as he read from "Ampersand Revisited" and "Monograpgh."

Favorite line: How fresh to make scholarship sexy

Cecily chose to read only one poem from her book "Everyone Here," but it was a long one (with some wonderfully phrased lines such as, "Strangers in pajamas, new from dreaming") and she tended to laugh at particularly sexual lines that didn't come across as funny, except to her. It was just a bit unsettling.

Favorite line: She's owed a life she can't collect

After thanking Chop Suey owner Ward for letting her "crash the party," Sandra read from her book "Count the Waves," which she characterized as a book of love poems. Not traditional love poems, but more "can you love me this way?" type of love poems. Her reading style resembled acting, loud and projecting to the back row.

From the poem #6459, a numerical designation for the phrase "the country is quite mountainous" came the line, "The goats gambol and bray on the cliffs." After she finished, she insisted, "I swear that's a love poem." We didn't ask her to defend that statement, but probably should have.

Favorite line tie: You must not look for poetry in poems and Fit a melody in the crook of your arm and strum.

Yet again, Chop Suey delivered another stellar hour for those of us who revel in hearing poetry read aloud to us.

The only way to top that was to head to the Earth Folk Collective in Manchester for the first ever Blackberry Jam, exactly the play on words it seems.

The couple who own the property had invited friends to come help pick blackberries, make jam over an open fire, enjoy a potluck and wile away the evening listening to three musical acts. I packed my chair, a bottle of wine and set out for southside.

Walking from the street up the path to the party, I passed a hand-painted sign saying "Compost," multiple garden beds encircled by large burlap coffee bags and a dozen or so people engaged in yoga off to the side of the path. One woman had a child mounted on her upright legs while another was giving a neck massage.

Further on, a small group held lit sparklers aloft, a post-holiday nod.

By this time, berries had been picked, jam had been made and Florida's Mark Etherington, also known as Mountain Hollar, was starting his psychedelic folk set on a fairy light-lit stage carved out of the freestanding garage. Behind him were flowered curtains and framing the open door were lights of green and white. Next to it, lights decorated a pergola where people sat talking or swinging in a hanging basket chair. The charming pale blue camper where my friends currently reside had its own string of pale blue lights.

All in all, everything had a magical feel to it.

The music paused. "Hot weather and guitars do not go well together," Mark said between songs, tuning. "It's out of tune again." No one minded waiting.

My favorite Jackson Ward neighbors spotted me and the handsome bearded one whispered, "Is this the new Listening Room?" referring to the long-time series we'd all attended. Wouldn't that be something if it were?

After Mark's marvelously trippy set, our host gave me a tour of the improvements they've made to the circa 1800s house they are working on while living in the trailer.

He showed me where they're stripping off the cheesy faux brick facade to reveal clapboard protected for over half a century by the tacky covering. The bathroom had gotten a floor-lift, green skylights and exposed ceiling rafters. They'd made a guest room for visitors and touring musicians.

Back outside, I watched toddlers take advantage of a baby pool to cool down, greeted a few friends and suddenly realized I couldn't very well go to a blackberry jam and not have, duh, blackberry jam.

I went in search of it just in time because the pot on the cooling embers had barely an inch of jam left, but I managed to score some along with my neighbors (I'd told the Beard I'd have to call him out if he left without tasting jam, so he did). It was tart with the satisfying crunch of blackberry seeds, but I found I liked it best in this heat when underneath a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream eaten out of one of grandma's coffee cups.

The J-Ward contingent discussed how very '70s-like the whole evening felt with people of all ages, kids running around, clusters of people scattered throughout the property and a committed DIY ethos. There was a dish-washing station on the porch, gray water collection inside for plant watering and recycle containers for beer cans and wine bottles.

Mentioning it to our much younger hostess, she enthused about how much she's learned from reading the '70s literature by the people who'd first resolved to live in harmony with the earth. "It's a way for sub-cultures now to benefit from everything they learned then," she said, no doubt referring to the stuff my friends and I recalled. See what I mean about the groovy factor?

The only jarring note to the peace and love vibe was the glare of cell phones by those unable to just enjoy the moment.

Before the next band began, she took the stage to share that she opposed the natural gas pipeline being espoused and letting folks know she had "No Pipeline" signs available for people to take home to share their voice on the subject.

"Sorry, you're at my house, so you have to listen to my soapbox," she said with a gorgeous smile. No one seemed to mind or differ in opinion.

Duo Haints in the Holler, playing drum and guitar, started playing and people began settling down again to listen to their earnest take on Americana. After a couple of songs played at center stage, they moved forward to the edge of the stage, making for far better sound for the audience and an interesting silhouette effect with the twinkling lights just behind them now.

As their voices melded in songs such as "Many Nights," I sat back in my chair enjoying the occasional breeze rustling through the tree tops and lifting my hair off my neck, just the way a summer evening should. Every now and then, a plane would fly overhead, lost behind the cloud cover of the thunderstorms that never happened, more of a fuzzy moving nimbus than a defined shape.

Twice they tried to end their set and twice the relaxed crowd called for just one more and they obliged. No one seemed in a hurry for the night to end.

Finally, our host thanked us all for coming, saying how happy it made him to share this kind of evening with friends. "We hope this is just the first of many Blackberry Jams to come!" he said from the stage.

Far out. It's poetry and Blackberry Jams that make up golden living dreams of visions.

And it's friends like the Earth Folk Collective - not the lint collective - who make it seem possible that peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars.

There's pure poetry in that kind of optimism.